A Lawman in Her Stocking

“I’m sure it was unnerving,” he said, nodding. “But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”

“If that’s not it, then what’s the purpose of this?”

“I think you have the right to know why I was so defensive about Pete.”

“Okay, I’m listening, Sheriff. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

“Will you stop that?” For reasons he’d rather not dwell on, Dylan wanted to hear her velvet voice say his name. “Call me Dylan.”

“Okay…Dylan. Why are you so protective of Pete?”

He slowly placed his cup on the table as he tried to collect his thoughts. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea, insisting that she use his name. The sound had sent his blood pressure up a couple of dozen points and made his mouth go dry.

“If you’ll remember, I told you I’ve known Pete all my life,” he said, finally forcing words past the cotton in his throat. “In fact, he lives with me.”

Dylan paused. This was the part he dreaded. But it would be better coming from him than from someone else. And she’d find out soon enough anyway.

Clearing his throat, he met her expectant gaze head-on. “Pete Winstead is my uncle.”

Her expressive blue eyes widened. “No wonder you were so adamant about him being harmless. Why didn’t you tell me this afternoon?”

Relieved she wasn’t throwing something at him for withholding that bit of information, Dylan grinned. “To tell the truth, I was pretty frustrated about the whole thing. I’ve warned him for years that something like this might happen.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I think Pete will be a lot less enthusiastic about his greetings from now on. He was pretty upset that he’d frightened you and made me promise to talk to you the first chance I got.”

“I can understand your frustration,” she said, nodding. “I live with a pretty eccentric relative of my own. I hope Pete’s not too upset.”

Her lips turned up and Dylan felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. Brenna Montgomery could drop a three hundred pound lumberjack with that smile of hers.

“Don’t worry about Pete.” Dylan cringed at the rust in his voice. Clearing his throat, he went on, “He’ll get over it. Nothing gets him down for long.”

“He sounds like my grandmother.” Grinning, she shook her head. “On second thought, I don’t think anyone’s like Granny.”

In spite of the warning bells clanging in his brain, Dylan grinned right back. “She’s not your typical, rocking chair senior citizen?”

“No,” Brenna said, laughing.

Dylan felt his gut do a cartwheel and sweat pop out on his upper lip. When Brenna Montgomery let herself, she could be downright devastating. She had the most delightful laugh. And her lips were just meant for kissing.

He frowned. What was wrong with him? She was too unpredictable, too anxious to upset the status quo. She’d not only complained about his uncle Pete’s forty year tradition, she’d goaded him into taking her damned class and missing the Tuesday night poker game—a ritual he hadn’t missed in the last ten years. Until tonight.

No doubt about it. The lady was trouble. And he’d do well to remember that. He suddenly looked around. The poker game would be breaking up soon. The last thing he needed was for the boys to come out of the back room and start asking why he’d missed the game.

“Is something wrong?” Brenna asked. “All of a sudden you look rather grim.”

“Uh…no.” Dylan glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late. I think we’d better call it a night.”

Rising from his chair, he offered his hand. But the moment she placed her hand in his, he knew he’d made a big mistake. Her tender flesh slid along his callused palm like a piece of fine silk, and it took monumental effort on his part not to groan aloud.

He said nothing as he released her hand and followed her out into the night. He couldn’t. His mind and body were at war, and it took every bit of his concentration to keep from acting on his first impulse.

Trouble or not, Dylan wanted to take Brenna in his arms and kiss her senseless.

“Where’s your car parked?” he asked.

“My grandmother borrowed it for the evening.” She glanced at her watch. “But it’s probably at home by now.” She started down the street. “See you in class next week.”

He caught her by the shoulder and turned her to face him. “You walked?”

Nodding, she shrugged out of his grip. “It’s not that far.”

“It’s dark.”

“It gets that way at night,” she said, dryly. “And that’s a problem, because…?”

“It’s not safe.”

She met his frown with one of her own. “You’ve just spent the last half hour telling me what a friendly place Tranquillity is. Now you’re telling me it’s not safe to walk the streets?” She folded her arms and glared up at him. “Make up your mind, Sheriff. What kind of place is this?”

“For the most part, Tranquillity is about as safe as any place can be,” he admitted, trying not to stare at the way her full breasts rested on her folded arms. He focused his gaze on the safer area of her forehead. “But once in a while a cowboy from one of the ranches around here gets tanked up and starts to thinking he’s Don Juan.”

Taking her by the elbow, Dylan hustled her toward his restored ’49 Chevy pickup parked across the deserted street. “I’ve already gotten one complaint from you today. I’d just as soon skip the second.”

“No, thanks,” she said stubbornly. “I’d rather walk.”

He stared down at her. Damn, but she was a feisty little thing. It was all he could do to keep from kissing her right then and there. Instead, he opened the driver’s door, placed his hands at her waist and lifted her into the truck.

She let out an alarmed squeak. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Seeing that you get home safely,” he said, climbing in beside her.

“This is totally uncalled for.” Glaring at him, she slid over to the passenger side. “I can take care of myself.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You can’t do this.”

“Watch me.” He gave her a stern look in an effort to stop any further protest, but she completely ignored it. Blowing out a frustrated breath, he jammed the key into the ignition.

“Are you this controlling with everyone?” she asked.

Dylan tried counting to ten, then twenty. At thirty he gave up. “Lady, you could drive Job over the edge. You complain about an old man’s innocent gesture of friendship and then go walking down a dark street at night, inviting all kinds of trouble.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do.”

Gunning the engine, he spun gravel and squealed the tires as he steered the truck away from the curb. He cringed as he imagined the chips the rocks had made in the paint job. He and his dad had spent several years restoring the old Chevy, and Jack Chandler was probably looking down from heaven right now, ready to sling a couple of lightning bolts Dylan’s way for treating the truck with such irreverence.

He glanced over at the woman beside him. And it was all her fault, too. She was making him crazy and causing him to do things he hadn’t done in years. The last time he’d laid rubber had been when he was nineteen and full of more piss and vinegar than good sense.