Wistful in Wisconsin

in each of her cheeks as she smiled at him. “I’ve brought you a sweet to get you through the morning.”
He hadn’t noticed the basket hung over her arm. Not with his eyes fixed on her face. Now, he watched as she pulled a plate from under the checked covering. Thick icing topped two tall cinnamon rolls.
Yesterday, it had been some of the best muffins he’d ever had the privilege to taste. Was this going to become an everyday thing?
He sat as she moved to the small stove. There, she emptied his coffee into a slop bucket and refilled the pot with fresh water. He couldn’t see what she added, besides coffee. Whatever she did, his coffee never tasted like hers. The woman certainly knew her way around a kitchen.
His lips watered to bite into the fragrant roll. Before he did, something needed to be said between them. Again.
Fred roughened his voice, not wanting to sound grateful or eager for her cooking. “You don’t need to pay me back for rescuing you. It’s part of my job.”
The twinkle disappeared from her eyes. A sudden storm flashed in them before she bowed her head, hiding her expression from him. As he watched, a sort of tremor traveled through her small body.
When she lifted her face to him, none of the agony showed. She wore a mask of calm resolve.
“I am not trying to reward you, sheriff. I only wanted to share a few treats from the batch of rolls I baked today.”
Neither spoke as they faced off, measuring each other. While her lips remained serene, she did quirk an eyebrow in challenge.
He wanted to smack a hand to his forehead. Why was he still watching those lips?
The coffee pot belched fragrantly, almost ready for them to enjoy a cup. Behind him, the door to the jail at the back of the building stood open.
From inside, a voice groaned. “Sure could do with a cup of that, Fred. My head’s gonna explode.”
Moving away from the petite woman, the sheriff moved to the door. “I’m not surprised with the way you tied one on last night, Murph.”
Lilah stood behind Fred. The lemon scent from her soap filled his nostrils. There was a pleasing smell beside that, one all her own. It had him shifting restlessly.
Probably that was the reason he barked at her. “What ya want, being back here?”
She raised a chipped mug, smiling. “Coffee’s ready. I brought it to help poor Mr. Murphy’s head.”
Her upbeat, high voice drew a groan from the man in the cell. Fred chuckled and unlocked the door. Taking the cup from her, he set it on the small table inside before leaving the cell.
When he spoke, his tone still held hints of a suppressed laugh. “Come on. I want a cup of that coffee before you give it all away.”
Lilah stared at him oddly but didn’t speak. When he raised an eyebrow, she only lowered her gaze slightly and fluttered her lashes.
That brought a tortured sigh from him. “Why the look? Did I do something strange?”
Did he imagine that ghost of a frown? She looked up with the same insipid smile, obviously not upset, so he must have imagined that expression.
She chirped in her girlish voice, “I just wondered why you didn’t lock the cell.”
Fred shrugged. “Murph’s sober so he’ll come out, pay his dollar fine, and leave. Happens at least three times a week.”
For a moment, the fake cheerfulness deserted her as she answered in a lower voice, one that felt like fingers stroking velvet. “What horror must drive that poor man! It’s not easy getting past terrible things that happen in life.”
In a murmur she added, “I should know.”
Nodding, Fred spoke with an equally somber whisper. “Some nights I wake in a cold sweat as I see Sheriff Redmond’s body crumple, the gun I hold still smoking. No way to reason away fear and guilt in the dead of night.”
She didn’t speak and he took advantage of that to prod her. “How are you coping with your own horror?”
It seemed to him that she donned an invisible mask. One minute she was sincere, the next a nitwit with a chirping voice. “Oh my! Sheriff, I couldn’t be better. But tell me more about what troubles you.”
He shook his head and moved to the stove. Once he had his cup of coffee, the irritated man sat behind his desk. Taking one smooth-tasting sip, he reached for a cinnamon roll.
Before he could take a bite, Murphy loped into the room. In one motion, the man plunked a dollar on the desk and grabbed the remaining roll.
“I’d think a man as liquored up as you were last night wouldn’t be able to eat this morning.”
Murphy’s eyes widened, eyes that surprisingly held none of the redness Fred saw in drunks. “I’d have to be a breath away from dead to miss out on one of Miss Lilah’s sweet treats.” With a gruff laugh, the drunk left the sheriff’s office.
Silently Fred agreed. Her baking was that good. Something nagged at his mind about the way Murph moved, not at all like a man with a hangover.
With a shake of his head, he dismissed it and focused on Lilah. If only the woman would stop following him and speaking in that fake voice.
An idea popped into his head. Myra!
His brother’s wife had a tender way with people. She might be able to talk this woman out of whatever strange idea had fixed in her mind. At least Myra might be able to find out why the woman insisted on using that awful voice.
Setting the uneaten roll back on the plate, he looked at the woman. “I appreciate all the attention you give me. It makes me ashamed to ask you for anything else.”
Delight