The Last Wilder

by Janis Reams Hudson

  Were you flirting with him?

  “Of course not.”

  Are you sure about that?

  “Positive.” She wouldn’t. Not with a cop. Good grief.

  But she hadn’t lied to him. She was unemployed. And he was offering free food, which no unemployed person should ever turn down.

  She tossed the covers aside and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Only at the last instant did she remember that her right ankle wouldn’t tolerate her putting any weight on it. Bending over, she felt along the floor and found her crutches.

  Damn, she would be glad when she no longer needed them.

  When she had shut herself in the motel room earlier in the day, she had felt so grimy from her trek the night before that she had stood on one leg in the shower like the proverbial pink flamingo that kept hanging around in her mind, and scrubbed herself from head to toe. Now she opted for a nice, hot soak. If the sheriff had to wait, so be it.

  As it turned out, he did have to wait, but only for a few minutes, while she gave her hair a final pass with the curling iron. Sleeping on wet hair had destroyed any semblance of style she might ordinarily have. But she was never at her sharpest when she knew she looked like something the cat dragged in, so she took the extra time and let Dane wait. Around him, she preferred to have her wits about her.

  Those wits nearly escaped her when she opened her door and found him leaning against the front fender of his Blazer, parked a mere four feet away. Why her heart should trip, she didn’t know, since she couldn’t really see that much of him. It was dark but for the parking lot lights. He was dressed as he had been the night before when she’d first seen him: boots and jeans, sheepskin jacket, and a cowboy hat pulled low over his brow. It was enough to make her mouth water, and she didn’t know whether to laugh at herself or let the horror of finding herself attracted to a pushy, macho-jerk cop overtake her.

  She decided on laughter, because if she couldn’t laugh at herself, then what good was she?

  “Evening, Sheriff.”

  His mouth was about the only part of his face she could see, the rest being in shadow, and its corners quirked upward. He gave a slight nod in acknowledgment of her reverting to calling him by his title rather than his name. “Ms. Landers.”

  They might have stood there smirking at each other all night—or at least until Stacey’s stomach growled, which it threatened to do at any moment—but an icy gust of wind swept down the sidewalk and snaked its way inside her unbuttoned coat.

  Dane saw her shiver and straightened. He might have needed that hard slap of Arctic air to remind him that he was supposed to be acting like a sheriff and not some gawking teenager suddenly facing the prom queen, but she didn’t. He rounded the hood of his truck and opened the passenger door for her. “Let’s go eat.”

  If getting her into his truck meant he had to put his hands on her to help her make the step up, well, hell, the job ought to come with some perks, right? He started to reach for her waist, but she stopped him.

  “Wait. Let me try it myself.”

  Dane frowned. He wondered if this was just her independent streak or if she simply didn’t want him to touch her. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, but I expect you to catch me if I fall.”

  He gave a nod and stepped back. “Have at it, then. Just do us both a favor and be careful, will you?”

  “Why, Sheriff.” She tossed him a cocky grin over her shoulder as she turned into the open door of the truck. “I didn’t know you cared.”

  Oh, she was a pistol, she was. He raised both hands in the air. “Just fulfilling my duty to protect and serve.”

  “That’s for city cops. I thought county sheriffs rode the range.”

  “Just get in the damn truck before you freeze to death and I lose my star witness and have to explain your corpse to the county coroner.”

  “Star witness,” she scoffed. “I’m your only witness.”

  “True, so, yes, I’ll catch you if you fall.”

  Stacey paused and gave him one more look over her shoulder. There had been laughter in his voice, but she had the feeling that he was, literally, a man of his word. If he said he would catch her, then he would catch her. She could trust this man with her safety, her life.

  What an odd feeling, to know that someone would make such an offer, and mean it.

  Not that she was planning on testing him. She had no intention of trusting her safety, much less her life, to this or any other man on earth. Stacey Landers took care of herself. Sort of, she thought, frowning down at her crutches.

  But her need for them could be laid at Dane Powell’s feet, so she figured he still owed her. She would simply do her best to make sure the need to collect never arose.

  With her weight evenly balanced and her crutches spread wide, she swung forward, lifted her good foot, then stood one-legged and crouched on the running board.

  “Good job,” Dane said behind her.

  Yes, she thought it was, but now how did she turn around and sit without dropping her crutches?

  Dane settled the matter by steadying her with a hand to the small of her back and taking the crutches from her.

  The feel of his hand, even through her coat, sent warmth spreading through her blood, and she didn’t like it. This ridiculous reaction she kept having toward him simply had to stop.

  “I said I wanted to do this myself.”

  “And you did,” he said, his voice sounding much too close for her comfort. “It’s no crime to accept a little help now and then.”

  Sure, she thought, as long as a person didn’t mind being let down.

  But hadn’t she just decided that Dane was a man who wouldn’t let her down?

  What difference does it make? Just get in the damn truck.

  Right. And that’s what she did, although in a manner that lacked more than a little in the grace department. At least she managed it on her own, more or less.

  Dane shook his head and started to slide the crutches in behind her feet along the front of the seat.

  “I’ll take those, thank you.” She practically snatched them from his hands.

  He shook his head again and closed the door, wondering as he circled around to the driver’s side just what made a woman so damn stubborn.

  Harvey’s Café was four blocks up Main Street from the motel. By the time Dane parked and they entered, most of the dinner crowd had thinned out, but the few customers there all seemed to know Dane. As he led the way across the room to the booth in the back corner, people called out greetings or simply nodded hello. Dane acknowledged each of them by name.

  Stacey maneuvered herself into the booth and slid the crutches beneath the table, next to the wall. As soon as Dane removed his hat a waitress appeared bearing menus and tumblers of iced water.

  “Evening, Sheriff.” She spoke to Dane, but her gaze, alive with curiosity, was on Stacey.

  “Marva,” Dane acknowledged with a nod and a smile, ignoring the blatant question in her eyes. “Been busy tonight?”

  Slowly the waitress pulled her gaze from Stacey. “Oh, about like usual?” Her tone rose in question as she flicked her gaze to Stacey, then back again.

  “What’s good tonight?” Dane asked.

  Before Marva could answer, a bald-headed man approached. “Marva,” he said.

  “Hey, John, you back again?”

  “I didn’t get dessert,” he told her with a wink. “Sheriff, mind if I join you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I bet you two are going to talk about those cattle rustlers that hit the Flying Ace last night,” Marva said.

  “Heard about that, did you?” Dane asked.

  “It’s all anybody’s been able to talk about all day. Fifty head, I heard.”

  “Never was anything wrong with your hearing,” John told her with a laugh.

  “Okay, I get the hint,” Marva said. “I’ll go get you some water. Does anyone want coffee?”

  They all did, so Marva said she
’d be right back.

  “John,” Dane said, moving over and making room for the man to sit next to him, “this is Stacey Landers, from Cheyenne. Stacey, John Taylor.”

  Stacey eyed the man carefully as he slid in next to Dane. Something was going on here, she could feel it. John Taylor had cop with a capital C written all over him. “Would that be Officer Taylor?”

  Taylor’s lips twitched. To Dane he said, “She’s good.” To Stacey he said, “Detective Taylor, with the Wyatt County Sheriff’s Department.”

  Stacey shot Dane a narrow-eyed glare. “I’ve been set up.”

  “What makes you say that?” Dane asked with innocence that was obviously feigned.

  “Because despite the mouth-watering aromas coming from the kitchen,” Stacey told him, “I definitely smell a rat. No offense, Detective.”

  “None taken,” John said. “With instincts like that, you should think about becoming a police officer yourself.”

  If she’d been wearing glasses, she would have tilted them down and peered over the rims. “Bite your tongue.”

  Next to John, Dane raised his brow. There was a definite sparkle in his eyes, as if to say, “Be my guest.”

  She tried to tell herself her cheeks were suddenly hot because she still wore her coat inside the warm café, but that didn’t explain why her bones turned to water at the look in his eyes.

  “Stacey’s not too fond of officers of the law,” Dane said. “Although I can’t imagine why.”

  “It could have something to do with how I ended up on crutches,” she said.

  “No.” Dane studied her with a thoughtful expression that made her want to squirm. “I think there’s more to it than that.”

  “I don’t know,” John said with a wink for Stacey and a grin for Dane. “If you’d surprised me with a flashlight in the face and made me fall down an embankment and hurt myself, I might not feel too kindly toward you, either.”

  “How perceptive of you.” Stacey rewarded John with a brilliant smile. “Now I see why you’re the detective and he’s just the one who got enough votes to get elected.”

  “Ah,” Dane said to John. “She wants me.”

  “In your dreams, Sheriff,” Stacey said with laughter. Good grief, she thought, she was flirting with him! She didn’t flirt with men like Dane. She flirted with quiet, shy, tame men. Men she could handle. Men she could maneuver, and, yes, manipulate if need be. Men who wouldn’t dream of telling her what to do. Men who always, always deferred to her wishes.

  Dane Powell was a different breed of man altogether.

  But a girl could dream, couldn’t she? That didn’t mean she necessarily wanted the dream to come true.

  Marva returned then with their coffee. Dane and Stacey ordered dinner, while John asked for a piece of the lemon meringue pie he’d seen earlier in the pie case at the counter.

  “Sure thing, sweetie,” she told him. “I’ll have your food out in a jiff.”

  When she left, they got down to business. John asked Stacey most of the same questions Dane had. Stacey told him everything she knew, except the identity of the man in the Wilders’ cemetery.

  “That has nothing to do with stolen cattle,” she said.

  “It has to do with establishing why you were at the scene,” John said.

  Stacey shook her head. “I was there to do a favor for a friend—the identity of whom is also irrelevant. You can ask until you’re blue in the face, but I have nothing else to say on the subject. If you’d like to know what the cattle truck looked like, I’ll tell you everything I remember.”

  John definitely wanted to know, as Dane hadn’t asked her for any details. Stacey was happy to comply.

  Once John had all the information he thought she could provide, including her brief description of the two heavyset men she thought were in charge of the operation, he finished his pie and told them good-night.

  “Is he as good at his job as he seems?” Stacey asked once she and Dane were alone again in the booth.

  “I don’t know how good he seems to you, but he’s plenty good. Not much gets by John Taylor. I’m glad to have him.”

  Stacey cocked her head and studied him. “I think you mean that.”

  “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Most cops I know would rather praise themselves than a fellow cop.”

  “You know a lot of cops, do you?”

  “A few. I was married to one.”

  The fact that she had been married—he hadn’t missed the past tense she’d used—reminded Dane how little he really knew about this woman. “Is that where you developed your low opinion of cops?”

  “I don’t dislike cops specifically. I dislike all kinds of pushy, take-charge, macho jerks. When they carry a gun, that just makes them…”

  “Bigger jerks?”

  “I was going to say pushier, but your way works.”

  Dane sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “So, you think I’m a jerk.”

  “I’m not sure. You’re pushy,” she said. “You’re definitely a take-charge kind of guy.”

  “And macho?” He grinned.

  “I’d say yes, but you’d take it as a compliment. As for you being a jerk, the jury’s still out.”

  Marva brought the check and tried to entice them into ordering dessert, but they both declined.

  “I need to hit the road,” Dane told Stacey. “Come on. I’ll take you back to the motel.”

  “You’re working tonight?”

  “That’s right.”

  Stacey felt a mixture of relief and disappointment that their time together was ending. She had enjoyed their verbal exchanges. He kept her on her toes. She liked that.

  But she liked a few too many other things about him, as well, so it was probably a good idea that they part company.

  As they left the café people called out to Dane, as they had when he and Stacey had entered.

  “Good luck, Sheriff.”

  “Yeah, catch those dad-blamed rustlers, will ya?”

  “I’m working on it,” Dane said.

  “Be careful,” another called out.

  They liked him, Stacey realized. These people genuinely liked and admired their sheriff. She hoped he realized how lucky he was. There were millions of people out there in the world who disliked cops of any kind, just on principle. Some of that dislike, she knew from her own exposure to several police officers during her marriage, was well earned. Perhaps Dane Powell was a different breed of cop.

  But he was still pushy, he was still take charge. He was still macho. The only thing she wasn’t so sure of anymore was whether or not he was a jerk. She would have to give that some thought. Maybe.

  Or maybe, in the long run, it simply didn’t matter. She’d be going home in a day or two and would never see him again.

  And that would be fine, she told herself. She’d come way too close to the Wilders than was wise. Which reminded her…

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she said once they were on their way back to her motel.

  “What’s that?” Dane asked.

  “Ace Wilder.”

  “What about him?”

  “The two of you look so much alike, I was just wondering if you’re related.”

  “We get that a lot,” he said. “If you ever meet his brothers, Jack and Trey, you’ll see that Ace and I don’t really look all that much alike.”

  “Good God. You’re kidding. Who in the world names their kids Ace, Jack and Trey?”

  Dane smirked. “King Wilder.”

  “No way. Nobody would name a kid King.”

  “He might if he was Earl Wilder.”

  “You’re making this up.”

  “Believe me, I couldn’t. My imagination’s not that good. And before you ask, I don’t remember what Earl’s father’s name was, but he was a baron, from England.”

  Stacey laughed and shook her head. “That’s outrageous. Doesn’t the family produce any females?”


  “Rachel. You met her today.”

  “And why isn’t her name Queen?”

  Dane chuckled. “The story I heard was that her mother put her foot down. But King and Betty Wilder compromised. Rachel is the name of the queen of diamonds.”

  “The queen of diamonds has a name?”

  “All the face cards have names, but don’t ask me what they are. Rachel’s the only one I know.”

  “What a family.”

  “They’re good people.”

  “You like them,” she said. It was obvious to her by the tone in his voice.

  “I like them. Sit tight and I’ll give you a hand.”

  Stacey blinked. She’d been so fascinated by what to her was the weird naming of the Wilder children that she hadn’t noticed they’d reached the motel. He’d parked directly in front of her room. She’d left the lamp on and could see the light seeping around the edges of the heavy curtains.

  “Oh,” she said. “I think I can manage.”

  Dane opened his door, then paused. “Ms. Landers, if you tumble out and land on your head I’m going to arrest you.”

  “On what charge, Sheriff?”

  “Two charges—stubbornness and stupidity.”

  “Well. I guess you told me, didn’t you.”

  She didn’t hear whatever it was that he muttered under his breath as he climbed out and swung his door shut. She thought it was just as well. She doubted she would have liked it.

  Stacey swallowed her protest, secretly glad to have his assistance when he helped her out of the truck. Climbing down and out was definitely trickier than up and in. Not to mention the secret pleasure of feeling his hands on her waist again. “Thank you,” she said, once she was firmly on the ground with her crutches balancing her weight.

  “You’re welcome.”

  He followed her to the door of her room and waited while she dug her key from her coat pocket.

  “Thank you for dinner.” She opened the door. “I guess I’ll see—” Her words ended on a sharp intake of breath. Her heart whacked against her ribs and her one good leg turned to water. “Dane?”

  Her room had been torn to shreds. Literally.

  Chapter Six