The Sheriff's Last Gamble

“Hello, Sheriff.”

Jake McCrery swung one leg over the saddle horn and landed on the ground as smoothly as an eagle swoops into its nest.

“Miss Blackwell.” He greeted her with a slight nod.

With her insides tingling, and without a doubt he’d follow, Stacy started walking along the road. “Tell me, how is dear Uncle Edward today?”

“Fine,” Jake answered. “He’d like you to visit soon.”

“I’ll bet,” she said flatly. There was no sense getting riled over Edward Blackwell. She’d told him exactly what she thought of him three months ago, shortly after arriving. Her heart, not always in agreement with her mind, stung strongly enough to make her tighten her hold on her parasol.

“Speaking of bets,” Jake said, “how much did you win today?”

Stacy pretended to glance over her shoulder at the palomino at their heels; in reality she wanted Jake to see the smile on her face. “Now, Sheriff McCrery, this morning you specifically forbade me from gambling.”

“That hasn’t stopped you before.”

“Tsk, tsk.” She shook her head so the hair she’d spent an hour curling this morning fluttered around her shoulders. She’d learned years ago to style its mousy brown color to catch attention, therefore keeping people from watching her face too closely during an intense point in a game. Lately, though, thoughts of the handsome sheriff filled her head while curling the tresses—actually, while she did most everything. “We both know I never gamble while you’re in town.”

“How much was it?”

At times Jake seemed immune to her charms, and that had her wondering if she’d missed a lesson or two of Pappy’s teachings along the way—not that Pappy had taught her about men, but he’d taught her about life and the two went hand in hand.

Shrugging, mainly to keep a sigh from slipping out, she answered. “A few hundred.”

Jake caught her arm, and though the heat of his touch had her toes curling, fury flashed in his mahogany-brown eyes.

“Gambling’s a dangerous game, Stacy. You’re going to get yourself shot.”

His concern was genuine, and that warmed her heart, but not even Jake McCrery would stop her from playing. “I’ve played in far worse places than Founder’s Creek.”

“Then go there to play.”

An unreadable poker face was one of her most prized accomplishments, but keeping it on right now was a struggle. Not only did Jake sound exasperated, he said the words like he meant them. Wrenching her arm from his hold, she started up the street. Anger snapped inside her, but more painful was the possibility he wanted her to leave. “I can’t,” she said.

“How much more do you need, Stacy?” he asked, keeping up with her quick pace. “You’ve won every dollar anyone had to lose. You own the biggest house in town, four businesses, and give out more loans than the bank.”

What he said was true and required no comment from her. Not even to point out it was five businesses. She’d won the livery three days ago off Ratcliff. He’d snookered it from Ted Holmes in a game of three-card monte, something she couldn’t let be. The Holmeses had six children and needed the livery to keep them fed and clothed.

“What more can you want?” Jake, still sounding frustrated, waved a hand toward the buildings neatly laid out in front of them. “The entire town knows Edward Blackwell is your father, not your uncle.”

That stopped her dead in her tracks. Her stomach had burned all morning, and unable to think of anything else she’d needed a distraction, which was precisely why she’d gone to Ma Belle’s—but seeing her necklace had inched her annoyance up several notches.

Fighting to keep her face expressionless, she eyed Jake from his boots to his hat. Of course his clothing, a black shirt tucked neatly into tan pants, fit him like the hide on his dandy horse, and told her absolutely nothing about what he’d done out at her family’s residence.

Nearly incensed out of her mind, she spun around and started walking again. Holding her temper , and not imagining him and Emma sitting in the parlor whispering silly things to each other, was next to impossible. But she did it. She even went so far as to ask, “Tell me, Jake, how are Edward’s cows today?”

“That’s just plain rude,” he snapped.

Stacy stopped again, turned to where he still stood a few steps behind her. Drawing on every ability she possessed to appear innocent, she tugged her brows together. “Why would you say that? Uncle Edward has several head of cattle.”

Jake lifted one of his dark brows.

Gambling was a form of acting, and she was a proficient gambler, therefore an accomplished actress. Creating a smile took a considerable amount of effort with her teeth clenched so, but she managed. “Did you think I was referring to Uncle Edward’s daughters? Shame on you.”

* * *

If there had ever been a woman Jake McCrery wanted to turn over his knee it was Stacy Blackwell. She’d turned the peaceful town of Founder’s Creek upside down and inside out since the moment she’d hit town, making his job, and life, a nightmare.

Stepping forward until their noses practically touched, and unable to refrain from cursing, Jake growled, “Damn it, Stacy, you know you were referring to Edward’s daughters. Your sisters.”

“Half sisters,” she insisted with something as close to hatred as he’d ever seen flashing in her sky-blue eyes.

No one could hide their emotions like this woman could, and that flash, no matter how brief, softened his heart several degrees. “Stacy,” he said, taking her arm.

She pulled it away. “Forgive me, Sheriff, I momentarily forgot you’re engaged to one of those girls.” Spinning on one high-heeled boot, she started up the street again, skirt swaying and parasol bobbing.

Chapter Two

After two hours of fighting off Emma Blackwell, the last thing Jake needed was a confrontation with this little hotheaded gambler, yet, he had no choice. Actually, if he was as honest as he claimed to be, he’d confess that sparring with Stacy sparked fire inside him. Then, if he admitted that, he’d have to come clean on the fact he was glad she’d came to town when she had—before he’d made the biggest mistake of his life.

Catching up with the little stick of dynamite on heels, he grasped one elbow, propelling her down the roadway. “I’m not engaged to Emma and you know it.”

Stacy tugged at his hold, but without enough effort to break it. “That’s not the way she puts it.” Casting him a stare that was blank, except for a tiny twinkle, she added, “So you’re just in the courting stage, are you?”

“No, I’m not, we’re not—” Damn, she flustered him. “No,” he said sternly starting over. “I am not courting Emma Blackwell. Never have been and never will be.”

Chin up, eyes staring straight ahead, she continued to march beside him. “You oughta tell Emma that.”

“I have,” he insisted.

A puffed-up laugh sounded as she twirled her parasol and looked at him with an insolent grin. “She’s a little dim-witted, is she?”

Sliced right down the middle, Jake held his lips tight together. Half of him wanted to paddle her bottom soundly for being so snippety. It wasn’t becoming. On most women, that is. That’s where the other half of him came in, wanting to chuckle and agree Emma was a bit dim-witted.

Charming, in her own self-imposed little way, Stacy Blackwell made even being snippety adorable. Too adorable. To the point he forgot she was a gambler. A woman gambler. The one thing he could never accept in his life.

“Cat got your tongue, Sheriff?” she asked sweetly.

Planting a grin on his face as false as the one on hers, he increased his pace, pulling her along beside him. “No, I just don’t want the entire town listening while I box your ears for being so bad mannered and boorish about your own sisters.”

“Half sisters,” she admonished. “And I was only referring to one of them. I find nothing appalling about Anne Marie.”

“As you shouldn’t,” he remarked, guiding her step onto the boardwalk in front of his office. “She’s only fifteen.”

Closing her parasol so the edges wouldn’t catch on the doorway, she nodded. “And the poor dear can’t help who her sister is.”

Jake let that one slide as he pushed open the door and waited for her to cross the threshold. Once inside, he removed his hat, hung it on the nearby hook and gestured to his deputy who barely raised his head from the checkerboard atop an upturned barrel. “See to Shotgun, will you, Herman?” The palomino had followed them through town and now stood at the hitching post outside.