The Snow Man

by Diana Palmer

  When her father went out of the room to get some paperwork he wanted to show to Dal, Meadow forced herself to look at him and smile.

  “It’s almost Christmas,” she began, trying to find a subject for conversation.

  He didn’t reply. He did get to his feet and come toward her. That flustered her even more. She fumbled with the book and dropped it on the floor.

  Dal pulled her up out of the chair and took her by the shoulders firmly. “I’m ten years older than you,” he said bluntly. “You’re a high school kid. I don’t rob cradles and I don’t appreciate attempts to seduce me in your father’s living room. Got that?”

  Her breath caught. “I never . . . !” she stammered.

  His chiseled mouth curled expressively as he looked down into her shocked face. “You’re painted up like a carnival fortune-teller. Too much makeup entirely. Does your mother know you wear clothes like that and come on to men?” he added icily. “I thought she was religious.”

  “She . . . is,” Meadow stammered, and felt her age. Too young. She was too young. Her eyes fell away from his. “So am I. I’m sorry.”

  “You should be,” he returned. His strong fingers contracted on her shoulders. “When do you leave for home?”

  “Next Friday,” she managed to say. She was dying inside. She’d never been so embarrassed in her life.

  “Good. You get on the plane and don’t come back. Your father has enough problems without trying to keep you out of trouble. And next time I come over here, I don’t want to find you setting up shop in the living room, like a spider hunting flies.”

  “You’re a very big fly,” she blurted out, and flushed some more.

  His lip curled. “You’re out of your league, kid.” He let go of her shoulders and moved her away from him, as if she had something contagious. His eyes went to the low-cut neckline. “If you went out on the street like that, in Raven Springs, you’d get offers.”

  She frowned. “Offers?”

  “Prostitutes mostly do get offers,” he said with distaste.

  Tears threatened, but she pulled herself up to her maximum height, far short of his, and glared up at him. “I am not a prostitute!”

  “Sorry. Prostitute in training?” he added thoughtfully.

  She wanted to hit him. She’d never wanted anything so much. In fact, she raised her hand to slap that arrogant look off his face.

  He caught her arm and pushed her hand away.

  Even then, at that young age, her balance hadn’t been what it should be. Her father had a big, elegant stove in the living room to heat the house. It used coal instead of wood, and it was very efficient behind its tight glass casing. There was a coal bin right next to it.

  Meadow lost her balance and went down right into the coal bin. Coal spilled out onto the wood floor and all over her. Now there were black splotches all over her pretty red dress, not to mention her face and hair and hands.

  She sat up in the middle of the mess, and angry tears ran down her soot-covered cheeks as she glared at Dal.

  He was laughing so hard that he was almost doubled over.

  “That’s right, laugh,” she muttered. “Santa’s going to stop by here on his way to your house to get enough coal to fill up your stocking, Darriell Blake!”

  He laughed even harder.

  Her father came back into the room with a file folder in one hand, stopped, did a double take, and stared at his daughter, sitting on the floor in a pile of coal.

  “What the hell happened to you?” he burst out.

  “He happened to me!” she cried, pointing at Dal Blake. “He said I looked like a streetwalker!”

  “You’re the one in the tight red dress, honey.” Dal chuckled. “I just made an observation.”

  “Your mother would have a fit if she saw you in that dress,” her father said heavily. “I should never have let you talk me into buying it.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter anymore, it’s ruined!” She got to her feet, swiping at tears in her eyes. “I’m going to bed!”

  “Might as well,” Dal remarked, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets and looking at her with an arrogant smile. “Go flirt with men your own age, kid.”

  She looked to her father for aid, but he just stared at her and sighed.

  She scrambled to her feet, displacing more coal. “I’ll get this swept up before I go to bed,” she said.

  “I’ll do that. Get yourself cleaned up, Meda,” her father said gently, using his pet name for her. “Go on.”

  She left the room muttering. She didn’t even look at Dal Blake.

  * * *

  That had been several years ago, before she worked in law enforcement in Missouri and finally hooked up with the FBI. Now she was without a job, running a ranch about which she knew absolutely nothing, and whole families who depended on the ranch for a living were depending on her. The responsibility was tremendous.

  She honestly didn’t know what she was going to do. She did watch a couple of YouTube videos, but they were less than helpful. Most of them were self-portraits of small ranchers and their methods of dealing with livestock. It was interesting, but they assumed that their audience knew something about ranching. Meadow didn’t.

  She started to call the local cattlemen’s association for help, until someone told her who the president of the chapter was. Dal Blake. Why hadn’t she guessed?

  While she was drowning in self-doubt, there was a knock on the front door. She opened it to find a handsome man, dark-eyed, with thick blond hair, standing on her porch. He was wearing a sheriff’s uniform, complete with badge.

  “Miss Dawson?” he said politely.

  She smiled. “Yes?”

  “I’m Sheriff Jeff Ralston.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she said. She shook hands with him. She liked his handshake. It was firm without being aggressive.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” he replied. He shifted his weight.

  She realized that it was snowing again and he must be freezing. “Won’t you come in?” she said as an afterthought, moving back.

  “Thanks,” he replied. He smiled. “Getting colder out here.”

  She laughed. “I don’t mind snow.”

  “You will when you’re losing cattle to it,” he said with a sigh as he followed her into the small kitchen, where she motioned him into a chair.

  “I don’t know much about cattle,” she confessed. “Coffee?”

  “I’d love a cup,” he said heavily. “I had to get out of bed before daylight and check out a robbery at a local home. Someone came in through the window and took off with a valuable antique lamp.”

  She frowned. “Just the lamp?”

  He nodded. “Odd robbery, that. Usually the perps carry off anything they can get their hands on.”

  “I know.” She smiled sheepishly. “I was with the FBI for two years.”

  “I heard about that. In fact,” he added while she started coffee brewing, “that’s why I’m here.”

  “You need help with the robbery investigation?” she asked, pulling two mugs out of the cabinet.

  “I need help, period,” he replied. “My investigator just quit to go live in California with his new wife. She’s from there. Left me shorthanded. We’re on a tight budget, like most small law enforcement agencies. I only have the one investigator. Had, that is.” He eyed her. “I thought you might be interested in the job,” he added with a warm smile.

  She almost dropped the mugs. “Me?”

  “Yes. Your father said you had experience in law enforcement before you went with the Bureau and that you were noted for your investigative abilities.”

  “Noted wasn’t quite the word they used,” she said, remembering the rage her boss had unleashed when she blew the interrogation of a witness. That also brought back memories of the brutality the man had used against her in the physical attack. To be fair to her boss, he didn’t know the prisoner had attacked her until after he’d read her the riot act. He’d apologized handsomely, b
ut the damage was already done.

  “Well, the FBI has its own way of doing things. So do I.” He accepted the hot mug of coffee with a smile. “Thanks. I live on black coffee.”

  “So do I.” She laughed, sitting down at the table with him to put cream and sugar in her own. She noticed that he took his straight up. He had nice hands. Very masculine and strong-looking. No wedding band. No telltale ring where one had been, either. She guessed that he’d never been married, but it was too personal a question to ask a relative stranger.

  “I need an investigator and you’re out of work. What do you say?”

  She thought about the possibilities. She smiled. Here it was, like fate, a chance to prove to the world that she could be a good investigator. It was like the answer to a prayer.

  She grinned. “I’ll take it, and thank you.”

  He let out the breath he’d been holding. “No. Thank you. I can’t handle the load alone. When can you start?”

  “It’s Friday. How about first thing Monday morning?” she asked.

  “That would be fine. I’ll put you on the day shift to begin. You’ll need to report to my office by seven a.m. Too early?”

  “Oh, no. I’m usually in bed by eight and up by five in the morning.”

  His eyebrows raised.

  “It’s my dog,” she sighed. “She sleeps on the bed with me, and she wakes up at five. She wants to eat and play. So I can’t go back to sleep or she’ll eat the carpet.”

  He laughed. “What breed is she?”

  “She’s a white Siberian husky with red highlights. Beautiful.”

  “Where is she?”

  She caught her breath as she realized that she’d let Snow out to go to the bathroom an hour earlier, and she hadn’t scratched at the door. “Oh, dear,” she muttered as she realized where the dog was likely to be.

  Along with that thought came a very angry knock at the back door, near where she was sitting with the sheriff.

  Apprehensively, she got up and opened the door. And there he was. Dal Blake, with Snow on a makeshift lead. He wasn’t smiling.

  “Your dog invited herself to breakfast. Again. She came right into my damned house through the dog door!”

  She knew that Dal didn’t have a dog anymore. His old Labrador had died a few weeks ago, her foreman had told her, and the man had mourned the old dog. He’d had it for almost fourteen years, he’d added.

  “I’m sorry,” Meadow said with a grimace. “Snow. Bad girl!” she muttered.

  The husky with her laughing blue eyes came bounding over to her mistress and started licking her.

  “Stop that.” Meadow laughed, fending her off. “How about a treat, Snow?”

  She went to get one from the cupboard.

  “Hey, Jeff,” Dal greeted the other man, shaking hands as Jeff got to his feet.

  “How’s it going?” Jeff asked Dal.

  “Slow,” came the reply. “We’re renovating the calving sheds. It’s slow work in this weather.”

  “Tell me about it,” Jeff said. “We had two fences go down. Cows broke through and started down the highway.”

  “Maybe there was a dress sale,” Dal said, tongue-in-cheek as he watched a flustered Meadow give a chewy treat to her dog.

  “I’d love to see a cow wearing a dress,” she muttered.

  “Would you?” Dal replied. “One of your men thinks that’s your ultimate aim, to put cows in school and teach them to read.”

  “Which man?” she asked, her eyes flashing fire at him.

  “Oh, no, I’m not telling,” Dal returned. “You get on some boots and jeans and go find out for yourself. If you can ride a horse, that is.”

  That brought back another sad memory. She’d gone riding on one of her father’s feistier horses, confident that she could control it. She was in her second year of college, bristling with confidence as she breezed through her core curriculum.

  She thought she could handle the horse. But it sensed her fear of heights and speed and took her on a racing tour up the side of a small mountain and down again so quickly that Meadow lost her balance and ended up face first in a snowbank.

  To add to her humiliation—because the stupid horse went running back to the barn, probably laughing all the way—Dal Blake was helping move cattle on his own ranch, and he saw the whole thing.

  He came trotting up just as she was wiping the last of the snow from her face and parka. “You know, Spirit isn’t a great choice of horses for an inexperienced rider.”

  “My father told me that,” she muttered.

  “Pity you didn’t listen. And lucky that you ended up in a snowbank instead of down a ravine,” he said solemnly. “If you can’t control a horse, don’t ride him.”

  “Thanks for the helpful advice,” she returned icily.

  “City tenderfoot,” he mused. “I’m amazed that you haven’t killed yourself already. I hear your father had to put a rail on the back steps after you fell down them.”

  She flushed. “I tripped over his cat.”

  “You could benefit from some martial arts training.”

  “I’ve already had that,” she said. “I work for my local police department.”

  “As what?” he asked politely.

  “As a patrol officer!” she shot back.

  “Well,” he remarked, turning his horse, “if you drive a car like you ride a horse, you’re going to end badly one day.”

  “I can drive!” she shot after him. “I drive all the time!”

  “God help other motorists.”

  “You . . . you . . . you . . . !” She gathered steam with each repetition of the word until she was almost screaming, and still she couldn’t think of an insult bad enough to throw at him. It wouldn’t have done any good. He kept riding. He didn’t even look back.

  * * *

  She snapped back to the present. “Yes, I can ride a horse!” she shot at Dal Blake. “Just because I fell off once . . .”

  “You fell off several times. This is mountainous country. If you go riding, carry a cell phone and make sure it’s charged,” he said seriously.

  “I’d salaam, but I haven’t had my second cup of coffee yet,” she drawled, alluding to an old custom of subjects salaaming royalty.

  “You heard me.”

  “You don’t give orders to me in my own house,” she returned hotly.

  Jeff cleared his throat.

  They both looked at him.

  “I have to get back to work,” he said as he pushed his chair back in. “Thanks for the coffee, Meadow. I’ll expect you early Monday morning.”

  “Expect her?” Dal asked.

  “She’s coming to work for me as my new investigator,” Jeff said with a bland smile.

  Dal’s dark eyes narrowed. He saw through the man, whom he’d known since grammar school. Jeff was a good sheriff, but he wanted to add to his ranch. He owned property that adjoined Meadow’s. So did Dal. That acreage had abundant water, and right now water was the most important asset any rancher had. Meadow was obviously out of her depth trying to run a ranch. Her best bet was to sell it, so Jeff was getting in on the ground floor by offering her a job that would keep her close to him.

  He saw all that, but he just smiled. “Good luck,” he told Jeff, with a dry glance at a fuming Meadow. “You’ll need it.”

  “She’ll do fine,” Jeff said confidently.

  Dal just smiled.

  Meadow remembered that smile from years past. She’d had so many accidents when she was visiting her father. Dal was always somewhere nearby when they happened.

  He didn’t like Meadow. He’d made his distaste for her apparent on every possible occasion. There had been a Christmas party thrown by the local cattlemen’s association when Meadow first started college. She’d come to spend Christmas with her father, and when he asked her to go to the party with him, she agreed.

  She knew Dal would be there. So she wore an outrageous dress, even more revealing than the one he’d been so disparaging about when
she was a senior in high school.

  Sadly, the dress caught the wrong pair of eyes. A local cattleman who’d had five drinks too many had propositioned Meadow by the punch bowl. His reaction to her dress had flustered her and she tripped over her high-heeled shoes and knocked the punch bowl over.

  The linen tablecloth was soaked. So was poor Meadow, in her outrageous dress. Dal Blake had laughed until his face turned red. So had most other people. Meadow had asked her father to drive her home. It was the last Christmas party she ever attended in Raven Springs.

  But just before the punch incident, there had been another. Dal had been caught with her under the mistletoe . . .

  She shook herself mentally and glared at Dal.

  Chapter Two

  Dal didn’t leave when Jeff did. He remained standing on the front porch, both hands in the pockets of his jeans.

  “Where’s my cat?” he asked when Meadow was about to choke, holding back harsh words.

  She paused and looked up at him. “Your cat?”

  “My cat. Jarvis.” His upper lip curled. “Maine coon cat. Male. Red. Remember him? You should. He spends more time down here than he does at home!”

  Jarvis. She grimaced. His cat came to visit frequently. He was in love with Meadow. He’d find a way to sneak in the house and perch on the back of her chair. He’d rub her head with his face and purr and try to sit in her lap. He weighed almost twenty pounds, and he was beautiful. His big bushy tail—reminiscent of a raccoon’s—was his finest feature. It was the trait that had prompted the breed’s name.

  “I haven’t seen him today,” she confessed.

  “A likely story.”

  “I can prove it!”

  She went back into the house, leaving him to follow. He unsettled her with that soft, easy step of his. She knew that he hunted elk and deer in the fall. He knew how to walk quietly. It was disconcerting when he did it in her house.

  “Jarvis!” she called, confident that she could prove he wasn’t inside.

  A loud meow came from the bathroom.

  Dal’s eyes widened. “You locked my cat in a bathroom?” he exclaimed.

  “I don’t know how he got in there,” she wailed. “I didn’t even see him come in the house. I just had the door open for a minute or two while I took the trash out back,” she added. “I certainly didn’t see him in the bathroom!”