She didn’t want to believe someone had run her off the road on purpose, but the person who caused the accident hadn’t stopped to assist. A glance at her watch indicated at least fifteen minutes had passed since the collision. Her assailant was long gone.
The storm was intensifying, and if she didn’t get help soon, she’d die from hypothermia. She tried her cell phone, but Hayes had already warned her it would be unreliable in this part of the country where relay towers were scarce. She was disappointed but not surprised when she couldn’t receive roaming service.
Recalling vaguely hearing or reading something about staying with the car if stranded in a snow-storm—whoever would have thought a Miami resident would need that bit of info?—she started to climb back into the vehicle.
And smelled gasoline.
The tank must have ruptured. The ominous liquid was dripping from beneath the chassis and puddling in the ditch. Afraid to risk the danger of remaining in a potential fireball, she figured she should at least attempt to retrieve her luggage. Donning extra layers of clothing—even clothing woefully unsuitable for southeastern Montana’s cruel winter climate—might be her only chance for survival.
The car had landed at an angle, and she had to struggle to drag her luggage from the trunk that rested shoulder-high. She carried her bag to the side of the road and hoped someone would pass and give her a lift.
If they could see her in the blowing snow.
Her head pounded, her bruised knees and shoulders ached, and she swore that Max was going to owe her big-time.
If she lived to collect.
She was on her knees, rummaging through her open case for additional clothing, when the howling wind carried the sound of an engine, approaching from the direction of town. Grabbing a red silk dress, Jessica raced to the center of the road and brandished the garment like a flag.
The car appeared suddenly out of the driving snow, almost on top of her. Jessica dived for the side of the road. The driver slammed on brakes, going into a skid that would have landed the SUV next to her car in the ditch without some first-class maneuvers on the part of the driver.
Jessica pushed to her feet and brushed snow from her ruined stockings.
The SUV’s door opened. A massive man exited the car and descended on her like a charging bull.
“Hell’s bells, lady! You got a death wish?” It was the sheriff from Swenson. Even hopping mad, he was the sweetest sight she’d ever seen. “You could have been hit, standing in the middle of the road like that!”
“I’ve already been hit,” Jessica said hotly. “And if I hadn’t been in the middle of the road, you wouldn’t have seen me, and I would have frozen to death in this godforsaken wilderness.”
She doubted he understood a word she’d said, since her teeth were chattering so hard, her speech was almost incomprehensible.
He must have comprehended enough, though, because his anger seemed to leave him, like the air from a deflating balloon. “Are you hurt?”
“Luckily,” she managed to utter through her chattering teeth, “not as badly as my car.”
She nodded toward the ditch, and the sheriff followed her gaze.
“Aw, sh—” He bit off the curse, then turned and loped back to his car. He returned seconds later with a blanket, and without giving Jessica time to react, he’d wrapped her tightly, lifted her in his arms and settled her on the front seat of the deliciously warm SUV, his official car from the looks of the radio and shotgun mounted on the dash.
Before she could say a word, he returned to the roadside and made a quick inspection of the wrecked sedan. After gathering her luggage from the shoulder, he placed it in the back of the SUV and climbed into the driver’s seat.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he grabbed the microphone off the dash and depressed a button. “I need a tow truck on Highway 7, eighteen miles south of town. Car’s in a ditch. Tell Pete he can wait till the storm passes. I’ve picked up the driver.”
“Ten-four,” a no-nonsense female voice replied. “Need medical assistance?”
“Negative.” The sheriff gave a call number, signed off and replaced the microphone on the dash.
Warmth from the heater was slowly thawing Jessica, and either the bump on her head or the welcomed heat was making her drowsy. She seemed to be floating, a state she’d experienced only once before, when she’d drunk too much champagne at Max’s New Year’s Eve party last January. In such a blissful state, she found maintaining a good head of steam over her situation difficult.
And ignoring the attributes of the man next to her impossible.
She’d sworn off men, she reminded herself, except as the occasional dinner date, although Max never gave up playing matchmaker, hoping she’d find the right man and settle down to raise a family. Having witnessed the chaos and heartbreak that emotional entanglements had created in her parents’ lives, she wanted none of it. Her life was full enough as it was. She had her fantastic job, her South Beach condo, her friends. She didn’t need love or anything slightly resembling it. She’d avoided infatuations as fiercely as she avoided accounting errors. She’d never had a broken heart, never shed a tear over a man, never sat by the phone for a call that never came….
Never intended to.
“Now—” The sheriff, who appeared even more attractive at close range than he had in the bank, turned to her. “Want me to take you back to the hotel?”
Even in its groggy state, her mind somehow continued to function. If she went back to town, she’d have to rent another car, drive the same treacherous roads and arrive hours, if not an entire day, later than she’d planned. And she had no intention of remaining in Montana a day longer than she had to. She hated the dinky little town, the monotony of the landscape, and, most of all, the intolerably frigid weather.
To plead her case, she lifted her lips in what she hoped was an alluring smile. “I don’t suppose you could take me to the Shooting Star Ranch?”
He started the engine and put the car into gear. “Sure you don’t want to have a doctor check you out? You must have been shaken up pretty bad.”
“Nothing a few aspirin won’t cure.”
He gave her a quick head-to-toe glance as if to assure himself. “Then the Shooting Star Ranch it is.” He pulled onto the highway and drove slowly through the swirling snow as confidently as if he knew the route blindfolded. “You’re not used to driving in these conditions.”
She resented his implication that the accident had been her fault, and that irritable feeling helped squelch any danger of succumbing to his aw-shucks Western charm. “I was doing fine until someone sideswiped me and knocked me off the road.”
“They didn’t stop?”
She could hear the anger in his voice and was glad it wasn’t directed at her. “If they did, I was unconscious. No one was around when I came to.”
“Get a license-plate number?”
She shook her head and winced at the pain the movement caused. “All I saw was a dark-colored pickup with tinted windows.”
He stifled another curse. “You’ve just described ninety percent of the vehicles in this county.” Flicking her a glance that seemed to pierce straight through her, he asked, “You sure you were hit? I can’t believe no one stopped to help, especially in this weather. People here are friendlier than that.”
“Have the garage check the car’s driver’s-side panels.” She didn’t like his suggesting that she’d lied, and the frost in her voice matched the temperature outside. “The damage has to be there. Whoever it was, hit me hard. Twice.”
This time he seemed to accept her account. “I’ll ask for a paint sample from the damaged area. See if I can track the truck down.”
“Isn’t that a lot of trouble for a fender bender?” His thoroughness impressed her.
“Hit-and-run’s bad enough.” His scowl emphasized the rugged contours of his face. “If you’d frozen to death back there, it would also have been manslaughter. At least.”
“At least?�
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“If someone ran you off the road on purpose and you’d died from the accident or the cold, it would have been homicide.”
She shook her head, unable to comprehend the notion that the wreck had been intended. The movement was not a smart reaction, with her head and body still painfully sore. “Do all sheriffs think like you?”
“How’s that?”
“Paranoid. I’ve only been in town a few hours. Who would want to run me off the road, much less murder me?”
“Ever heard of road rage?” His expression was dead serious, and she couldn’t decide if he was better looking when he smiled or was solemn. “The perpetrators seldom know their victims.”
“I didn’t have time to do anything to make him mad. This guy came out of nowhere.”
“Anyone else you’ve ticked off since you came to town?”
“Nobody but the shotgun Santa.” Her eyes widened at a sudden thought. “You haven’t released him, have you?”
“No way.”
“Has he robbed other banks?”
The sheriff’s tanned forehead wrinkled in a frown. “The guy has no record. Holds a respectable job in Grange County north of us. He isn’t on drugs. In fact, he doesn’t fit the profile of a bank robber at all. And whatever his motive, he’s not talking.”
“Maybe the coming holidays affected his reasoning. Not everybody’s crazy about Christmas,” Jessica said with more intensity than she’d intended. The knock on her head had made her talkative. She rarely felt so at ease with strangers. “Maybe he was… What do the psychologists call it? Acting out?”
“We’re still running a check on him. All we know for certain is that he wasn’t the one who ran you off the road. Anybody else who might be out to get you?”
Jessica could think of dozens, business executives whose get-rich-quick-at-someone-else’s-expense schemes she’d thwarted with her investigations. But none of them was within a thousand miles of Montana.
Unless…
“I haven’t met the people at Shooting Star Ranch yet,” she said. “Don’t know if someone there has something to hide, something they’re afraid my audit might unearth.”
The sheriff coughed harshly, as if something had caught suddenly in his throat. Once he was able to speak again, he gave her a megawatt smile that warmed her more than the superefficient car heater. “Guess you won’t know that until you meet them and do your homework.”
He seemed remarkably unconcerned.
“Do you know them?” Jessica asked. “You don’t think they’re a threat to me?”
His expression sobered, but mischief twinkled in his brown eyes. “I’ll give you my number, so you can call if you feel threatened.”
Being around the sheriff was making her paranoid, expecting criminals around every corner, she thought, when probably she’d simply been the victim of ugly but common road rage. “Maybe the guy who hit me was drunk, and I was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Maybe.” He slowed the car, turned off the highway and stopped in front of a rustic timber arch, where the words Shooting Star Ranch and the emblem of a star with lines trailing behind it like a comet’s tail had been burned into the sign above the driveway. “We’re here.”
Jessica peered through the snow. “Where’s the house?”
The sheriff started the car again. “Five miles up this road.”
“Five miles! That’s a heck of a driveway.”
“Short by Montana standards, but don’t worry. I’ll deposit you safely at the front door.”
They continued up the driveway with snow-covered open fields on either side. After several minutes, dark shadows loomed in front of them. As they approached, Jessica could make out tall, leafless trees in front of a huge, three-story Victorian house, complete with symmetrical Queen Anne turrets flanking spacious porches.
“This is the main house,” the sheriff announced.
“It’s not what I expected.”
“Not every ranch looks like the Ponderosa,” he said with a wry grin.
When the sheriff brought the SUV to a halt, Jessica could see the Shooting Star emblem carved into the corbels and cornices of the gingerbread trim.
“It lives up to its name.” She turned to the sheriff and offered her hand. “I don’t know how to thank you. You’ve saved my life. Twice now.”
He gripped her hand firmly in the calloused warmth of his own. “All in a day’s work. We serve and protect.”
“And provide delivery service.” She kept her voice light and retracted her hand, unwilling to admit how much she’d enjoyed the contact, how much she liked him. Her attraction to him wouldn’t be a problem, however, since she’d never see him again. “I’ll just hop out and get my luggage. No need to inconvenience you more than I already have.”
He killed the engine and opened his door. “I’ll get your bag.”
Jessica climbed out quickly and met him at the back of the SUV. “It isn’t heavy. I can manage. You need to get back to work.”
“No problem. I’m through for the day.”
She reached for the luggage, unwilling to obligate herself more to a man she found entirely too appealing. “Then you should be headed home.”
He took the case from her. “I am home.”
She stopped short. “What?”
He grinned and gestured toward the front door. “I’m Ross McGarrett. My family owns Shooting Star Ranch. Welcome, Ms. Landon.”
ROSS COULDN’T HELP GRINNING even wider at Jessica Landon’s look of surprise. He’d had a hard enough time keeping from laughing earlier when she’d suggested that someone at the ranch might be out to get her. More likely she’d want to kill him when she saw the state of the ranch’s books. Nothing illegal or sinister. Just absolute, unfettered chaos. He hated paperwork worse than criminals.
Before he could say more, however, the front door swung open, and the light from the hall outlined a tall, regal figure peering into the darkness and swirling snow. “Ross, is that you?”
Beside him, Jessica’s mouth dropped open, but she snapped it shut quickly when she caught him watching her. He didn’t blame her for the reaction. His grandmother had that effect on people. Meeting her was like meeting the queen. Fiona had grown up in Manhattan, attended the best Eastern finishing schools, traveled throughout Europe and the Far East, and inherited a small fortune before she’d married his grandfather and moved to the West. After all these years in the wilds of Montana, the polished cosmopolitan aura still clung to her, from her elegant sense of style and her cultured voice and accent to her stately posture and expression, all attributes that camouflaged a heart as immense as the Big Sky State.
“It’s me, Fiona,” he called to his grandmother, “and I have Ms. Landon with me.” Taking Jessica’s elbow with one hand, her bag with the other, he helped her up the broad icy steps into the house.
“Welcome, Ms. Landon,” Fiona said. “We’ve been expecting you. I’m glad you’re both here safe and sound, Ross. There’s a blizzard coming.”
Jessica looked surprised and cocked her head toward the door. “What we came through wasn’t a blizzard?”
Fiona shook her head. “The weather’s mild now compared to a real storm.”
Jessica shook off her surprise and became the professional, competent woman he’d first noticed in the bank. “Then it’s good I’m here so I can begin work right away.”
Ross had to give her credit. She’d been caught in the middle of a bank holdup, shot at, and run off the road, all in one day, yet none of her troubles seemed to have daunted her. The woman was either an incurable workaholic or had nerves of steel. Or both.
Jessica’s small stature and fragile beauty were deceiving. When Fiona had told him she’d engaged a top financial consultant from Miami, Ross had expected an Ivy League male with a button-down collar, expensive suit, a sharp mind and an eagle eye for details. The lovely Jessica had been a pleasing surprise.
On the one hand.
On the other, bad
enough having another man chastise Ross for his sloppy bookkeeping. He could only imagine the disdain the superefficient Ms. Landon would have for his records.
And on another hand—
“No need to start work tonight,” Fiona was saying graciously. “Come into the living room. We’ll have a glass of wine before dinner.”
“Maybe Ms. Landon would like to see her room and settle in first,” Ross suggested, catching sight of Jessica’s ruined stockings. “She’s had a rough day.”
“Of course,” his grandmother replied. “The guest suite’s ready. Will you take her bag?”
Jessica reached for her luggage. “I can manage—”
“Nonsense,” Fiona said in that tone of hers that squelched any argument. “Ross doesn’t mind.”
Ross hefted the suitcase, which, judging from its weight, couldn’t possibly hold enough clothing for December on the Montana prairie. Then again, Jessica probably expected to spend the entire time indoors with her very pretty head buried in his accounts.
“Your room’s upstairs,” he said. “I’m right be hind you.”
Jessica started up the stairs and Ross followed, unable to keep his eyes off the sculpted curve of her calves, the slender turn of her ankles, the subtle swing of her shapely behind. For such a small package, she certainly packed a wallop. She mesmerized him more than any woman ever had. Which was unfortunate. The last thing he needed now was a distraction from his job.
“This is it.” He indicated a doorway on the right, halfway down the hall, waited for her to enter, and followed inside with her bag.
Jessica gazed around the room, her eyes alight with approval. “It’s beautiful.”
Seeing the room through her eyes, as if for the first time, Ross agreed. A fire burned cheerfully in the fireplace with comfortable chairs grouped in front of it. Piles of pillows edged with lace were heaped at the head of the four-poster mahogany bed. “Fiona uses all her favorite antiques in here. I hope you’ll be comfortable.”
The Christmas Target Page 3
