2000 Kisses

by Christina Skye

  “Hell, no. That was last month. This is a whole lot better.”

  “I’m sleeping, Grady. You’re on duty now. Call me when the mother ship enters final approach. Until then I’ve got a hot date with a lady in a red sarong.”

  Grady chuckled. “You’re making a big mistake, boy.”

  “Mistake’s my middle name.” T.J. eased his broad shoulders back against the chair. His eyes were closed and he was already halfway back into what was becoming a very inventive fantasy.

  Lately it seemed as if fantasies were all the sheriff had time for.

  “Dammit, T.J., you git yourself off that chair right now. It’s a woman I’m calling you about, hear?”

  Sighing, McCall shoved back his hat and squinted down the quiet street. Then he rocked his chair flat and stood up slowly.

  A powder-blue Mercedes convertible stood angled before the General Mercantile, one wheel hitched over the dusty curb. The other was flattening a crate that appeared to be filled with peaches. Or what had been peaches.

  “You seeing that car, T.J.?”

  “I see it.”

  Static crackled over the handset. “Bound to be a clear traffic violation in there somewhere. We can’t let people go charging down Main Street in violation of town safety codes.”

  “Nothing violated that I can see. Except maybe those peaches.” T.J. flipped off his handset as his grizzled deputy strode out of the café directly across the street and walked toward him. “You’re just itchy because you always wanted a car like that.”

  Grady looked offended. “I am speaking as a man with honest town spirit. A man with a true concern for the welfare and livelihood of our respected citizens.”

  “And a man who’s drowning in envy.”

  “You paint a sorry picture of a colleague and an old friend, Sheriff. I am simply trying to see justice done. Can’t have Main Street turned into an eyesore.”

  “Give over, Grady. You’re a deputy and no disturbance of the peace has taken place.”

  The deputy ignored him, tugging a worn pencil stub from behind his ear. “Maybe we could go for property damage or a charge of reckless endangerment. I could get an interview for the paper.” Grady started across the street, then turned impatiently. “Aren’t you coming?”

  “Looks like I don’t have any choice, not with you chewing at my saddle.”

  T.J. shoved back his hat and stretched slowly, working the knotted muscles at his shoulder where a charging cow had snapped him sideways. He stared at the crushed peaches, which were already drying in the fierce desert sun.

  Anything for news, T. J. McCall thought. In addition to serving as a deputy officer, Grady was also the editor of the Almost Gazette, and news had been scarce lately. It was downright pathetic how boredom could wear a man down.

  “Relax, Grady. The Mercantile looks intact, and as far as I can see, no shots have been fired and there are no dead bodies littering Main Street.”

  They crossed the street, matching each other stride for stride.

  Grady scratched his head. “Maybe the woman in the car is a spy for a foreign government.” His eyes darkened. “Or maybe she’s a key witness on the run from indictment in an organized-crime investigation.”

  “Maybe she’s just lost.”

  “The trouble with you, McCall, is you don’t have any imagination. Leastways go and git her name. There’s still some space left in the next issue.”

  “There’s always space left in the next issue.”

  Grady gave a low whistle. “Well, would you look at that.”

  T. J. McCall barely heard his deputy’s comment. He was too busy staring at the vision emerging from behind the wheel of the Mercedes. She was a true apparition in soft denim and teal-blue suede, and her hair reminded T.J. of a sunrise he’d seen as a boy camping out in the Superstitions. He’d never seen that much red, gold, and silver in one head before, and it took his breath away.

  Another tourist, he decided. He hated tourists. They brought nothing but trouble and complaints. Plagued with too much money and too little sense, in his general experience.

  There was another possibility, of course. She could be that baby sister that Andrew O’Mara was sending to Almost.

  T.J. scowled at the polished Mercedes and the even more polished female leaning against the hood. This sleek number wasn’t anyone’s baby sister. No woman who looked like that came to Almost except by mistake. There wasn’t a sushi bar, day spa, or destination resort anywhere in sight.

  The woman still hadn’t noticed him, and for some reason that added to T.J.’s irritation. She was hunched over the hood, fiddling with her map, giving T.J. a clear view of her rounded backside.

  He took a slow breath and let his gaze wander over the curves hidden beneath soft denim. A tooled leather belt circled her slim waist and a fringed suede jacket was slung over her shoulders.

  Oddly enough, there were tire tracks running right down the back of it.

  T.J. felt his throat go bone dry, the way it did when a dust devil cut over the mountains from Mexico, clogging his breath and whipping sand and grit in a dozen directions at once. Amazing how something so pretty could hurt so bad.

  “You need any help interrogating her, Sheriff?”

  “I think I can manage without backup, Grady. But thanks for the offer.”

  “You’re the boss. But I reckon I’ll stick around, just in case.”

  T.J. picked his way past the mutilated peaches. “Can I help you, Ma’am?”

  She didn’t seem to hear, bent over a wrinkled map she was awkwardly folding and refolding. Each time the folds came out wrong.

  T.J. noticed that her hands were shaking.

  “Ma’am?”

  No answer.

  He slanted a look inside the expensive car. The seats were loaded with bags, books, and some kind of fancy silver appliance. A pair of new red cowboy boots leaned against the passenger door. Excellent leather work, T.J. decided with an expert eye.

  But there was no water anywhere in sight.

  The woman swayed slightly. She ran her hand through that glorious mass of red-and-gold hair and turned.

  McCall blinked. At that moment he remembered what it felt like for a mean horse to kick him hard in the backside.

  The woman gave the word radiance new meaning. It wasn’t just because of her fine skin or the moss-green eyes alive with amber glints. T.J. thought it might be the way freckles dotted her nose. Or maybe it was that full, stubborn mouth.

  Suddenly he couldn’t seem to breathe properly. He cleared his throat and shoved away an erotic vision of her mouth—on his body. “Ma’am?”

  She was shaking and her face had gone sickly white.

  “It just won’t work.” Her voice was painfully sexy, husky and low. Or maybe it was just dry.

  “Forget the damn map,” T.J. growled. “When was the last time you had anything to drink?”

  “Drink?” She peered at him over the map, and T.J. felt something slam him hard in the chest. To his disgust, the sensation promptly moved lower, gathering just below the weight of his silver belt buckle. If this turned out to be Andrew O’Mara’s baby sister, T.J. was going to be very, very sorry.

  “That’s right,” he growled, “what have you been drinking?”

  Her chin shot up. “Are you suggesting that I’m drunk?”

  “I’m talking about liquid in general. Preferably water.”

  She frowned at something in the air over his head. “I had some wine last night with dinner. That was back in New Mexico. A zinfandel from Sonoma, nothing fancy. I had orange juice at breakfast. Unsweetened. Natural pulp. But I don’t see why—” Suddenly her hand opened on the car hood. “I don’t feel—” She took a sharp breath.

  “Damn fool creature.” If he hadn’t been so gut-wrenched by that first sight of her, T.J. would have seen the signs immediately. As it was, he barely managed to lunge forward as she toppled onto his chest.

  Out cold.

  A crowd had gathered by th
e time Grady held open the door so that T.J. could carry the new arrival into his office. With no water in twenty-four hours, the blasted female was lucky she’d lasted this long.

  T.J. settled his unconscious visitor on the cot beside his gunmetal-gray desk and spun his hat onto a peg by the door. “Somebody go get Doc Felton.” He tugged off her suede jacket and unbuttoned the top three buttons of her white shirt to drizzle cool water over her skin. Just doing his job, he told himself. He damned well wasn’t enjoying the sight, either.

  Not her long, slim neck. Not the faint shadow below the edge of her shirt.

  Grady cleared his throat. “Think she’s someone important, T.J.? Someone on the run? Mafia witness? Government courier maybe?”

  “We’re never going to find out if you don’t give her some air,” T.J. growled. With quick movements he soaked a second washcloth in water from his cooler and laid it over her forehead. “The fool hasn’t had any water all day.”

  “Yep,” Grady said thoughtfully. “That’d put a body out sure enough.” Grady stared at the cot in morbid fascination. “Maybe she’s gonna die.”

  “Nobody’s dying in my office,” T.J. said tightly. “Now, everyone out. Floor show’s over.” But she still didn’t move, and his anxiety grew. Heat stroke was never a pretty sight. She needed to drink, but he didn’t dare force liquids while she was unconscious, in case she choked.

  He was greatly relieved when the town doctor pushed through the door. Ernest Felton was sixty-something, with stooped shoulders and keen eyes that had seen just about every calamity and bodily trauma in forty years of general practice. “Got a patient for me, McCall?”

  “Hasn’t moved an inch since I brought her in, Doc. She looks pretty beat.”

  The doctor slid a digital thermometer between her lips. “A hundred and one. That’s a good sign.”

  “Sounds high to me,” T.J. said.

  “Not life-threatening.” The doctor brushed her skin. “Cool to the touch. She’s starting to sweat, and that’s good, too. Any signs of nausea?”

  “It happened too fast for that.”

  “Help me elevate her feet.” Together, they slid a pillow in place, then raised her ankles. “First stage of heatstroke, I’d say, along with dehydration. She looks strong enough, but you’d better get her hydrated. Keep wet cloths in place. Do you have any ice packs?”

  T.J. nodded.

  “Use them. Armpits and wrists. Ankles and groin. Give her water as soon as she comes around, but keep it limited.”

  T.J. rubbed his jaw. As a law officer, he’d had his share of dehydrated tourists and lost hikers crazy from heat exhaustion. By now he knew the drill.

  “I’ll be back in an hour after I check on the Winslow sisters over at the nursing home.” The doctor frowned. “Fool woman has too many clothes on. You might want to do something about that, Sheriff.”

  Like what—strip her naked? T.J. wondered grimly.

  After Doc Felton left, McCall slipped ice packs under her arms and ankles, then drizzled cool water into her mouth. When she gagged, he stopped and tried again.

  But she still didn’t come around. Her arm swept out and she muttered hoarsely, as if caught in a bad dream. She spoke again, but the sounds were choppy and made no sense to T.J. As he put another cold cloth on her head, she twisted sideways, breathing hard, her fingers stiff. Something had left her badly frightened.

  T.J. only wished he knew what.

  Five minutes later, as T.J. held a damp cloth to her cheek, her eyes opened. He looked into them and got lost in a green smoother than cottonwood leaves in spring. Wind seemed to whistle past his face, cool and sweet. And you’re a damned fool, McCall.

  She blinked and tried to sit up.

  “Take it easy, Ma’am.”

  She closed her eyes, then took another long, hard look at him. “I loved you in Braveheart.”

  T.J. gave a long-suffering sigh. After a decade of being mistaken for Hollywood’s azure-eyed superstar, he was resigned to the error. “How does your head feel?”

  She tried to sit up, then sank back with a soft groan. “Like Apollo 13 just did a three-point turn on my frontal lobe.” She rubbed her forehead, frowning. “Do I know you? You seem … familiar.”

  “If we’d met, Ma’am, I’d surely remember it. Probably just the aftereffects of the heat. Serves you right for traveling through the desert without water.”

  “What do you mean?”

  T.J. shook his head in disgust. She really didn’t have a clue. Then again, most visitors didn’t. “Your body needs eight to ten glasses of liquid daily. In conditions of severe heat or exertion, the amount can double.”

  Her teeth chattered. “Is that why I keeled over?”

  T.J. nodded.

  She sighed. “You still seem familiar.” She tried to turn and then frowned. “Why are two bags of ice wedged under my arms?”

  “I had to bring your temperature down.” T.J. offered her a glass of water with a straw. “Sip as much as you can. The sooner you replace your fluids the better.”

  She didn’t seem to be listening. “So you’re really not Mel Gibson?” She sounded disappointed.

  “No, Ma’am, I’m not.” T.J. tried not to take it personally. “I’m the sheriff here.”

  She closed her eyes on a groan. “Don’t tell me. You’re McCall, the one Andrew told me about.”

  She didn’t appear too happy at the idea. As it happened, T.J. shared her sentiments completely. “So you’re Tess. Welcome to Almost.”

  “There weren’t any signs that I could see.”

  “Last one fell down a few weeks ago. We haven’t had a chance to replace it yet.” T.J. frowned. The damned female was wearing way too many clothes, a heavy denim skirt and heaven knew what was beneath that. Probably silk and more silk. Doc Felton was right: something had to go.

  Maybe his sanity, T.J. thought wryly. He placed another wet cloth on her head and fanned her face with a newspaper.

  “I’m going to have to take off some of those clothes, Ma’am.”

  She didn’t seem to hear. T.J. decided this was as good a time as any to correct her overdressed condition. Hell, what was he supposed to take off first?

  He unbuttoned her shirt lower, pushed up the sleeves and waited. Still no response.

  Didn’t she realize this was afternoon in the desert? No one marched around in the afternoon sun without water. Muttering, T.J. went to work on her boots and belt. Why did he have to be the one dealing with this crazy female? He hadn’t tackled a woman’s buttons in six months.

  T.J. frowned. Or had it been longer?

  Damn, that was unnatural.

  He wiped her face again. She had a redhead’s delicate complexion, but she hadn’t worn sunscreen or a hat. He meant to give her hell for that, too.

  “Ms. O’Mara?”

  She was out cold.

  T.J. decided that her clothes were going to have to wait.

  Two people stood in the shaded bow window across the street, watching T.J. stride out of the sheriff’s office. One was the owner of the General Mercantile and café.

  “That’s odd,” Mae muttered.

  “What’s odd?” Doc Felton stood nursing one of Mae’s famous butterscotch milk shakes.

  “The sheriff. Man’s fit to be tied. I haven’t seen him that angry since that California promoter wanted to rent the town for an undertaker’s convention.”

  Doc Felton elbowed in beside her and had a view of T.J.’s stiff gait as he strode toward his dusty Blazer. He was muttering as he swung open the door, then closed it again. He jammed his hat down hard, took a dozen angry steps, and kicked at the rear tire, then turned and stalked back up the steps to the sheriff’s office.

  The doctor rubbed his jaw. “Definitely looks angry. Must have something to do with that woman who passed out in the street today. Heatstroke, most likely.”

  “Who, T.J. or the woman?”

  Doc Felton chuckled. “Maybe both of them.”

  “You don’t s
ay.” Mae spread her hands on the spotless but worn Formica table beside the window. “She the one with all that red hair? Driving that fancy blue car?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Mae chewed on her lip. “You don’t say.”

  The two stood at the window in companionable silence.

  “Odd about T.J. being all stirred up like that,” the doctor said slowly. “He doesn’t stir up easily. Especially over a woman.”

  The two looked at each other.

  “Then again, maybe not,” Mae mused. “The sheriff doesn’t get a lot of social opportunities here in Almost. Big, strong man like that must miss spending a few pleasant hours with a female.”

  More silence.

  “Of course, if something went wrong with that fancy car, she wouldn’t be leaving for a while,” the doctor murmured. “They’d have to send for parts from California. Maybe even from the East Coast. Just hypothetically.”

  “Wouldn’t want anything terrible to go wrong,” Mae said. “Maybe a distributor cap or a fuel line.” She stared out into the afternoon sun. “Might take a week to get a replacement part.”

  The doctor stared at the sheriff’s office. “A week should be just about right. For a car problem, that is.”

  “And for two people to get to know each other.” Mae watched little eddies of dirt spin around the spiny branches of an ocotillo cactus. “Our sheriff could use some company in that great big house of his.”

  “Does your brother still work at the Auto Palace?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Seems to me,” the doctor mused, “that he might know how to repair a fuel line. Or maybe even how to detach one. Just hypothetically, of course.”

  “Fuel lines happen to be his specialty.” Mae smiled as she picked up the phone. “Just hypothetically, of course.”

  5

  She was there again, amid narrow canyon walls filled with shadow, every rock familiar.

  She stood on green ferns, the sun burning her shoulders. The wind carried the scent of silver sage and star flower as she slipped to the ground and drank from the still pool between the rocks, offering murmured thanks to those spirits who guard the precious water.