Strawberry Hill

by Catherine Anderson

  “And what if I am?”

  She’d gone back to filling out the citation and lifted her head again to give him a querulous look. “What if you are what?”

  “Stone deaf.”

  Erin almost laughed—not with genuine amusement, but with a snort of disgust. “Sorry. I worked with deaf children for three years in Seattle. That was prior to my becoming a cop. You don’t have the speech patterns of a deaf person. And if you’ve been reading my lips ever since I tapped you on the shoulder, you’re a walking phenomenon.” She shook her head. “Nope. You’re a lot of things, but deaf isn’t one of them.”

  “Can you read ASL?”

  Erin gave him a long study. “I can.”

  His firm mouth tipped into a grin that flashed strong white teeth. It was a smile laced with anger, emphasizing the glint of fury in his eyes. “Good! Then you’ll have no problem understanding this.”

  His hands began to move so swiftly that Erin struggled to keep up, partly because she was rusty, but mostly because her stomach felt as if it had taken a sickening plunge to somewhere around her knees. He paused in his gesturing to say his name, “Wyatt Fitzgerald,” and then resumed signing, telling her his age, which was thirty-two. His hands moved so fast that her vision blurred and she missed his date of birth. Then he got to the good part, telling her to take the citation and shove it up her ass. He’d done nothing wrong unless not being able to hear was suddenly a crime.

  Stunned, she watched as he wheeled away and began taking the pack off the horse, his movements jerky with anger. Even so, he was gentle with the animal. He met her gaze over the gelding’s back. “It’ll take me at least an hour to rebalance all this stuff. Of course, you know nothing about horses and packs, because you’re a city slicker. So much so that you never visit your uncle’s ranch for fear you’ll get cow shit on your boots.”

  Erin was still marveling at the speed with which he’d spoken in sign. But that didn’t mean he was deaf, she assured herself. She had learned ASL, and she had no problems with her hearing. He definitely didn’t speak like any deaf person she had ever encountered, either. This guy spoke with inflection and nearly perfect pronunciation. The only particular thing she’d noticed was that he spoke slowly.

  She realized he was watching her as if to gauge her reaction to what he’d said. “If you’re stone deaf, I’ll kiss your bare ass on the courthouse steps during rush hour,” she told him. “You picked the wrong deputy to bamboozle.”

  His blue eyes danced with amusement. “You’re on. Name a date and time. I’ve never had a cop kiss my ass. I’ll sell tickets for the show and make a killing.”

  Erin resumed writing the citation, a task normally made easier by entering the information on an electronic tablet and then printing it out.

  “If you cite me, ma’am, you are going to regret it. Sheriff Adams knows me. I truly am deaf.”

  “If that’s true, you took your own sweet time to inform me of it!” she shot back.

  “I do not make a habit of informing everyone I meet that I have a disability. Would you? I’ve worked hard to overcome it.”

  “I’m not just anyone, sir. I’m a law officer.”

  “A law officer who goes strictly by the book, no exceptions. I get it. But given that I am deaf, I am not guilty of evading a police officer. You were not on the trail where I could see you, which is where you should have been. Maybe you yelled. It does not matter. A wilderness checkpoint should be clearly visible. I could have witnessed the bombing of Hiroshima and not heard the explosion. How could I hear someone yelling at me to stop?”

  He had quit using contractions and his pauses between words were now more pronounced. She wondered if he was growing weary of engaging verbally. The hearing-impaired kids she’d worked with had tired easily during speech therapy. Stop, she told herself. If he was deaf, he wouldn’t be able to speak so clearly.

  “If I have to appear in court,” he said, jerking her back to the conversation, “it will be a waste of my time, but worse than that, you will be a laughingstock.”

  Erin’s fingers clamped tighter on the pen. “That’s a chance I’ll have to take.”

  “Come again? I can’t read your lips when you don’t look at me.”

  Erin didn’t believe for a moment that he’d been reading her lips. The last she’d seen, the average accuracy of lip-reading was thirty percent. Some incredibly accomplished individuals tested to be as high in accuracy as fifty-two percent, but this cowboy seemed to comprehend nearly everything. She jerked his copy of the citation from her tablet and extended it to him.

  “Last chance,” he said. “You can still tear it up, and we can both pretend this never happened.”

  Erin imagined him laughing and slapping his knee as he told that story to his buddies. In her experience, people loved to brag about how they had talked their way out of a ticket. I told her I was deaf, he’d say. She actually fell for it, ha-ha-ha. If she was going to be a laughingstock, she preferred to have the sheriff be the one to do the guffawing, not the general public. Law officers had to guard their reputations. A rumor about her buying into a cock-and-bull story would damage her credibility.

  He folded the citation and stuffed it into his front pants pocket. Then without another word to her, he turned toward the horse to resume his work on the packs. Erin didn’t appreciate being dismissed with so little ceremony, but given that their business was concluded, she couldn’t quibble about his attitude. People were required to abide by the law, but nowhere was it written that they had to like the individuals who enforced it.

  She turned to walk away, only to stop when he asked, “Where’s your horse?”

  She angled him a look over her shoulder. “He ran off.”

  “When?”

  “When I yelled at you to stop at the checkpoint.”

  He sighed and removed his hat to slap it against his leg. He had gorgeous hair, the color of spun gold and as straight as a ruler. It slid over his shoulders like threads of silk. “You didn’t tie him off?” He held up his free hand. “Forget I asked. Of course you didn’t.”

  She flung her arm to indicate the pack animals. “You’ve tied off none of these horses.”

  “They are carrying heavy loads.” His burnished brows snapped together in a scowl as he settled the Stetson back on his head. “How did you follow me? On foot? Where is that checkpoint? How far from here?”

  Erin had to give him credit for sticking to his story, namely, that he hadn’t seen or heard her at the checkpoint. “Three, maybe four miles,” she replied.

  “And you walked all that way up the mountain?”

  “No. I ran.”

  “Uphill, for four miles?” Incredulity darkened his gaze. Then he rested his hands on his hips. “So what is your plan to get back to the trailhead?”

  Erin didn’t look forward to the walk. She was bone tired, she was hungry, and her face ached. “The two feet God gave me are in fine working order.”

  He held up his hand again. “I will take you down. Just give me a few minutes to run a high line.”

  Erin had no clue what a high line was, and she had no interest in hanging around to find out. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass.”

  As she retreated across the meadow, she ignored the blisters on her heels and didn’t allow herself to limp as long as she was in his line of sight. That changed when she entered the bordering forest. She groaned and sat on a rock to pull off her boots and check her feet. Her heels were bloody raw and stung as though doused with rubbing alcohol. She drew her socks back on and decided to carry the boots. Not the best plan, given that the trail was rocky in places, but she could pick her way to avoid bruising the soles of her feet.

  And walking, even if it hurt every step of the way, was better than feeling helpless.

  Chapter Two

  Erin had walked about a mile when she heard a horse on t
he trail behind her. When she turned, she wasn’t surprised to see Wyatt Fitzgerald. As far as she knew, he was the only other person on the mountain today. He reined the animal to a stop when he reached her and swung out of the saddle with enviable ease, his every movement attesting that he’d spent most of his life riding. Watching him, she felt as if she’d wandered into the filming location of an Old West movie. His penetrating blue gaze shifted to the boots she carried in one hand, and his mouth thinned to a grim line.

  “How bad are your feet?”

  She sighed, hating that he’d circled back to find and help her. That was her role to play, not his. And she sucked at being a damsel in distress. Her father had made sure of that. For a horrible moment, she felt tears sting her eyes. She never cried. She just wasn’t herself. The throbbing pain in her cheekbone now radiated to her temple. Her inner thighs ached from the long ride that morning. Pain pulsated in her hip from being crushed against the radio. Her feet burned like those of a Salem witch tied to a stake with flames licking at her ankles.

  “Nothing to write home about,” she replied.

  “Open sores?” he asked.

  “What difference does it make? It is what it is.” She lifted the boots. “These stupid things aren’t made for jogging long distances.”

  He glanced around and then pointed at a fallen log. “Sit over there. I carry a first aid kit.”

  Erin shook her head. “I don’t need your help.”

  “It’s ten miles to the trailhead.” He showed her his back as he opened one of his saddlebags. “You can’t walk that far on blistered feet.”

  Erin blinked, because she’d just now noticed that he wore a fresh shirt, this one a faded red and worn thin at the elbows. “Watch me.”

  He made no reply. When he turned to face her again, she contemplated the possibility that he actually might be deaf. Years had passed since she’d worked in that field, and many changes had occurred.

  “Please, sit down,” he said. “The boss I mentioned who’ll be angry over the loss of hay will be even madder if I let you walk out of here. I’m helping you whether you want me to or not.”

  He was once again using contractions when he spoke. Erin removed her hat to finger-comb her sweat-dampened hair. She’d tied it into a tidy knot at the nape of her neck that morning, but the band had long since lost its grip. Limp shanks puddled at her collar and lay like a damp minishawl over her shoulders. She yearned for a drink and wished now that she’d dropped to her belly by the stream to quench her thirst. At this point, she was willing to risk an E. coli infection.

  “Do you have water?” She didn’t want to ask, but the words rushed out anyway. “I think I’m getting dehydrated.”

  He reached over the horse to grab a bota bag hanging from the pommel. She dropped her boots to take it from his outstretched hand. With a twist of her wrist, she removed the cap and then wasn’t sure how to drink from the bag. Those blue eyes were intent on her face. She had a feeling he missed very little.

  “It’s all right to drink straight from the bag,” he said. “If you don’t mind my germs, that is. Some people hold it high and aim the stream at their mouths. I don’t. Good way to get wet and waste water.”

  Erin was so parched that she was beyond caring about any germs he possibly had. According to her dad, what didn’t kill her would make her stronger. She sucked water straight from the bag and gasped when she came up for air.

  “Have all you want. Just don’t get sick.” He moved past her toward the log. “I carry iodine tablets. I can purify more if I run out.”

  “Thank you.”

  He didn’t reply. After drinking all that she safely could, Erin capped the bag, looped the braided leather strap back over the saddle horn, and hobbled toward the log, leaving her boots lying in the dirt next to his horse. As she sat down, bark jabbed her rump, which was already sore from bouncing around on a saddle that morning. Wyatt saw her wince and arched a brow in question.

  “Saddle sore,” she said by way of explanation.

  “Not used to riding?”

  She considered the question and debated the wisdom of exaggerating her experience with equines. At this point, she was too exhausted to be prideful, and she was a lousy liar. “Before dawn I received a thirty-minute riding lesson from Sheriff Adams. That was my first time on a horse. Well, when I was five my uncle put me on the back of an old mare and led her around a corral. I don’t think that really counts.”

  His eyebrow arched again. “Adams sent an inexperienced rider up the mountain alone?”

  Erin heard the ring of disapproval in his voice and said, “Butterscotch—that’s his horse—is bulletproof, according to him.”

  “No horse is bulletproof.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the equine behind him. “That is Shanghai. Wonderful mount. I put my faith in him because I have to, but I’m always watchful. Horses are just like people. They get startled. They panic. Shanghai is pretty solid, but I never forget that he might do something unexpected.”

  Listening to him talk, Erin got a sinking sensation in her chest. At the meadow, she’d been angry. Now she was too tired for her adrenaline to spike and she detected a definite pause between each word he spoke. Maybe she’d been too quick to decide he couldn’t possibly be deaf.

  “Are you truly hearing impaired?” The question was out before she had a chance to cut it off. “No BS, Mr. Fitzgerald. I just—well, if I made a bad call on that, I’m sorry.”

  His mouth curved up at one corner to flash a dimple, which was boyishly attractive in a face so relentlessly masculine. “Why would I lie about being hearing impaired?”

  “To get off scot-free for evading a law enforcement officer?”

  He shook his head. “Not my style. If I had seen or heard you, I would have stopped. No reason not to. The boss is a stickler about weed-free hay for his horses. Even as rarely as you visit the ranch, you should know that much about him. He’s so careful about it that he feeds his stock weed-free hay and grain for four solid days before taking them into a wilderness area. Most people do that for only three.”

  Erin frowned in bewilderment. “Who is your boss?”

  He studied her face. “You don’t know? All the pack animals at Elk Meadow carry his brand. You surely noticed that.”

  “Looking at brands isn’t something I think to do.” She searched his gaze. “Are you talking about my uncle Slade?”

  “Bull’s-eye.”

  “You work for my uncle? Why didn’t you just say so? When I’ve visited the ranch, I’ve never seen you there.”

  “If you had come more than twice and stayed long enough to let the dust settle, you would have seen me.”

  “I’ve been to the ranch more than twice.” She searched her memory and could clearly recall only two visits to the ranch after her initial stay of two weeks. Both times she’d received a call from the sheriff’s office and had to leave before she could finish a cup of coffee. “And the only reason my time there was short was because all hell broke loose in town.”

  He pushed up the brim of his hat, presumably to better watch her lips. “The crime rate is terrible, I know. Murder on the streets in broad daylight. Armed robberies right and left. Prostitution. Drug deals. Gang wars.”

  Physical exhaustion had robbed Erin of her ability to laugh. The absence of all those things he’d just mentioned had been the lure that had drawn her to Mystic Creek. “I’m the junior deputy, Mr. Fitzgerald. When a cat gets stuck in a tree and the fire department can’t handle it, I get the call. When a senior officer gets the sniffles and can’t come to work, I get the call.”

  “So you’re busy.” He held her gaze, and in that moment, she knew she’d never seen more beautiful eyes, not simply a startling blue in contrast to his sun-darkened face, but almost electrical in their intensity. “So busy you can’t drive ten miles out of town and park your butt on Slade’s porch
to have a mug of his black sludge every once in a while?”

  Uncle Slade’s coffee was the worst Erin had ever tasted, and because this man knew it, she reluctantly accepted that he worked on the Wilder Ranch and knew her uncle well. It followed that he wouldn’t have lied about being deaf. An out-of-towner might get away with such a deception, but a local would be found out almost immediately. The Mystic Creek grapevine rivaled the transmission speed of underground fiber optics.

  “Please, don’t judge me,” she said, holding his gaze just as relentlessly as he held hers. “I love my uncle. I’d like to spend more time with him. It’s just—” She broke off to give herself a mental scold. This man deserved no explanation from her. She didn’t have to defend herself simply because his eyes compelled her to do so. Only she heard the words spilling from her mouth anyway. “I’m new, and I’m a woman. If you think the glass ceiling doesn’t exist in this good-old-boy county, think again.”

  He gestured at her feet. “You want to pull those socks off, or should I?”

  Erin leaned over to do it herself. “No, thanks. You’d peel off hide and all.” She glanced up, realized that he hadn’t been able to see her lips move, and repeated herself. “These blisters already sting like the very devil.” After she got both socks off, she met his gaze again. “If you’re thinking about getting your revenge by hurting me, remember I’m armed.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  He slipped a hand under one leg of her trousers, his broad palm leathery with calluses against her skin. She likened the sensation to the grainy underside of silk sliding over her nerve endings. A jolt of physical awareness shot from just below her knee to the pit of her stomach and then zinged up to her nipples. She didn’t appreciate her body’s reaction. She wrote it off to the fact that she hadn’t been in a relationship in over three years. Being touched by warm, capable hands sparked physical yearnings she normally didn’t have.