Maggie scanned the crowded dance floor for a long, lean cowboy with a gorgeous redhead pressed close to his chest.
Letter to Reader
Title Page
Books by Lauren Nichols
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Teaser chapter
Copyright
Maggie scanned the crowded dance floor for a long, lean cowboy with a gorgeous redhead pressed close to his chest.
All she wanted was to say good-night and leave.
As for Ross... Ross was certainly free to dance with whomever he wanted. She’d made it clear to him that she wasn’t interested in continuing whatever strange kind of relationship they had, so...
So why did she come completely unglued when she saw him dancing with another woman?
Maggie closed her eyes and told herself she didn’t know. But she did. It defied all logic, but she did.
He had a record; she was a law-enforcement officer.
He was a hell-raiser; she was a preacher’s daughter.
Excellent reasons why she absolutely could not be falling in love with Ross Dalton. But she was....
Dear Reader,
Winter’s here, so why not curl up by the fire with the new Intimate Moments novels? (Unless you live in a warm climate, in which case you can take your books to the beach!) Start off with our WHOSE CHILD? title, another winner from Paula Detmer Riggs called A Perfect Hero. You’ve heard of the secret baby plot? How about secret babies? As in three of them! You’ll love it, I promise, because Ian MacDougall really is just about as perfect as a hero can get.
Karhleen Creighton’s One More Knight is a warm and wonderful sequel to last year’s One Christmas Knight, but this fine story stands entirely on its own. Join this award-winning writer for a taste of Southern hospitality—and a whole lot of Southern loving. Lee Magner’s Owen’s Touch is a suspenseful amnesia book and wears our TRY TO REMEMBER flash. This twisty plot will keep you guessing—and the irresistible romance will keep you happy. FAMILIES ARE FOREVER, and Secondhand Dad, by Kayla Daniels, is just more evidence of the truth of that statement. Lauren Nichols takes us WAY OUT WEST in Accidental Hero, all about the allure of a bad boy. And finally, welcome new author Virginia Kantra, whose debut book, The Reforming of Matthew Dunn, is a MEN IN BLUE title. You’ll be happy to know that her second novel is already in the works.
So pour yourself a cup of something warm, pull the afghan over yourself and enjoy each and every one of these terrific books. Then come back next month, because the excitement—and the romance—will continue, right here in Silhouette Intimate Moments.
Enjoy!
Leslie Wainger
Executive Senior Editor
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Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
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ACCIDENTAL HERO
LAUREN NICHOLS
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Books by Lauren Nichols
Silhouette Intimate Moments
Accidental Heiress #840
Accidental Hero #893
LAUREN NICHOLS
fell in love with Montana thirteen years ago when she and her husband took their three children out west to see “cattle country.” Montana has owned a chunk of her heart ever since. While this is Lauren’s second published novel, her romance and mystery short stories have appeared in several leading magazines. She counts her family and friends as her greatest treasures. When she’s not with them, this Pennsylvania author is writing or traveling with her husband, Mike.
For Karen Rose Smith,
with my gratitude and affection.
What would I do without you?
Chapter 1
Maggie Bristol’s heart leaped into her throat as she heard the distant roar of a vehicle approaching the Comfort, Montana, sheriff’s office. Nervously, she stuffed the folder she’d been scanning back into the file cabinet, then hurried to her desk to sit. She yanked her policies and procedures manual from a drawer. If the sheriff came back and found her snooping through Ross Dalton’s criminal file on her first day on the job, she wouldn’t be the dispatcher for long.
The thunder of the engine grew louder, and a dusty black truck fishtailed down Prairie Street, swerved into a parking spot and skidded to a halt five feet from the office’s wide plate-glass window. Maggie peered out at the street over the thick volume in her hands.
The alleged lawbreaker was coming in.
Let him be ugly, she wished, hating the way her pulse raced at the thought of seeing him again. Let him be bald and flabby and tattooed. She winced when a little voice inside that completely misunderstood her motives said, It’s been thirteen years, Maggie. Isn’t it time your pride healed? But she didn’t let it get to her.
Ross was trouble, and the angry pacing going on inside the sheriffs private office attested to that. Fifteen minutes ago, the too-pretty son of the richest horse breeder in the state had stormed inside demanding Ross’s head on a plate.
Now sunlight glinted off the Dodge Ram’s chrome bumper as Ross swung out of the truck and slammed the door...
And Maggie saw that her wishes had not come true.
The last time she’d seen him—eleven years ago—she was seventeen. And except for the rugged, angular look that maturity had brought, he hadn’t changed much. At thirty-one, Comfort’s resident bad boy still had sandy brown hair, still liked tan Stetsons.
Her gaze slid over him, taking in snug jeans, broad shoulders and a beige plaid shirt on a lean, work-toughened frame. Ross Dalton was six feet two inches of cocky attitude and brash good looks—and the night of her fifteenth birthday, she’d been half in love with him. Soon afterwards, she was half in hate, if there was such a thing. His irresponsible behavior in the years that followed had only given her more reason to feel the way she did.
A full thirty seconds behind Ross, the sheriff’s white Jeep sped down the street and screeched into the parking space beside Ross’s truck. Cy Farrell climbed out, red-faced and agitated. His angry words didn’t quite penetrate the front window with its fancy lettering and prestigious seal.
Maggie squared her shoulders and assumed a disinterested expression. Then Farrell waved his suspect on ahead of him, and Ross Dalton blew inside like a wild wind, grinning like a sinner who couldn’t get to hell fast enough.
“So what heinous crime am I accused of this time? Somebody stretch plastic wrap over the toilets at the filling station? Tree one of Bessie Holsopple’s cats?”
Then Trent Campion burst out of Farrell’s office, and Ross’s eyes went hard. “Never mind,” he muttered. “I know why I’m here.”
“I want him jailed,” Trent roared. “Assault and making terroristic threats.”
Farrell nodded toward the cramped private office that Trent had just vacated. “Inside and sit. Both of you.” He turned to Maggie, perspiration beading his upper lip. “Hold my calls, unless it’s someone about fixing the air-conditioning.” He started to follow Ross through the doorway, then stopped. “And if anyone comes in, give me the high sign so I can shut these two up. I’m leavin’ the door open. Good Lord, it must be ninety degrees in here.”
It was probably less than eighty, Maggie
thought, but Farrell was heavy, and obviously minded the heat more than she did.
“I’ll let you know.”
At the sound of her voice, Ross turned toward her, his raised eyebrows suggesting that he’d expected someone else to be sitting behind the desk. Maggie felt an unwelcome flush stain her cheeks as his gaze skimmed her black hair, even features, and what he could see of her tan uniform.
“Well, hello,” he said softly.
She sent him a cool nod. At least he’d had the courtesy to remember her.
Scowling, Farrell nudged Ross through the doorway and into his office—but not before Maggie heard him say, “New girl’s not bad, Cy. Who is she?”
Who is she?
Bristling, Maggie watched Farrell drop into his squeaky swivel chair, while his “prisoner” took a seat opposite Campion. Ross didn’t remember her at all? Not at all?
Trent’s heated allegations from the next room blurred in the wake of Maggie’s hurt and irritation. Yanking her manual forward, she tipped back in her seat to read.
But the only thing she saw was that crackling bonfire back at the Daltons’ hot spring on the night she’d turned fifteen. All she heard was the bouncy twang of country music, and the raucous laughter of recently graduated seniors splashing in the dammed-up creek. That night, beer had flowed like tap water, crickets had sung backup to Waylon Jennings...and Maggie had melted like warm butter in eighteen-year-old Ross Dalton’s arms.
Chills peppered Maggie’s limbs as she recalled the heady magic of that night, and her naive pretendings that the party was for her alone—not just a celebration that she and Mary Ellen Parker had nervously crashed. Being with Ross had been a dream come true for an innocent, but well-developed sophomore who’d secretly idolized him for the entire school year.
Maybe that’s why she hadn’t offered much resistance when he coaxed her down on one of the blankets and slid his tongue deep into her mouth. She was a minister’s daughter, and she’d never experienced anything so frighteningly sensual in her life—yet, eventually she’d welcomed him without reservation.
Reservation had come later, when she realized her blouse was open...and that one of Ross’s friends was standing over them.
Horrified and humiliated, she’d scrambled away, found Mary Ellen, and they’d hurried for home. She’d insisted to Mary Ellen that Ross cared about her, or he wouldn’t have touched her that way, but Maggie had never heard from him again. His neglect had crushed and shamed her.
Farrell’s anger spiked in the other room, yanking Maggie’s attention back to the present. “All right, I’ve heard Trent’s version. What’s yours?”
Ross’s voice was low and cold, deeper than she remembered. “Not much to tell. He was beating his horse and I took his riding crop away.”
“I was not beating that horse,” Trent shouted. “But even if I was, he’s my property and I’m legally entitled to do it.”
“It’s not a question of what’s legal,” Ross countered. “It’s a question of what’s right.”
The sheriff expelled a scornful laugh. “Quite a statement comin’ from a cattle thief.”
Maggie’s gaze slid to the office again. She knew what Farrell was referring to; it was all in Ross’s file. What wasn’t in the file had been publicly circulated through the newspapers and rumor mills.
Ross’s rugged profile tightened, and Maggie glimpsed the edgy tension lurking beneath his cavalier attitude. She waited for him to defend himself—found herself wanting him to defend himself. But he didn’t. He only commented on Trent’s accusations.
“I shoved him, he fell, and I told him if I ever saw him beat another animal, I’d cram that crop down his throat so far he’d need a proctologist to get it out.”
Trent shot angrily to his feet, and the sheriff held up a hand. “Look, why don’t we just let it go at a warning this time. Nobody really got hurt—”
“Except the horse,” Ross replied dryly.
“I told you what I want, Cy, now do it!” Campion ordered. “You’re up for reelection this year, and my old man won’t take kindly to you letting your obligations to this town slide.”
“He has a point, Cy,” said Ross. “You wouldn’t want Ben Campion withdrawing his support in an election year. Better lock me up.”
Farrell bolted from his chair and grabbed the keys to the cells. Maggie jerked back to her manual.
“Okay, hotshot,” the sheriff muttered. “You just got your wish. Get movin’.”
“Don’t I get a phone call?”
Farrell herded Ross through the reception area and past Maggie, heading for the lockup on the other side of the room. “You want a lawyer?”
“Nope, just some food. Take-out from my Aunt Ruby’s café will be fine.”
Getting redder by the moment, Farrell opened the door and shoved Ross inside, where a row of three cells waited. “Just shut up and get in there.”
Maggie heard keys jangle in the lock, then a cell door swing open and bang shut. Breathing hard, Farrell came out and slammed the heavy door, which instantly bounced ajar. He pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his thick neck.
A vague uneasiness moved through Maggie at what she’d just witnessed. Ross was no angel, but she couldn’t believe Farrell had caved in to Campion’s demands—especially over such a trivial charge. Not that she minded seeing Ross behind bars. For several reasons, she thought, he had some repenting to do.
Farrell spoke to Trent. “Okay, he’s locked up. But he’ll be out before you know it, and he’s not gonna be happy. It’s a busy time over at Brokenstraw. They’re gettin’ ready to brand.”
“Then he should have thought about that before he messed with me.” With a smug look, Trent turned to leave, then reconsidered and walked casually back to Maggie’s desk. His voice took on a warm, persuasive tone. “It’s almost noon—time to take a break. Why don’t you join me for lunch?”
Maggie had to force a smile. Have lunch with a rich, spoiled, egotistical horse-beater? No, thanks. After her last relationship, she planned to be very selective of the men she dated. Even if she liked men who were all surface, no substance, Trent Campion’s perfect black hair and movie-star looks didn’t appeal to her. In fact, there was nothing about him that she found attractive—not even the wealth he flaunted. Today he wore jeans and a long-sleeved plaid shirt, like those worn by nearly every other man in Comfort. But Campion’s were the expensive, tailor-made variety that had never known the sweat of an honest day’s work.
Still, she hid her disgust. In this town, antagonizing the Campions was like biting the hand that fed you. Their charitable contributions and investments in local businesses had elevated them to near sainthood in the eyes of the community.
“Thanks, but I brought a lunch with me today. I have a lot of material to go over.”
“Maybe another time, then.” His green eyes stroked her dark ones. “There’s a rodeo at the fairgrounds next weekend. Are you going? I’ll be riding.”
“Sorry, I don’t know if I can. I’m staying with my aunt and uncle, and they’ll probably have things for me to do.”
“But if they don’t...keep the rodeo in mind.” Still smiling, he started away. “Take care, now.”
“You, too,” Maggie made herself say.
To her right and a little in front of her desk, Cy Farrell stood rigidly, watching Campion leave. His eyes were gray ice behind his steel-rimmed glasses. It was clear to Maggie that he’d been pushed into doing something he hadn’t wanted to do. And that he resented it.
Cy hiked his uniform pants up over his paunch. “Maggie, I need to see somebody over at the print shop. Think you can handle things around here for a while?”
Well. Yes. She’d been a deputy in Colorado until she’d returned to Comfort last week; Farrell knew she was capable. Besides, he’d already left her alone when he’d gone looking for Ross. “Sure,” she said, hiding a twinge of annoyance. “Anything you’d like me to do besides acquaint myself with procedures and answer the phone
?”
He handed her the thick ring of keys. “Not on your first day. Joe should be back from Bozeman soon, and Mike’s coming in around three.” His thoughts turned from his two deputies to the man in the cell, and his disgruntled gaze followed. “And let him sit. If he starts hollering in there, check to see that he hasn’t hung himself, then shut the door again.”
The “hollering” started the instant Farrell fired up his Jeep and pulled out of his parking space.
Determined to be professional, ignoring the long-ago quote about a woman scorned—because it positively did not apply to her—Maggie walked to the slightly open door. Tamping down the strange, emotional fluttering behind her navel, she grabbed the knob and stepped inside.
Ross was sprawled lazily on his bunk, back braced against the green cement-block wall, hat tipped forward, worn brown cowboy boots crossed at his ankles. Eyes the color of a Montana sky assessed her from beneath the brim of his Stetson; they looked even bluer than she remembered in his lean, tanned face.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Dalton? Have you changed your mind about a lawyer?”
His smile was utterly charming. “Nope, I have something more effective in mind. But yes, ma’am, there is a problem. I’m just wasting away in here. How about sharing your lunch with me?”
Maggie sent him a chilling look. The door had only been cracked an inch or two, but it had apparently been enough for him to overhear her conversation with Trent.
“By the way, I’m glad you turned down the heir apparent’s invitation to dine out. You can do a lot better.”
“Who I spend time with is none of your business. As for lunch, I can phone your aunt Ruby’s and order something for you.”
Accidental Hero Page 1
