Page 16 of Seducing the Sheriff (Charming Butte #2)

I stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on a faded poster about nineteenth century sheep shearing techniques, because if I caught Greg’s eye right then, I would’ve burst out laughing—or worse, said something like, “It’s not the first time I’ve imagined you in a museum, but usually you’re shirtless, sculpted out of marble, and my hands are all over you. ”

Nope. We were not doing that. I was the sheriff. I could maintain my composure. And not with the woman smiling at us like she might try to adopt us both before we left.

Completely unaware of my freakout, Greg dived into a discussion about the history of the museum.

For an introvert, Greg was nerding out like a champ as she spewed dates and times and history.

I did my level best to focus on their conversation and not spend my time gazing at Greg like a boy with his first crush.

“Cash?” Greg turned to me, then smiled at the woman. “This is Marisa, her husband set up the museum. Marisa has worked here since its inception. If we have any questions, she’s the person to ask.”

Marisa fluttered under his praise, but she didn’t deny she was indeed, the gal to ask about all things in the museum.

“I trained as an archivist,” she said. “I know everything that’s in the museum. Don’t hesitate to ask if you have any questions.”

“We won’t,” he assured her. “Ready, Cash?”

Marisa furrowed her brow. “Cash,” she said slowly. “Sheriff Cash Lawson?”

“That’s me.” I leaned forward, pretending to whisper. I grinned as they both leaned toward me as if it were an automatic response. “But don’t tell anyone. I’m playing hooky today with Greg.”

“I won’t, I promise.” She eyed me speculatively. “It’s good to see you here, sheriff. It’s rare we get a visit from your office.”

“This is a day out for me,” I confessed. “I didn’t know about the museum. Where should we start?”

Her eyes lit up, and thankfully, she led the way to a case on the far side of the room, explaining that this exhibit had started the collection, and I was forgotten. But I didn’t miss Greg’s smirk boring into my cheek.

“My husband’s family found this in a closet,” Marisa said, as she showed us what looked like a vintage physician’s bag, the leather cracked and worn, but still intact. “We found medicines and potions inside.”

She pointed to the rusty bottles and twisted pieces of paper. I peered into the case just as Greg did and we bumped into each other. We laughed, a little awkwardly, and I stepped back to give him a chance to look again.

“Have you analyzed the medicines?” I asked Marisa.

Her white curls bobbed as she nodded her head.

“It’s quite the potent cocktail of drugs.

Opium, morphine, quinine, and digitalis.

We weren’t allowed to keep any of them, of course.

” She sounded quite regretful about that.

“This place isn’t secure enough and you know better than most, sheriff, that someone would try to steal the drugs. ”

I nodded because, she was quite right. A cocktail of drugs in a cabinet like this was easy pickings.

The door to the museum opened and Marisa looked over.

“I’m sorry, please excuse me, sheriff. Greg.”

She hurried away and Greg smirked at me. “You shouldn’t have such an instantly recognizable name. Maybe you should adopt a pseudonym when we’re out.”

My mind was hooked on the ‘we’ before it focused on the rest of what he said.

“You want me to have a fake name?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m Greg. You’re the sheriff.”

He had a point.

“I’ll think about it,” I groused.

I couldn’t be the only Cash in New Mexico, could I?

Greg had wandered ahead again, poking around like a curious raccoon in a place he absolutely didn’t belong but was somehow instantly at home in. He paused at a small glass display and waved me over with the kind of enthusiasm that made my boots feel too heavy.

“Hey, look at this,” he said, grinning. “One of your predecessors. And they found his badge.”

I stepped closer, leaning in. The photo showed a stern-looking man with an impressive handlebar moustache, the kind that said he fought bears and bad guys in equal measure.

His suit was too tight across the shoulders, and he stared at the camera with a scowl that screamed the photographer was wasting his time when he should be catching criminals.

The badge in the display case was battered, the metal dulled with time and history, but the shape and etching were almost identical to mine. I stared at it a second longer than I meant to.

It hit me, unexpectedly, like finding an old note from a stranger that still felt personal. I’d been wearing the badge, sure, doing the job, but this—this made it feel real. Connected. Like I wasn’t filling in until someone better showed up.

Greg nudged me lightly with his elbow. “You ready to move on, or are you having a moment with Moustache McLawman?”

“You can go off people, you know,” I muttered.

He chuckled and gave me a look that said he wasn’t going anywhere.

But we moved on to the next case, torn wanted posters from the turn of the twentieth century.

It wasn’t only law enforcement exhibits, although as this was a courtroom it was understandable.

There was enough in here to keep us both occupied.

Greg about puddled into goo when he spotted a giant, sun-faded chili pepper costume, worn by the town’s parade mascot in the 1950s.

“What is it with you and peppers?” I asked.

Greg gave me a cryptic look and moved on. I was determined to find out what that was all about.

We both spent a long time studying old maps of Mustang County and were pleased to find one or two of Charming from the early twentieth century.

“It doesn’t look much different,” I admitted.

“Slightly bigger, that’s all. Look, there’s my house.”

Greg pointed it out. Sure enough, there was the old Jenkins’ ranch on the outskirts of town.

“My house wasn’t built until later on,” I said, pointing to what was clearly desert on the map.

We moved onto a case with a fading silk wedding dress. The woman must have been tiny by the size of the dress. It looked as if it would fit a child.

Greg read the inscription. “Look, they found love letters wrapped in the dress between the bride and her groom. He was a soldier in World War I. Oh…”

His voice cracked and I turned to look at him. I wasn’t much interested in weddings and had focused on an old jukebox.

“What’s wrong?”

“She never wore the wedding dress. Her fiancé died on the battlefield.” Greg sounded genuinely upset.

I wanted to put my arm around him, but we were in public, Marisa chatting to someone by the entrance. I brushed his back, a light touch, but from the way he pressed back he understood and took comfort from my gesture.

He sniffled a little. My new friend had a tender heart. I had to remember that.

“Come look at the jukebox,” I urged, hoping to distract him.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“No need to apologize,” I assured him.

I smiled at Greg and just for a moment I wanted to kiss him, to show him he wasn’t alone. Then I realized his gaze was focused on me. To be more specific, my mouth.