Saving the Sheriff: A Three River Ranch Novella (Entangled Bliss) (2 page)

“You’re a lone woman stranded on private property, while a blizzard of biblical proportions threatens to shut down the entire county. Even if a little push could set you right, you’d be stuck again within the hour.” His gaze traveled down her body. “And you’re hardly dressed for the weather.”

“Thank you for your concern,” she said, inching back toward the cab of Conrad’s truck. “But I’m certain my…Conrad…will be here any moment.”

She leaped gracelessly inside the truck and slammed the door shut.

The sheriff sighed and leaned against the gate, his shoulders hunched against the nearly-horizontal snow.

Frankie let the window down a half-inch. “You should go back before you freeze.”

He looked away, holding his hat on with one hand. She shut the window and grabbed her cell phone again, punching the buttons randomly. You never knew when the darn thing would come back to life.

Nope. No luck there. What a surprise.

The sheriff gestured for her to open the window.

“No cell service,” he called over the wind. “Let me get you to a land line.”

She pressed the window button up again, wishing there was a way to slam it closed. No cell service! Why didn’t he say that in the first place?

Her flashlight flickered, then went out.

Oh come on, Universe! Enough, already!

She willed herself to breathe slowly but it didn’t work. It was only a matter of time until the truck ran out of gas, or the battery died, leaving her in the dark.

She tried not to look at him, standing motionless in the circle of thin light, but it was no use. Wind swirled around him, flinging eddies of snow into his face.

Maybe he wasn’t exaggerating about the storm.

She cracked the window again.

“How do I know I can trust you?” she called out.

“Maybe because I’m still here,” he yelled.

Wind tore at his sleeves, stealing his breath before it even puffed into the darkness. Was he shivering?

She opened the door and jumped onto a drift of snow that wasn’t there two minutes ago.

“Okay!” she shouted. “You win! What do you want?”

He pushed off the fence and took her arm.

“Finally. I thought we were both going to freeze to death out here.” He herded her to his own pickup. “Give me your keys.”

“What? Why?” Before she knew it, he’d dropped them somewhere inside his jacket. “Give them back!”

“Get in.”

She stumbled onto the passenger seat, blinking. Her eyes were watering so badly she could hardly see. “Am I under arrest?”

“Depends.” He put his truck in reverse. “What are you guilty of?”

“Poor planning? Felony foolishness?”
Trespassing.
Vehicle theft. Possession of stolen property.

The look on his face told her that he’d gotten there way ahead of her.

“So what, I get to spend Christmas Eve in jail?” She reached for the door and heard the locks snap shut as she did.

“One thing at a time,” he said grunting with the effort of maneuvering the vehicle. “You’re not Conrad Toole and that’s not your truck, so yeah, we’ll be having a more in-depth conversation.”

Frankie braced a hand on the truck door.

“But right now,” he continued, “we need shelter. I’m going back to the ranch. And you, Francesca Sylva, are coming with me.”

Chapter Two

“It’s Frankie,” muttered the elf sitting in the passenger seat. She yanked off the cotton-ball-topped cap, releasing hair that tumbled over her shoulders in a glossy wave. Big eyes snapped and sparkled. “Only my mom calls me Francesca.”

“And only when you’re in trouble, right?” Red gunned the engine to get over a drift that felt like concrete. “Francesca it is.” Red thought of the holding cell in Lutherton, now filled with banker’s boxes of old files. When had they last used it to hold a suspect? Maybe they never had. The area wasn’t exactly a hotbed of crime, which was partly why it had attracted him. Good place to raise a family.

He glanced at his “suspect.” He’d need a proper description. For the report, he told himself. Brown hair, blue eyes, probably. Mid-to-late twenties. About five foot four. Slender. Graceful. He wouldn’t know for sure until she took off the elf suit.

“Boy,” she said. “This weather’s got to be tough on the animals. Cold and hungry. And all.”

“It is.”

The truck bumped and crunched over the ridges of ice and snow before lurching to a stop in front of the main house.

“Are there horses out here?” There was an odd desperation in her voice. “Does somebody look after them in weather like this?”

“Yeah, me. And lucky for you, I was putting out feed when I did, or I’d never have come across you. Consider me your rescuer, not your jailer,” he said to Frankie, without looking at her. His gut told him that, on the criminal mastermind scale, this one landed closer to Tinker Bell than Lizzie Borden. “We’ll revisit the situation once this storm’s blown through.”

The wind was definitely picking up. He took her elbow and helped her up the porch steps. She’d brought a small backpack with her from the truck, but that was it. Whatever she’d been up to, she hadn’t packed heavy.

She pulled her arm free from his grasp and stood back, her arms crossed. “So, what then? You’re holding me hostage? Are you even really a sheriff?”

“I am,” he said, highly amused at her attempt at bravado. “You wanna see my badge?”

“Yes.”

He held it out to her and she peered at it, her brow wrinkling with concentration. She frowned up at him.

“Why
Red
? You’re not a ginger.”

He pushed her through the door, welcoming the blanket of warm air that enveloped them. He could hear her teeth chattering. Cold, undoubtedly. But was she afraid, too?

If her nerves stemmed from guilt, this place was as good a prison as any, without a vehicle. But if she was afraid of him…he let go of her arm and stepped away.

“I’m named after my father, Rudolph,” he said, then shot her a stern look. “But if you connect that with my red nose—“

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She said it blandly but a smile flickered over her lips. He felt his own lift in response.

“He was named after his father, who was a redhead. Granddad was called Rudy, Dad was Rudy II. Mom didn’t want a Rudy III, so I got to be Red.”

“Tell me you don’t have a kid named Scarlet. Or Ruby.” She kicked off her boots, unzipped the elf suit, and rushed across the hardwood to the fire. “Especially if it’s a boy.”

But she didn’t turn her back on him for more than a second.

“That tradition is one I’ll be happy to drop,” he said. “If and when the time comes.”

Frankie hopped on one foot as she tugged off fluffy white leg warmers. Had he imagined the fear? The petty criminals he’d dealt with wore their guilt like cheap gas signs. Twitching, picking, shifty-eyed glances, the stereotypes were there for a reason. She wasn’t a criminal, he’d bet his badge on it.

But Tinker Bell was definitely hiding something.

“And I’m asking the questions here, not you.”

“Go ahead.” She held her hands to the embers, and then started to remove the top of the elf suit. She was wearing what looked to be a yoga outfit, smooth, formfitting, revealing a tidy, fit little body.

He couldn’t remember what he was going to say.

Rapid clicking sounded as Rory’s dog emerged from the bedroom, saving him from his inarticulate attempts at authority.

The dog gave an enormous woof and launched herself at Frankie.

“Don’t worry, she’s friendly,” he said, lunging for her collar and missing. “Most of the time.”

The last thing this woman needed was to be flattened by a fifty-pound canine with unknown intentions.

“Of course she is!” Frankie dropped to her knees, her arms open wide. “Hello, honey!”

Definitely not afraid of dogs, then.

“Frankie, meet Mistral.”

Rory’s big labradoodle made a snap judgment that Frankie was everything her life had been missing up until now. She flung herself into the girl’s arms, wiggling and whining, a shaggy mass of chocolate-colored enthusiasm.

“Mistral likes you, I see.” While he, the one who filled the dog’s food dish, had gotten nothing but suspicious glances since he arrived two days earlier.

“Of course you like me,” she said, baby-talking into the dog’s fur. “I’m extremely likeable.”

If the dog’s expression was any indication, Frankie was about to get nominated for sainthood.

“You’re female,” he said, “I think she misses her owner.”

Mistral flopped onto her back, waving and kicking her legs, her bare belly begging for a rub. Frankie obliged, stroking and smooching.

“Wow, you’d think the
dog
saved you from freezing to death.”

Frankie cooed into the dog’s fur. “Is the big bad sheriff jealous? I think he wants a hug, too. What do you think?”

Wait. Was she
flirting
with him? And was he
enjoying
it?

She glanced at him. “Maybe she’d like you more if you weren’t so…testosterone-y.”

“But then
you
might like me less.”

“Impossible.” She ducked her head but he thought he saw a smile.

He didn’t know what she meant by that, and pushed aside his curiosity. She still hadn’t explained herself to him and it was his duty to protect the ranch and uphold the law. No need to get distracted by a pretty smile. But he hated that he was about to make that smile disappear.

“So back to the subject at hand,” he said. “You were trespassing on the Three River Ranch mustang sanctuary. Owned by Carson and Rory Granger.”

“Well, I knew
that
.” Then her hand stopped mid-stroke. The dog nudged her but she stayed still. She’d spoken without thinking, and if
that
was an act, he’d eat his hat.

“The trailer was empty,” he continued, “and no one in their right mind would try stealing wild horses, storm or no storm. So, you must have been dumping something.”

She got back on her feet, crossed her arms and glared challengingly at him. “Ticket me for trespassing then.”

“In your stolen truck.”

“What part of borrowed don’t you understand?” The dog pawed at her and whined.

“Mistral, knock it off,” he said.

“So you’re the fun police, too?” Frankie patted the dog, then straightened up and brushed off her pants. He couldn’t help but notice the long, lean muscles of her legs. Her yoga duds were more than a fashion statement.

Before he could find a comeback, a sudden gust of wind shook the walls. The rafters yawned above them, then there was a crash and the lights went out.

Instinctively, he leaped with outstretched arms to shield her.

Between the dog barking, the ear-piercing warning from the smoke detector and shrill beep of the alarm system, Red could barely hear her low moan. But there was no mistaking the trembling now. She huddled against him, burying her face in his shirt.

“It’s okay, shhh, it’s okay.” He stroked her back lightly. “The power went out, that’s all. Mistral, quiet!”

The dog stopped her racket instantly but it took longer for the alarms. Finally, all that broke the silence was the lashing wind outside.

“Sorry.” Frankie’s voice cracked as she lifted her head. “When will it come back on?”

The glow from the fireplace illuminated her face enough for him to see that she finally wore an expression appropriate for her situation.

He found he preferred the laughing, teasing one.

Great. He had a ranch with no power, a burgeoning blizzard, animals depending on him and now, a frightened, felonious elf to look after.

“Good question,” said Red with a sigh. “Merry Christmas, Francesca Sylva. We might as well make friends.”

…

Frankie swallowed, willing herself to relax.

The big house creaked and groaned. Every gust pummeled the windows with icy particles. She could handle the temperature and the wind, no problem. And now that she knew the elk wouldn’t starve, she could set aside that worry.

But she hated power outages. The sudden shutdown of appliances humming and whirring in the background left a vacuum that her irrational mind quickly replaced with a deep, black throb of apocalyptic dread.

Thin shards of panic fingered her chest, making her breath come short and tight. She searched wildly for anything visual she could grasp and hang onto. She’d spent too much time lying awake at night, an only child with a vivid imagination and parents too far from childhood to understand. Such a stupid thing, but even now, she kept night-lights scattered around her apartment.

Then the flickering firelight and dancing shadows snapped into focus. She realized she was holding the sheriff’s arm and dropped it, stepping closer to the heat, grateful and relieved.

“I’m really out of luck with that phone call, aren’t I?” said Frankie in an almost-normal voice. Her heart rate had left the cheetah-chased-gazelle range.

Now it was just in the cornered-cat range.

“Unless you happen to have a sat phone tucked away somewhere,” Red answered. “Listen, I need to make sure a tree didn’t come down on the roof. Don’t go anywhere.”

He tossed her a flashlight, then bent down and picked up her boots.

“Are you kidding me? You’re taking my boots?”

“You’d prefer handcuffs?” He looked up at her slowly, his eyes hooded. “I’ve got the equipment. Say the word.”

Elec
tricity was gone from the walls, but something like it arced between her and the sheriff, triggering another wash of adrenalin. But this time, it wasn’t fear, at least not entirely. A different kind of anticipation pulsed beneath it. Her heart jumped out of National Geographic and straight into Adult Content, Viewer Discretion Advised.

She didn’t even think she still got that channel.

“Really? You’re going for Christian Grey?” Frankie turned to warm her backside, everything tingling as blood rushed into ice-cold flesh. “I don’t see it. You’re more a fifty-flavors-of-pie kind of guy.”

“What are you talking about?” he said slowly, watching as she rubbed her now-toasty hands on her frozen butt.

The air thickened between them. The orange glow of the fire reflected in his eyes, tracking her movements, following her hands, lingering on her body like a laser. Surely this was nothing more than the freeze-fight-or-flight response gone mad.

“You know.” She swallowed, remembering the fourth F of that response. “That book. With all the…”

Sex.

She was about to say sex. And she was pretty sure he knew it. He might have missed the street sign, but he clearly recognized the territory they’d wandered into.

“Don’t make me chase you, Francesca Sylva,” he said. “That could make our time together most unpleasant.”

His low, teasing tone promised more than it threatened. In the vicinity of her navel, butterflies went ballistic.

“Only if you caught me.” She blew him a kiss, not sure if she was trying to lighten the mood or continue the game. “Go ahead. Go make sure it’s not the big bad wolf huffing and puffing out there. I’ll stay put like a good girl.”

He lifted an eyebrow, then pulled her purloined truck keys from his pocket and dangled them at her. “I think I’ll take care of these myself.”

The dog whined when Red shut the door behind him.

Great. No chance of getting her keys back tonight.

“I would have waited for the storm to quit,” she muttered. “I don’t have a death wish.”

Although it occurred to her that a night in Conrad’s truck might have ended that way for her—if Sheriff Red LeClair hadn’t come along when he did, a knight in shining down-filled parka. The thought gave her a little thrill as she began exploring her surroundings.

He even looked a bit like a knight. Imposing. Severe. Determined.

Those whisky-colored eyes.

She’d always been a sucker for that particular color. He wasn’t a proper redhead, but from those eyes, you could tell the gene was in there.

And his voice. Smooth as glass, a tenor ribbon of sound. If he wasn’t a singer, he ought to be. A voice like that ought to come with a warning: Caution, may cause lurching libido.

Frankie opened the pantry door and shone her flashlight over the shelves, trying to ignore the shadows. She suddenly realized she was starving. Surely Red was too. Maybe if she scrounged together a meal, he’d lighten up on the whole grand-theft-auto theme.

Something warm would be wonderful. But with the power out? They might be stuck with sandwiches. Or cereal and milk.

Then she saw a box on the table with a note taped to the side. And beside it, candles and matches. With shaking hands, she lit a half dozen candles, setting them up around the room, before reading the note.