Mia, who was five-ten, by another four or five inches.
“Does it really matter why I’m here? Shouldn’t it be more about addressing the medical needs of the people in this region?”
“It’s just that I need to know a little something about the folks who hang out in my town.”
“Hang out! What makes you think I’m here to hang—”
“We’ll talk later,” Kenyon interrupted. “It’s cold and late, and the weather folks are predicting snow. So let’s go before the roads get too slippery.”
Mia clenched her teeth to stop the verbal tirade poised on the tip of her tongue. Kenyon was right. It was late, and the night air was biting and raw. There was also a fog in the air that hinted of precipitation. She let the obnoxious man cup her elbow as she hoisted herself onto the front seat of the SUV. She stared out the windshield as the door closed with a solid thud. The heat flowing through the vehicle’s vents wrapped around her like a blanket, pulling her into a cocoon of warmth and relaxation. Her mother had been disappointed in her decision to leave Dallas, and Kenyon Chandler was suspicious because she’d chosen to practice medicine in Appalachia.
Mia understood her mother’s attitude, but what she couldn’t fathom was Kenyon’s skepticism. Maybe it didn’t matter to him that someone had to drive twenty miles one way for a procedure that could have been done in a doctor’s office, saving the patient time and money. He’d mentioned his town, and she wondered if he was oblivious to the medical needs of its residents. It wasn’t as if they lived in a large urban area, or even a suburb where there was easy access to hospitals and medical clinics. She’d researched the demographics of Jonesburg, and the per capita income for the town was depressing. She’d grown up with girls who spent more money on clothes, makeup and perfume in a year than the median income for Jonesburg’s house holds.
Nothing her mother or Kenyon had said could dampen her enthusiasm for practicing medicine alongside a doctor with nearly forty years of experience. She’d come to West Virginia to work with Dr. Lyman and eventually take over his practice once he retired.
Chapter 2
Mia didn’t fall asleep, preferring instead to stare out the side window at the surrounding landscape. Xavier and Selena had fallen asleep in the rear seat within minutes of getting into the Yukon SUV.
Kenyon had tuned the vehicle’s radio to a station that featured blues music as sad as it was haunting. Music her mother said was played in juke joints throughout the South—music law-abiding and churchgoing folks would never listen to.
A slight smile softened her mouth when a husky-throated woman, accompanied by a harmonica and guitar, sang about loving her no-account, cheating lover. And no matter how many women he’d fooled with, she loved him because he was the only man who made her feel like a real live woman, according to the lyrics.
“She’s a fool,” Mia mumbled between clenched teeth.
“Is she a fool for loving her man, or a fool for putting up with his cheating?”
She turned and stared at Kenyon. He’d removed his hat and she was able to see all of his face. Dark, short-cropped hair hugged his well-shaped head like a cap. It was the first thing he’d said in more than forty minutes, and she chided herself for voicing her thoughts aloud.
“Both. There’s no reason why a woman should have to put up with a cheating man.”
“Why do you think they do?”
The seconds ticked before she said, “Low self-esteem. I believe women who put up with cheating men love the men more than they love themselves, and for me that’s a no-no.”
Kenyon drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, keeping rhythm with the music flowing through the sound system. That single statement told him all he wanted or needed to know about Mia. If or when it came to a relationship, she would be unforgiving.
“You like blues?” Kenyon had asked yet another question, deftly changing the topic.
“Some.”
“Which do you prefer?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “I thought they were all the same.”
Kenyon took his eyes off the narrow unlit road for a second, his gaze caressing Mia’s face as she stared directly at him. “There’s Delta blues, Chicago and Detroit blues.”
“I like B. B. King.”
“Good Mississippi bluesman.”
“What about Eric Clapton?”
Kenyon smiled, and attractive lines fanned out around his luminous eyes. “Another fine bluesman, albeit from across the pond.”
Mia noticed the harsh edge in Kenyon’s voice was missing. Could it be he wasn’t that resentful of her moving into his town? “Should I assume you are the law in Jones burg?”
The vocalist had stopped, and there was only the sound of harmonica playing, the haunting beats keeping tempo with the sound of tires slapping the roadway. She thought he hadn’t heard her, so Mia shifted again to stare out the side window. It was beginning to snow. Tiny flakes fluttered from a sky too dark to see, landing on the asphalt roadway. Naked tree branches along the highway broke up the occasional flecks of light that shone through the windows of those who were still in the partying mood or had left the lights on for latecomers.
They crossed the state line from Kentucky into West Virginia, and if it hadn’t been for the highway marker Mia would not have been able to discern one state from the other. She was in mining country, where the hills rose and fell, and where great mounds of earth were stripped for their rich mineral deposits.
“Yes, I am the sheriff of Jonesburg.”
It had been a full two minutes since Mia had asked the question—so long that she thought Kenyon hadn’t heard it or he had decided not to answer.
She turned to look at him again. He and Selena were cousins, but the only physical resemblance they shared was in their coloring, and she wondered if perhaps they were related by marriage. “How long have you been in office?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“If I’m going to live in Jonesburg, then I believe I should know something about the people who live there.” She’d turned the tables, repeating what he’d said to her.
Kenyon decelerated as he maneuvered around a sharp curve in the road. The snow was coming down harder. “How long do you plan to live in Jonesburg? Two months?”
“Try two years,” she countered. “I have another two years before I complete my residency.”
“What happens after you complete your residency?”
“You’re asking a lot of questions, Sheriff Chandler. If you suspect I have some ulterior motive, then I suggest you have me investigated. That shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ll even help you out. My name is Mia Isabel Eaton. I was born in Dallas, Texas, on June—”
“There’s no need for you to be facetious, Mia,” Kenyon interrupted.
“I’m not being facetious, Kenyon. My living in Jonesburg serves two purposes—completing my residency and helping a semiretired doctor who can no longer make house calls.”
A muscle twitched in Kenyon’s jaw. The image of the woman he’d observed at Selena’s wedding reception was imprinted in his mind like a permanent tattoo. Her hair had been brushed off her face and knotted loosely on the nape of her neck with jeweled hairpins that matched the large diamond studs in her earlobes. She’d worn a one-shouldered dress in a shade that was the exact color of the pumpkins in the centerpieces on each table. She had on snakeskin stilettos in various colors of yellow, red, orange and brown, which added at least four inches to her statuesque figure. She even towered over some of the men in attendance.
A woman’s height was never an issue with