Saving the Sheriff: A Three River Ranch Novella (Entangled Bliss) (4 page)

Chapter Four

Frankie woke to the smell of coffee. Against her will, her eyes cracked open. Instantly, she squeezed them shut against the shock of air, burrowing deep into the layers piled on top of her.

“Still cold?”

The sheriff. With a groan, she pulled the blankets completely over her head. “Frozen.”

“Not likely,” he said. “Not with that mutt crammed next to you.”

She shifted her legs and the dog grunted.

“Morning, Mistral.”

Frankie felt one end of the couch lift up, then the other, as Red scooted her closer to the fire. Mistral clambered off, grumbling at having her den disrupted.

“Better? I didn’t want to move you during the night. Wouldn’t look good for me if you caught fire.”

Frankie poked her head out of her burrow to find Red looking at her. Snowy daylight made her squint but it was the view that left her speechless. Whisky-colored eyes bracketed by concern lines so perfectly placed they might have been drawn by an artist. Sculpted cheekbones that begged for touch. Brown hair, kissed with fire, just long enough to make her want to brush it back.

He lifted a quilt off the makeshift stand in front of the fire and draped it over her, pushing the edges in snugly at the sides. Did his hands linger against her body? Or was it her imagination?

Then the warmth seeped down through the layers, rolling over her like a wave. She shuddered in ecstasy and another groan slipped through her lips.

“Feels good, doesn’t it? I’ve been rotating blankets in front of the fire.”

“Pure. Heaven.” Then it occurred to her. If Red had been feeding the fire and warming blankets all night, when had he slept? She struggled to a half-sitting position, leaning on her elbow. “Um. Need me to take a turn?”

The dog shook herself and ambled over to the door.

He laughed. “Don’t worry, Sleeping Beauty, I caught a few winks. You look like you’re not quite done though, so sit tight. Breakfast is almost ready. After I look after the beast, anyway.”

She had to admit, she was comfy. But now that she was awake, she needed a bathroom. Her hair was probably a disaster. Her teeth were definitely mossy. With a huge sigh, she slipped out from under the cozy pile. She wrapped the top-most quilt, the warmest one, around her and stumbled to the bathroom, where she completed the fastest morning routine in the history of hygiene. Thank God the Grangers kept a supply of new toothbrushes on hand.

When she came out, she felt nearly human again. Mistral bounded to her as if they’d been separated for hours, but politely resisted jumping up against her. Snow and ice covered the top of her wooly coat. She’d be soaked when it melted.

Then the dog shook herself again. Problem solved.

Frankie hoped the hardwood was well protected, but hunted down a rag to mop up, just in case.

She passed a window and threw back the drapes and met a wall of white, brilliant and blinding. The outside world might have disappeared for all she knew. She craned her neck to look beyond the drifts and caught the barest glimpse of treetops and farther, a ridge of mountain.

“Hungry?”

She turned to discover that Red had spread a couple of covered pans and one small pot for them on a low table in front of the fire. Plus a French press full of coffee. A shiver of anticipation ran through her again at the smell.

“Starved!” She sank down cross-legged on the cushions he’d piled on the floor. “This smells amazing. Worth waking up for, in fact. And you let me believe you couldn’t cook! From now on, we share kitchen duties, Sheriff.

He tipped his head modestly. “I make a mean campfire breakfast, I’ll admit. But trust me, that’s the extent of my culinary skills. Cream and sugar?”

She doctored her java for maximum sustenance while Red dumped enormous piles of fluffy yellow scrambled eggs, crispy bacon and steaming baked beans onto their plates.

“Look at you! Working a can opener and everything! I was so proud of myself last night.”

“You inspired me. Hope you’re not a ketchup-with-eggs sort of girl. I couldn’t find any.”

She grimaced. “Gross. But this coffee? Amazing.”

He lifted his mug. “Merry Christmas, Frankie. Sorry we’re snowed in.”

“Merry Christmas, Sheriff. You’re not God, so don’t worry about it.”

For a few minutes, the only sounds were the soft clatter of utensils accompanied by the crackling fire. Then with a sigh of contentment, Red pushed his plate away and topped off their mugs.

“So.” He crossed his arms and leaned back. “You haven’t once mentioned how worried your husband or boyfriend or parents or siblings or uncles and aunts and grandparents must be,” he paused for a breath, “to have you suddenly missing on Christmas.”

The sudden warmth in Frankie’s cheeks was not, she knew, due to the fire. She wrapped her fingers around the mug and leaned over it, letting her hair fall around her face.

“I wondered how long it would take you,” she mumbled.

“Everyone’s got a story. Figured I’d give you a chance to offer, that’s all.”

She couldn’t escape the weight of his gaze.

“Fine,” she said with a huff. “Mine’s short but here it is. Like I said last night, I’m a teacher. At least until spring. I’m covering a maternity leave, so I’m trying not to get too attached. Only child, no extended family. Parents on a Christmas cruise.”

Again.

“What do you teach?” he asked.

“Music.”

“Ah, hence the musical confession.”

“I confessed nothing!”

“Do you enjoy it? Teaching music?”

“I love it,” she said, without hesitation. “There’s nothing like watching a child learn to sing, especially the little ones. They’re not self-conscious yet and they don’t resist expressing their joy. They feel it with their whole bodies and that’s how it comes out. It’s contagious.” She stopped. “I’m rambling, aren’t I? Sorry.”

“Your work’s important to you,” he said. “I get that. But aren’t you forgetting something? The whole husband-boyfriend situation? Don’t tell me you’re avoiding the subject? Not fearless Francesca Sylva.”

“I’m single.” She felt her lip curl as the word left her mouth and hoped she didn’t look bitter. “No need to mock me.”

She heard the snap in her words and regretted it. She didn’t want to alienate Sheriff Red any more than she already had. But did he have to ferret out that particular nerve so quickly?

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, surprising her. “Christmas is tough for single people.”

“I’m guessing you speak from personal experience.”

“I do.”

“The house-sitting job was a clue. You’re not exactly weeping and wailing about the turkey you’re missing today.”

He said nothing.

“Well, come on then. Out with it.”

“Nope.” He lifted one eyebrow and those whisky-colored eyes sparkled at her. “I ask the questions, remember? So, continue with your story. Surely you don’t expect me to believe that a woman like you is
Forever Alone
at Christmas?”

She bit back a smile at the reference to the pathetic potato-shaped Internet meme.

“Not forever, I hope. But for the next six months at least, I’ve got twenty-eight kids, lesson plans, concerts, band, and whatever projects I can fit in on the side. It’s enough.”

“But you’re still alone over the holidays.”

She looked directly at him. “I move around the county a lot, following the teaching jobs. It’s not conducive to a long-term relationship. I have a ton of friends, but they’re scattered. So each Christmas, I choose a worthy project, something I believe in, to keep me busy. This year I rescued Conrad’s reindeer. I enjoy Christmas, I do.”

She stopped herself, hearing the desperation in her voice.

“Admit it,” said Red bleakly. “It’s a day to get through.”

She’d had a few rough Christmases, before she decided not to wallow.
You’re as happy as you decide to be
was her motto. So she’d managed to find meaning in a season that for too many people was overflowing with unrealistic expectations, financially devastating, and emotionally exhausting. She’d intended, until this little glitch, to return Conrad’s truck and spend the rest of the holidays serving plates of festive fare at a homeless shelter.

But she understood that whatever Red was going through, he hadn’t come to the same conclusion yet.

“It can be rough,” she agreed quietly. “But I’ve found that the only cure for self-pity is helping those less fortunate. Which is almost everyone. So now, yes, I love Christmas again.”

Red stared at the fire, a pensive look on his face. She expected an argument but once again, he surprised her.

“I envy you,” he said quietly. “I hate it.”

What do you know, she thought. She didn’t need to find a homeless shelter after all.

…

Red forced himself to laugh. “See? Told you I’m not Javert. I’m Scrooge.”

The energy in the room had undergone a shift, the scrutiny leaping from her to him in a breath. He hazarded a glance and found Frankie looking at him impassively. How did she manage to look so perfectly put-together, without so much as a shower? She’d gathered her hair into a thick dark ponytail, revealing the creamy skin at her neck.

“What? Now you’re going to pity me?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She took a sip of coffee, warming her hands on the mug. Her fingers were slender, her nails smooth and unpainted. “Sounds like that base is covered. But fair is fair. What’s your story?”

Red got up and looked out the window. “My story is that I’m responsible for keeping this place going until Carson gets back and right now it’s under a ton of snow.” He pulled the collar up around his throat, wondering if he should leave the fire going while they were outside, wondering how cold the house would get if he didn’t.

He glanced at Frankie. “Let’s get out there and do the chores before the next round of this storm hits.” He gathered the dishes into a pile. They’d have to heat another pot of water for washing, so he’d leave them in the sink for now. When he came back, Frankie was still sitting and watching him pensively.

“What?” She’d lost the wariness of the previous night, he noticed. Was she naive? Or had she judged him to be worth trusting?

“Oh, nothing.” She rose from the floor in one graceful motion. The dog, naturally, scrambled to her side, awaiting further instructions. “Do you think Rory would mind if I borrowed some jeans and socks?”

“I think she’d be mad if you didn’t. I was going to tell you to do that anyway.”

“What?” She looked down at herself. “Not a fan of the yoga-elf?”

“Oh, you’re rockin’ it, all right.” He gestured vaguely toward her lower half. “It just doesn’t scream ranch-hand.”

Frankie laughed, a tinkling, musical sound. “Meet you outside?”

Red crossed his arms. “I’ll wait for you right here.”

“I forgot! I’m your prisoner.” She batted wide blue-gray eyes at him and he felt himself flush. “Don’t worry, Sheriff, I’m not going on the lam, not in this weather. Who’d keep me from freezing to death during the long, cold nights?”

Before he could drum up a response, she disappeared down the hall, her laughter drifting back to him, making him feel unaccountably…good.

…

Sheriff Red was flirting with her!

Frankie pulled thick wooly socks onto her frozen tootsies, then rubbed them briskly between her hands. Interesting how cold her extremities were, while…other parts…were toasty and tingling.

Sheriff Rudolph LeClair was definitely in pain and pretending he wasn’t, acting the tough guy, while hurt oozed out of him every time he moved. She could barely keep from gathering him into her arms for a hug.

She imagined his big body against hers, how his chest would rise and fall beneath her fingers.

Holy moly, Frankie. There goes the imagination again. Just because he looks all stern and wounded doesn’t mean you need to leap in and make him all better. Besides, no sane woman wants a man that requires fixing.

Wait! Who said anything about anyone wanting anybody?

Stop, rewind, delete, delete, delete. You’re overtired, lonely, stressed and it’s made you certifiably fruit-and-nut-bar crazy.

His tough lawman act was just that, an act to hide some kind of pain. She didn’t
want
him. She felt sorry for him, that was all. And she wasn’t about to let him drag her down into his sad little life. Not when there was so much good in the world!

She pulled open a beautiful distressed pine wardrobe, trying not to feel like the felon Red accused her of being. It was wrong, though, rifling through stuff that wasn’t hers.

But when she saw the waffle-weave long johns, she yelped with joy. She had to meet this Rory, she thought, as she pulled them over her legs. A pair of old-looking blue jeans went over them, then a snug undershirt, t-shirt and hooded sweatshirt on top.

Runway model she wasn’t, she decided, when she looked in the mirror. But if Rory had a pair of, what did they call them—shit-kickers—and a down-filled parka, she’d be able to take whatever Red threw at her.

He’d donned his heavy outerwear and was waiting at the door. Mistral got up, tail wagging, and nudged her with her shaggy muzzle.

“You wanna come with us, don’t you, honey? Of course we’ll take you!” She bent down and ruffled the dog’s ears, her legs feeling like sausages from all the layers.

“Nope.” Red pulled a knitted cap low on his forehead.

“Why not?” Frankie looked up at him. “This is her place, she knows it better than you do.”