by Linda Turner
Horrified, she gasped.
"What do you mean, found? Where did you get these?"
"Oh, everywhere, ' Margaret said airily, her brown eyes dancing with mischief.
"On trees and fences—everywhere we wanted to put up your posters."
"So we took them down and put yours up instead," Clara added, delighted with their cleverness.
"Or we covered up the sheriff's."
"We thought it would be okay, as he's the incumbent and doesn't need the publicity like you do, since you're new in town." Lucille's smile starting to dim as she noticed Becca's dismay, she glanced worriedly at her cohorts in crime.
"I think we blew it."
Just as quickly, their faces fell, making Becca feel like the biggest spoilsport in the world. They hadn't meant any harm, she reasoned.
They'd just been trying to help. And while she doubted they'd done anything illegal, she didn't want to run her campaign that way.
"It's okay," she assured them, giving each a hug as she took the posters.
"You didn't blow anything—you just got a little carried away. It's nothing that can't be fixed."
"You mean you're going to put them back?" Clara gasped in disappointment.
"All of them?"
"I'm afraid so," Becca said, barely managing to hold back a smile.
"I think it's the only fair thing to do, don't you?"
Afraid of the answer she might get to that, she added quickly, " Would one of you mind staying with
Chloe? She's zonked out, poor baby, and I hate to drag her out again."
"Of course," Margaret said.
"I can stay as long as you need me to. Would you like Clara or Lucille to go with you to help? "
"No, no, I can handle it. Just give me a quick rundown of the routes you took so I can put everything back where it belongs. I'll be back as soon as I can." Apologizing repeatedly for their bad judgment, the ladies rehashed their routes for her, then gave her a jumbled list of all the places they thought they'd removed the sheriff's posters from.
But as Beeca raced through the night, retracing theft steps, she had to stop and not only re-hang Riley's posters, but check her own to make sure one of his wasn't hidden behind it. It was a tedious task.
Alone in the dark with not even a silver of moon to guide her, Becca lost track of the number of times she braked to a quick stop and jumped out of her Jeep to tack Riley's face up on a post. It got so she knew his rugged features as well as her own.
It was, she decided, damn irritating. She barely knew the man and wanted nothing to do with him. He'd already made it clear he didn't approve of women in law enforcement, and that alone was enough to make her avoid him like the plague. So why couldn't she get his attractive face out of her head, damn his hide? She hadn't looked at a single man since Tom had died before Chloe was born, and she hadn't missed the male attention. Not once. But there was something about Riley Whitaker. It had to be his smart mouth, she mused, scowling at the printed image of the man staring her right in the eye.
He had a way of getting her goat, of challenging her, that raised her hackles. If she was looking forward to locking horns with him again, it was just because she enjoyed sparring with him and putting him in his place. The fact that he was a good-looking son of a gun had nothing to do with anything.
Satisfied that she'd figured out her unwanted attraction to him, she frowned critically at the poster she'd just tacked to the tree that stood on the northwest corner of the courthouse square. She'd hung it too low. Avoiding the knowing eyes of the one-dimensional man who stared back at her, she jerked the poster down so she could rehang it.
Heading for the jail after checking out a domestic-disturbance call north of town, Riley turned from Main Street onto Third and hoped Lance Carson, the deputy who'd drawn the eleven-to-seven shift that week, had come in early for once. Riley was beat.
Already anticipating at least eight hours of uninterrupted slumber, he didn't notice the woman standing in the dark shadows of the gnarled old oak tree by the courthouse until she moved.
In the beam of his headlights, the white of a cotton blouse was as bright as a candle's glow in the darkness, the cloud of reddish brown hair curling around slim shoulders immediately snagging his attention.
Becca Prescott.
Even before he saw her face, he knew it was her—she had the kind of hair a man didn't easily forget. And if he wasn't mistaken, she was holding one of his posters in her hand and looking guilty as sin.
A slow smile lit his eyes. Never taking his gaze from her, he switched on the lights on top of his patrol car, and suddenly the night was whirling with color. Pulling over next to the curb, he got out and surveyed the lady across the hood of his car.
"Collecting souvenirs, Mrs. Prescott?" he drawled, one corner of his mouth curling up in a devilish grin as his gaze met hers.
"And here I didn't think you cared." Becca would have dearly loved to crawl in a hole. Of all the times the dratted man could have picked to come across her, why did it have to be now, when she looked like a thief caught in the act?
Her cheeks burning, she lifted her chin and gave him a sweet, ingratiating smile.
"Like I always say, trust your first impressions. This isn't what it seems, Whitaker." Amused, he arched a brow and started around the front of his car toward her.
"Oh, no? Then suppose you tell me what it is."
Fighting the sudden, crazy need to run, she stood her ground, but it wasn't easy. Looking up at him, she could actually see herself reflected in his eyes, and the image shook her.
"I was putting your poster up, not taking it down ." "Yeah, right. And I'm Clint Eastwood."
It was a comparison Becca would have rather not had to make, but her eyes were already traveling over him, noting the similarities in height and rangy build, the don't mess with-me attitude. He might not be Dirty Harry, but she didn't doubt for a second that when it came to trouble, he was the kind of man she'd want on her side in a fight.
Shifting uncomfortably at the thought, she quipped, "Well, Clint, I wish I had time for an autograph, but I've still got a lot of posters to rehang before I can go home. Now, if you'll excuse me..." Avoiding his gaze, she started around him.
His tone held a hint of warning, but it was the sound of her name on his tongue that stopped her short. Deep and husky, it was a call in the night that refused to be ignored.
Suddenly realizing her pulse was thumping, her throat dry, she swallowed.
"I'm not jerking your string," she said quietly.
"I got my posters from the printer this afternoon, and my neighbors volunteered to help me hang them. They, uh, sort of ran into a problem, though." Watching the color come and go in her cheeks, Riley frowned, knowing from long years of experience the mischief Margaret, Clara and Lucille could get into when they put their heads together.
"What kind of problem?"
"Yours."
"My posters?" he demanded incredulously.
She winced, nodding.
"They took yours down." Half expecting him to explode any second, she added hurriedly, "They were just trying to help me, and your posters were hanging where they wanted to put mine."
"So they took mine down."
Biting her bottom lip to hold back the sudden chuckle that was threatening to strangle her, she nodded.
"That about sums it up."
"And you were hoping you could put them all back before I found out anything about this. By yourself? In the dark?"
"That was the plan," she said, bristling at his tone.
"And of course I was doing it alone. Is there any reason why I shouldn't? If you and your men are doing your job correctly, I should be safe anywhere in this county. Isn't that right?"
"Of course." The irony of the situation wasn't lost on him, and Riley fought to hold back a smile. How galling it must be to her to have to rehang his posters. His blue eyes crinkling, he taunted softly, "Does this mean I owe you a public thank-you when I win t
he election?"
"Not at all," she snapped.
"Because you're not going to win."
Delighted with how easily he could set her temper simmering, he grinned.
"You sound awfully confident for a lady who's new in town and has never held public office."
Somehow managing to look down her nose at him in spite of the fact that he stood a head taller, she lifted a delicately arched brow.
"The definitive word being lady, I presume?"
"Read it any way you like," he said easily.
"But this is cowboy country, honey."
"Meaning all the men are Neanderthals? Where do you fit in that category, Sheriff?"
Her eyes sparking like hot emeralds in the stark light from his patrol car, she met his gaze head-on and had no idea how provocative she looked, standing there sparring with him in the dark. Unable to take his gaze from her, Riley felt something that was an awful lot like desire lodge low in his gut, surprising him. Where the devil had that come from?
Irritated, he reminded himself that he could handle the lady, and managed to give her a needling look.
"Is this for private reference or professional, ma'am?"
"Don't flatter yourself," she said witheringly.
"I'm only interested for the sake of the campaign. It helps to know what kind of man I'm running against."
"Well, then, if a Neanderthal is someone who looks after a woman and protects her, then I guess the shoe fits.
It's a fact of life that men are bigger and stronger, women smaller and weaker. So like it or not, when there's trouble in this neck of the woods and a law-enforcement officer is needed, people expect it to be a man."
She didn't like that, if the sudden narrowing of her green eyes was any indication, but Riley had to give her credit—her smile was as saucy as ever.
"Then I'll just have to change their expectations won't I?"
She was gone before he could protest, leaving him staring after her like a city boy who had never seen a butterfly before. Not that there was anything the least bit flighty about Becca Prescott, he reflected as she disappeared into the dark interior of her Jeep. The lady didn't back down from a fight and tonight she'd proved she had the type of ethics that were rarely found in politics.
He liked her, dammit.
He would have given anything to deny it. She was going to be trouble—he could feel it in his gut. The kind of trouble that could make a grown man lay in the dark and ache till he burned. The kind of trouble he wanted nothing to do with. Woman trouble.
He had no reason to trust anything in skirts, not in this lifetime or the next. Not after the two women he'd trusted most in the world—his wife, Genie, and his DEA partner, Sybil—had each managed to stab him in the back within the span of a single week. It had been ten years, but he could still taste the bitterness of betrayal as if it were yesterday. And it didn't taste any better now than it had then.
In all the time since then, he hadn't let another woman get close to him, hadn't let another woman stir so much as a second thought in him.
And he didn't intend to let Beeca Prescott change that.
His face set in harsh lines, he pushed the lady from his thoughts and returned to work. And for a while, as long as he was busy with the paperwork that was growing into a mountain on his desk, he was able to forget her. Then he went home to the small house he'd bought on the north side of town.
Only to discover a poster of Becca smiling at him from where it had been tacked to his garage door. After what had happened earlier in the evening, he should have expected it.
Chuckling, he wondered who had dared to leave it there—Becca or one of her geriatric friends. He wouldn't have put it past any of them, but as he took it inside and switched on the living room lights, he had a feeling the lady herself had done it. She smiled up at him sassily from the poster, her dancing eyes just daring him to throw the handbill out. He should have. But he didn't. He couldn't bring himself to ask why.
With the last poster hung, Becca went home and crawled into bed, desperate for sleep.
But every time she slipped to the edge of unconsciousness, a certain sheriff's slow, wicked smile intruded into her thoughts, and she was wide awake again, her heart jerking to attention in her breast.
Pounding her pillow, she cursed him with everything she had but it was still nearly four in the morning before she dropped off into an exhausted sleep.
Not surprisingly, the next day wasn't a good one. Her eyes felt scratchy, her head thick. The students, excited about an upcoming field trip, couldn't settle down, and it took all the energy she had to deal with them. By the time the final bell rang, all she wanted to do was collect Chloe, drive home and hibernate for a while.
But Chloe was excited about the field trip, too, and could talk of nothing else as she snacked on milk and cookies. When she went outside to play, Becca just had time to check the mail and wash the breakfast dishes before she had to start supper.
Seated at the kitchen-table, she tossed aside the junk mail and advertisements, only to stop at what looked like an official-looking letter from the county tax assessor's office.
Surprised, she tore it open.
Delinquent taxes. $10,000. Past due. Foreclosure. The words flew at her like bats escaping from a cave, dark and threatening. Confused, her head starling to throb, Beeca stared at the jumble before her, unable to believe what she was reading.
A mistake, she thought dazedly. The letter claimed that she owed a fortune in back taxes, but there had to be a mistake somewhere. Her grandmother had been dead only three months.
There was no way her simple house and acre of land could have incrued anywhere near that amount of taxes in such a short length of time.
Grabbing the phone, she quickly dialed the number at the bottom of the letter. Amy Rodriguez, the mother of one of her students, worked for the tax assessor and would he able to answer her questions.
"Amy," she said with relief when the other woman came on the line.
"This is Becca Prescott. I've got a problem."
"You got the letter."
Becca's breath lodged in her throat at the other woman's damning words.
"Oh, God, I thought it was a mistake?
"I'm afraid not," Amy said regretfully.
"I'm sorry."
"But how is this possible?" she cried.
"It's only been three months since Gran died."
"But she didn't pay taxes for years before that."
"What?"
"Oh, Lord, I thought you knew. But then again, why would you?" Amy said, half to herself.
"You didn't move here until after your grandmother had her stroke, and I'm sure taxes were the last thing on your mind then. Gosh, Becca, I'm sorry. I should have called and warned you. "
"Just tell me how this happened," she replied.
"If Gran didn't pay taxes for years, how was she able to keep this place? The county should have foreclosed on her years ago."
"Maybe it works that way in the big city," Amy said wryly, "but things are a little different here. Your grandmother had a lot of friends. Everyone liked her and knew her circumstances.
She was an old lady, a widow with only a small pension to live on, and no one wanted to be responsible for putting her out of the home she'd lived in for fifty years. "
"So they let her taxes slide?"
"It was the easiest thing to do. But now she's gone and..."
"Somebody has to pay the taxes," Becca finished hollowly.
"Namely me."
"I'm afraid so."
Beeca stared blindly at the letter crushed in her hand, the pitiful balance in her savings account flashing mockingly in her head. Pennies.
What she'd been able to scrape together and squirrel away was nothing compared to ten thousand dollars.
"Becca? Are you okay? I know this must be a blow ....
"Becca swallowed a sharp laugh. Blow? That was like calling the Grand Canyon a ditch.
"Yeah,
it is," she said huskily.
"But I'll find a way to handle it. I have to. Thanks for your help. "
"Sure. If there's anything I can do..."
Becca appreciated her offer, but there wasn't anything anyone could do not when she needed a small fortune.
Dear God, what was she going to do?
Chapter 3
The only solution was to get a loan from the bank.
The thought came to Becca in the middle of the nigh sometime between two and three in the morning, when worry drove her from her bed to pace the length of the of rag rug of her bedroom in the dark. Not even in the days after her husband's death, when she found out she was pregnant, had she felt so alone.
Then, at least, she' known that her grandmother would he there for her if she needed her—all she had to do was call her. But now she had no one. No one but herself to depend on. No one but herself to provide a home for Chloe and give her the security that Becca was determined she would have.
If she couldn't come up with the money, she'd lose t house and probably end up having to go back to Dallas and her old job.
Her stomach clenching at the thought of taking Chloe back to the hostile environment she'd thought they'd left for good in January, she stalked over to the window an stared blindly out at the night. Nothing moved but the wind, a soft, cool breeze that whispered over the grass and through the dry leaves of the lone cottonwood that shaded the front yard. Hugging herself, she blinked back the sudden sting of tears. She couldn't lose this place! It wasn't fancy, but it was home and the only roots that she had.
When she was growing up, her parents had dragged her from one town to the next, usually in an attempt to avoid the bill collectors they had brought down on themselves with their loose spending and insistence on living beyond their means. They'd never accumulated anything but debt and bad credit, and there was no way in hell Beeca was going to leave Chloe that same legacy. She wanted her to have the stability she'd never had as a child, and she hadn't really been able to give it to her until they'd moved to Lordsburg. They were both happy here, and she had to find a way to make it possible for them to stay. If that meant going to the bank and somehow talking an officer into giving her a loan, then that's what she would do. But later that morning, after she'd gotten Chloe off to school and went into town herself, what had seemed so easy in the dark of the night wasn't nearly so simple.
