The Sheriff Catches a Bride (4 page)

Most of the time.

Once Carl realized Lacey wasn’t coming back, he decided he wasn’t cut out for ranch life. Just about any citizen of Chance Creek could have told him that the moment they met him, but the transplant from California thought he’d take to it. He liked dressing the part but as far as Cab could tell, he didn’t want to get his hands dirty, and there was no way to be a cowboy without dirty hands. Stuck with an empty mansion full of expensive furnishings, Carl needed a tenant he could count on to guard it once he left. He’d approached Cab, and Cab had accepted. He made a point of saving his money when he could; he wasn’t going to turn down top-notch accommodations that were free, as well. When he offered to pay at least token rent, Carl waved him off. “My insurance won’t cover it unless someone’s living there. I don’t need the money; I just need a body. A body I can trust.”

Well, he had a body to lend to the cause. And he was definitely responsible. Sometimes too responsible, if you asked him. He’d kept on the trail of that serial killer even when it ceased to strictly be his job. Once the FBI had moved in, he and the rest of the locals been asked to back off. Cab respected the separation of duties in law enforcement and didn’t make a pest of himself, but he kept his eyes peeled, kept asking questions, kept going over the information he had. He hadn’t been the one to solve the case, or the one to catch the killer in the act, but he’d done his part to help and he’d been on the scene within minutes of the man’s capture. He’d seen the dead bodies at the previous crime scenes and he saw the live one at that one, too. The thought of that woman lying in the dirt, moving—barely—still alive, but mostly dead, and hardly recognizable as human would haunt him to his grave.

What if it had been Rose? What if she was hurt and he couldn’t reach her? What if it had been Autumn, or Morgan, or Claire? Normally Cab liked working in his own home town, but he thanked God the serial killer had operated out of Tucker Hills some fifty miles away. People here had been frightened by the headlines, but not consumed by them, and once Samuel Grady was captured they returned to their lives as if nothing had happened.

Cab moved toward the bank of windows, pulled back the curtain and peered outside. A quarter-moon lit the night faintly. If there had been snow on the ground, it would have helped to raise the visibility, but so far they hadn’t seen any in Chance Creek. Looking out over the massive garden Carl had hired Rob to install just last month, he couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

The sound had come from the woods on the other side of the garden, if he wasn’t mistaken. Carl’s mansion sat back from the road at the end of a winding driveway that first passed through a fringe of trees at the perimeter of the property, then swept through a grassy lawn. The house itself sat perpendicular to the road, the garden to its rear sandwiched between it and a wide strip of woods. Those woods swept all the way down to meet the road, forming a definitive barrier between Carl’s spread and the next ranch over.

He couldn’t recall a track into those woods, but there was a pullout where they ran down to the road. Unfortunately, he wasn’t familiar enough with this property to judge by sound if that was where the car had parked. He hadn’t grown up on a spread like this one. His own family lived on the other side of town in a modest three-bedroom house on a couple of acres. They’d kept horses growing up and he was as comfortable in the saddle as any of his ranching friends, but like his father he’d chosen law enforcement instead of cattle.
Someone’s gotta keep the peace
, his dad liked to say. Cab agreed with that sentiment.

Which was why he couldn’t go back to bed and pull the covers up over his head without investigating that sound. Cab hesitated only a brief moment before he let the curtain drop, pulled on his jeans and a flannel shirt, and shrugged into his shoulder holster. Patting his piece into place, he strode through the large house without turning on any lights, and found his heavy fall coat near the front door. He shrugged it on and reached for the door handle, but changed his mind. Someone might be watching for him there. Best to make his way into the basement and let himself out the side door.

Cursing in the darkness as he stumbled down the steps and toward the secondary door, he finally found the cold metal knob, slid back the bolt above it, and let himself outside. Frigid air feathered over his face as he closed it behind him and stood listening. Pure silence greeted him.

He hesitated to walk past the house toward the garden, afraid he’d be seen before he could get anywhere near the trees. The garden that stood between him and his goal was a full acre. It was only because the night was so still that he’d heard that vehicle at all. Might as well give it a try, though.

He stepped as carefully as he could over the bare ground, made it past the house and waited in the shadows until he planned his route. He skirted the garden, using its enclosing stone walls as a partial cover, then slowed down again at the far side where another stretch of bare ground stood between him and the forest.

He couldn’t hear anything now, but he didn’t think the person—whoever he was—had left, since he hadn’t heard the truck’s engine start up again. After another moment of listening, he moved silently across the last stretch of ground and gained the trees. Now he found it easier to slip through the shadows without announcing his presence. He heard the crackle of twigs breaking. Someone was moving through the woods, trying to be quiet but not doing a very good job of it. He eased forward and slipped from tree to tree, keeping to the shadows, wanting to get as close as possible before he announced his presence in any way.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light he could make out the bulky shape of a truck pulled off the road. Standing several dozen steps inside the trees was a slim figure clad all in black. He couldn’t tell much about the person, except that he or she was on the short side. Whoever it was simply stood and surveyed the forest. Well, that wasn’t a crime, except the matter of trespassing. They didn’t seem to be hunting or vandalizing anything. Just looking.

Cab didn’t think he moved, but suddenly the person turned, stared right at the thick cluster of trees where he crouched, and hurried back toward the truck. He didn’t get a chance to see the make or model of the vehicle before it pulled away, let alone its license plate, and he cursed himself for not ascertaining those before he focused on the perpetrator.

Person, he reminded himself. Whoever had come to Carl’s woods hadn’t done anything against the law.

Still, he’d bet just about anything they’d planned to. That wasn’t a call of nature he’d stumbled onto; the person had been looking for something, he was sure of it.

He just didn’t know what.

Back in bed a half-hour later, he waited for the sleep he knew wouldn’t come. Thoughts of Rose vied with worries about who might have stopped in Carl’s woods and why. He’d have understood it if the person was casing out Carl’s mansion. It held enough items to satisfy the greediest thief.

The person hadn’t been anywhere near the house, though. It was the woods that interested him, and Cab couldn’t fathom why. There wasn’t anything special about them as far as he could tell. As long minutes passed and he found no answers to the puzzle, he let his thoughts wander to other things. If he was going to settle down sometime soon, he needed a house of his own. He’d thought about buying property before, but each time he looked in the paper, something stopped him. The problem was his future had no shape to it. He could get a house in town, but maybe his wife would like a bigger property. He could get an acreage, but without anyone to help, it could prove to be too much work. He liked horses, but did he like them enough to have his own stables? Right now he kept a gelding at Ethan’s and used it whenever he liked. It seemed cruel to keep a single horse off on its own, but he didn’t know if he had the time to care for several of them.

Fact was, he didn’t want to figure out all of this on his own. If he was going to buy a house, he wanted to buy it for someone. Same with an acreage. Property meant upkeep, renovations—all of which he’d be happy to do, if there was someone to do it for.

He would love to put a ring on Rose’s finger. Too bad she was the one woman he couldn’t have.

The next morning,
Rose stifled a yawn and tried to focus on the young couple looking among the glass cases of the jewelry store for the perfect engagement ring. The shop itself was perfectly in order, as usual. Emory was a stickler for cleanliness and couldn’t bear for anything to be out of place, even for a moment. He was also a stickler for punctuality and impeccable customer service, great qualities in the retail industry, but really—there was a limit. Rose was at her limit with Chelsea Wight and Doug Standle, the young couple currently perusing the ring section. Chelsea—who’d just graduated from high school last spring—had bounced into the store fifteen minutes ago, her dirty-blond curls swinging, and honed in on the most expensive rings in the place. Doug—an acne-scarred redhead who still hadn’t graduated although he was nineteen—hung near the door until Chelsea went back, took his hand, and led him to the ring cases. Rose knew exactly what would happen next. Chelsea would pick out a fancy ring and try it on. Then she’d ask Rose the question she dreaded most. “What do you think? Are we meant to be together?”

Damn Rob Matheson and his big mouth.

Three years ago when she took this job, Rose had no idea she had any psychic tendencies. After she hired on with Emory, however, and some months passed by, she began to notice that whenever a couple bought an engagement ring, she got a strong feeling whether their love would last or not. Of course she had no idea whether her feelings were all that accurate; she hadn’t worked here long enough to prove them over the long haul. Still, four or five couples she’d gotten bad hunches about during her first year in the store now were divorced. The ones she’d gotten good hunches about were still married.

She made the mistake one day of mentioning the trend to Rob. At the time, he’d been single with lots of hours to kill and he often stopped by to chat while she worked at the shop. He’d been present one day when she sold a ring to a couple she doubted would make it to the altar. When he complimented her on the sale she shook her head and told him they’d probably return the ring within the month.

She’d been right and Rob had been in the shop that day, too. He was convinced of her
powers
, as he called them.

And he’d convinced everyone else. Of course, now he was married to Morgan, and Rose had given her approval to the match, so he wanted to believe she saw these things clearly.

Today she saw them all too clearly.

Rose fumbled under the counter for a box of tissues and placed it near to Doug and Chelsea. She could guarantee someone was going to cry when these two began to talk money, and she had the uncomfortable feeling it might be Doug.

“This one,” Chelsea said, jabbing a finger at a diamond cluster ring.

Rose shook her head. “Nope.” Customer service be damned; she wasn’t showing Chelsea that ring. It was way too expensive.

“What do you mean, no?” Chelsea straightened. Doug looked miserable. Poor fool, probably caught in a trap of his own making. Rose could just picture the scene last night on some back country road. Doug promising the moon if Chelsea gave in to his amorous advances. Chelsea agreeing, then dragging him to the jewelers at first light.

“I mean Doug can’t afford it.”

Chelsea scowled, but looked back at the case. “This one, then.”

Cab’s ring.

“Hell, no! I mean…” She looked into Chelsea’s startled eyes. “He can’t afford that one, either. Doug, what’s your budget, honey?” She flashed the kid a warm
you can confide in me
smile, promising herself she’d remove Cab’s ring from the display case and hide it in the back the moment these two had left the store. She couldn’t bear the thought of it on anyone else’s finger.

“Budget?”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. “How much money do you want to spend on this ring?” Better to rip the Band-Aid off in one quick swipe. Otherwise Chelsea might be here for hours.

“Um… a hundred dollars? Next Friday, when I get paid?”

“A hundred dollars?” Chelsea’s voice rose and Rose nudged the box of tissues closer to them.

“Um… yeah.”

“I’m not wearing some stupid Cracker-Jack ring, Doug Standle!”

Doug scanned the store, wild-eyed, then broke for the front door, leaving Chelsea to stand open-mouthed as it slammed shut behind him. She blushed furiously red and turned to Rose. “I’m going to kill him!”

“If you can catch him,” Rose said.

Chelsea gaped at her, struggled to answer, gave up and stormed out the door after him. Rose tucked the tissues back under the counter. She grabbed the glass cleaner and a rag and soon wiped Doug and Chelsea’s fingerprints off the cabinet. A glance around the store told her all was perfect once again.

Perfect. As in boring. As in safe. As in,
you don’t need to go to college, Rosie-girl; I’m going to take good care of you. Just give me one year—two at the most—and I’ll buy you a real ring.
Why, oh why, oh why had she ever listened to Jason? Six years ago she’d been just like Chelsea—barely out of high school, itching to throw away classrooms and homework and get right to grown-up life.

And why not? Nobody expected great things from her. She was an average student, bright but not motivated. She acted in high school productions, joined a few after-school clubs, but she never led any of them. She’d done a couple of years of track and field—she was a sprinter—and she had several second place ribbons, but no firsts. What else would she do except settle down, marry her high school sweetheart and raise a family? Her parents felt like Jason did—that her dream of becoming a famous painter was just that: a dream. It was fine to take a painting course or two around town, but the thought of going into debt for art school seemed ridiculous to them.

At first she hadn’t minded so much. Grown-up life was exciting. Jason headed straight for North Dakota’s oil fields the week after they graduated, and the money he made was great. She got a job with a housekeeping service and saved up every penny she could. Her wages didn’t compare to Jason’s, and her job wasn’t glamorous, but she didn’t care. She thought pretty soon he’d move back, they’d pool their cash, and buy their own place. Time enough for art school later. When Jason came home for holidays and a couple weeks during summer vacation, they drove around in his pickup and looked at all the houses for sale. She dreamed of starting small, then gradually trading up until they owned a real piece of property.