Saving the Sheriff: A Three River Ranch Novella (Entangled Bliss) (3 page)

In case the power goes out,
it read.
Don’t want you to starve! – Rory. PS: starter’s broken, use matches. DO NOT blow yourself up!

A propane camp stove! They really knew their weather, out here in the boonies.

She quickly set up the device, struck a match and crossed her fingers.

Whoompf.
A soft blue-orange flame leaped up, sending hissing warmth up toward her face. She turned it off and went back to the pantry, her stomach growling.

Light and heat. She could work with that.

…

Red tossed Frankie’s boots into the cab of his truck, slammed the door shut and locked it. Short of handcuffs, it was the best he could come up with. And he was short of handcuffs, despite what he’d told her.

And why had he even gone there? What on earth had possessed him to toss out that teasing little morsel? That wasn’t him. Not at all.

And she’d lobbed it back with a smile. No shrinking violet this one. No way.

The thought of a woman who was willing to spar with him—without knowing him—was strangely intriguing. No tears, no bargaining, no passive-aggressive manipulative bullshit. She wanted to give him a fight.

He tramped through the snow around the house, forcing his thoughts away from the elf inside. Snow swirled around him, making it difficult to see. But sweeping his light above him, he found a downed tree, as he suspected. It wasn’t near their power line and thankfully had missed the house. The electricity must have been disrupted somewhere down the road.

He’d done everything he could to make his wife happy, and it hadn’t been enough. He hadn’t seen how much her dreams meant to her until it was too late and now he was left with the taste of failure in his mouth.

To see a woman’s eyes spark with mischief because of something he said, well, that was appealing as hell.

Knock it off, Red.

He took a quick check of the barns and outbuildings, making sure doors were secure. Everything was fine, all the saddle horses snug in their stalls. The group of mustangs that had ventured closer to civilization now stood huddled together beneath the shelter. All he could see was snow-dusted silhouettes and the occasional shine of black eyes.

The wind howled, sending the snow drifting in sheets of icy white now and he had to hunch his shoulders against the wind to keep it out of his face. He trudged back to the house.

And Frankie Sylva.

Cute, feisty, smiley Frankie Sylva.

He stomped the snow off his boots on the porch, delaying his return. What was he going to do with her? He couldn’t even contact anyone to find out if she had outstanding warrants. With his luck, she had a sheet a mile long. Or she was on the run.

That would explain why she wasn’t freaking out about being stranded over Christmas. But even so, surely someone would notice that her place at the table was empty.

He pulled off his gloves and slapped them together to remove the snow.
Quit procrastinating, Red! Get in there and take charge.

Then he smelled the most wonderful aroma. His stomach growled and his steps quickened in anticipation.

For the first time in months, maybe more, he wouldn’t be eating alone.

…

Frankie was singing.

Fill the pot with mar-in-AR-a,

Fa la la la YUM, la la la YUM!

“Good, you’re back!” she said when Red walked into the kitchen. “It’s not a traditional Yuletide meal, but if you’re as hungry as I am, you won’t care.”

The dog, reclining on the loveseat, barely lifted her head at his arrival. Candles of all sizes sat in clusters around the room and the shadows they threw flickered and danced across the ceiling. From the decorated tree in the corner, tinsel and ornaments reflected the light. Gold and silver garland hung in shimmering loops across the walls. The room was more sparkly now than it had been before the power went out.

Frankie was wearing an apron on top of her hoodie, the layers covering everything up top, while still giving him a delicious glimpse of her skin-tight Lycra-covered lower half.

She was licking something off the end of a wooden spoon.

Red froze. His body reacted as if he’d walked in on her twirling half-naked on a pole. He took a step backward, unable to tear his eyes from her innocent gesture.

Frankie frowned and her motions slowed, became deliberate. She stood still for a moment. Then that pink tongue darted out again to flick across her top lip.

All the blood in his brain rushed southward at the sight: the erotic and the domestic, juxtaposed into one delectable scene. The complexity of his desire shocked him speechless. Base physical need was one thing; this was something else entirely. Frankie was intriguing. Unsettling. Challenging.

He wanted to figure her out.

He wanted to play strip poker with her.

He wanted to throw her on the couch and—

“A touch more oregano, I think.” Frankie pointed the spoon at him. “Go wash up. I melted a big pot of snow on the stove so there’s warm water in a bucket in the bathroom around the corner. Yes, I borrowed someone’s giant boots to collect the snow outside.
Borrowed.
Not
stole
, because I put them back. See the difference?”

And still he stood there like an idiot, a statue, mute and powerless.

“What?” She blinked at him, her eyes shining pools.

“Nothing.” He cleared his throat, then turned around and headed for the bathroom. He hadn’t felt this hormone-addled since high school. “You’ve made yourself at home, I see.”

“I’m resourceful,” she called after him.

Resourceful, he thought, rinsing his hands with the ladle she’d left in the bucket. “A euphemism commonly used by successful criminals,” he called out to her.

“If I were so successful,” she called back, “I wouldn’t be talking to you.”

Good point, he thought. Smart, sassy and sexy was a tough combination to beat.

“This is a fantastic kitchen,” said Frankie when he returned. “It’s kind of festive, isn’t it? With the candles and all. I fed Mistral, by the way. I couldn’t resist that face.”

She motioned him to a chair, as if she were the hostess and he the guest. As if she had every right to be here. But her words were choppy, belying the airy confidence.

“I like to cook,” she continued, dumping a pot of pasta into the sink to drain, sending a cloud of steam billowing into the cool air. “I don’t do it often though, and certainly not with all these gadgets and toys. It’s nothing fancy, I opened a jar of sauce and cooked the linguine. But there’s fresh Parmesan and I even found a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.”

“You found wine.” Earlier he’d been thinking about microwaved Who Hash, solitude and if he was very lucky, beer.

But a hot, fresh-cooked meal? Candles? Wine? And a chatty yoga-elf chef? With a body like a Las Vegas showgirl?

Frankie stopped in the middle of serving heaps of steaming pasta onto a plate, her face stricken. “You don’t think they’d mind, do you? That I helped myself to their wine? I was so excited to make a nice meal, I might have gotten carried away.”

Red took the loaded plates from her and carried them to the table. Maybe she was playing him. Distracting him from whatever mischief she was trying to hide. “You’ll replace it.”

Although, if he was drinking the wine too, he should probably pay half.

“Oh, absolutely. As soon as I get to a liquor store.”

“You could leave a donation instead. The mustang sanctuary is a registered charity, after all.”

She stopped then. “Of course.” A look of guilt flitted briefly across her features before she wiped it away. “Fresh-cracked pepper?”

Yup. Definitely a puzzle that needed to be solved. Too bad he couldn’t stop thinking of her as a Christmas present waiting to be unwrapped.

…

She was doing it again. Frankie pressed her lips together, but when she was nervous, words tended to burble out despite her best intentions. She talked too much, too fast, and couldn’t sit still.

But really, who could blame her? She was sitting here with a gorgeous stranger, who said he was a cop but really, that was no guarantee he was a good guy, was it? And they were a million miles from nowhere, no phone or electricity. No way of getting out.

In the dark.

On Christmas Eve.

“Cheers!” She tipped her glass in his direction and fortified herself with a gigantic gulp.

Oh, excellent plan, she snarled to herself as a drop slipped down the wrong tube. Choke to death. Get tipsy. That will help.

Red quickly got her a glass of water.

She took a few swallows and the spasm eased. His hand on her back wasn’t helping, exactly. But it certainly wasn’t hurting.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” she rasped once her voice was back.

He sat down across from her again, but she could still feel his palm, gently stroking between her shoulder blades. What was wrong with her? Sure, she’d have to tell him what she’d really been doing tonight, but it hadn’t really been illegal. Not very, anyway. That she could deal with.

This jangling was from a whole different batch of nerves.

He took a sip of his own wine. Damn him, he was smiling! Frankie forced herself not to talk, to focus on the pasta, twisting it onto her fork, lifting it to her mouth, chewing and swallowing.

Red did the same, still without speaking.

She couldn’t take it.

“I put a splash of the wine into the sauce,” she said, desperate to break the silence. “I think it really brings out the flavor. What do you think?”

She stuffed an enormous forkful into her mouth, determined not to speak again until he’d said something. Maybe she wouldn’t speak again at all.

Right.

She wondered if the elk she’d released had found shelter from the storm. She hoped they wouldn’t cause trouble for Carson and Rory. She realized that in the half hour or so that she’d been using the Granger’s kitchen she’d begun to think of them as actual friends, instead of username and avatar friends.

The photographs on the refrigerator made them look like an ordinary, happy family. Goofy. Affectionate. Totally in love with each other and their child.

And here she was, using them for her own purpose, albeit an altruistic one, without their knowledge.

And she was eating their food and drinking their wine.

“Do you cook?” she said, around a mouthful of pasta. “Or maybe you let your wife do all the cooking, and you do the dishes.”

He took another bite, gestured to his mouth apologetically, and continued to not talk. Polite. Kind. He had a sort of old-fashioned cowboy courtesy about him.

“Maybe you’re a single guy who lives off frozen dinners and cheeseburgers at the local pub.”

Beneath the table, she twisted her feet, wishing she could shut herself off.

But Red took care of that. He finished the last of his meal, leaned back in his chair and picked up his wine glass.

Finally, she thought with relief.

“So.”

Uh-oh.
He said the word like he was playing a trump card.

“Are you about ready to tell me why you were trespassing on protected land with a stolen truck and trailer?”

Chapter Three

“I told you, it’s not stolen,” said Frankie.

“Then where’s this Conrad Toole? Why have you got his rig? Is he your ex? Your current? Don’t tell me there’s an angry husband headed our way.”

“Ew, no.” Frankie picked up their empty plates and took them to the sink, turning her
back on him.

He needed to know more, but pushing her could make her shut down completely. Hopefully, if he was patient, she’d fill in the blanks voluntarily.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

Or not.

He grabbed a towel and stood next to her, ready to dry the dishes she was washing with water from the stove. “Well now, that’s a highly prejudicial characterization, wouldn’t you say? What basis have you for this accusation?”

This was good. He was back in control, the momentary insanity of earlier gone, an aberration caused by too much time in his own company.

She shot him a narrow look. “You’re a sheriff.”

He pantomimed being shot in the chest. “Oh, ow. Hit me where it hurts. Maybe I’m the kind of sheriff who would look the other way if I saw a starving man stealing bread. Ever think of that?”

Frankie dumped the last of the warm water down the drain and squeezed out the dishcloth. Great, now he’d tipped his hand as a
Les Miz
fan. Not part of the tough-cop persona he was going for. Maybe she wouldn’t get the reference.

“Please. You’re Inspector Javert all the way.”

No luck there.

“I uphold the law, if that’s what you’re referring to.” He heard the stiffness in his voice. “But I believe in second chances. I believe people can change.”

“Hm.” She dried her hands on the towel he was holding, which brought her close enough that he could feel the warmth of her skin, still smelling of lemons from the detergent. “What if it takes too long? What if their second chance jeopardizes the welfare of a…vulnerable party?”

In the shifting candlelight, he tried, and failed, to read her expression. God. She
was
on the run! But had she been forced to take drastic action to protect herself or someone she loved?

“Frankie.” He trod carefully. “I know the system is flawed but if you tell me what’s going on, I can help. If someone’s hurting you—“

A ripple crossed her forehead. “No one’s hurting me.”

Was it his imagination or had there been extra emphasis on the last word? Who was she protecting? And what had been in that empty trailer?

“If you had horses in need of sanctuary—” he began.

“I didn’t.”

“The ranch is for mustangs,” he continued, “but Carson always finds a way to rehome domestics.”

Frankie bent over and blew out the smaller candles, taking the bigger ones with her to the other room. Her graceful movement, the slide of toned leg muscles beneath supple flesh, was mesmerizing.

“So.” She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him, her face impassive. “Regarding my immediate future, can you give me an idea what I can expect? You know, incarceration-wise?”

The laughter was gone, but there was not a jot of self-pity in her voice. If anything, it was steely with determination. Whatever she was hiding, she felt justified about it.

“I’d say our immediate future is hunkering down to wait out this blizzard. We’ll worry about the rest of it later.” He hung up the towel and followed her back into the great room. Her lack of trust irritated him, why he couldn’t say.

“So we’re taking felony-misdemeanor-whatever off the table, then?”

“Not until you give me a plausible explanation. And I run the plate to confirm your story.” No telling when he’d be able to do that.

And there were more immediate things to worry about, under the circumstances. Like bringing in more wood for the fire.

Frankie sat down on the rag rug next to the fireplace and hugged her knees. Mistral immediately flopped down next to her, angling for a belly rub.

“Oh come on, it’s Christmas Eve.” She glanced up at him, her eyes wide, sparkling with the flames. “Let’s forget all that and sing carols.”

He snorted. “Not going to happen.”

“Come on, Javert. I can tell you have a lovely voice.”

The reference to the relentless and ultimately doomed character stung. And he did have a good voice. He also played guitar and piano. Played. Past tense. “Forget it.”

Then she started humming.
Silent Night
.

“Sing with me…Sheriff LeClair…or I’ll keep call…ling you Javert…”

She glanced at him, triumph and challenge on her face.

The familiar, once-loved melodies brought back the memories anyway, bittersweet sound bytes of the happiness he and Kayla had, before she’d chosen to gamble on
her
future, instead of
their
future. The fault lay with both of them, and neither. And he did not want to think about it.

“Not happening.”

Frankie’s mischievous smile told him she was insistent on spreading Christmas spirit, one way or another.

“Go tell it on the mountain,”
she sang at him.
“Help me go home, forget you met me!”

He crossed his arms and shook his head. But he couldn’t help smiling. Frankie wasn’t someone a man could easily forget.

“God rest you Sher-riff Red Le-Clair, I’m not a crim-i-nal.”

He sighed. “Give it up.”

Frankie opened her mouth to continue the song, then closed it again and looked away. After a moment she started humming again, only the lightheartedness was gone. To the tune of “Once in Royal David’s City” she sang:

“Once in rur-al Flathead coun-ty

Stood a cru-wel Christmas scene

Dumped for slaugh-ter were the rein-deer

When an elf did intervene.”

She stopped then, hugged her knees tighter and scooted nearer the fire. “That’s it. I’m out of lyrics.”

In the light of the fire, Red could see lines of fatigue on Frankie’s face. But her words rang true, even if there was undoubtedly more to the story.

“You hijacked a petting zoo? In a stolen truck?”

“It wasn’t a petting zoo, it was a prison!” Passion brought a blush to her cheeks. “I rescued five reindeer and set them free. In a
borrowed
truck!”

“I hate to tell you, but there’re no reindeer outside of Scandinavia.”

“Reindeer, elk, tomay-to, tomah-to, they were going to be killed and now they’re not.” She tossed a pillow at him.

“Until hunting season, anyway.” He tossed it back.

“At least now they have a chance!” She huffed, then glared at him. “So it wasn’t the most thought-out decision I’ve ever made. I’m spontaneous. Sue me. Oh wait. I mean, charge me.”

“And the rig? What if it stays
borrowed
longer than expected? Will it get reported?”

“I’ve got a week.” She spoke flatly now, as if worn out. “We finished handing out candy canes, dismantled the display and got the domestic animals back to their farms. Then Conrad handed the keys to the guy playing Santa and told him where to drop off the reindeer. Elk, whatever. The packing plant, Red! The slaughterhouse! Conrad sentenced them to death, then set off for a cozy family Christmas!”

Tears quivered through the fatigue. If all this was as true as it sounded, he couldn’t blame her. But still, if she’d broken the law…

“Sounds like a real asshole. But we need to focus on the facts. You were working for this Conrad guy?”

“That’s right. Stand back. I’m clawing my way to the top.”

She looked so miserable he wished he could stop questioning her, tuck her under a thick blanket and let her sleep. But it wasn’t quite jibing yet.

“Oh come on, Red. I have a real job in Kalispell, teaching. I’m on winter break. The whole point of this elf gig was to get those wild animals back where they belonged and I wasn’t about to let a golden opportunity slip through my fingers!”

“So this was your plan all along? To drive them out by yourself? In a storm?”

“It was a fluid situation,” she continued. “Things hadn’t exactly gone my way and this was my last chance. Santa wanted to go home to his own family so once Conrad was gone, I offered to take them instead. They were already loaded, all I had to do was drive. It was perfect.”

Red frowned. “If you say so.”

“Three River Ranch is famous in animal rescue circles. I figured what better place for them than a mustang sanctuary?”

She sounded pouty. He glanced at her lips. Definitely pouty. He wondered if she knew what lips like that did to men. Again, he corralled his thoughts.

“You drove all the way out here. And you figured you could release your ‘reindeer’ and no one would notice? Have you no idea how closely Carson monitors his land?”

“I follow the Three River Ranch sanctuary on social media. I knew the family wouldn’t be home.”

“Facebook should be registered as a weapon.” He’d warned Rory about posting personal information, yet every time he turned around there was another picture of the three of them with the horses, or around the dinner table, or celebrating Lulu’s latest finger painting.

“All I had to do was drop them off, return the truck and trailer and everyone’s happy. It was my one chance, so all I could do was try to beat the storm. But Madame Universe wasn’t on my side. A six-hour drive turned into twelve. And then I got stuck. You know the rest.”

She sniffed, got to her feet and made herself a comfy spot on the couch. “Now you’ll turn it into a federal case and my reindeer will end up back in lockup anyway. Or worse.”

Frankie pulled her feet up and cocooned herself in the blanket without looking at him. She was cold, tired, disappointed and, he realized with a pang, probably still nervous about the power outage situation, not to mention being stuck in close quarters with a strange man. Hell, if she wasn’t, she should be. She might be tough and spunky and laugh at his concern all she wanted, but any woman was smart to be wary.

His jaw clenched at the thought of her being hurt or even threatened.

“Look,” he said. “I can’t do anything about what you’ve just told me until the weather clears. It’s late and we’re both exhausted. What do you say we forget about the law and just be a couple of strangers stranded during a storm? Deal?”

“Forget the law.” She yawned. “Good one, Javert.”

Suddenly the jibe rankled past enduring. “You could cut me a little slack, too, you know. I’m doing the best I can here.”

A little frown shadowed her face briefly, but then it softened. “I’m sorry, Red. You’re right.”

“Good.” He hadn’t expected her to cave so quickly. “So, um, I’ll keep the fire going and the wood supply stocked, you do your magic with the canned goods. This storm could last a few days. We might as well figure out a way to get along.”

“Guess I don’t have much choice, do I? I’ll sleep here.” She patted the cushion next to her and instantly, the big dog leaped up. “Mistral stays with me.”

“Perfect,” he said. “I hate fleas.”

“You’re so warm,” she mumbled into the dog’s curly coat. “G’night, Sheriff.”

She folded herself into the corner of the couch, her head pillowed on one bent arm, and was asleep almost immediately. For a moment, Red allowed himself to look at her, really look at her.

Why was a pretty little thing like her all alone on Christmas Eve? Surely she had people waiting for her somewhere. That husband or boyfriend she had neither confirmed nor denied. Surely someone knew enough about her harebrained scheme enough to try and stop her. Or at least worry about her.

Yet Frankie wore solitude like a cloak and relentless optimism like armor.

He tucked a quilt over her carefully, so as not to wake her. What kind of man let a woman he cared for end up alone with a stranger in the middle of nowhere? No matter how resourceful and independent she was, Red would never have let her do something this risky.

He stopped dead.

Whoa, Nelly. This was not his business. Frankie was not his woman.

She was, however, his problem.

She mumbled in her sleep and he corrected himself. Not his problem.

His responsibility.

Red didn’t realize what he was humming until after he’d settled another knitted throw over Frankie’s small body. She snuggled against it, a sigh of satisfaction slipping between her lips.

He kept humming, soft soothing tones, sweet words to calm and ease a troubled soul.

A lullaby.