by Olson, Mal
Ping. A bullet grazed tree bark inches from her chest. Damn. She ducked, and her companion, with his hand tethered to hers, plunged off the path into the trees and poured on the steam. Sprinting. Stumbling over rocks. Skidding on spree.
He–Who–Thought–He–Was–in–Charge suddenly stopped. Brandy plowed into him. As she glanced around, he leapt over the edge of the narrow pathway, tugging her along. They rolled down a brush–covered slope and hit a narrow ledge. And bounced off.
Falling, sliding, somersaulting. The world spun as she tumbled head–over–heels, making the acquaintance of every rock in her path. Cinders bit the exposed skin between the hem of her T–shirt and the waistband of her jeans, and dry twigs grabbed her hair and snarled in her curls.
At last she came to an abrupt stop at the bottom of the gulch. Atop a mass of steel–hard man. Breathless, nose–to–nose with the handsome suspected thief, she faced off with him. Her heart thumped like a coyote on speed in contrast to his, which held a controlled, steady beat. His hot skin seared her. That would be the hot skin of his rock solid chest, against which her breasts were intimately pressed.
“You’re still under arrest.”
“Shush.” Index finger to his lips, he shook his head.
They lay motionless for untold minutes until the sound of angry shouts and tromping footsteps on the trail above subsided. With her legs straddling his hips, she gripped his shoulders and muscled her upper body away. “Were those guys after you?”
His cool, sexy gaze slid over her sweat–drenched torso as though she were the winner of a wet T–shirt contest. Mentally rolling her eyes, she pulled the damp fabric away from her chest and scowled.
“Could be,” he drawled.
Her inner cop took charge. With a quick sideways glance, she scanned the surrounding brush and spotted her rifle. Ten feet away. Slowly, she levered herself to a standing position and backed toward the Remington.
Engrossed with examining an ugly scratch that ran horizontally across his washboards, he made no attempt to stop her or go for the firearm.
“So, Deputy, who do you think those guys were?”
“I thought you said they were after you.”
“I said they could be after me. That was just a supposition.”
“They were probably Neo Nazi Freedom Fighters. Those guys have been flexing their muscles around town. Hassled some hikers in this vicinity earlier this week.”
The NNFF faction had been high priority on the sheriff department’s watch list for months. A splinter from the extremists of the 1980s, the white supremacists were believed to be holed up in a compound hidden somewhere in the 1800 square miles of Little Chute County’s forest reserve. “They just crossed the line, which will spark the interest of the Feds. So, any reason they’d be after you?”
He shrugged. “I have the right to remain silent, remember?” He pushed off the ground and started to walk away, his thigh muscles bunching against denim that hugged his legs like snakeskin still attached to the snake.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” He wasn’t off the hook for suspected B and E. She had no intention of letting him get away. Although, anyone at odds with the NNFF couldn’t be all bad.
Ignoring her, he ambled toward a patch of fern.
Brandy steadied her rifle.
He retrieved his Stetson and moseyed back. “Do you have a plan for getting back to town, Deputy? Do you even know which way the road is from here?”
She glanced around at the mass of trees and foliage.
Tall pine loomed in every direction. Not a landmark in sight.
Clamping his Stetson on his head, covering his damp hair, he sidled closer. So close she could feel flash fire radiating off his skin as he towered over her, his bare chest hovering inches from her nose. She tilted her head to look into his face. The heady scent of pine saturated the air. Or did the fragrance emanate from the man?
Mr. Too Sexy took a lingering second to pluck a dried leaf from her hair and another moment to twirl one of her errant curls around his thumb. The beat of her pulse throbbed against her windpipe and constricted her voice.
“No plan?” He tugged at the lock of hair still entrapped by his fingers. “That’s what I thought. Follow me.”
How could she possibly be turned on by a suspected burglar? A burst of irritation pumped up her resolve. She gestured with her rifle. “You bet I’ll follow you.”
Ten minutes later, the roar of water beating over rock told her they were edging in on Quicksilver Falls. They couldn’t have strayed more than a mile off course. That would put them just south of the Shoshone River—somewhere.
Maybe a quarter of a mile from the rapids.
Definitely upstream from the falls. She was almost sure.
Wherever they were, they couldn’t be that far from the road and the trailhead where she’d left her truck. Which obviously wouldn’t be there because the NNFF boys, or whoever the gunslingers were, had snatched it.
She scurried along after the suspect, no longer having the heart to hold him at gunpoint. Stride for stride, she kept up with him, half–jogging to match the pace his long legs set. They hiked steadily until they worked their way up and out of the gulch and hooked up with the trail. Finally, through a break in the trees, she caught a glimpse of the road. A whiff of newly paved blacktop assaulted her nose. Civilization.
But they could hardly walk along the highway, exposing themselves, with the NNFF gang gunning for them. It would take hours on foot to hoof it into town. Yet, the man in the Stetson forged on, trekking toward the road.
Through the foliage, Brandy noted a vehicle parked on the gravel shoulder. “Hey, hold it. We’re not out of the proverbial woods yet.”
With long–gaited strides, her suspect continued on.
“You wouldn’t be planning to take off without me, would you?” She slammed in a new clip and leveled the rifle, targeting his back.
Ka–chink.
The sound had a way of grabbing a man’s attention. He froze for a second. But this guy had more grit than some. He walked to the driver’s side of the vehicle before turning to face her and tipped his Stetson back.
“Not hardly.” He smiled and slowly swiped his forearm across his brow then reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “I thought I’d offer you a ride into town so you could get busy writing up your report.” He offered his hand. “Blade Beringer at your service, Ma’am. Lieutenant Deputy Sheriff Beringer.”
As in her new boss and field training supervisor.
Wilcox, you are so screwed.
CHAPTER TWO
“Shit,” Brandy mumbled as she jerked the clip from her Remington.
At least Beringer had the grace not to laugh when she climbed into his car and slammed her butt onto the passenger seat.
With her arms crossed over her chest, she tried to ignore the man who could make or break her career and who would, over the next five freaking–long months, be her boss and field training officer. He could have identified himself rather than letting her prove she was greener than the Coeur d’Alene forest and about as smart as a pile of Idaho granite. The first thing she should have done when encountering a B and E was ask for the suspect’s ID.
And double shit, because now that she knew he wasn’t some perverted felon— damn, he was hot. All that lean, mean muscle and charisma stoked fire in the pit of her stomach.
She gritted her teeth. Determined not to steal a glance at his profile, she reminded herself there was no room in her life for distractions. Not now, not when she could almost taste the elusive tang of revenge. She had to stay focused. And a guy like the sexy man in the Stetson next to her could wreak havoc with a woman’s concentration.
“Sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to see how you handled yourself. Should have identified myself sooner, but you kind of came on like gangbusters.”
“You led me on.”
“Innovative technique you employed for detaining a suspect.”
; “Yeah, well, I didn’t let the suspect get away, did I?”
“What red–blooded male would have wanted to get away?”
“Implying?”
He raised his hands in defense. “Implying that whatever gets the job done… More power to you and all the redneck women of the world.”
His smile said he was impressed. But for all she knew, he could be a chauvinistic jerk. And she wasn’t looking forward to his sharing the details of her attempted arrest with the entire Little Chute County Sheriff’s Department.
In an attempt to sound professional and change the subject, she asked, “So, Lieutenant, how much do you know about the Neo Nazi Freedom Fighters?”
“Looks like they keep life interesting around here.”
“They’ve been hanging around northern Idaho for decades. In recent years, they’ve been fairly low–key. But a couple of months ago, they started making noises. Friday, they hassled a group of hikers near that cabin—the one you were breaking into.”
“I was checking out the scene of the incident. Who knows what I may have found if I hadn’t been detained.”
“You wouldn’t have been detained if you had identified yourself.”
“Touche.” He slanted the Stetson over his forehead and focused on navigating hairpin curves and pigtail switchbacks that took them back into Little Chute Valley. As they neared town, rental cabins and resorts dotted the outer fringe of the vacation haven that sprawled miles across the base of Black Mountain’s thickly wooded slopes.
By the time they reached the sheriff’s department, an A–frame log building that hunkered on the foot of the mountain, the late afternoon sun had ramped the day’s high temperature to ninety–nine point five parched degrees.
They exited the vehicle, and Brandy strode next to the lieutenant, her mouth dry, her chest tight, trying to second–guess him. Would he expound on her attempted arrest and humiliate her in front of her coworkers?
Inside the air conditioned office, she held her breath as Todd Christiansen, a deceptively baby–faced deputy, looked up from his computer, his red hair slightly mussed. “Oh good, Brandy. I see you’ve met Lieutenant Beringer.”
“Er… yeah.”
Beringer flipped off his Stetson and smiled in her direction. “We stumbled into each other out by Elk Ridge Trail.”
Despite the climate control, sweat trickled down Brandy’s back.
“We had a run–in with some possible Neo Nazis,” Beringer went on to say, “at that cabin where the hikers were hassled Friday. Fortunately, Deputy Wilcox was armed.”
Heat flushed Brandy’s cheeks. The drop–your–Levis scene played in her head. Here it comes
“Six assailants opened fire on us.”
“No shit?” Christiansen’s freckle–faced expression turned animated.
“I’d say that makes it open season on anyone sporting Nazi tattoos or insignias—we bring them in for questioning.”
“It’s about time.” Christiansen signaled his approval with a thumbs up.
“Which reminds me, Brandy, if push comes to shove during an arrest, you are up to speed on probable cause and fairness in apprehension, right?” Beringer’s blue eyes sparkled.
Not crumbling, Beringer. She squared her shoulders. “Yes sir, Lieutenant. I may be inexperienced, but I haven’t shot anyone inadvertently. Not yet, anyway.”
Christiansen pushed away from the desk and teetered on the back legs of his chair. “Am I missing something here?”
“Ask Annie Oakley.” Beringer half smiled and gestured toward his office. “Deputy Wilcox, if you’ve got a minute, I’d like your input on this report.”
She walked purposely, following him into his office. After the door banged shut, she leaned against it. “So, Lieutenant Beringer, how long does this game last?” Field training officer be damned, he was not going to take advantage of her.
“What?”
“Like you said, my method of detainment may have been unorthodox, but I got the job done. No one in this office needs to know the specifics of the way we met.”
“Unorthodox? That’s a good way of putting it.”
She nailed him with her best don’t–mess–with–me scowl.
“Sorry,” he said, lifting his wide shoulders, his face all blue–eyed boyish innocence. “I’ve never had a beautiful woman order me to undress at gunpoint.”
Right. He probably had women lining up to undress him.
“You’re right, though.” He eased onto the swivel desk chair, looking every inch the figure of authority he was. “That’s too much information for the rest of the crew around here. Your unique method of apprehension is safe with me. Promise.”
Promise.
She didn’t have enough fingers and toes to count the times she’d been on the receiving end of broken promises. But when he targeted her with his gaze, she almost believed him…
The ringing of his phone interrupted.
“Excuse me.” He snatched the receiver and leaned back, stretching until the tips of his boots poked out from the desk. “Hey, Coogan. Long time no see.”
Coogan?
Oh. My. God. Her stomach dropped.
“How are things going? We’re practically neighbors…” Beringer said.
Brandy zoned out. Her insides clenched. The mention of Coogan’s name blasted her back ten years, making her feel like the powerless kid she’d been when Skip Coogan had sent her world crashing to pieces. Vaguely aware that Beringer had clicked the mute button, she bit her cheek to keep her jaw from trembling.
“Do you mind if I take this?” he asked. “It’s an old friend.”
“Of course.”
“We’ll finish up as soon as I’m done with this call, okay?”
“Uh, sure. I’ll just… be at my desk.” She opened the door and backed out.
Damn, damn, damn. She’d been in Little Chute for a month and had avoided confronting Coogan. She couldn’t fall apart at the first mention of his name. At some point, they’d clash head–on. But when they did, she wanted to be damn good and ready.
Five minutes later, as she leaned against the wall next to the water cooler, Beringer stepped from his office, glanced her way, and ambled toward her. She gripped the empty paper cup in a stranglehold.
“Truce?” He extended his hand.
“Was there a war?”
“A minor skirmish.” He pried open her fingers and removed the crunched container, his other hand stalling on hers.
“Who won?” she asked, too aware of the heat burning her skin, fingertips to wrist.
“It was a standoff. Nothing that can’t be solved by getting to know each other better. And since we’ll be spending more time together than most married couples, I predict we’ll become allies.”
Spending long hours with one’s field training officer was a given. However, comparing their camaraderie to marriage sent Brandy’s pulse racing. She glanced down at his large hand engulfing hers and tried to tame the silly tingling reaction dancing along every nerve in her body.
Allies? Maybe. But no matter how wildly his touch churned her blood, he’d never be anything more than a colleague. Sure, trusting fellow officers was part of a deputy’s M.O. But bonding on a personal level wasn’t in Brandy’s private M.O. Bonds were always broken. She had no family connections, and she’d always shied away from close–knit groups. She was a loner. And no way would she be bonding with Beringer, who was buddy–buddy with Skip Coogan, number one on her personal enemy list.
CHAPTER THREE
His shoulder hit Brandy’s sternum, and she went down, hard, a small “oomph” escaping her lips. He was heavy, muscular, but she fought hard and managed to roll out from beneath him. His arm snaked out and hauled her back, against his chest, his hand closing around her throat.
“Come on, Brandy! Get your head in the game,” Blade said, disgusted, as he released her and they pushed to their feet. “Let’s try it again. Come on everyone. One more time.”
Groans all around.
>
Todd Christiansen headed back to his place. Blade pulled Brandy aside. “What’s the deal? I know you’re better than this. You had this training at the academy, so show me what you can do.”
The deal was, Blade Beringer stirred her hormones. She shouldn’t react sensually to the feel of his muscles wrapped around her. But every time he touched her, shivers rippled through her body, and she couldn’t help thinking about his arms encasing her, his big body taking charge in a very different way.
Stop thinking, Wilcox. He’s your freaking FTO, for Chrissakes.
And, the deal was, it was about a hundred degrees in the training gym, and every time Blade’s ripped chest pressed against her breasts, it got hotter.
More importantly, the deal was, maybe she didn’t have her head in the game because she couldn’t stop thinking about Blade’s connection with Skip Coogan. They were friends. Sooner or later, that was going to wedge a giant axe between her and her FTO.
“Remember, actions are quicker than reactions,” he said. “When your brain responds to a situation, you have to assess and then make a decision. Are you going for your pistol or your Taser? The response has to become automatic. That means your finger has to be in position. You have to decide whether to pull the trigger or not in a split–second… and hope you don’t make an oh–shit choice.”
“I know. I know.”
“Do like you did yesterday, Brandy.”
Which time yesterday? When the Neo Nazis opened fire? Or when she’d apprehended Blade? Jesus, Wilcox, just don’t ask anyone to lose their drawers.
Blade tossed her weapon back to her.
Okay. Focus. Stop thinking… and kick some ass.
“Here’s the setup. You and you partner have been called out on a domestic violence complaint in a bad part of town. As soon as you walk into the house and confront the subjects, start your assessment.
“Is it a routine family squabble that has already cooled off before you’ve arrived? Look for warning signs that might indicate trouble. Watch for possible problems. Are the subjects under the influence of alcohol or on drugs? Is there any sign of mental illness? Are your subjects in an attack posture? Are they carrying a weapon? Then work around the adrenaline and handle the situation. You don’t want to shoot an innocent subject, but you sure as hell don’t want you or your partner injured. Or worse.”