To Wear His Ring

by Diana Palmer

  “Watchdog One to Red Sheriff. Come in, Red Sheriff. Over.”

  The reedy voice of Ernie Karpoun, owner of Good Eats, the local diner, sputtered over the radio.

  Nettie arched a brow. “Watchdog One?” Ernie was five-feet-four inches when he wore his lifts, and in all his seventy-two years he’d never weighed more than a hundred and fifteen pounds. Gazing pointedly at the copper hair Sara usually slicked into a low bun, she said, “And what did he call you? Red Sheriff?” She grinned. “Catchy.”

  “Oh, knock it off! I told him a dozen times not to do that,” Sara grumbled. Taking her plate with her, she sat down in front of the radio and pressed a button. “What is it, Ernie?” No response. She rolled her eyes and hit the button again. “Tenfour, Watchdog, what have you got?”

  Nettie laughed. She’d been back in town three years now, but there were still times when she forgot how small this place really was.

  “What I’ve got is a pack of trouble ready to happen. I think you’d better warm up the squad car, Sheriff. Over.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Meeting her sister’s eyes, Sara shook her head. Trouble at the Good Eats generally meant someone had discovered the french fries came frozen. “What’s up?”

  “You know that fella who’s been robbing banks out toward Fargo? Over.”

  Nettie sat on the edge of the desk, glad she’d decided to venture over to the jail tonight. It beat hanging around an empty house. With Lilah in California and Sara at work most nights since her deputy moved to Minot, evenings gave Nettie too much time to think.

  Sara leaned over to scoop up another bite of pie. “Yeah?”

  “Our bank could be hit next. Over.”

  “Really?” A tiny smile curved Sara’s lips.

  Nettie swung her legs as she listened to the exchange. This was far more interesting than a rerun of “Law and Order.”

  For the past several weeks, the evening news had been peppered with stories about a man the media had dubbed the “Gentleman Caller,” a tall, well-spoken male between thirty and forty who had robbed no fewer than twelve branches of the Bank of North Dakota, relieving them of hefty five-figure sums each time. According to eyewitnesses, the Gentleman Caller was polite, worked alone and never resorted to violence, at least not yet.

  “What makes you think he’s interested in us, Ernie?” Sara asked, lining up another big spoonful of pie. “Far as I know, the Gentleman Caller prefers savings and loans in bigger cities. We’ve got a tiny branch of the Bank of North Dakota. I doubt he’s interested in us.”

  “Yeah? Then what’s he doing in Kalamoose? Over.”

  Sara nearly choked. “Explain that,” she ordered when she stopped coughing.

  “That fella is sitting here in my diner right now!” Ernie’s excitement came through loud and clear. “He come in about thirty minutes ago. I wasn’t sure it was him at first, but…Uh-oh. Gloria just waved to me. That’s our signal for when he’s gettin’ ready to leave. He ordered the chicken fried steak platter. It comes with mashed potatoes and corn—it’s a lot of food, you know—but he’s a quick eater, I noticed that right off the bat. Probably got used to eatin’ fast because he’s always on the run and lookin’ over his shoulder. Bet he swallows a lot of air—”

  “Ernie!” Sara snapped. Nettie had one hand over her mouth, trying to contain her laughter. “Tell me exactly why you think your customer could be the Gentleman Caller. What does he look like?”

  “He looks like that drawing they had in the paper a couple weeks back. Kinda normally-like, you know. Gloria says he’s good lookin’. Got a few days’ growth on his face, probably for a disguise.”

  Nettie was surprised to see Sara actually taking notes. “You’re not seriously considering this?” She shook her head. “Sara, that composite in the paper was so generic it could have been you.”

  Sara waved at her to hush. Nettie rolled her eyes. None of the eyewitness accounts about the Gentleman Caller jived. Several frightened bank employees swore he’d flashed a gun; others said he’d merely claimed to have one. He’d been described variously as suave, dangerous, unflappable and, by one particularly whimsical teller, sweet.

  “And,” Ernie’s voice crackled across the Kalamoose airwaves again, this time with ominous portent. “He’s wearing a Ducks’ cap.”

  “Ducks’ cap?” Sara repeated, scribbling again.

  “Anaheim Ducks.”

  “I don’t remember that from the bulletin.”

  “It weren’t in the bulletin. But tell me this—what kinda fella roots for a hockey team in a city that wouldn’t recognize snow if they stepped on it? Anaheim. Shee-oot!”

  Nettie rocked with laughter. Sara shot her a dirty look, then growled tightly into the radio, “Ernie, I can’t question somebody because you don’t like the Ducks.”

  “I don’t like Anaheim.”

  Flinging herself against the back of the chair, Sara hurled her pencil at the CB. “Aw, for crying out loud!”

  “Okay, Sheriff, how ‘bout this: You know how when Gloria puts the food down, she sets the check down, too? Well, this fella paid right away, and when he reached into his pocket, he took out a wad of cash big enough to choke a horse. Smallest bill he had was a C-note. I gotta go into the safe to make change. And he started askin’ Gloria about the layout of the town, too. Where’s the market and how late does it stay open? And he’s been real polite like they say, but he talks quiet, unnatural soft, like he’s disguisin’ his voice. And he don’t make eye contact if he can help it.” There was a slight pause. “Over.”

  The sudden tensing of Sara’s shoulders telegraphed her alertness. Nettie’s grin faded. She sat motionless, watching her sister’s reaction.

  “Oh, boy! Gloria just signaled me again. He finished the potatoes. You better get here, Sheriff, and I mean quick-like. Over.”

  Leaning forward, Sara spoke calmly but firmly. “I’ll be at the diner in a few minutes. Keep him there if you can, Ernie.”

  “Well, sure we can!” There was a brief pause. “How? Over.”

  Sara was already on her feet. “Give him free pie, coffee…Have Gloria spill lemonade on his trousers…You’ll think of something. But don’t try to detain him against his will or do anything to make him suspicious, you hear?”

  “Roger, Sheriff, you can count on us.” Ernie sounded like a radio spot for the United States Marine Corps. “Over and out.”

  As Sara prepared to leave, her hands moved automatically to her gun belt, checking to make sure everything was in place.

  Nettie’s eyes widened as an eerie chill skittered up her spine. “You’re serious about this?”

  Sara was too preoccupied to reply. She reached for her hat.

  Hopping off the desk, Nettie moved swiftly toward her sister. “Sara, do you honestly think this man is the bank robber?”

  Sara answered vaguely, her mind on the business ahead. “I don’t know. Could be.”

  Despite her initial disbelief, Nettie’s heart began to pound. “You’re not going to go over there alone then?”

  “What?” Sara plucked her jacket off a wooden rack by the door. “’Course I am. What are you talking about?”

  Nettie began chewing on a thumbnail, realized what she was doing and whipped her hand down and behind her back. Scarcely two hours earlier she’d promised herself she would stop worrying and start living.

  She’d always had rotten timing when it came to resolutions.

  “If this man is the Gentleman Caller,” she began, knowing she would not win a battle against fear when the safety of someone she loved was at stake, “then he’s a hunted felon. When hunted felons feel cornered, they strike out. You could be walking into a potentially explosive situation. Call for backup.”

  Sara looked at her sister. “Have you been watching ‘Dragnet’ again?” She headed for the door.

  “That’s not funny.” Nettie followed after her. “Why can’t you wait until—”

  “Fifty thousand dollars in reward money if this is the guy, Ne
ttie.” It was all Sara had to say. Opening the door, she strode to a squad car parked by the curb out front.

  Nettie rushed outside, alarm bells ringing in her head like a Sunday call to church. She knew exactly what her sister was thinking. Kalamoose was in financial distress, nearly bankrupt, a state of affairs that had become a fact of life for the struggling farming community. Years ago, Sara had gotten it into her head that she was going to do more than protect and serve; she was hell-bent on saving the town she loved. Fifty thousand dollars in reward money would be a good start.

  When Sara wanted something badly enough, she could be single-minded, unafraid and, too often, downright reckless.

  “Don’t go!” Nettie blurted as Sara got in the squad car. “You know how Ernie likes to exaggerate. This man probably isn’t a thief at all.” She endeavored to sound reasonable. “He’s probably a tourist who forgot to buy traveler’s checks. You’ll be wasting your time.”

  Sara made a face. “A tourist in Kalamoose?” She started the car.

  Good point. Kalamoose wasn’t even on the way to anyplace. “A lost tourist.” Nettie groped for a logical argument, but time was an issue so she settled for a highly emotional plea. “Sara, please don’t go there alone. I’ll be worried sick.”

  The headlights came on, but out of respect for her sister, Sara took a moment to lean out the window. “I’m the sheriff, Net, this is my job. Go home, will you, please? And try to relax. Play one of those California mood music tapes Lilah sent you. I’ll be home soon.” She backed away from the curb while she was still speaking, turned the car and sped down the block.

  Nettie stood at the curb, feeling chastened, damned ridiculous—and scared.

  She walked back to the jail and opened the door, but changed her mind about going inside. It was cooler on the street, easier to breathe.

  All right, so she was a coward. But she’d learned some things about life that Sara hadn’t yet…Lilah, either. Like about how even when you were absolutely certain there were no more low cards in the deck, Fate could pull another one out of her sleeve. If she was overly cautious, it was only because she had learned the hard way to grab whatever control she could in life; there wasn’t much.

  Still, as she stood on the deserted street the bitter taste of shame filled her mouth. Her sister was willing to march into the lion’s den, and her own grand contribution to the situation was to stay home and fret.

  Leaning back against the cold brick of the building, she gritted her teeth in sheer frustration. Oh, how she had come to loathe feeling alone and afraid.

  It was pitch black with a multitude of visible stars in the sky when Chase walked into the Kalamoose jail with his hands cuffed behind his back and his eyes narrowed into two angry slits.

  If anyone had told him that his first arrest would come at the hands of a skinny girl sheriff in a town so small you could spit and overshoot the city limits, he never would have believed it. Over the past years, he’d gotten himself into some pretty close calls—pelted by gunfire, detained by officials in three foreign countries and interrogated by the best agents the FBI had to offer. He’d managed to emerge every time without a scratch.

  Less than an hour after arriving in Kalamoose, North Dakota, however, he was handcuffed; and that was only after he’d been force-fed pie and soaked to the skin by a flying pitcher of lemonade. He just didn’t get it.

  “Keep moving!” Snapping the order, the foul-tempered sheriff gave him another in a series of small shoves. Chase clenched his jaw. If she did that just one more time, he would not be responsible for his actions.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the jail, he glanced around, amazed by what he saw. Curtains, cute curtains with ruffled edges, framed every window. The building was old, a squat brick-and-wood structure that looked like it hadn’t seen many updates through the years, but there was a vase with flowers perched on a small wood table, and pictures, mostly pastoral scenes of grazing sheep, dotted the walls.

  Aw, hell, he thought, stopping dead in his tracks, I’ve been arrested by the sheriff of Mayberry, RFD.

  Irritated by his abrupt halt, the sheriff jabbed him again, “I said—” she began, but Chase spun around before she could finish.

  “Do not,” he growled, enunciating each word clearly through gritted teeth, “do that again.”

  To her credit, the gangly sheriff glared back at him, hesitating only a fraction despite the fact that she was a good four inches shorter than his six-foot one.

  “Don’t tell me what to do, smart mouth,” she shot back, “you’re the one wearing the bracelets.” With a decided lack of subtlety, her right hand moved to rest on her gun. “Your room’s on the left.” She hitched her chin. “Head over. Continental breakfast is at eight.”

  Giving her a long, malevolent glare, Chase ultimately complied with the order, largely because he was too damned tired to argue anymore tonight. For some reason, the yokels in this misbegotten haystack had it in for him, and he’d sealed his own fate for the night by failing to provide identification for the good sheriff. He complied with her command s-l-o-w-l-y, though, strolling to the cell as if he was on a nature walk and couldn’t be troubled to rush.

  If his right to a phone call was granted, he’d ring his lawyer, who was probably tired of hearing from him this month, and then Nick, who expected him to arrive at the ranch, wherever it was, sometime tomorrow. In the meantime all he could do was get some sleep and try not to imagine the publicity this arrest would generate if the AP picked up on it. And that really irritated him, because publicity, good or bad, could only interfere with what he needed to do right now.

  His approach came to a halt several feet in front of the cell. Chased blinked, wondering if his tired eyes deceived him: It appeared that the cell on his left was already occupied.

  Lying on her side on the narrow cot, eyes closed, hands tucked beneath her cheek, was a woman whose lush beauty seemed almost cherubic. Chase’s brows rose. Her ebony curls were glossy and thick; escaping from a loosely gathered ponytail, they tumbled across the blue pillow and against her silky cheek. She wore a round-necked white T-shirt; a thin, waistlength sweater; and a skirt that skimmed a pair of wondrously round hips and long legs. There was nothing intentionally provocative about the way she was dressed; she possessed an inherent sensuality, and Chase felt his body react immediately. The response surprised him. Women had been the furthest thing from his mind of late…though he’d always considered himself a man with an open mind.

  “Nettie!”

  Behind him, the sheriff’s exclamation held surprise and agitation. As Chase took a step closer to the cell, the sleeping beauty stirred. Long lashes fluttered, the cupid’s lips twitched. When she opened her eyes, she looked directly at him.

  “Well, well,” he murmured, a slow smile curving his mouth as if he were flirting at a nightclub bar, not standing in a tiny town jail with his hands cuffed behind his back. “Tell me again, sheriff…what time is the continental breakfast?”

  Chapter Two

  Nettie popped up on the cot as if her spine were a spring. Hands braced on either side of her, fingers curled over the edge of the mattress, she gazed at the man standing outside the cell.

  From beneath the bill of his cap, his shadowed eyes seemed to gleam, like animal eyes staring out from a cave. Nettie caught a flash of white teeth when he smiled, and her heart skittered with a shot of adrenaline. Frantically, she struggled to shake off the lingering effects of sleep. She had decided there was no way she was going to go home and stew while the action happened someplace else. Unfortunately, exhaustion had overtaken her while she was tidying the jail and she’d dozed off waiting for the action to begin. When the man spoke again, his voice came to her like a slow rolling tide.

  “Hello, Sleeping Beauty. Are you always here to greet the inmates or did I get lucky tonight?”

  The last syllable had barely rolled off his tongue before he was lurching forward—shoved from behind.

  “You keep you
r nasty thoughts to yourself!”

  Sara’s ringing growl cut through the fog in Nettie’s brain. As the man stumbled and caught himself, Nettie saw the flash of silver binding his wrists. Her breath stopped. Sara had returned with the Gentleman Caller!

  Tall, imposing and angry, the bank robber took a deep breath and turned with deliberate slowness to face Sara. He spoke through clenched teeth. “I asked you not to push me again.” His tone shifted with such subtlety from the silky drawl he’d used with Nettie that one could almost miss the threat—almost. “Didn’t I?”

  “Yeah.” One corner of Sara’s mouth curled derisively. “But you forgot to say please.”

  Sara! Nettie wanted to wave her arms, stop her sister from saying or doing anything more.

  Nettie realized already that this “Gentleman Caller” was not the benign anti-hero the press made him out to be. Tension enlivened his every muscle. There was a final-straw grimness to the line of his lips. Also, he was unpredictable, smiling one moment, growling the next. Moreover, he was large. Even with his hands cuffed behind his back, he would be stronger than Sara. And Sara hadn’t yet learned fear.

  When he took a step in Sara’s direction, Nettie’s response was swift and unpremeditated. She jumped from the cot and rushed to the open cell door.

  “Leave her alone!” Her throat clutched at the words.

  Chase turned at the choked order. His eyes widened when he saw the beautiful woman—Nettie—standing at the cell door like an avenging angel, her lips parted, blue eyes blazing, escaped black curls wild about her face. She grasped the bars of the cell door in such a white-knuckled grip, he was sure the steel longed to cry out for mercy.

  His brows swooped into a frown. Why was she afraid? Other than telling Olive Oyl not to shove him, he’d been pretty damn nice so far. What did she think he was going to do? Chase held her gaze, questioning her. It was strange, but everything else faded away in that moment—the jail, the sheriff, his predicament—until he saw only the brave, frightened beauty before him and felt only the tightness in his own chest as he realized that for her, fear was nothing new.