In The Arms Of Danger
Hands fisted on her hips, Lacey flung back her head in challenge. “Well, sugar, we seem to have a teeny little problem here. A stalemate.”
A dark brow arched.
“The way I see it, I want through the door you’re standing in front of, and you obviously aren’t happy with the idea.” She grinned. “I believe what we have here, is what you cowboys deem a ‘Mexican stand-off’.”
The predatory gleam in his eyes darkened. A wicked grin split his lips. He folded his arms across his broad chest and cocked one hip against the doorframe. “Nah. What we have here, sugar,” he drawled in mock imitation of her Southern accent, “is Custer’s Last Stand, and I’m Chief Sitting Bull.” He moved toward her with a slow, lethal walk. “Guess who won that battle, bright eyes? Sheath your claws little cat, because this is another battle where the pale-face loses.”
In The Arms of Danger © 2008 by Jaydyn Chelcee
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This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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In The Arms Of Danger
Printed in Canada and The United States of America.
In The Arms Of Danger
Book One of the Series Montana Men
In The Arms Of Danger
Jaydyn Chelcee
In The Arms Of Danger
Dedication:
In The Arms Of Danger
To: My husband, Earl, my very own ‘Danger.’
In The Arms Of Danger
Acknowledgements:
While browsing the Internet, I came across numerous quotes spoken by unknown people. I’d like to thank all those cowboys and cowgirls for their sense of humor and a thank you to the movie stars whose words I’ve “borrowed” or their famous lines from a movie. I’ve given credit where credit is due when ever I could find the source of the quotes.
In The Arms Of Danger
Thank you, Jaydyn Chelcee
In The Arms Of Danger
Prologue
“A very great vision is needed and the man who has it must follow it as the eagle seeks the deepest blue of the sky.”
Crazy Horse
Rimrock, Montana Blackstone Ranch Fri.7:20 a.m.
“Ayeeeee!”
“Heya.Heya.Heya.Heya.”
Sheriff Danger Blackstone switched off the engine of his ten-year-old Jeep
and listened to the noises that disrupted the early morning serenity. Danger narrowed his eyes as his grandpa chanted. The sound resonated across the back yard from inside the old ranch house.
And, he was beating on the drums, never a good sign.
Papa Joe must have had one hell of a vision.
Danger climbed out of the Jeep and paused to listen. His grandmother’s
high-pitched screech, “Ayeeeee,” blended with Papa Joe’s chanting. Danger shook his head.
His grandparents might be senile and did some rather odd things from time to time, but if Grandma Shalene was involved—then whatever had her shrieking along with Papa Joe’s chanting and drumming was major.
Side-stepping the dozen or so hens pecking and scratching in the dirt, Danger opened the back screen door and entered the kitchen to the tantalizing aroma of fried bacon. Concerned about why his grandparents were in a tizzy, he ignored the appreciative rumble of his stomach. At least the old folks had enjoyed breakfast right on schedule.
Maybe that meant things weren’t as bad as he thought after all. Danger paused. Entering Grandma Shalene’s kitchen made him feel as if he walked across the Painted Desert—blue table cloth, yellow walls, red and white curtains, everything sparkling clean and filled with the richness of color. Sure, his grandparents home was rundown, the ranch house old, certainly it had outlived its youthful sparkle, but he always felt welcomed. And loved.
His sister, Anna Leigh, leaned against the kitchen counter with her six month old daughter, Gidget. The baby was perched on her hip. Like clockwork, Anna stopped by every morning to cook breakfast and make certain the old ones didn’t burn down the house.
Milky drool slid down the baby’s tiny chin. Danger took her from his sister and mouthed, “What’s going on?”
Anna rolled her eyes and shrugged.
“She’s wet,” she warned as Gidget’s squishy bottom landed against his uniform shirt.
“Yikes! Take her. She’s yours.” Danger pointed her back toward his sister. “Come on. Take her back, Sis.”
Gidget’s bare legs dangled in the air as he held the baby at arms length. At the sight of her mother, the baby pumped her chubby little legs in the air and gurgled. Slobbers dribbled down her chin and neck and splattered his hands.
Anna giggled, folded her arms under her breasts, and shook her head. Her dark eyes sparkled with amusement. “No. You keep her. Wet diapers are a part of reality. You need to get used to them. You might get lucky and be a daddy one day.”
Danger scoffed and shoved baby Gidget at his sister. “Don’t joke about things like that. I don’t have a wife, so no, I don’t need to learn about disgusting wet diapers.”
Anna patted his shoulders in false sympathy and batted her eyelashes at him. “That diaper could be filled with something a lot more disgusting.” Anna clutched her side and doubled over. “You should see the look on your face.” She paused in her fit of giggles long enough to catch her breath. “Oh, it’s priceless. You look positively horrified.”
Danger held the baby outstretched toward his sister. “Ha. Ha. Take her back. Take her back, now.”
Anna wiped the tears from her eyes, finally gave in, and rescued him from the killer diaper. “Papa Joe’s in one of his moods,” she tossed over her shoulder, still laughing as she headed into another room to change her daughter. “As soon as I change Gidget’s diaper, I have to leave. There’s a teacher’s meeting before classes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Danger acknowledged her good-bye with a wave of his hand. The rich aroma of strong, black coffee drew his gaze to the kitchen range. Yes. He felt like pumping his fist in the air in victory. His grandmother’s blue, chipped enamel coffeepot waited on a back burner. He knew from years of experience she kept a fresh pot of coffee heated for him.
Caffeine.
Having his morning coffee was a sacred ritual in itself, a necessity, kind of like dying and paying taxes. He wasn’t a happy camper if something came between him and his java.
Better than sex? Nope.
But the coffee was available.
Sex wasn’t.
No. That wasn’t exactly true, he reminded himself. Hell, just this morning Cynthia Hemphill, the mayor’s beautiful, red-haired wife offered him mindblowing sex. Actually, she offered him a blowjob. He could have taken her up on her offer. Lord knew it had been a long time since he’d done the wild thing in any form but Cynthia wasn’t particular who she slept with and he had a reputation to think about.
<
br /> Being a bachelor and the sheriff gave him a status symbol in the community.
He snorted, yeah, an available status symbol.
Women came onto him on a regular basis. He just didn’t seem to be able to work up much enthusiasm for any of them, especially the mayor’s wife, but it wouldn’t have mattered who the woman was offering him sex. If she was married, then in his books, she was off limits.
Cynthia was always on the prowl for a new lover, everyone in town knew she was having an affair with Rodney Blake and had for years. Apparently, she’d set her sights on someone new and aimed her hunt in his direction.
By God, if he ever met the right woman and married, he didn’t want his wife playing bedroom hopscotch the way Cynthia Hemphill did. He wouldn’t be willing to turn a blind eye the way her husband, Clyde, did either.
Maybe he should have taken Cynthia up on her offer. A blowjob would have been nice. Hell, a steady woman would be great, but it wasn’t gonna happen—not in Rimrock. He might as well face it, as small as Rimrock was, he’d probably be as old as his grandpa before he ever met the right woman. Ah, well, someday that tiger he wanted in his life and in his bed would come along. He just might lose his gusto for coffee when she did.
Or not.
The steady beat of the drum in the background caused a dull throb to settle between his eyes. He grabbed a homemade earthenware mug from the cabinet and filled it to the brim with coffee. Thank God caffeine never kept him awake, because he had to have more before going off to bed for the day. Working night shift might be ruining his sleep pattern, but nothing was getting between him and his java.
He swung toward the sound of the drumming. His grandparents’ combined chanting hadn’t quieted down a bit throughout his and Anna’s tussle with the baby.
Holy shit. A buffalo horn headdress with a beaded headband was perched on the old man’s head. Where the hell had his grandpa gotten the thing? It had to weigh a ton. The headdress completely swallowed his head. The elder shaman resembled a turtle trying to poke its neck out of its shell.
Danger frowned. It didn’t matter how much the headdress weighed, his grandpa wouldn’t give it up without a battle.
He narrowed his eyes as he blew into the steaming liquid. His grandparents ignored him. They huddled together around the enormous round ceremonial drum and the free standing set of hand drums that took up an entire corner of the kitchen.
His grandpa prized those drums.
Danger grinned and shook his head. Grandma Shalene was as short and round as Papa Joe was tall and skinny. The old man kept reaching up to push the buffalo horns back in place. His grandpa paused long enough to untangle the snowy white strands of his hair from one of the streamers of beadwork on the sides of the buffalo head and then resumed his drumming.
Red, yellow, and purple stripes of paint slashed the old man’s dry, withered cheeks. Smeared across his scrawny hollow chest and stooped shoulders were several multi-colored handprints in stunning orange, vibrant red, and forest green.
Well, hell. They must have found the face paint his brother Coe had been dumb enough to buy for them last Christmas. He thought he’d hidden it well enough. Guess not.
Now, he could look forward to the old couple declaring war. When they were finished, multicolored symbols would emblazon just about everything that wiggled on the ranch.
Danger snatched a ladder-back chair and flipped it around. Straddling it, and armed with his coffee, he watched his grandparents and treasured the moments. He raised the thick-rimmed cup to his mouth, blew on the coffee and took a satisfying sip. Strong and black as the devil’s soul, just the way he liked it. He closed his eyes and sighed with content.
Pure bliss.
“Ayeeeee.”
His eyes popped open.
Maybe not.
Grandma Shalene left Papa Joe’s side and headed toward him. Uh-oh. No telling what she was up to. He kept a wary eye on her as she danced around the kitchen table. Her movements were slow and awkward. The long, colorful skirt she wore swished across the worn linoleum. Once upon a time, she’d danced with the graceful steps of a young woman, but now, she moved in a weird combination of a hop, skip, and jump. Her joints too stiff for agility.
She reminded him of a one-legged bird hopping around, as though a little uncertain as to exactly which leg was missing.
It took her some time to complete the journey around the long, rectangle table that could seat ten people at a single meal.
“Ayeeeee.”
Danger took another sip of coffee and watched. And waited.
“Ayeeeee.”
Why did she have to wait until she was right on top of him to yell? Apparently, she wanted to make certain he heard her because every time she reached him, she paused to sing out at the top of her voice. Then, around the table she went.
With each movement, she swayed like a broken reed in the wind.
Skirt swished.
Hop.
Skip.
Jump.
Stumble.
“Ayeeeee.”
He got dizzy, just watching her make the loop around the table. With every circle his grandma completed, Papa Joe started pounding the drums faster, as if celebrating her victory of making it around the table one more time without falling on her face.
“Heya.Heya.Heya.Heya.”
Danger thanked God for small mercies. At least, his grandpa was across the kitchen and not yelling right into his ears.
Abruptly, Papa Joe stopped chanting. He sucked in a lungful of air, reminding Danger of a pump sucking at the last drops of water in a pond. Papa Joe gasped, wheezed and fell into a major fit of coughing and gagging. The old man’s face turned tomato paste red. He gagged again, then finally resumed his chanting and drumming.
“Heya.Heya.Heya.Heya.”
Once again, the drumming abruptly ended.
Grandma Shalene froze in her tracks. One moccasin clad foot hovered in the air. She swayed and waited patiently for Papa Joe to untangle his hair from the headdress, speak, cough, gag, or return to drumming.
But Papa Joe did neither. Instead, he turned his face upward, lifted his arms over his head and chanted. He made odd gestures in the air above his head with the drumsticks. It looked as if he spoke with some unseen deity. The garbled words he spoke sounded like he had a mouthful of mush.
Danger blinked. Uh-oh. Papa Joe was in one of his non-English speaking modes. Dang it!
“Grandpa’s been watching one of those discovery channels on television again, Grandma,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
His grandmother gave him a blank look.
“Which one?”
Danger steadied her as she reeled off-balance. “You know the ones where those isolated Pygmy tribes in the Amazon can’t speak a word of English?”
She shrugged. “Your papa had a great vision this morning, right after breakfast. You know what a powerful medicine man he is. When he sees things, it messes up his English.”
Danger choked on a swallow of coffee. How a vision affected his grandfather’s ability to speak English was a mystery he’d never quite unraveled.
“No telling when he’ll be able to speak the white man’s forked tongue again. Maybe—never, so I dance to help ward off the evil spirits that tangle your grandfather’s tongue.”
Danger sighed at the sly look on his grandmother’s face. “Uh-huh. What did he say, Grandma?”
He knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere with his grandfather. His grandmother would be the one to interpret.
Shalene shrugged and gave him a toothless grin, her pink gums wet and shiny as baby Gidget’s. “Beware of the white tiger. It’s coming to kill you.”
Danger spewed coffee across the room. His grandmother pounded his back with the flat of her hand as he choked, hacked and coughed. Jesus! He sounded just like Papa Joe coughing up his lungs.
“Okay, Grandma, I’m fine. No need to keep hitting me. I think I’ll live.”
Shalene frowned. �
�This is no time for joking. You must watch for the white tiger.”
“White tiger?”
Beware of the white tiger? Coming to kill him?
Well, that was a strange one, even for his senile grandparents. White tiger? His grandfather had always seen wolves or something equally more Native American in his visions. He might have even seen a white buffalo a time or two, but a white tiger?
What the hell did it mean?
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