Mitch rested his head back against the seat. He made a slight gesture with his left hand as if to adjust a Stetson, but it wasn’t there.
The cowboy hat, Kate realized, sat on the passenger seat to her right. Its well-worn softness and clean, brushed surface made it clear how high it placed in his affections.
Why on earth had this man given up being a cowboy for writing wills? Why had he turned to breaking into ranches and shooting people? “Did you do it?” she asked abruptly. “Kill that guy?”
Mitch’s lips pressed together, hard. The planes of his face hardened, and suddenly he looked like a different man from the affable companion of the past few minutes. A cold man, and a desperate one.
What an idiot she’d been! She had brought a fugitive to this secluded place, where no one might come for days. She had no weapon; they might as well be handcuffed together for all the chance she had of escaping; and she’d just issued a direct challenge.
“Getting worried?” His tone sounded dangerously low.
Her throat went dry. “What makes you think that?”
“Ma’am, we’re so close right now that a century ago we’d have been forced to get married to save your reputation,” he murmured. “I can feel you getting all knotted up.”
“Did you?” she repeated. “Kill him?”
To her amazement, Mitch began to laugh. “You are one cool customer, Madam Sheriff. No wonder these folks elected you. And yes, I did.”
“Yes?” she repeated in disbelief.
“I shot Jules Kominsky,” said the man whose leg was rubbing her hip and whose arm made an indentation just below her breast. “Shot him dead in the middle of the night, in somebody else’s ranch house. Now, what are you going to do about it?”
Chapter Three
Mitch wondered for a minute if he had stated the case too baldly. But if he were going to trust this perplexing, fascinating lady with his whole story, he needed to know what kind of stuff she was made of.
Not that he didn’t already have a clue. He’d never seen a woman with so much starch in her backbone.
At the same time, his instincts told him she could be so warm and compliant a man might lose himself in her. He had to suppress the urge to wriggle like an antsy schoolboy before she became aware of just how intensely his body was responding to their closeness.
“What am I going to do about it?” she repeated, her lips a few inches from his ear. “I’m going to let you tell me about the mitigating circumstances, and explain who these bandits were and why you crashed my wedding.”
“That sounds fair.” He almost managed to keep his breathing even.
“But first, do you have a pocket knife?” she said. “My leg is going to sleep and I’ve got a cramp in my back.”
He didn’t want to cut her loose. He wanted to demonstrate his Texas prowess, and watch those cool blue eyes of hers turn violet with hunger, and hear her nononsense voice hoarsen with cries of ecstasy.
This was no time to daydream, Mitch told himself. “A pocket knife? Yes, ma’am, if you’ll just bear with me.”
He reached for the glove compartment. This involved leaning across Kate, or rather, around and through her, since they were so inextricably entwined as to be virtually a new life form.
As he stretched, Mitch’s cheek grazed her shoulder. The slight contact was enough to rev his rebellious body for action, the kind of action he didn’t want to think about.
He must be crazy to have these kinds of feelings for another man’s bride. Heck, she was also the person most likely to slap handcuffs on him and send him back to face a figurative lynching in Gulch City. That reflection dashed across him like a cold shower. He was just congratulating himself on cooling off, when, as he reached into the glove box. his forearm brushed a soft, tempting pair of breasts.
Blood rushed to his head and to other, less rational parts. “Excuse me,” he muttered.
“Just get the darn thing,” she growled, “and cut me loose.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mitch lifted out the knife and sat up. He was about to pull the blade from the handle when Kate’s hand closed over his wrist. “Better let me do that,” she said.
Had he wanted to take command, there was no way she could have stopped him. Kate’s hand was slim compared to his large, rough one, and her fingers didn’t even close completely around his wrist.
All the more reason for him to be gentle, Mitch thought. Besides, he preferred not to be the one who ruined her wedding dress.
“It’s your call, sheriff,” he said, and let her take the knife.
She flicked it open. “It looks sharp. You keep your equipment well-maintained.”
“I used to be a cowboy. That’s one of the things you learn first,” Mitch said.
As she bent to saw her way free, he caught the light fragrance of roses from the band around Kate’s hair. There was something innocent and free about the scent that reminded him of childhood and first love and a woman waiting to be awakened.
But not this one. Sheriff Kate was both engaged and old enough to know what she was doing. Heck, she and her fiancé had probably been doing it for years.
What could she see in that oaf who’d ducked off the altar so fast he nearly bowled over the minister? Well, that was her business, and Mitch intended to stay out of iL
Kate gave no sign of distress as she worked the blade through the strands of lace. The delicate bonds parted, leaving an unlovely hole in the beautiful dress and setting him free.
Mitch scooted back. He should have felt relief, but knew regret instead. He’d never get that close to her again, that was for sure.
Kate folded the blade and returned it to the dashboard. “I just learned a great deal about you, Mr. Connery.”
“You better call me Mitch or I might think you’re addressing the ghost of my father,” he said. “What exactly have you learned?”
“You had the knife. You could have forced me out of the truck and taken off,” she said. “But you gave it to me, instead.”
“Call me a sentimental fool.” He tried to smile jauntily.
She slid away from him across the seat, sparing only a brief sorrowful glance at the wreckage of her skirt. “Coffee?”
“Sure. Let me help you down.”
“Why? Should I worry about ripping my dress?” She transferred his Stetson to the dashboard, shoved the door wide and jumped down.
As he watched her approach the house, Mitch realized that Kate had just presented him with a golden opportunity. Now he could drive off without even having to threaten the sheriff.
She knew it, too. She stopped near the porch and regarded him for one cool moment. Then she crouched down and removed a loose brick from the foundation of the porch, and pulled out a key.
She was the darndest sheriff he’d ever met. Willing to trust a fugitive, and even let him into her house. That didn’t mean she would let him get away without coming after him, though.
Mitch wiped his forehead on his sleeve and stared at the ignition. All he had to do was turn the key and be on his way.
But he hadn’t found what he sought at the wedding. At this point, he’d be running blind.
The past week had gone by so fast, he’d barely had time to think. Heading west had been sheer instinct. That, and the only possible chance to clear himself.
So far, he had nothing but a few bullet holes in his camper to show for it. Billy Parkinson’s gang might be blundering fools, but they’d nearly caught him twice now.
At first, he’d figured finding Loretta Blaine would be easy. Surely once she left Texas, she would have headed back to her hometown of Grazer’s Comers.
Now he realized how foolish he’d been. The woman could have gone anywhere. For reasons he could only guess at, she’d witnessed a crime and fled, and for those same reasons, she wasn’t likely to make herself easy to find.
Kate knew Mitch’s name, which meant that, as he’d feared, the Gulch City police must have sent an All Points Bulletin to California. How
long would it be before someone else in law enforcement spotted him and made the connection?
If he were to have any hope of securing his freedom permanently, Mitch needed help. And who better to help him than a sheriff? He settled his Stetson into place and jumped down. From here on out, he would have to trust Sheriff Kate with his life.
He could only hope he wouldn’t live, or die, to regret it.
KATE WAS SURPRISED at how little the mangled state of her dress bothered her. It seemed like a temporary setback, nothing more.
A few days should give the town tailor a chance to replace her lace overskirt. Given her doubts about Moose, this delay might prove to be a good thing.
Once she figured out what to do about her uninvited guest, she and her fiancé would have time to talk about a lot of things they should have discussed earlier. That ought to ease her jittery nerves and get their marriage off to a better start.
With the newly exhumed key in hand, Kate replaced the brick, crossed the porch and unlocked the back door. A sideways glance showed Mitch examining the rear of his truck, his finger tracing a bullet-sized ding in the bumper.
He hadn’t driven away, even though she’d given him the chance. If he had, Kate supposed she would have called the CHP and let justice take its course.
But he’d stuck around, which meant there might to be more to this case than met the eye. Not that Mitch Connery didn’t already present a striking eyeful.
Her body still hummed from their contact in the truck. Kate couldn’t imagine traveling that way with Moose, even for a short time. He’d be making self-conscious jokes, while she would feel an overwhelming urge to push him away and regain her distance.
That was how she always reacted when Moose came close. Why hadn’t she felt the same way with Mitch?
Functioning on automatic pilot, Kate plugged in the coffeemaker and retrieved two of her mother’s lilypainted cups from the cabinet. She hadn’t had time to pack up her household in the week since school ended, and anyway, she figured she’d have plenty of free time this summer to move slowly into Moose’s place.
Mostly, it was hard to leave this home where she’d grown up. As she hurried into the master bedroom to change clothes, Kate could still smell her dad’s aftershave lotion and her mom’s perfume. The scents had seeped into the wood, becoming a permanent part of the house, like memories.
The wedding dress came off a lot more easily than it had gone on. With unaccustomed carelessness, Kate slapped it crookedly onto a hanger, tossed her slip and stockings on the bed and reached for a pair of jeans.
What was she thinking of? She was the sheriff, not a cowboy’s date!
A pair of black slacks ought to do the trick. She couldn’t resist adding a knit top trimmed in flowers, more feminine than her usual tailored look, but threw a black blazer over it and thrust her feet into lowheeled pumps.
Kate tossed away her flowered circlet and yanked a brush through her hair, scarcely glancing in the mirror. Okay, now she felt normal again.
A peek through the back window showed Mitch emerging from his camper. He must have gone in to check for damage.
She wondered what the inside of the camper looked like. It must be cramped, especially for a tall man. Did he keep everything neat and polished, or was he one of those guys who scarcely noticed grime on the floor and dirty dishes in the sink?
One thing was for sure, she mused as she returned to the kitchen. Mitch wouldn’t have hired a trendy decorator, the way Moose had done when he bought his house.
Her gaze trailed over the flowers stenciled in a strip just below the ceiling. She’d helped her mother make that when she was, what, twelve years old?
Moose had called it old-fashioned. His tone had implied “out of date.” Perhaps he was right.
Kate reached down a bowl of sugar and a jar of artificial creamer. There was no milk, since she’d been planning to be gone a week on their honeymoon to Yosemite.
She grimaced. Somehow, camping in a tent hadn’t been her idea of how to spend the first days of her marriage. She’d suggested Lake Tahoe, or perhaps even San Francisco, but Moose had vetoed those ideas as too expensive.
They really did need to talk about values, and about investing in their marriage. Maybe they didn’t share quite as many views as Kate had assumed.
The door closed quietly when Mitch came into the kitchen. It was odd, but until now, she’d never realized that Moose always let it slam.
Mitch removed his hat. “It looks real homey in here.”
“Kind of old-fashioned,” Kate said apologetically.
“That’s the best kind of fashion, in my book,” replied the cowboy.
She had the illogical sense that the house approved of him. When other people came in—Moose in particular—the dimensions seemed to shrink and the lace curtains fluttered nervously.
Mitch’s cedar scent blended right in. And he had a respectful way of crossing the wooden floor as lightly as if it were foam-cushioned. He didn’t turn his chair and sit backwards in it as if he were visiting the Corner Bar, either. “I ought to call the church and let people know I’m okay.” She poured the coffee into cups. “But first I need to hear your account.”
“It will be the first time I’ve told it to anybody since the shooting.” He set his hat on one of the chairs, crown-side down.
“You didn’t talk to the Gulch City police?” She carried the cups to the table. “Don’t you think that might have been better than running?”
“The chief is a close friend of Billy Parkinson’s.” Mitch’s face took on an angry tightness. “Billy’s the man who stole my parents’ ranch, set me up to get killed and then hired this gang of cutthroats to finish the job.”
Kate wasn’t sure she could absorb so much information in a single gulp. But one fact stood out. “Then he’s the man to blame for ruining my wedding.”
“I’m afraid that snake would consider it a plus,” Mitch said. “I’ve never seen a fellow with such plain cussedness, ma’am.”
“Do you think you could get used to saying Kate?” she asked. “Being called ma’am makes me feel like I’m ninety. They don’t even call me that at my school.”
“Your school?”
“The kids call me Miss Bingham. The teachers call me Kate.” She supposed this might be a good time to explain that she had no law-enforcement training. On the other hand, she had been elected, and Sneed Brockner was long gone. “There’s not much call for a full-time sheriff around here. At least, there didn’t used to be.”
“You’re the school principal?” Some of the stiffness ebbed from his shoulders. “Now, that I can see.”
“And a good one!” She snapped the cream and sugar on the table. “Do you cowboys use spoons, or just pour it in and stir with your finger?”
“Did I say something to rile you, ma’am?” he drawled.
Kate didn’t know why she felt so touchy. She loved working with the teachers and students, guiding her school toward excellence.
But somehow, in the past few days, she’d taken a liking to being called sheriff. Not that she intended to keep the job for long. But right now she held the responsibility, and she didn’t want some tough guy assuming she couldn’t handle a few gunslingers.
Handle gunslingers? Her, Kate Bingham? She plopped into her chair. “I must be suffering from delayed shock.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me.” Almost shyly, Mitch extended one arm across the table and cradled her hand in his. “Ma’am, I mean, Kate, maybe I’m asking too much, but I don’t know who else to turn to.”
With her free hand, she lifted her cup and took a sip. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You’re saying you were set up? How did that force you to break into a ranch house and shoot someone?”
“It’s kind of a long story,” the Texan admitted.
“Then you’d better let go of my hand. I might need it to take notes.”
Releasing her, he sat back and stretched his legs onto the vacant chair, next
to his hat. “Be my guest.”
Kate reached into a shallow drawer her father had installed under the table, and removed a notepad and pen. “Shoot—I mean, go on.”
“Billy Parkinson used to be my father’s foreman, but he started drinking and backtalking, so Dad fired him,” Mitch said. “I was the one who physically threw him off the ranch, and he swore to get even.”
Kate realized she ought to probe for inconsistencies. “If he’s such a lowlife, how did he come to be friends with the police chief?”
“They’re both from Rio Saba. That’s a town even smaller than Gulch City,” Mitch explained.
“Old friends?” Coming from a small town herself, she could understand the tie.
He nodded. “From their high school days. Anyway, Mom died when I was in college, and about ten years ago, Daddy went too. That’s when Billy showed up with papers signed by my father, making the ranch collateral on a loan.”
“A loan?” Kate was writing as fast as she could. She hoped she’d be able to read her scrawl later.
“Dad had borrowed some money many years earlier, during a drought,” Mitch said. “It was from a friend of his, the town doctor. I’m sure Dad repaid it, but there weren’t any receipts to prove it and the doctor had retired to Arizona, then died a couple of years before Dad did.”
The ballpoint pen left a blue smear on Kate’s index finger, which she ignored. “So, how did Billy Parkinson come by the papers? And how could he prove he’d taken over the loan?”
“He said he’d gone to Arizona and bought it because—so he claimed—Dad had stopped making payments. He had a quitclaim supposedly signed by Doc Rosen, whose signature looked like a jagged scrawl. I hired a handwriting expert, who said it might be a forgery, but he couldn’t be sure.”
“Why didn’t Billy demand payment while your Dad was still alive?”
“He claimed he wanted revenge on me, which is believable enough. But I think he somehow got the loan papers from the doctor’s estate and forged the quitclaim,” Mitch explained.
The Cowboy & The Shotgun Bride (The Brides of Grazer's Corners #1) Page 4