She gave her head a shake. Don’t be an idiot, Frankie.
He was a man with a truck.
“I’m stuck.” She put on her most innocent grin and faced the headlights. She couldn’t see a thing through the snow. “Can you help me out?”
Three River was supposed to be empty over Christmas. At least, the ranch’s Facebook page had indicated the family was in Maui. The mustang sanctuary was well-known among animal lovers and Frankie felt certain they’d have helped her cause, if she could have asked them. So she’d taken a chance that they wouldn’t mind. That in fact, they’d never know.
Yet here was a man, from what she could hear over the snarl of engines and wind. A man unexpected, in every way.
But what if he was private security? Or worse, a game warden.
Stop it! Think positively, Frankie!
Maybe, despite the little mishap with the ditch, the universe was on her side after all. Maybe this was just a kindhearted local who’d be delighted to help out a damsel in distress.
The man stepped out, leaving the engine running and the driver’s door standing open. This time she caught a glimpse of a cowboy hat and beneath it, a stubbled jawline. Broad shoulders. And tall. He held up a much better flashlight than the one she had, shining it high, scanning the truck, the listing trailer. Then scanning her. The beam of light traveled over her body, up and down, leaving no inch untouched. Warmth rose to her cheeks, prickly in the winter air.
“Wanna tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?” He cleared his throat and she thought she heard the glimmer of a smile. “Lost on your way to work?”
“Ha-ha.” She sighed and stamped her feet, aching with cold now that she was standing still. “Yes, I’m wearing an elf costume. Can you pull me out or what?”
He walked up to the trailer and shone the beam inside. He moved smoothly, deliberately—like a hunter she thought, her breath quickening.
“That option disappeared about six inches ago, I’d say.” The man knocked his fist against the side of the truck, the metal echoing hollowly, and then he moved the light off her and aimed it out into the empty field. “Red LeClair, Lutherton sheriff and currently in charge of this icy little slice of heaven. Wanna tell me what’s going on out here? Ma’am?”
Sheriff! Universe: home run, Frankie: out.
Frankie followed his light where it dissolved in the darkness, watched it catch on low shrubs and rocks sticking up through the snow. She swept a gloved hand over her cheek and bit her lip. She’d expected the animals to bound off into the sunset the second she opened the trailer, but it hadn’t happened like that. They’d wandered off to the nearest wooded area, but that’s as far as they’d gone. At least the snow was coming down so hard and fast their hoofprints were nearly covered already. But would they find the food set out for the mustangs? They wouldn’t last long in this weather.
Go! Run! She urged them silently. Had she been too late? Were they already too habituated to humans? This was the perfect location for them. Perfect!
As his light moved, she could see the gleam of eyes, still watching from the woods. Darn!
“Look,” she said, eager to draw his attention back. “I’m sure this looks a little…odd—”
“What this looks like,” he said, clicking off his light and crossing his arms, “is trespassing. For starters.”
She swallowed. “Technically, you might have a point. But I can explain.”
“How about we start with your license and registration, please. Ma’am.”
And that’s when Frankie began to suspect the universe wasn’t just having a little fun at her expense, but was in fact a PMSing hag. She rummaged through the glove box until she found the crumpled insurance papers belonging to Conrad Toole, the man who owned the truck and the dilapidated roadside Christmas display she’d been part of. Until tonight, when she’d liberated the five young elk he’d been parading as reindeer.
She could see how this might appear sketchy.
“Nice to meet you, Francesca Sylva of Kalispell, Montana,” said the man, looking up from her license, checking the photo against reality. Then he held up the truck papers. “You’re a long way from home, ma’am.”
The wolfish glint in his eyes was at odds with his gentlemanly words. Time to work that damsel-in-distress business, hard. “Thank goodness you happened along, Sheriff! I’m delivering this empty trailer to my…brother…and I’m afraid I got turned around.”
She batted frozen lashes.
Sheriff Red LeClair waited, like a teacher listening to another “the dog ate my homework” story.
“Now I’m stuck,” she continued, forcing her numb lips into what she hoped was a smile. “I just need a push. If you could help me get those pesky wheels back onto solid ground, or maybe lend me your cell phone, I’d be so grateful.”
At that, his eyes narrowed. “Really. You’d be grateful.”
Oh lord. That sounded bad, even to her own ears. But before she could dig herself in deeper, he went on.
“Since the highway closed an hour ago, I’m guessing you got here via the back roads. So unless your…brother…lives right around here, there’s no place to go.”
Frankie looked away, the quick hard thuds of her heart telling her that this escapade had gone from bad to worse.
“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 statemen
t.
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.
Stranded with a Hero (Entangled Bliss) Page 27