by Caroline Lee
But back home, she’d always been known as “the Chief’s daughter.” She’d never been able to advance past foot patrol and eventually gave up. Here at River’s End Ranch, she had a position of importance and colleagues who not only respected her, but had gotten to know and like her too.
That had to count for something.
The phone rang, interrupting her maudlin musings, and she rolled her eyes slightly. One of her men would’ve used their radio, which meant it was a civilian—er, one of the guests. And while she lived for the chance to help the guests on the ranch, for some reason, at least half of the calls she’d gotten in the last month had revolved around supposed Bigfoot sightings or evidence.
But she reached for the phone and managed her most professional voice. “River’s End Ranch Security. This is Officer Easton.” Technically, she could call herself “Chief Easton” now, but that was her father’s name and title, as far as she was concerned, and she didn’t want it.
“Hello, Sheriff. It’s Bobbi Weston.”
Charley’s brows shot up. This was Wade’s mother, although she was never sure if the Weston parents were her boss’s bosses, or just a pair of good-natured meddlers who kept coming up with ideas for their kids to implement. Charley knew it had been Mrs. Weston’s idea to disguise the security offices as the Old West Town’s jail, and to have the chief security officer occasionally dress up like a sheriff, which probably explained why the woman had used the title.
“Hiya, Mrs. Weston. What can I do for you?”
On the other end of the line, the older woman cleared her throat. “I’m here in Debbie Watkins’ office, chatting about the go-kart track my soon-to-be-son-in-law wants to add.”
That made sense; Debbie was the head of the recently renovated childcare facility at the other end of Old West Town. And Travis Montgomery—who was so googly-eyed over Dani Weston, it was sometimes funny—wanted to build the track out back, just like Sadie had built the pavilion for that fancy antique merry-go-round.
When Mrs. Weston paused in her explanation, Charley prompted her. “Is everything alright over at the Kids’ Korral?”
“Well, I might be overreacting, but…”
“Yeah?” Charley prompted when Mrs. Weston failed to continue.
“Well, I know that I don’t know everyone who works on the ranch, since we’ve been gone for so long, and he could be a guest, but he’s acting awfully suspicious, and neither Debbie nor Belle recognize him either…”
“Who, ma’am?” Charley asked patiently.
“Well, there’s a man outside, and he’s been there for a while—almost a half hour—and he’s…well…” She paused. “He’s skulking around, taking pictures.”
“Of what?”
“Of us.”
“The kids?” That would be really creepy.
“No. Well, I don’t think so. It’s like he’s taking photos of the building or something. He’s holding up his phone at weird angles and I think that’s what he’s doing. I didn’t want to say anything, but then I started to worry that maybe he’s…you know.”
No, Charley didn’t. “He’s what?”
“Well, maybe he’s casing the joint. Like they do in movies.”
Charley managed to contain her chuckle. Sounded like Mrs. Weston had been watching too many of those movies lately. But she was right—even if her lingo was off—that taking photos of the new building did sound suspicious. “It’s not illegal to take photos on the ranch.”
“Of course not! I just thought…” The older woman trailed off.
“No, you’re right, Mrs. Weston. That does sound suspicious. Is he still there?”
“Hold on, I’ll check.” There was a rustle of fabric as if she was peeking through the curtains. “Yep, he’s around the side of the building now, moving towards the back. You know, away from prying eyes.”
Charley didn’t bother hiding her grin. “Roger that, ma’am. I’ll check it out myself.” Allan and Tater were out on patrol anyhow, and it would probably be good if the “sheriff” handled the boss’s mother’s concerns. “If he leaves before I get over there, come out and give me a description, okay?”
“Okay. Thank you, Sheriff Easton.”
Charley rolled her eyes at the title. “You bet,” she said, right before hanging up.
A suspicious intruder taking photos and making her friends uncomfortable? No way was she going to stand for that on her watch. She might not be a cop anymore, but as she tugged her uniform hat on and patted her pocket to make sure she had her wallet and her open-carry permit, in case anyone questioned her, she felt her shoulders straighten.
She might not be a cop, but River’s End Ranch was her beat, and she wasn’t going to let some low-life creep disturb its way of life.
CHAPTER TWO
Tristan snapped one last photo of the rear windows and uploaded it to the folder he was texting to Maury. There’d been some concern that the subcontractors hadn’t plumbed the jambs correctly, and although Tristan hated to deliver bad news, he agreed with the inspector. It was hard to notice up close, but when he stood back thirty feet, those things were definitely skewed slightly. It wouldn’t be that tough to fix…and in fact, it might not even warrant fixing. But either way, Maury now had the ammunition he needed to go after those subcontractors to get his money back.
Scrolling through the other photos he’d taken during the last half-hour, Tristan checked to see if there were any more that would be helpful. He was sending Maury a lot, but he wanted to make sure his boss had everything he needed. He’d taken a real chance on Tristan last year, and now Tristan would do anything he could to help the older man.
He pressed “send” on that batch of photos, then settled against the wooden slats of the next building over, as he shuffled through the remaining photos one more time, just in case there was anything else Maury could use. These buildings had been built to look like some sort of old-timey town, all made of rough-cut timbers and thick nails. The insides were just as modern as could be, but someone did a great job of designing the facades to charm the tourists, and judging from the number of people Tristan had seen wandering by while he’d been hanging sheet rock during the renovations, people loved the “Wild West” look.
Here in the rear of the buildings, there were a few more modern touches—the HVAC unit, for instance—but he still felt like he was standing in the old west. The building Pulaski Construction, Inc. had been contracted to renovate was going to be some sort of child-care facility, judging by the decorations and the ridiculous “K” alliteration on the sign out front. He didn’t know what it had originally been—Maury hadn’t sent him over until after that job in Athol had finished up—but now it seemed to fit right into the tourist-trap-old-timey-theme this place had going on.
Tristan shifted and slowly slid downwards until his butt was resting on the heels of his boots, and his back was braced against the wall, as he studied the photos of the Kids’ Korral building. Finally deciding he’d sent Maury everything of value, he closed his texting app and leaned his head back against the building. It sure was nice here in the shade, even though it wasn’t too warm yet. Warm enough that he’d left his jacket with his motorcycle in the parking lot by the diner—sorry Kafé, another inexplicable misspelling—and had walked over in just his dark t-shirt.
He considered moving his feet out of the way and just plopping his rear end in the dirt, sure no one would mind if he took a little catnap back here out of the way, before heading over to Athol to check on the electrical install going on over there. But the thought of getting these jeans any dirtier stopped him. He only had the three pairs, and this was the pair he’d been wearing last week when he took his bike through that puddle of dirty slush which hadn’t quite melted.
He smiled up at the eaves, thinking about how dumb that had been. A motorcycle was a stupid vehicle to own in the first place, living in a place where it snowed so often, but it was what he could afford. When the roads were bad, he bummed rides from co-workers.
And he knew enough to avoid piles of melting snow when he did ride.
But man… Last week he’d been flying high. Having that girl’s arms around him as he’d driven her to the gas station…that had felt incredible. He’d be the first to admit riding with a good-looking woman holding on behind was one of his fantasies, and she’d fulfilled it. Instead of bemoaning the fact that it wasn’t going to happen again—he hadn’t even gotten her name!—he’d decided to focus on how good it had felt to have her perched back there, her arms tight around him and her helmeted head tucked against his shoulders.
So yeah, maybe he’d been a little reckless after, and had swerved out of the way to splash through that mud puddle and splattered up his jeans. But he couldn’t regret it, not when he had that memory of her pressed against him to keep him warm at nights.
Man. He sure wished he’d gotten her name. Or anything other than the fact that she drove a sedan with a faulty gas gauge and had a real nice smile. Her brown hair had been only a little longer than his, but much fluffier, and her eyes had been…well, maybe not warm, but interesting at least. Interested, too, unless he’d missed his guess.
But at the gas station, she’d avoided his eyes, then had held the little plastic tank instead of him on the ride back to her car. Once there, she’d refused his help in gassing up the car, but afterwards she’d held out her hand for him to shake it.
Shaking her hand had been almost as nice as being hugged by her.
Tristan sighed. She was long gone, but he knew he was going to remember her fondly for a while.
“Can I help you, sir?” The voice was hard, but high-pitched.
Tristan jerked his head upright, searching for the source. There. Walking along the path behind the Old West Town buildings was a figure. A figure in the depressingly familiar uniform of an Idaho police officer, her face shadowed by her hat’s brim.
“Sir, what are you doing here?” Her voice turned downright flinty as she approached, one hand resting on her weapon in that macho my-toy-is-bigger-than-your-toy way cops do.
He cursed under his breath and slowly rose to his feet. Even three years out, it was like he had some sort of “harass me” sign over his head. The cops just always seemed to know he was a felon—an ex-felon—and wanted to make trouble for him. This wasn’t the first time he’d been singled out just for trying to live his life.
Sighing, he squinted towards the figure and straightened, knowing from experience that cops didn’t like it when they felt he wasn’t being respectful enough. “Howdy, ma’am. How can I help you?” He tried a grin, but figured it came out kind of sickly when she didn’t smile back. All he could see of her face was her jawline, hard and unbending. Like most of the cops he knew.
“I had a report of suspicious activity around the ranch’s childcare facility, sir.” The way she said sir was that ingrained, not-really-respectful way police officers had called him sir in the past. “I’m wondering what your business is, and why you’re sitting back here.” And then she pushed her hat back on her head with her free hand, and the sun hit her features for the first time.
It was her. The woman he’d been dreaming about. The woman whom he’d saved last week, stranded on the side of the road. The woman whom he’d teased about not wanting to ride with him without a helmet.
“Holy c—“ He bit off the curse word. “You are a cop?”
Obviously not the right thing to say, judging from the way her cute brown eyes hardened to match her jaw. Whoops. Well, cussing and insults probably weren’t the way to a lady’s heart anyhow.
“No,” she barked curtly. “I told you I’m not a cop. I’m a security guard.”
A security guard. That’s right, now that she was standing right there, he could see her uniform was lacking the patches and badges he’d become familiar with, and instead only had a nametag—“Easton”—and a “River’s End Ranch” patch over her left breast.
Tristan relaxed slightly. She couldn’t arrest him and drag him off to prison again, like the cops in his nightmares did. But, eyeing her stance, he knew she could still make trouble for him.
Right now, she was far from the cute stranded motorist he’d rescued on his bike.
She took a breath. “This is my ranch. And here at River’s End Ranch, we have decency and profanity rules, which I’ll thank you to respect.”
What? Oh, she meant his aborted curse. “Sorry,” Tristan muttered, still staring at her uniform. Then he blinked. Did he just apologize to a cop?
No, he’d apologized to her. And judging from her scowl, she hadn’t been impressed.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, then explained, “I was just really surprised to see you again.”
And to his surprise, the iciness in her expression began to thaw. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, but he noticed she hadn’t moved her hand away from her weapon. Maybe she just liked to rest it there.
“I’m surprised to see you again too.”
Well, that was…promising.
“But I need to know what you’re doing, skulking around back here.”
Less promising.
“Skulking around?” He tried his best grin.
It didn’t work. “That’s what the employee who called in claimed; that you were skulking around, taking pictures.”
“How do you know that I’m not a guest, and I like architecture?”
That seemed to make her pause. In fact, she even took an aborted step backwards, and finally dropped her hand from her weapon. “Are you?” she asked suspiciously.
Even though it would’ve made his life a lot easier to say “Yes,” he couldn’t lie. Pop’s whuppings had assured that. “No.” He sighed. “I’m not a guest.”
Her fingers inched towards her gunbelt once more. “Then I’m going to need an explanation, sir.”
Explaining himself to a cop—even if she wasn’t really a cop—rankled. “Listen, Officer Easton— Look, what’s your name?”
“Officer Easton,” she said blandly.
His lips quirked. “No, I mean, your first name. I’m Tristan. Tristan Quarles.”
When he stuck his hand out for a shake, she looked at it for a long moment. And then she looked up at him. And then back down at his hand.
And then, maybe remembering how nice it had been the last time they’d shaken hands, or maybe remembering that she owed him, she reached out and shook his hand. “Charlotte. Charley.”
“Charley Easton, huh? Nice to meet you.” He pumped her hand over-enthusiastically, hoping to distract her from her questions.
It didn’t work, although her cheeks did flush kinda nicely. But instead of throwing herself at him and wrapping her arms around him like she’d done last week on his bike—and nearly every night since in his dreams—she squeezed his hand once, firmly, then withdrew hers.
“So, Mr. Quarles, what are you doing, taking pictures of ranch property, if you’re not a guest?”
Man, she was tenacious. He sighed, and shoved his cell phone into his back pocket. “No offense, Charley, but I don’t think it’s any of your business.”
“On the contrary. It’s very much my business, when you’re making my guests uncomfortable. And it’s ‘Officer Easton,’ thank you.” When she pulled her hand back, it rested on the butt of her weapon once more. Like that’s where it belonged. “And if you don’t want to discuss it here, we could go back to my office and discuss it there.”
Spend more time with her? The part of him that had spent all those years in various incarceration facilities muttered “Heck, no.” But the part of him that was very much a man attracted to a cute woman—that had been dreaming about this particular cute woman—made him grin and say, “Sure, lead the way.”
Lead the way. Like it had been an invitation, rather than a threat.
She nodded once and jerked her chin towards the main street. “This way.”
He noticed she didn’t take her eyes off him as they moved out from between the buildings, even though there were groups of tourists all over
the main street of the wild-westy town.
“So,” he said, trying to joke, “Are you like the sheriff of this town?”
To his surprise, she snorted—was that a laugh?—as she dodged a family with a baby stroller. He found himself admiring the way she moved, sure and steady. She was short, but confident, and he admired that.
“Yeah.”
He blinked, wondering what she was responding to.
She continued. “At River’s End Ranch, sometimes the employees of the Old West Town get dressed up in old-timey gear.” She pointed to a sign that said “Saloon” in graceful wrought-iron. “The employees at the coffee shop get dressed up like saloon gals. The manager at the General Store dresses in those long pioneer gowns.” She pointed to another store, before sighing slightly and dropping her hand. “And sometimes my boss makes me dress up like the sheriff, complete with a big ol’ white hat and a stupid badge.”
There was something about the way she said it… With his hands shoved into the pockets of his dirty jeans, Tristan cocked his head at her as they walked. “You think it’s stupid? The badge?”
Her head whipped around so fast she almost lost her hat, and she looked stunned. Had he guessed something he shouldn’t?
“No. I mean, it’s just a costume. The badge is tin, and I look like a movie character. So yeah, maybe.”
But no matter how she tried to explain, Tristan got the impression her first “no” had been her true feelings. There was something in the way she’d said it that made him think maybe she was…proud of being the town sheriff? He wondered if she admitted it to herself.
“Would you go out with me?”
The invitation evidently surprised her as much as it did him. She pulled to a stop, right there in the middle of the dirt road.
“What? Why?”
“Well…” He shrugged. “I like you. I’d like to get to know you better.” Lord help him. He wanted to get to know a cop better? Pop would whup him for sure if he ever found out. Luckily, the old man was still doing time down in Kuna.