Excerpt of Willow Valley Women by Joan Elliott Pickart

Sheriff Ben Skeeter turned onto the main street of Willow Valley in his patrol car after driving by several of the summer homes that had been closed up for the winter.

He drove slowly, nodding at familiar people who waved in greeting and seeing the busy foot traffic of the visitors who had come to the small northern Arizona town to enjoy the splendor of the acres of brilliant, multicolored autumn leaves on the trees.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened and his heart seemed to skip a beat as he saw Laurel Windsong walking along the sidewalk toward theWindsong Café.

He had not, Ben knew, been prepared for Laurel to suddenly return to town four months ago and start working with her mother at the café. Her presence had thrown him off- kilter, had caused him to suffer through a multitude of tossing-and-turning nights as memories from the past slammed into his mind hour after hour.

If anyone knew why Laurel was back and how long she was staying, they sure weren't talking. He'd come right out and asked Dove Clearwater, Laurel's best friend, for the explanation, and she had told him that Laurel had simply said she was between jobs and didn't have any definite plans yet. Dove had confided that she thought something was troubling Laurel but had no intention of pressing her about it. Damn.

As Ben approached the café, he slid a glance in Laurel's direction and saw her unlock the front door and enter.

Laurel Windsong, he thought. God, she was beautiful. The years had treated her well. The pain of her betrayal had diminished some over the ten years she'd been gone, and he often went weeks at a time without thinking about her, remembering what they'd shared, remembering all the plans they'd made for their future together, remembering the night she said she was leaving.

Yeah, his emotional wounds had been healing slowly. And then she arrived unannounced in Willow Valley, stepped behind the counter at the Windsong Café with an order pad in her hand and acted as though she had never left in the first place. He'd been flung back in time and felt raw and wounded again as well as exhausted from lack of sleep.

He'd been doing his best to avoid Laurel, and when he saw her, he didn't look directly into those incredible dark eyes of hers. He had nothing he wanted to say to her because it had all been said ten years before. He just wanted her to pack up and leave again, get out of Willow Valley and not come back.

Because while she was here, there was nowhere for him to hide from the truth that was ripping him to shreds.

He was still in love with Laurel Windsong. Ben smacked the steering wheel with the heel of one hand and clenched his jaw so tightly his teeth ached.

He'd arrest Laurel for disturbing his peace of mind, he thought. He'd toss her in jail, tell her she had twenty- four hours to get out of town or he'd throw away the key to the cell.

"There you go, Skeeter," he muttered as he shook his head. "That's really mature, rational thinking."

Ben reached the edge of town, turned around and drove back, his practiced eye sweeping over all for any sign of trouble brewing.

There were a lot of strangers in town already this Saturday, and no doubt more were on the way to see the autumn leaves. It was good for the business owners. It was constant vigilance for him and his deputies.

The tourists kept him very busy, and to top it off he was dealing with a rash of break-ins at the presently unoccupied summer homes. Carefully selected houses had been targeted, and the knot in his gut told him that meant it was someone from Willow Valley or the reservation at the edge of town pulling off those robberies.

There were a thousand people living in Willow Valley and the same number on the rez. Somewhere in the midst of them, someone had turned on his own people — and that made Ben rip-roaring angry.

Ben's stomach rumbled, and a quick look at his watch told him it was lunchtime.

Maybe he'd go home and see what he could throw together for a meal, he mused. Or get some fast food that would sit like a brick in his stomach the rest of the afternoon. He could settle for some of those dinky sandwiches that didn't even have any crust on them at the bed-and- breakfast.

No, damn it, he wanted a good-tasting, nourishing lunch, and the best place to get that was the Windsong Café. He'd just ignore Ms. Laurel Windsong, as he usually did when he ate there, and enjoy the food. Fine. That's how he'd handled her being back since she'd popped into town, and he would keep right on doing it.

No problem.

As long as he didn't look at her too long.

As long as he didn't envision freeing her silken hair from that long braid she wore by drawing his fingers through it and watching it slide over his hands like an ebony waterfall.

As long as he didn't relive the exquisite memories of making love with Laurel and hearing her whisper his name and declare her love for him.

As long as he ignored the fact that she'd stolen his heart many, many years ago and he didn't have a clue as to how to get it back.

Ben pulled into a parking place down the block from the café, radioed in that he was going to lunch but would be carrying his handheld if he was needed, then grabbed his tan Stetson that matched the rest of his uniform from the passenger seat of the patrol car.

A few moments later he was striding toward the Windsong Café, a muscle ticking in his tightly clenched jaw.

Laurel frowned as Ben Skeeter entered the café. She turned immediately to see if any of her orders were ready to be picked up, despite the fact she'd done that two seconds before.

Darn the man, she thought. Doesn't he ever have any leftovers in his refrigerator at home he could eat for lunch? Or get an urge for fast food, like the rest of the population? Oh, no, not Ben. He had to show up here at the Windsong Café day after day and cause her heart to race and memories to assault her.

Ben. Oh, Ben, Laurel thought, still not moving. There was a time when they had shared everything — hopes, dreams, secrets, plans for the future, their hearts, minds, bodies, the very essence of who they were. They'd been so much in love, so connected that they'd envisioned themselves as one entity.

But that was then, and this was now, and since she'd arrived back in Willow Valley they'd attempted to avoid each other. When they did meet, they were polite, exchanged brief greetings, but never made eye contact. They were strangers now, separated by ten years and shattered dreams. She would continue to keep her distance from Ben just as she'd done since she'd come home.

There was just one thing wrong with that grand plan, she thought dismally.

She was still deeply in love with Benjamin Skeeter. * * *

Ben sat in the first booth and swept his gaze over the café. It had the same motif as it had when Jimmy and Jane Windsong had opened for business years before. It had red vinyl booths along the front to afford a view out the windows, stools at the counter and wooden tables in the space beyond. An old-fashioned jukebox was against the far wall, and plastic-coated menus were nestled between metal napkin holders and the salt and pepper shakers.

It wasn't fancy. Never had been. But it was homey, inviting. The food was down-home cook-ing — hamburgers and fries served in red plastic baskets, meat loaf with mashed potatoes and gravy, chili and corn bread, pot roast and vegetables and other offerings that a person might have enjoyed at their mother's or grandmother's table.

Lush plants hung in woven baskets suspended from the ceiling by nearly invisible wires. The wall where the jukebox stood also boasted an enormous corkboard where pictures drawn by children were held in place by pushpins. Visitors as well as local kids were invited to add to the ever-changing display, and crayons and paper were available on the tables.

"Hey, Sheriff," someone called.

"Hey, Cadillac. What brings you into town?"

"I need me some feed for my goats," Cadillac said from where he sat on a stool at the counter.

"Figure I'll have me some of Missy Windsong's meat loaf while I'm here."

"Good thinking," Ben said. "Things quiet on the rez?"

Cadillac shrugged and turned back to his lunch, and Ben knew that was the end of the conversation. When Navajos were done talking, they were done. Where they stopped speaking in an interchange didn't always make sense, but that was just the way it was. Always had been, always would be.