Accidental Hero

by Lauren Nichols

  Any skin on Maggie’s face that wasn’t already scraped and red, turned scarlet. “It’s not what you think.”

  “Just a little sun poisoning?”

  “Something like that. Poison, anyway.”

  “Ross?”

  Trent came back outside, sidelining their conversation.

  “You know,” Lila chirped as she blew out the candle, earning Maggie’s gratitude, “I’m beginning to believe these nasty old moths think citronella is an invitation to a party.” She walked to the remaining candles across the way and blew them out, too. “I’m canceling their invitation right this minute. You two don’t need candles out here anyway with the hall light shining through the screen door.”

  “You won’t get any objections from me,” Trent answered.

  Maggie winced. If Trent had misinterpreted her aunt’s motives, and thought Lila was encouraging something romantic, Maggie would have to straighten his thinking out in a hurry.

  “Good night, then.”

  “Good night, Mrs. Jackson. Thanks for the lemonade.”

  “’Night, Aunt Lila.” When the door had closed behind her aunt, Maggie slipped her leather bag from her shoulder and walked over to the wooden porch swing. She dropped her purse there—then nearly sank down beside it before she thought the better of their seating arrangements. Instead, she chose the chair her uncle had just vacated.

  Trent took the chair next to Maggie’s. “I guess you saw my car,” he said, that incredibly pleased smile still lighting his face.

  Maggie still didn’t understand his delight. “Yes, I saw your car,” she answered, wondering why that was significant. He’d needed some sort of transportation to get here, hadn’t he?

  “That’s what I thought. You know, I wasn’t sure I was reading you right at the sheriffs office a couple of weeks ago. But you are interested in me a little, aren’t you?”

  Maggie’s throat worked, but no sound came out. Why would he think that?

  “When I saw you stop to fix your hair for me, I... Well, that was nice, Maggie.”

  She still couldn’t say a word. Trent certainly wouldn’t like hearing the reason that she’d had to pull herself together. And Maggie wasn’t all that sure she wanted to tell anyone—with the exception of Lila, who’d guessed on her own. Easy guess. Lately, there’d been enough heat and friction between her and Ross to start a small range fire.

  Thinking of him sent a trickle of awareness through her again, and Maggie got up and walked to the wicker parson’s table. Before she could reach for the lemonade pitcher, Trent was there, pouring. His aftershave was strong—almost overpoweringly so—making Maggie remember how good plain soap smelled on a man’s skin.

  She accepted the glass he offered, then took a long sip. “How long have you been waiting?”

  “Not too long. Your uncle and aunt kept me amused.”

  Had that sounded arrogant? Maggie frowned and shook off her misgivings, determined to be more understanding. After hearing the discussion between Trent and his father at the rodeo, she pitied Trent. From their first encounter, she’d suspected Ben’s toothy smiles and country friendliness were put on. But she never would have guessed at his cruelty—especially toward his own son.

  Maggie carried her glass back to her chair, remembering the taste of lemonade on Ross’s lips...on his tongue. She cleared her throat. “So, did you have a special reason for driving over here tonight?”

  “Actually, I did. I wanted to apologize.”

  “Apologize? For what?”

  “First of all for not coming to see you sooner. I had to be in the capital for a few days. And second,” he said, scowling, “I wanted to apologize for that disastrous box social.” He met her eyes earnestly. “I thought the basket I bought was yours. I would never have paid a hundred dollars for Bessie Holsopple’s picnic lunch.” He made a disgusted face. “There was so much cat hair on the tablecloth, I was afraid to eat the food.”

  Maggie had to hold back a smile.

  “The long and short of it is, I’m sorry you had to put up with a jerk like Ross Dalton. Whenever I looked over at the two of you, I could see that you were trying to be gracious, but you shouldn’t have had to do that. Unfortunately, after I’d bought Bessie’s basket, I couldn’t buy another one.”

  Maggie studied his shadowed face in the darkness, waiting for the words that should have followed. He didn’t say them, so she did. “And of course, that would have hurt Bessie’s feelings.”

  After a blank look, Trent seemed to catch himself. “Oh, absolutely. And I wouldn’t have wanted that to happen.” He chuckled. “She was all giddy and flustered that a Campion had bought her basket.”

  Maggie was sure he was right. Bessie was a thin, plain woman with a houseful of cats and little to do but keep the books in the library dusted and catalogued. But it was heartless of Trent to hint that she’d gushed over his attention. Somehow she knew that if Ross’s plan hadn’t worked out, and he’d been forced to buy Bessie’s basket, Ross would’ve been sweet and decent about it.

  “Trent, if you don’t mind, I’m really tired and I need to get some sleep. It’s been an incredibly long day.”

  “Sure,” he answered, obviously disappointed. “But let’s not wait so long before we get together again.” He took her glass and placed it back on the table, then drew her to her feet. “Why don’t I come by tomorrow morning and pick you up for breakfast? The café opens at six. You could still be at the office by seven.”

  “Trent—” Maggie eased her hands out of his and made an excuse “—I’m really not ready for another relationship right now. Just before I came back to Comfort, I broke up with a man I’d dated for two years, and I really think I need some time.”

  He looked disappointed again, but he managed to shrug it off. “Okay, I can accept that. But there’s no reason we can’t be friends, is there? At least until you’re ready for something else.”

  “No reason I can think of,” she said, unable to turn him down cold. She doubted that Trent had many friends, and extending a little kindness never hurt anyone. But when she was ready for “something else,” it wouldn’t be with Trent Campion. “It was nice of you to stop by.”

  “I’m glad you think so. I plan on being nice pretty often from now on.”

  Maggie was relieved when he said good-night and drove off. She was also relieved that Lila wasn’t waiting for her when she went inside. She’d be able to escape to the shower and crawl into bed. Even though her aunt wouldn’t have expected an explanation, Maggie would have felt obligated to offer one, and part of her was embarrassed at having to justify her actions with Ross tonight.

  The rest of her wanted some time alone to hold the breathless memory of his kisses and touches close, and to relive them, over and over again.

  “Sure you don’t need any more help?” Jess asked late Wednesday afternoon.

  Ross glanced up at his brother. He and Jess had just finished wrestling the bathtub into the ceramic-tiled alcove and finished the plumbing. “Thanks, but that’s it. I can take care of the caulking.” He peeled a manufacturer’s sticker from the side of the white tub, then stood, folding the glossy paper between his fingers.

  “So, what’s on the agenda for tomorrow night?”

  “Set the vanity and connect the pipes, then plumb the kitchen sink.” Ross tossed the sticker into an old plastic wastebasket. “And sometime soon, I need to put another coat of sealer on the exterior logs.” He met Jess’s eyes thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking about spreading the finishing work around a little.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I’d already decided to let a professional do the carpeting and floor tile anyway—Ed Hanley’s coming tomorrow morning to do the bathroom. But Aunt Ruby mentioned one of her customers was having a hard time financially, so I thought, what the heck. The guy’s always worked construction, and I borrowed more than enough from the bank to put up the house. I figure, as long as I’m making payments, I might as well be living here.”
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br />   Jess’s easy reply had an underlying concern in it, but it was so faint that Ross might not have noticed if he hadn’t known his brother so well. “So why the sudden urge to move in? For the past two-and-a-half years, you’ve been saying you’re in no hurry.”

  “Well, now I am.”

  “Planning a private little housewarming?”

  Ross stared hard at Jess, suddenly irritated by the knowledge that he saw in his brother’s eyes. He’d never kept his exploits a secret from Jess. In fact, like a braying jackass, he’d even bragged about a few of them—something he wasn’t proud of these days. But now the thought of being with Maggie was too personal, and Ross felt the need to protect her.

  “No, I’m not planning a housewarming. Were you planning to give me one?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Yes, I do, and it’s none of your business.”

  Jess regarded Ross soberly for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right, little brother, it isn’t. Just don’t do anything without thinking it through first. She’s not Brenda.”

  No, she wasn’t. Maggie was as classy as they came. Brenda, on the other hand, was sex personified, and she and Ross had safely enjoyed each other’s attentions dozens of times over the past ten years. But only because sex to Brenda was nothing more than an aerobic workout. She enjoyed Ross’s company, but the attention of another cowboy would have interested her just as much, and vice versa. Ross hadn’t been with her since... He frowned. Since the gambling and rustling and shooting had made him more cautious about the things he did. In fact, he hadn’t been with anyone in a long time. Maybe that’s why he was so obsessed with getting Maggie into bed—good old-fashioned lust.

  “You’re ticked at me for butting in,” Jess said.

  Ross shook his head. “It’s okay. You were only looking out for her. I can’t be mad about something like that.” He nodded toward the opening in the bathroom wall that still awaited a door. “Let’s grab a beer. I have a couple in the cooler.”

  A few minutes later, they were standing on Ross’s three-sided porch, leaning against the thick twig rails that fenced in the perimeter.

  “Wonder why they call these ‘twigs’?” Ross asked, running a callused thumb over the rough knots in the varnished wood. “They’re a good four inches in diameter.”

  Jess drank a moment, then shrugged. “Gotta call them something, I guess.” He looked up at the cloudless blue sky. “We need some rain.”

  Ross nodded. The creeks were down, and irrigating the hay fields would soon become a problem. “Northern California and Washington are hoarding it all.”

  Jess grinned wryly. “Not by choice.” He finished his beer and tossed the can into the recycling barrel. “Well, I’d better get back. I promised Casey we’d go to Aunt Ruby’s for wings tonight.”

  “That’s right, it is Wednesday.” Ruby’s legendary hot wings were still six cents a piece on Wednesday nights, and she served them to a packed house. “Need a sitter for Lex?”

  Jess headed down the steps. “Thanks, but we’re taking her along. Aunt Ruby’d have a fit if we showed up without her.” Once inside his truck, he poked his dark head out the window and grinned. “If you’re so nuts about kids, why don’t you have one of your own?”

  Ross rolled his eyes. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you just tell me that was a lousy idea?”

  “Not if you do it the right way.”

  Ross’s chest tightened as he grinned and watched his older brother wave and drive off. Jess had it made—a beautiful wife, a sweet little daughter, and the kind of life songwriters put to music. He tossed his own beer can in the recycling bin and strolled back inside to load his caulking gun.

  The right way? The “right way” meant marriage, and there was no chance of that happening. Some people—like Jess and Casey—were cut out for that sort of thing.

  Some people weren’t.

  On Thursday afternoon, the phone at the office rang and Maggie picked it up. “Good afternoon, sheriffs office. This is Maggie.”

  “Hi, honey. My, but you sound professional.”

  Maggie winced her way past the word “professional” and smiled warmly. “Well, hello. I didn’t expect to hear from you today.”

  “Why not?” Reverend Bristol replied, an answering smile in his tone. “It should be an ordinary occurrence for a daughter to pick up the phone and hear her dad’s voice.”

  “Well, maybe not at the sheriff’s office. Besides, I just spoke to you two days ago.”

  “I guess you have a point,” he said, chuckling. “I won’t keep you long, at any rate. I just phoned the ranch and Moe said you were working. Optimist that I am, I keep hoping your interests have shifted to something besides law enforcement.”

  Oh, her interests had shifted all right, she thought guiltily. But not in any direction her father would approve of. Though it was obvious that her dad still wanted her to marry, have babies, and leave certain occupations to the men of the world, Maggie suspected that, if forced to choose, he’d pick her police work over an involvement with Ross. Ross Dalton was a love ‘em and leave ’em, Stetson-wearing Romeo who would never give Tom Bristol grandchildren, much less marry his daughter.

  “Anyway,” her father continued in a sober voice, “on to the reason I called. I hope you won’t be too disappointed, but I can’t get away for the Fourth. The parish council wants to have the summer festival on Independence Day, and I really should be there—” he sighed “—This will be the first Fourth of July we’ve missed spending together since you were born.”

  “I know,” Maggie said, disappointed, too. Reverend Tom Bristol didn’t put emphasis only on religious holidays. He was a family man, too, and from the time Maggie was a child, the two of them had always delighted in fireworks displays.

  “I’ll miss you, honey. Find something fun to do.”

  “I will. There’s supposed to be some sort of street dance, so I’ll probably go. But I’ll miss you, too.”

  “Two weeks. Then we’ll have a belated celebration.”

  “With sparklers?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The other line buzzed and, frowning at the interruption, Maggie said, “I’m sorry, Dad, there’s another call coming in. I have to take it.”

  “No problem, I’ll talk to you soon. Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” she said, then hung up and punched the button for the other line. “Sheriffs office.”

  It was the print shop down the street saying that more of the sheriffs reelection paraphernalia was ready to be picked up. Maggie transferred the call to Cy’s office. It wasn’t long before Cy left the mountain of paperwork on his desk and walked eagerly into the reception area. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Did Mike call in to say how serious that accident was?”

  “No, but he didn’t request an ambulance or fire department assistance, so it was probably just a fender bender.”

  “Outta-staters?”

  “That’s what he said. Fishermen in an RV.”

  “Okay. I’ll be over at the print shop if you need me.” He clipped his radio to his belt and headed out the door. “Be back soon.”

  Maggie mouthed his last sentence even before he said it. Cy was out of the office more than he was in it these days, what with ingratiating himself with area businessmen, and taking trips to the printer for cards. It was only the first of July, and Farrell’s campaign was already in full swing.

  Maggie returned to her computer screen. What made a man who was running unopposed do something like that? Was he more interested in being the sheriff than in doing the sheriffs job? Or was he just plain bored? Comfort, Montana, was hardly a hotbed of intrigue—and the monthly list of arrests and call-outs she was typing for the newspaper attested to that. Maggie punched in the “print” command, then remembered that she needed to change the ribbon in her printer, and canceled the job.

  The ribbons in her drawer were the wrong size. Someone had inadvertently put the ribbons tha
t fit Cy’s printer in her desk. Which seemed to suggest that she would find her own ribbons in Cy’s office. Grabbing the cellophane-wrapped stack, Maggie strode into Cy’s office and started opening drawers.

  She grinned when she looked inside. The first and second in the drab gray metal desk were filled with stationery supplies, packaged cupcakes and an assortment of hard candy. When she opened the third drawer, she found the ribbons she’d been looking for. Plucking them out, she traded her ribbons for his, and was about to close the drawer when her knuckles rapped against the metal bottom, and she heard a hollow sound. Frowning curiously, she rapped it again, deliberately this time. Peering inside, she estimated the drawer’s depth to be ten inches, then closed it and compared that depth to the outside, which measured between twelve and fourteen inches.

  Cy Farrell’s bottom drawer had a false bottom.

  “Which is really none of your business, Maggie,” she murmured, then grabbed her ribbons and hurried back to her desk.

  She had just snapped a new cartridge into the printer when Ross walked in. Maggie felt her face heat as memories of the last time they were together swirled vividly through her mind. His mouth on hers...his warm hand beneath her shirt. Her vow to put a stop to this insanity once and for all.

  Clearing her throat, she tried to be the professional that her father had just said she was. “Good afternoon. What can I do for you today?”

  Ross ambled up to her desk, a teasing response forming behind his eyes as he shed his Stetson.

  There should be a law against men looking that good in a simple cotton shirt and jeans, Maggie thought. The deeper his tan, the bluer his eyes, and the jumpier her nerve endings.

  “For starters, you can say ‘yes’ to the question I’m about to ask you.”

  “Ross, don’t start.”

  “Here?” He glanced around in amusement. “This is a little public, even for me.”