“We’re definitely not friends.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Dane’s voice slid low and deep, sending shivers down her spine—shivers of heat that were reflected in the blue of his eyes when he looked at her. “You seemed to like me well enough last night.”
Stacey swallowed. “I don’t…”
“Don’t remember?” His smile spoke of intimate secrets and stole her breath. “I’m not surprised. You were pretty much out of it when you grabbed me.”
“When I grabbed you?”
“Don’t worry.” His smile widened. “I didn’t mind at all. In fact, you can feel free to grab me and kiss me again—”
“Kiss you?” Had she done that? Had she actually done that?”
“—any time you want.”
“When pigs fly.”
Dear Reader,
June is busting out all over with this month’s exciting lineup!
First up is Annette Broadrick’s But Not For Me. We asked Annette what kinds of stories she loved, and she admitted that a heroine in love with her boss has always been one of her favorites. In this romance, a reserved administrative assistant falls for her sexy boss, but leaves her position when she receives threatening letters. Well, this boss has another way to keep his beautiful assistant by his side—marry her right away!
Royal Protocol by Christine Flynn is the next installment of the CROWN AND GLORY series. Here, a lovely lady-in-waiting teaches an admiral a thing or two about chemistry. Together, they try to rescue royalty, but end up rescuing each other. And you can never get enough of Susan Mallery’s DESERT ROGUES series. In The Prince & the Pregnant Princess, a headstrong woman finds out she’s pregnant with a seductive sheik’s child. How long will it take before she succumbs to his charms and his promise of happily ever after?
In The Last Wilder, the fiery conclusion of Janis Reams Hudson’s WILDERS OF WYATT COUNTY, a willful heroine on a secret quest winds up in a small town and locks horns with the handsome local sheriff. Cheryl St. John’s Nick All Night tells the story of a down-on-her-luck woman who returns home and gets a second chance at love with her very distracting next-door neighbor. In Elizabeth Harbison’s Drive Me Wild, a schoolbus-driving mom struggles to make ends meet, but finds happiness with a former flame who just happens to be her employer!
It’s time to enjoy those lazy days of summer. So, grab a seat by the pool and don’t forget to bring your stack of emotional tales of love, life and family from Silhouette Special Edition!
Sincerely,
Karen Taylor Richman
Senior Editor
The Last Wilder
JANIS REAMS HUDSON
Books by Janis Reams Hudson
Silhouette Special Edition
Resist Me If You Can #1037
The Mother of His Son #1095
His Daughter’s Laughter #1105
Until You #1210
*Their Other Mother #1267
*The Price of Honor #1332
*A Child on the Way #1349
*Daughter on His Doorstep #1434
*The Last Wilder #1474
JANIS REAMS HUDSON
was born in California, grew up in Colorado, lived in Texas for a few years and now calls central Oklahoma home. She is the author of more than twenty-five novels, both contemporary and historical romances. Her books have appeared on the Waldenbooks, B. Dalton and Bookrack bestseller lists and earned numerous awards, including the National Readers’ Choice Award and Reviewer’s Choice awards from Romantic Times. She is a three-time finalist for the coveted RITA® Award from Romance Writers of America and is a past president of RWA.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
Wyatt County Sheriff Dane Powell stood in the shadow of a truck-sized boulder at the edge of the ravine and watched the beam of a flashlight bob and weave its way down the rise a hundred yards away, where no flashlight—no person—should be at two o’clock this cold Saturday morning.
He wouldn’t have noticed that the Wilders had a trespasser on the back side of their Flying Ace ranch if he hadn’t spotted the snazzy red sports car with no tag, half-concealed in the bushes beside the road. He might not have noticed the car if he hadn’t been specifically looking for anything out of the ordinary.
In fact, he wouldn’t have been on patrol at all at this time of night but for the cattle rustlers that had moved their operation into his county a few weeks ago.
He watched the spot of light bob its way down the rise. As bright as the moon was, a flashlight was only barely necessary. Dane could just make out the figure of a person, but couldn’t tell anything about him other than that he was bundled up in a heavy coat against the frigid night. Nobody said cattle rustlers had to be stupid.
This might not be one of the rustlers. Dane had to remind himself of that. But what else anybody would be doing out here at this time of night, he couldn’t imagine. At the least, the guy was a trespasser.
The suspect hit level ground, then, after a few yards, started carefully down into the ravine. There was no other way to get to the road. Moonlight reflected off the small cloud of dust the guy kicked up on his way down.
With the fellow out of sight and making enough noise with his grunting and cursing and kicking up rocks to cover any sound Dane might make, Dane moved in and stood ten feet back from the spot where he figured the guy would climb up out of the ravine.
It could be a woman, Dane supposed. The build was slight enough. But he couldn’t imagine a woman out here at this time of night on her own. Frankly he couldn’t imagine a man out here, either. Not for any legitimate reason.
The grunting and scrabbling noises from down in the ravine crept closer and closer to the rim until first a gloved hand, then a head appeared.
Dane switched on his flashlight and aimed it straight in the trespasser’s face. “Evening. Nice night for a stroll.”
In the space of one second, before the shriek, before the startled trespasser lost balance and tumbled back down the steep embankment in a hail of rocks and a cloud of dust, Dane could have sworn he saw an angel.
Pale gold shoulder-length hair surrounded a creamy face with high cheekbones reddened by the cold, a narrow nose and a dainty chin. Startled eyes of baby blue widened, then blinked. Her mouth flew open and formed a perfect O.
Then came the shriek and the backward tumble.
As far as Dane knew, angels didn’t shriek. Nor did they cuss a blue streak. This was a woman. A red-blooded, fury-spitting woman. A beautiful woman, who might possibly be hurt after a fall like that.
Flashlight in hand, Dane scrambled down into the cloud of dust still hovering in the air at the bottom of the ravine. “Are you all right?”
Stacey Landers eyed the man looming over her. She didn’t know which struck sharper—her anger, mistrust or outright fear.
Where had he come from? One minute she was alone in the wilderness, the next, some bozo was blinding her with his flashlight.
“Are you all right?” he asked again. Except he didn’t ask; he demanded.
Oh, great, a demanding bozo. “Just dandy,” she ground out.
“Here, let me help you.” The man reached for her arm.
Visions of her mangled body—beaten, stabbed, strangled or perhaps shot—flashed sheer terror through Stacey’s mind. She scrambled backward on her r
ear across the dirt and gravel, ignoring the way every sharp little rock, and some not so little, gouged into her rear. Her defenses were pitifully few: her wits, which were slightly scattered after that tumble down the embankment; and her flashlight, which had quit working during the fall and still refused to produce so much as a flicker of light no matter how many times she hit the switch.
She decided to try out the old saying and go with a good offense. “Get away from me.” She hefted the flashlight and waved it before her. “I’ve got a flashlight, and I know how to use it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, backing off a pace. “I can see that. I just want to help.”
So you say. “When I need help, I’ll ask for it.” He didn’t look like one of the men she’d hidden from earlier, but she hadn’t gotten a good look at all of them as she’d hunkered down in the rocks and watched them load cattle into a huge trailer. She knew she wasn’t supposed to be here, but she hadn’t been able to say no to her grandmother’s request for this secret errand. Now Gran was going to have a fit when she learned Stacey had been not only seen but confronted.
“Can you get up?” the man asked.
“Of course.” Looming over her the way he was, he looked like a menacing giant, which did nothing for Stacey’s peace of mind. “If you’ll back off and quit crowding me.”
He raised both hands in the air. “Backing off.”
Stacey pushed herself to her feet, but when she stepped back to put more distance between herself and the stranger, pain shot upward from her right ankle to her knee. The world momentarily went black. She cried out. Her leg folded and she ended up once again on her butt in the dirt.
The man cursed and knelt beside her. “I thought you said you were all right. What is it—your knee? Ankle?”
“Ankle.” She hated the way her voice quivered, but at least her vision was clearing.
Placing his flashlight on the ground so that it shone on her ankle, the man reached for the hem of her jeans. “Can you wiggle your toes?” His hands were warm and surprisingly gentle as he felt from her shin to her foot.
“Yes,” she answered. “I don’t think anything’s broken.”
“Doesn’t feel like it. You probably just twisted it,” he offered. Then, without so much as a by-your-leave, with his flashlight in one hand, he lifted her in his arms and stood.
“Hey, wait a minute, buster,” Stacey protested, feeling way too vulnerable cradled in his arms as if she were a child. She still had her own flashlight clutched in her fist. She hefted it toward his head in a threatening gesture. “You better put me down right this minute.” If there was one thing she hated, it was a take-charge, macho-jerk. “I mean it!”
“Calm down,” he said easily. “You hit me with that thing and I’ll have to charge you with assaulting an officer.”
Stacey paused. “An officer of what?”
“The law. Wyatt County Sheriff Dane Powell,” he said as he carried her. “At your service.”
A county sheriff. Of all the rotten luck. If there was one thing she detested more than a take-charge, macho jerk, it was a take-charge, macho-jerk, gun-toting cop. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded.
“Out of here.”
Stacey sniffed. She hadn’t asked him to carry her, but since she couldn’t walk, she decided to keep her mouth shut. For the time being.
It was disgusting the way he carried her so easily, and over rough ground, all the way to the fence, without even breathing hard. And it was disquieting the way she noticed the strength and warmth—she couldn’t bring herself to think the word comfort—of his arms.
In a neat maneuver a contortionist would have applauded, he got them both through the barbed wire fence. Parked behind her car she spotted his white SUV with a light bar across the top and a logo on the door identifying the vehicle as belonging to the Wyatt County Sheriff. She started to demand that he take her to her car but realized she would never be able to manage the clutch, brake and accelerator with only one foot.
Maybe her ankle was better, she thought with hope. Not that she thought the sheriff was going to let her drive away without explaining what she’d been doing out there on someone’s ranch in the middle of the night. She should be so lucky.
With her in his arms, he started toward his vehicle.
“Oh, no, thanks,” she said. “You can just take me to my car.” She would have to manage. Somehow.
In the bright moonlight and the glow of his flashlight, there was no mistaking the mocking look on the sheriff’s face. “I wouldn’t dream of expecting an injured woman to drive off on her own. What kind of public servant would that make me?”
“A polite one, who acceded to a woman’s wishes?”
“No, no.” He shook his head and stopped beside his Blazer. “An irresponsible one if I didn’t check out your injury more thoroughly. Here we go,” he said cheerily. He opened the passenger door of his vehicle and sat her gently on the seat, sideways, with her feet hanging out the door.
It might be a fancy sport utility vehicle, but a cop car was a cop car, Stacey thought, eyeing the police radio, the shotgun standing upright and locked in place against the dash.
“Now,” he said, “let’s take a better look at this ankle.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, let’s.”
But no matter how hard she wished it otherwise, the ankle was not better. In fact, it was visibly swollen and hurt like blue blazes when he touched it, and again when he asked her to press the bottom of her foot against his hand, which had the same effect as putting weight on it. The ankle protested viciously. There was no way she was going to be able to drive. Dammit.
And no matter how hard she wished it otherwise, beyond the pain, there was a warmth, a comfort in his touch that sneaked into her blood. And, heaven help her, a definite sizzle.
The pain must be making her delirious. The warmth was from the interior of his vehicle, not his touch. She’d been out in the cold too long, that was all. And her blood wouldn’t dare heat up at the touch of a cop. Been there, done that, got the divorce papers to prove it.
“It’s probably just a bad sprain,” he told her. “But we’ll have the doctor take a look at it, just to be safe.” He gave her a slight nudge to turn her in the seat, then closed the door, sealing her inside. When he went around and climbed into the driver’s seat, she started to fish her keys out of her coat pocket so she could ask him to get her purse from the trunk of her car, but thought better of the idea and kept quiet. If he opened the trunk he’d see her tag and could run a check on her, and if she had her purse, she would have identification, which he would no doubt demand to see. She kept her hand away from the pocket containing her keys. She preferred to remain anonymous, thank you very much.
He started the engine and warm air gushed from the vents. “We’ll have your car brought to town later today.”
“How much later?”
Instead of answering her, the sheriff picked up his radio mic and told dispatch that he was ten-eight and to let the hospital know he was bringing in a woman with a bad sprain, so they should wake up the doctor on call.
Must be a pretty small hospital, she thought, if they didn’t have a doctor on duty all night.
“What’s ten-eight?” she asked. She knew a few police codes, but not that one.
“It means I’m back in service. Now,” he said as he backed up and pulled out onto the gravel road, “suppose you tell me your name and what you were doing out there.”
Stacey didn’t bat an eye. She opened her mouth and lied through her teeth. “I’m Carla Smith.”
“Smith, huh?”
“That’s right. There really are people named Smith.”
“Okay, Carla Smith. Were you aware you were trespassing on private property?”
She gave as good an imitation of genuine surprise as she was able. “Private property? Way out here? I didn’t see a house anywhere.”
“That answers one question.”
“What question?”
/>
“You’re not from around here. You were a ways from the house, but you were on the Flying Ace ranch. Want to tell me why?”
“I didn’t realize I was on anyone’s ranch. The Flying Ace? Cool name. Did somebody win it in a card game or something?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. It was more than a hundred years ago, and you didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?”
“What,” he asked again, “were you doing out there?”
It had never occurred to Stacey that she would have to explain her trek to anyone. Who would be around to see her at this time of night?
The sheriff, that’s who, and now she had to come up with an explanation. She couldn’t tell him the truth. Gran had made her swear not to tell a soul. So now what was she supposed to do? Gran, what have you gotten me into?
“I’m waiting,” the sheriff said.
Stacey swallowed. “I was walking.”
“Come again?”
“I was walking. It’s a great night, all that moonlight, no snow yet. I thought I might find some night-blooming cactus.”
Dane nearly laughed out loud. As excuses went, that was a new one on him. “Try again.”
“Try what again?”
“You do that innocent thing really good with your voice, but try a better excuse. I’m not buying night-blooming cactus.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she told him. “But I’ve got nothing better to offer.”
“Oh,” he said, “I’m sure if you put your mind to it you can come up with something, Ms. Smith.” And if that was her real name, Dane thought, his was Elvis.
She didn’t have a comeback for him, so they rode in silence, nothing but the hum of the tires, once they hit the blacktop, and the occasional crackle on the two-way radio. It was a long drive, nearly an hour. Dane occupied his mind with the puzzle of the woman next to him, who smelled so sweet and lied so poorly. He wanted another look at her. A good one this time, to see if she really looked as angelic as he’d first thought.
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