CHAPTER TWO

Sam was tired. Three days of driving back and forth to the local auction had taken its toll. He still needed to get home to confirm that Rick Sanders, his ranch foreman, made it through another day without any major mishaps. Glancing at the dashboard clock, he stifled a yawn.

“I could stop for a burger and a beer.” Spoken aloud, the words felt like company, and stopping meant he wouldn’t have to figure out what to eat at home. Doing quick math, he confirmed he’d still have a few minutes with Rick to map out the next day.

After that? It would be feet up in front of the fire with a book and a bourbon.

The neon sign over the Dusty Boot Saloon and Grill came into view, and he slowed, turning left into the parking lot. A blast of north wind caught him as he stepped out of the truck, and he debated grabbing his down jacket, but it would be warm inside, so he slammed the door and walked toward the entrance.

Sitting at the bar, nursing his beer, he walked through the auction results in his head. The sale had gone well—eighty-two head of Angus beef sold at a premium price. The buyer’s check was folded in his shirt pocket. He didn’t need the money, but the satisfaction was rewarding. Having millions wasn’t something you blabbed around when you wanted a new life.

It was becoming an old story: software start-up, moderate success, selling the company outright to one of the tech giants in Silicon Valley. Just like that, overnight, he’d sold most of his stock for the option of changing his world. And then, Briarwood found him five years ago when he was out exploring properties. Small town, big ranch, few people.

It wasn’t a bad thing, and he didn’t feel guilty of gentrification. Still, although he’d made friends, he didn’t toss around his wealth, nor share much about his past. If anybody cared enough? They could Google him.

Dragging a French fry through a dollop of ketchup, he signaled the bartender for his tab. Maxine trundled toward him, a ready smile on her face. “You done, Sam?”

“Pretty much, Maxie.”

“Hmmm.” She grabbed his plate and immediately swiped the area clean. “Either you are or you ain’t, Sam. Done, that is.” From an apron pocket she pulled his check and slapped it down on the bar top.

“You’re right, Maxie. Glad you’re here to keep me on my toes.” He gave her a thumbs-up and got the expected reaction. The barkeep’s smile split her face, and dimples popped out on her full cheeks. Walking away, she added, “And don’t you forget a hefty tip, Sam.”

***

The last two hours had been apocalyptic. Well, it felt that way. Turned out she’d taken the road less traveled. Casey made a mental note thanking Robert Frost for “The Road Not Taken.” It had been a daring choice—one made as she’d mapped out her trip to Denver. A road map and a whim led her to take the route that ended in the accident. The result? She’d had to sit shaken, hungry, tired, cold, and totally freaked out for almost an hour before the tow truck arrived. And in that time? Not a single car passed. She thanked all that was holy that despite being in what felt like nowhere, she’d had cell service. As it turned out, the civilization she’d spied in the distance before trying to kill herself by putting her car into orbit was a very, very, small town.

Now she stood outside the bar and grill recommended by her towing escort, and whispered another prayer for food and warmth. Inside, and once her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she read the “seat yourself” sign, figuring food would cheer her up, and a double shot of something would calm her down.

The kicker was she still needed to find a place to stay for the night. The mechanic with “Hi, I’m Frank” stenciled on his work shirt heralded dismal news about any repairs. He must have sensed her despair because he’d added that maybe he could get her some kind of loaner by tomorrow afternoon. It meant she’d have to come back to this nowhere burg, but at least she could spend Christmas in civilization.

Casey sucked in a deep breath and headed toward the bar. With continued concern about finding lodging, she glanced down at her phone browser, failing to notice the man standing next to the bar.

“Umph.” She’d walked into something. It was upright, broad, and human. “Sh…”

“Indeed.” Her impediment to forward motion had a deep voice, so—human and male. Shocked, she watched as his hand grabbed her phone away. She jerked her head up in time to see a maybe-cowboy-person put her phone behind him on the bar.

“Hey.” Casey tried leaning around him, her right arm reaching for the device, but that turned disastrous because now she faced him with maybe two inches of space between her body and his chest.

“Give me my phone.” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Now, buster.”

“Buster, really?”

It wasn’t that bright in the bar to begin with, so Casey only got a quick glimpse of his eyes before he set a well-worn cowboy hat on his head and its shadow settled over his face. She was used to quick assessments, had check-listed things rapid-fire in her mind for over nine years in law enforcement. It was a skill she didn’t resent. Her career, though? A different story.

The stranger shifted his stance and leaned back against the bar, his broad chest and shoulders acting as a wall against recovering the phone. “The name’s Wagner, ma’am. Sam Wagner.”

“Which doesn’t change the fact that you need to give me back my phone.” She started profiling him in her head. Hazel eyes? A clean, short haircut had all but disappeared beneath the big-brimmed hat. Shirt tucked in, no food stains anywhere. So, he wasn’t a slob. She didn’t back away, instead putting out her right hand, palm toward the ceiling, she demanded, “Phone. Now.”

“Well, maybe. But—” He held up an index finger. “One, it’s rude to slam into someone because you’re walking and texting at the same time.” Holding up another finger, he added, “Two, you didn’t say please.”

She bit back a snappy comeback. Okay, she didn’t have one. He was tall, dark, and handsome. Good lord, how trite can he be? Annoyed, she said, “I wasn’t texting.”

“Right.”

“I was searching the web.”

The sharp bark of laughter caught her off guard. “Oh, well then, that’s different.” His deep voice was soothing, but she refused to be sucked in by the sexy tone or his good looks.

“Well, of course it is.” Casey paused, and it dawned he was being sarcastic. The grin on his face was unmistakable. “You’re teasing me.”

“Maybe, yeah. Just a little.” Turning, he shifted his weight, opening up access to her phone, but before she could grab it, he did, holding it above his head.

“Jesus H…”

“Rude, and irreverent. You from California?”

“Yes. But what has that to do with returning my phone?”

“Oh, it’s nothing really. Just a vibe.”

Searching her brain for a rapier-like quip, once again she couldn’t come up with anything. She wasn’t used to being so flustered. “Okay, I’m sorry I slammed into you.” Casey forced herself to sound apologetic. “Now, can I please have my phone back?”

“After an introduction—yes.”

“To you? Ms. Pickett.”

“No, your real name.”

“Now who’s being rude?”

“Sorry. I wasn’t making fun of your name.” Her phone kidnapper paused but didn’t release her captive cell. “So why so intent on the phone?”

“It is Pickett. And I needed to look something up.”

“How important was it?” He had the innate ability to raise a single eyebrow. Despite the shadow over his face, she could see that his nose was straight and well-shaped, and his mouth—Casey gulped—was perfect. Kissable. A hint of day’s-end stubble added to, rather than detracted from, his unbearable good looks. She shoved her hands in jean pockets and studied her tennies.

Without warning, his right index finger tipped her chin up and she had no choice but to look at him. “It’s good manners to look at the person you’re talkin’ to, ma’am.”

“Damn you.” Casey’s cheeks burned. There was little doubt he was goading her, or maybe he enjoyed embarrassing damsels in distress, a title for which, at the moment, she qualified. The last five minutes had provided her a new hypothesis—it was a mistake for a single woman to walk into a Western motif bar in the middle of Podunk-nowhere and bump into a damn obnoxious cowboy.

“So, Ms. Pickett, ma’am—” His gaze locked on hers as he released her chin from captivity. “What were you looking up?” He smiled again, “Maybe a dry cleaner?”

“Someplace to…” She cut off her response, horrified by the realization that her open jacket revealed the blended mocha catastrophe and returned to the study of her shoes. No way was she telling him the truth; that she was looking for a motel, or an Airbnb, someplace, anyplace, to stay for the night. The fact she’d already searched the town, and nothing was available, didn’t stop her from looking. Feeling his stare, she looked up, and lied. “A word. I was looking up a word for the day. You know, improve my vocabulary?”

“Weird.” He cocked his head, “What word, if I might ask?” The cowboy seemed genuinely interested.

“It’s taciturn.”

The bark of his laughter drew attention from the handful of patrons in the bar, and she wondered if the place ever got crowded.

He shifted his weight again, “And you think—” He pointed an index finger at himself. “I’m taciturn?” His grin was devastating. Casey’s knees nearly folded under and her mouth went dry. All she could do was nod. He continued, “So, you believe I’m reserved? Non-talkative? Reticent?”

Braving his direct look again, she managed an answer. “I do. Yes, in fact, I do.”

“Ma’am?”

“Please. Please. Stop with the ma’am. It makes me feel like I should run home, put on a gingham apron, and start slaving over a hot stove on your behalf.”

He seemed to be thinking, and his expression made Casey hold her breath. “Ms. Pickett, I think that’s a great idea.” He put his hat back on the bar, and she caught the glint of laughter in his eyes. “But let me assure you, I am neither reserved, nor reticent, about much of anything.”

He was so close, Casey actually thought he was going to close the gap and kiss her. A flash of wishful thinking that he would had every nerve ending in her body firing, and she was once again unable to speak.

“Ms. Pickett?” His tone was nonthreatening. Casey returned to the real world where she was carless and being accosted by an irritating cowboy who smelled like horses and leather, and of hard work and hay. She was aware people in the establishment were watching, and yet she still couldn’t move.

“Where’s home?”

Still working to regain her composure, she answered honestly, “Here, I guess. Here until my car is repaired.”

“You break down?”

“No, I wrecked it.” Tired, upset, she felt the tears forming in her eyes. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry. The mantra failed. Moisture had pooled, spilled, and slid down Casey’s cheeks, ensuring complete humiliation. He studied her with a frankness that made her feel naked on top of being mortified, angry, furious—she was about to make an exception to the general rule that she didn’t kill people.

“You look a little like you want to shoot me, ma’am.”

“A little? How about a lot? I met the sheriff of this town, sir. She seems pretty tough and independent. Sheriff Hudson, yes, that was it. I just bet she’d see things my way after reviewing the facts of this encounter, you stealing my phone and all.”

He shrugged. “Fine with me if you file a report. Results though? That may be—just might—be awhile. This ain’t the big city.”

“Really.” She could be sarcastic too. She squared her shoulders, stepping back from the cowboy. “The town ‘mechanic’—” She used little air quotes around the word, however overdone the gesture might be, “said it will be two to eight weeks.”

“That’s a big window.”

“Ya think?” She took a deep breath, angry for being forced into snarky and immature. “I’m sorry. It’s just so frustrating. The holidays are just two weeks away and I may not have a car.”

“You had it towed to Bailey Automotive?”

“If that’s the name of the only auto shop in town, then yes.”

“Well, I’ve got some clout with Tink Bailey, maybe I can get him to speed things up.” Of course, he’d know the shop’s owner. The accident happened in what must be the smallest town in the universe. And what kind of name was Tink? The cowboy broke into her head-chatter. “But if you have to stay, we should get you settled into the Pine Tree Inn.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know you, and—”

“Like I said, it’s Sam. Sam Wagner.”

“Well, Mr. Wagner—”

He cut her off again. “Sam.”

She took a deep breath, counting to ten in her head. “Mr. Wagner. The Pine Tree Inn is booked up. I’m told there’s a cattle auction nearby, and the only hotel around here is booked for the next few days.”

“Then you’re homeless.” His smile was back, and she was annoyed that he thought her predicament was funny. The cowboy was alternating between so-not-taciturn and somewhat withholding. Plus, with the hokey accent bit, she suspected he was a big faker. All of it made more confusing by the fact that he seemed genuine in his concern.

“I’m not homeless, I just don’t have any place to stay while my car gets fixed. I was also planning to look for car rental places when some big ape stole my phone.”

He sat back down on his barstool, making them eye to eye. Turning from her, he sipped at a beer, then spun back, face-to-face. “No rooms at all? As my away-at-college daughter would say—that sucks.”

Casey heard herself responding, while her brain did a somersault. “I lost my bearings when the tow truck brought me here. I was on Highway—” She didn’t remember the name of the road because her reaction to him was making her daft. Damn, he’s married? What a moron, Casey. Damn, damn, triple damn. And no ring? What a shit. She raised her arm, and pointed. “That way, out of town, up the hill.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be, I mean, I wrecked my car, I’m stranded in some not-a-town, in the middle of so-totally-nowhere, and…” Casey hadn’t realized just how great the toll of nearly dying had been. So much she couldn’t even remember the name of the town, -wood, something. “What is this place, anyway?”

“Briarwood.” Flat, matter-of-fact. Like everyone in the world must know the where, how, and why of this hole-in-the-wall.

She continued as if the answer didn’t matter. “And like I said, your only hotel is completely booked. And it’s freakin’ cold outside, and…”

He placed an index finger against his lips, and she stopped like a child in kindergarten being reprimanded by the teacher.

“Okay.” He stood again, and this time she registered his height. He had to be six-two, maybe taller. “We can take care of everything. And I’m sorry I’ve been giving you such a hard time.” He leaned across the bar, grabbed her phone, and held it out to Casey. She didn’t take it. “Well, now who’s reticent, Ms. Pickett?”

The smile returned to his face, only this time she didn’t think he was teasing. Still, he’d been a Class A cad, and Casey wasn’t inclined to let him off the hook. “How, Mr. Wagner, how are you going to fix things?”

“Sam.”

“Cowboy.”

He laughed; it sounded genuine, not mean, and she relaxed, but just a little.

“The fix is simple. You’re coming with me, and I’m going to put you up at my house.”

“Just like that?” He was crazy. “Like hell I will.”

“Hell is what it’ll be like for you if you have no place to stay in December at this elevation. And yep. Just like that.”

“And I’d do this why?”

“Well, for starters, you don’t really have much choice. Briarwood’s not a big city, and though we’re growing, there’s still just one hotel, which you’ve already discerned is booked solid.”

“How’s this any of your concern?”

“You need a place to stay. Temperature is predicted to drop into the twenties tonight, and though it would be a terrible idea given the likelihood that you’d freeze to death doing so, you don’t even have a car to sleep in. My ranch isn’t far from here, and my home is large, four bedrooms in fact.” He crossed his heart. “I promise, I can be trusted.”

“Right.”

“Ask Maxine.”

“Who’s Maxine?”

“She owns this fine establishment.” The cowboy turned his head toward the end of the bar. “Hey, Maxie.” He returned his stare to Casey.

She tried to focus all her experience into the seconds it took this Maxine person to travel the length of the bar and stop across from the cowboy. Her brain kept humming that the situation was too weird, and she should turn and run.

“Hi. I’m Maxine.” Too late. The bartender’s hand stretched across, and because it was the polite thing to do, Casey reached out to shake it, offering up only her first name. The woman’s grip was strong, her hands rough, but her smile was warm. “What you need, Sam?”

“She doesn’t trust me, Maxie.”

“Oh dang. Sam? Casey, is it? Sam’s the best person I know. I trust him with my kids and my dog. He’s a gentleman too.”

Sam didn’t turn back to face Maxine. His grin widened. “I offered her a place to stay for the night, but she’s leery. Can’t say as I blame her.”

“Nope, you can’t, Sam. But here’s the thing, ma’am, Sam’s a good guy. He’s got a terrific daughter—well, she’s not home from school yet, but you won’t be out there alone. He’s got several hands, a foreman, and best of all?”

Casey waited, wondering what in this situation could possibly have a “best of all.”

“Sam’s got a live-in housekeeper, and she’s not going to visit her grandbabies in Denver until Christmas Day.”

“I’ll be damned if I’m staying here, of all places, until Christmas Day.”

To Casey, the desperation she felt sounded more like rudeness. And what choice did she have? She was faced with the biblical “no room at the inn” and it already felt freezing outside. “I can wait in the bus depot.”

“Can’t do that, darling.” Maxine seemed impervious to what was being asked of Casey. “There is no bus depot.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, ma’am.” Simultaneously from Sam and Maxine.

“Dammit.” She’d been in this Briarwood place for over two hours and her use of cuss words had grown exponentially with her frustration.

Sam walked past her to the alcove. “This your stuff?” He opened the door, picked up one of her suitcases, and said, “It’ll all fit in my truck, ma’am, so let’s go.”

Of course, he had a truck. Mumbling a string of bad words under her breath, she walked toward her unwelcome benefactor. “Fine. I’m coming.” She had no choice, but if Casey heard one more “ma’am” directed at her, she was going to puke all over his dashboard.