The Sheriff (Men of the White Sandy Book 5)

by Sarah M. Anderson

  “See if he’ll come in,” Tim said.

  Jack got up, which drew the attention of multiple gang bangers. They turned their attention from Levi to Jack, and while the deputy was normally hard to ruffle, tonight he’d taken some direct fire and had been grazed on the shoulder. It hadn’t done wonders for his mood. He threw open the door and turned around to glare at the prisoners.

  Then he turned off the light.

  Everyone got blissfully quiet as they waited to see what Jack was going to do. He walked back to his desk and turned on a lamp. Almost everyone’s gaze followed Jack, which meant they missed Nobody slipping in like a shadow. It wasn’t until the leader of the Warriors, Chuck, stepped forward and told Jack where he could put his lamp—only to be yanked against the bars so hard Tim heard something snap—that everyone realized Jack and Tim were not alone anymore.

  Everyone—except for Chuck—shut the hell up and backed against the far wall, out of the way of Nobody’s long reach. Chuck made a noise that was half groan, half scream. Tim took advantage of the silence and said, “There are worse things in this world than being locked up in jail for the night. I’d be happy to let any of you go right now. But once you’re no longer a guest of the White Sandy police, you’re on your own, aren’t you?”

  Nobody released his grip on Chuck and shoved him back. The leader fell on his ass and scooted back as if he’d seen the face of the devil himself.

  No one requested to be released.

  “Now,” Tim went on. “I hope everyone has a clear understanding of how far we will go to keep this reservation a safe and law abiding place to live.”

  “This is police brutality,” somebody muttered. It sounded like it came from the Killerz cell.

  “How can that be? Jack and I are the only police on this reservation,” he informed them at large. “We had no knowledge of any other force. There are no other deputies and no other sanctioned law enforcement members. Anything else you’re seeing is most likely a figment of your imagination.”

  “Goddamn sica,” someone else whispered.

  An electric charge passed around the room, making Tim’s teeth chatter with the force of the power. Jesus, Nobody wasn’t going to turn into a fireball, was he? Tim had been on the receiving end of some of his electric shocks before, but this was crazy.

  What only made it worse was that even Tim wasn’t exactly sure where Nobody was in the room.

  “Can you turn the lights back on?” a small, scared voice asked. If Tim hadn’t been one hundred percent sure Georgey was back at his place with Summer, he would’ve guessed it was the boy. But it wasn’t. It was the kid everyone called Shorty. And he probably wasn’t older than fifteen. “Blaine isn’t moving,” Shorty went on. He sounded like he was about to start crying.

  “Shut up, Shorty,” someone snapped. It sounded like Levi.

  Tim tilted the shade of his lamp so it shone where he thought Shorty was standing. The kid looked all of twelve surrounded by older, tougher men.

  “Here’s the thing,” he said to the kid. “The doctor is a good woman who won’t take any of your shit and Clarence doesn’t like idiots. I’m trying to figure out why I should bother to wake either of them up in the middle of the night to take care of any of you.” Shorty looked stricken. “What did you think was going to happen? You were all going to miss? No. You went there to hurt someone. And someone got hurt. This is what happens when you declare war on your own people. You watch them die and you know it was your fault.”

  Now the kid was crying and Tim felt bad. He tried to think—who the hell was Blaine? But he drew a blank.

  Normally, this was the point where Jack would jump in and be the good cop. Tim was the bad cop and Nobody was the scary not-cop. But Jack was still pissed about being shot and he made no move to smooth over the truth of the situation. Instead, he sat there and glared.

  Still, Tim couldn’t exactly have a bunch of dead prisoners on his hand. It would look bad. So after another minute—and he made damn sure it was a full minute—he said, “I’ll see what I can do. But I hear one lewd or rude comment to any medical professional who bothers to show up to save your sorry hides, and I will turn the lights off and walk out. Do I make myself clear?”

  Just in case he hadn’t, Tim felt a little burst of the electricity coming off of Nobody. Apparently, the man was standing by the front door.

  The only sound was of Shorty sniffling. Tim remembered telling Summer that it depended on the kid and it depended on the crime, but he’d had other kids sleeping on his couch. It wasn’t a lie—but it wasn’t entirely the truth either.

  He looked at Jack and nodded. Jack got up and walked slowly to the front of the room, and although Tim kept his eyes on the door, he didn’t see Nobody slip out. But when Jack flipped on the light, there were only two people in the room who weren’t in a cell.

  “Now, we can do this the easy way,” Tim told the stunned group, “or we can do it the hard way. And we all know what the hard way is, don’t we?” A few people turned their backs on him, refusing to see him or Jack. That was fine. “Shorty, come to the front of the cell.”

  Tim wanted to go home. He wanted to see if Summer was tucked in his bed, if she’d wake up when he stuck his head into the room to make sure she was all right. He wanted to make sure Georgey hadn’t done anything stupid, like sleep with the gun tucked into his waistband. He did not want to spend the next several hours calling parents and grandparents and dealing with state troopers and FBI agents and filling out accident reports explaining how some people’s arms might have gotten broken while in custody.

  But he didn’t have much of a choice at this point. This was the job.

  His job.

  Chapter Seven

  Summer woke with a start. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. She didn’t recognize the room, the bed, anything. She heard a thunk that came from outside the bedroom door.

  Tim.

  It all came back to her. She was in Tim’s house, sleeping in his bed—waiting on him to come home. She blinked at the clock—6:18. Was he just getting home? Was everything okay?

  She slipped out of bed and cautiously opened the door. The smell of coffee hit her nose the same moment she heard soft voices.

  “…Shoot anyone?” That was Georgey.

  “Not fatally,” Tim replied. He sounded bone tired. “You were right about Levi. Do me a favor, kid—don’t tell anyone else what you told me.”

  “What happened?” As tired as Tim sounded, Georgey sounded equally excited. If not more so.

  “You know what happened. Jack and I met them from opposite angles and Nobody drifted around the perimeter, picking off the easy ones.” There was a pause. “It’s good you weren’t there, kid. There were a lot of shots fired. It got messy.”

  Summer gave silent thanks Georgey had been sulking here.

  “Did you see who shot you?”

  Oh, Lord—he’d been shot? Summer flung herself into the room. “Are you okay?” she demanded. Then she stopped.

  Because Sheriff Tim Means was leaning against the kitchen counter without a shirt on. His pants were unbuckled and the top button was undone, giving her a glimpse of the line of dark hair that dipped below his fly.

  Her brain was having trouble processing his chest. There were small scars and a few larger ones crisscrossing his biceps and chest. He was lean and muscled and she couldn’t believe she’d ever thought this man had a beer gut because there wasn’t a spare ounce of fat on him.

  Tim looked at her. He lifted one eyebrow, but he made no move to buckle up or grab a shirt.

  That was when she realized he also didn’t have any open gunshot wounds on him.

  “Summer, check this out,” Georgey said with unabashed adoration in his voice. “I mean, this is so cool!”

  Summer could barely tear her gaze away from Tim’s chest, but she didn’t have much choice when Georgey held the vest up in front of her. It took a moment to comprehend what she was seeing—the same vest Tim had wo
rn last night, except now there was a dent in the front almost two inches wide.

  She stared at that dent, then her gaze jolted back to Tim’s chest. She stepped forward and saw what she’d missed the first time—the darker red spot under his left pec. Already, it was deepening to angry purple. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Been better. Been worse.”

  She looked up at him and saw the dark circles under his eyes.

  “How about you? You have a quiet night?”

  She stared at him but he just sipped his coffee, as if this were another Saturday morning and not him coming close to being killed in a gang war. “I was worried about you,” she admitted.

  That got a smirk out of him. “I’m not the one you should be worried about.” He broke her gaze and turned his attention back to Georgey, who’d spread the vest out on the kitchen table. “Jack got grazed by a bullet, but it was a scratch. I didn’t see who shot me, but there were only a few people with guns.”

  Summer stared at his chest again. “You need to ice that.” Without waiting for an answer, she pulled open the freezer door. He had one tray of ice. She started rummaging through the cabinets, hoping to find a baggie or something, but in the end she had to settle for a washcloth. She dumped half the ice in, tied the ends together and turned back to where Tim watched her with an amused smile on his face.

  “Here,” she said, pressing the ice pack against his chest. His bare chest.

  His gaze dipped and Summer realized she was still in her pajamas. Which meant she didn’t have on a bra.

  It was at that exact moment her nipples decided to join the conversation, tightening underneath the T-shirt until she could feel them pointing through the fabric. Tim’s gaze snapped back up, his pupils widening as he stared at her.

  “Can I really ride along with you next time you do this?” Georgey said, apparently blissfully unaware Tim and Summer were engaged in something deeper than first aid.

  “What? No,” Summer said quickly. “You are absolutely not allowed to go along to a shootout and that is final, young man.”

  “Aww,” Georgey started to whine.

  But Tim cut him off. “Your sister’s right. You’d just get yourself killed.”

  “Would not,” Georgey protested. “I know how to shoot. I can handle a gun.”

  Summer twisted so she could stare at the young man without letting go of the ice pack. Which meant she was leaning up against the counter, more or less nestled against Tim’s side. “Don’t make me ground you,” she said. Then Tim’s arm came to rest around her waist and whatever else she was going to say got lost on the way to her mouth.

  “Kid,” Tim said in a stern voice, “Jack and I are both ex-military and I’ve got a degree in criminal justice. It’s not enough to know how to handle a gun. If you’d been there last night, either somebody would’ve killed you or you would’ve killed somebody and trust me, that’s not something to be taken lightly. You want to be a warrior, you have to earn that right.”

  Georgey opened his mouth to shoot off a smart-ass reply, no doubt, but for the first time, he seemed to notice they were both in the room—together. He almost physically recoiled as Tim’s hand fell away from Summer’s waist.

  Tim reached up and pulled her hand, with the frozen pack, away from his chest. “Put this back in the freezer for me, will you? I’m going to take a shower. Then I need to sleep for a couple hours. Do you think you can get Georgey to the Clinic so he can finish working on the window?”

  Frankly, she wasn’t entirely sure she could find the Clinic. But compared to Tim’s problems, that seemed like a minor issue. “Will you be okay?”

  He shrugged and, in the process, stepped away from her. “Just need some sleep. A few hours and I’ll be as good as new.”

  Summer eyed the deepening bruise on his chest. She had her doubts about that, but she said, “We’ll get out of your way, then.” She turned to Georgey. “Do we need to swing by your grandma’s house and get some of your things?”

  She realized immediately it was not the right thing to say. Georgey’s cheeks shot bright red. “I don’t have anything else,” he said.

  “Oh.” She felt stupid. She’d had students who were poor before. She should’ve known he wouldn’t have this huge wardrobe or a bunch of stuff to pack. “Then we’ll need to start a list,” she said because she had to say something. “But,” she hurried to add when Georgey’s eyes lit up, “you still have to pay Tim back for the window or however that works. You’re on your own for that.”

  ***

  It took longer than Tim expected for Georgey and Summer to get out of the house. Georgey spent another twenty minutes in the bathroom, then Summer had to shower. During which time, Tim had to not think about Summer being in the shower.

  He also had to not think about the way she’d looked when she’d burst out of the bedroom this morning, her hair tousled and her face creased from the pillow.

  He’d wanted to do nothing more than pull her into his arms, tell her he’d had a long night, and lead her right back to bed. He was hurting and she’d looked like the best kind of painkiller—warm and soft and more than enough to take his mind off the hurt.

  Then he’d seen her nipples tighten under her T-shirt and she’d curled up against his side and what little grip he had on his control had started to shake.

  No, he’d never given his bed up to anyone else. But for her? Yeah, he’d make an exception. Right now he was too tired to do anything but sleep, but when the Tylenol kicked in and he’d gotten some sleep?

  He wanted to find out exactly what it took to make her nipples tighten up again. He wanted to find out how those nipples felt in his mouth and he wanted to know what noises she’d make when he sucked.

  Instead, he stood in his kitchen and drank more coffee and prayed he’d get at least two hours of sleep before his phone rang again.

  Finally, though, they were gone. Tim took a hot shower and then got out Summer’s homemade ice pack and wrapped it against his chest with an elastic bandage. Technically, he'd lied. He knew damn well he wasn’t going to be all right after a couple of hours asleep. His chest throbbed and he knew from experience he’d be sore for days. Better than being dead, of course, but still a pain in the ass—or the chest, as it were. He sprawled out on the bed on his back, a towel underneath his ribs to catch the melted ice. Then he closed his eyes.

  Normally, Tim could fall sleep at the drop of a hat. It was a life skill, after all. You slept when you could and worked when you had to.

  But he hadn’t counted on the lingering smell of Summer Collins in his bed. The pillowcase held the faintest whiff of vanilla and something else—the unique scent of Summer.

  He was bad at flirting. He’d never been good at it and he was way out of practice. Still, even an old man like him knew that when a woman looked at him like that and held ice against his chest when there was nothing wrong with his arm—that was some kind of flirtation. What he didn’t know was, when she’d turned to look at Georgey and stepped into his arms and he’d put his hand around her waist just because she’d felt so good against him, was that flirting, too? Or was that the exhaustion talking?

  She hadn’t twisted out of his grasp or pushed his hand away, but she had told him in no uncertain terms she was going to check on his bruising again later tonight and he had better sleep while they were gone.

  It was a promise he hoped like hell she was going to keep.

  ***

  Normally, Tim’s sleep was blackness. He didn’t dream, or if he did, he didn’t remember it. But today, odd, disjointed images floated around his mind. Bodies moving together and apart and he had a gun—he always had a gun. There was something he wanted to be doing, something that seemed important, but he had the gun in his hand and he couldn’t reach the body next to him. Whoever it was, she danced and spun just out of his grasp, an impression more than a person.

  Weird, he thought. And he was cognizant enough to know that thought in and of itself was unusual
.

  Then something touched his shoulder and cut through the weird dream. Instinct took over. He reached up and grabbed the wrists of the person who’d managed to sneak into his house, and rolled. Before he even got his eyes open, he had the intruder trapped underneath him and he was trying to reach for the gun under his pillow. Except it wasn’t there. Dammit.

  “Oh!” A soft feminine voice squeaked from under him.

  His eyelids were heavy and he realized he’d been asleep. “Who are you,” he demanded as he forced his eyes open.

  That was when he realized he'd pinned Summer to his bed. He had her by her wrists and her body was warm and soft underneath his.

  Oh, shit.

  “Tim?” Her eyes were wide—the kind of eyes a man could get lost in—and she should have been terrified. But he didn’t think she was. Maybe a little alarmed. He couldn’t really blame her for that.

  “Tim?” she asked again and he realized he hadn’t answered her yet.

  His brain felt like sludge and he was vaguely aware this was the worst thing he had done all day. Probably all week. “What are you doing here? Where’s Georgey?”

  Amazingly, instead of kicking and screaming and trying to throw him off her—all things she should’ve done—one corner of her mouth quirked up. “He’s at the Clinic,” she said in a remarkably calm voice, given the circumstances. “Jack was there, getting some stitches. He told me to tell you…” Her voice drifted off.

  Tim tried not to think about the way her body was molding itself to his. Soft. She was so soft.

  “He said the state troopers were watching the prisoners, but you need to get down there sooner rather than later. I gathered they didn’t want Jack bleeding all over the place,” she added, her smile growing slightly. “Apparently he tried to call you, but you didn’t answer. So he’s keeping an eye on Georgey and I offered to come check on you.”

  He’d slept through the phone? And the state troopers were taking over his station? Tim winced, which she took the wrong way.

  “Are you okay?” She pulled one of her wrists free from his hand and then she was touching him. Her fingers slid down his side, over his ribs until they hit the bandage and he almost lost what little self-control he was hanging onto, because she was touching him and looking at him with those beautiful eyes and he wasn’t going to make it.