“Laney, I want you to meet the town’s new deputy sheriff, Nick Rogers.”
His handshake was firm, his skin warm and dry. His dark-eyed gaze made the already hot day sizzle.
“You’re new to the area?”
“I’m adjusting,” he said, never taking his eyes off her. He had the kind of face that she’d thought only existed in the movies. Rugged and yet as handsome as any she’d ever seen with dark hair and blue eyes. But it was the way he stood, his head cocked to one side, an air of confidence about him that drew her like a moth to flame.
“You should come to my cousin’s engagement party.”
He smiled. “Thank you, but I really couldn’t intrude.”
“It’s no intrusion,” Laney said. “That’s the way things are done around here. Haven’t you seen the baby shower and anniversary notices in the local newspapers, inviting the whole county? Welcome to small-town America.”
“A lot different from Houston,” Nick said.
“Everyone will be there. Wear your dancing boots.”
Nick met Laney’s gaze. “Save me a dance?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Award-winning journalist turned author, BJ had thirty-six short stories published before her first romantic suspense novel, Odd Man Out, came out in 1995. Her book Premeditated Marriage won Romantic Times BOOKreviews Best Intrigue award for 2002 and she received a Career Achievement Award for Romantic Suspense. BJ lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, three springer spaniels, Zoey, Scout and Spot, and a temperamental tomcat named Jeff. She is a member of Kiss of Death, the Bozeman Writer’s Group and Romance Writers of America. When she isn’t writing, she snowboards in the winters and camps, water-skis and plays tennis in the summers. To contact her, write to PO Box 183, Bozeman, MT 59771, USA or look for her online at www.bjdaniels.com.
The New Deputy in Town
BJ DANIELS
MILLS & BOON
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This book is dedicated to
Chris and Jessica Kerr,
the cutest couple I know and the sweetest.
It’s a joy to know the two of you.
Chapter One
Her hand trembled as she opened the closet to find the baseball bat where she’d hidden it in the very back corner. After last time, she’d considered getting rid of the bat. Instead, she’d wiped off the splattering of blood as best she could and kept it.
She wasn’t stupid. She watched CSI and all the other forensics television shows. She knew about blood splatters, about DNA, about trace evidence.
But she also knew it wouldn’t be good to change anything. Ritual, she knew, was important. It should always be a Saturday night. She should always wear the same blue dress she’d worn the first time. She should always use the old baseball bat she’d found.
“I thought you were going out with friends?” called a voice from the living room. She could hear the TV. One of those reality shows was on. “It’s getting kind of late though to be going now, isn’t it?”
She bit down on her irritation. She was sick of being told what to do. Sick of other people’s expectations for her. She put the bat on the bed and reached for her blue dress. There was one little blood spot along the hem that she’d had trouble getting out. She frowned, worried that even one spot might be enough to change things. To ruin the routine. To jinx her.
She worried at the spot for a moment. Maybe she shouldn’t go into town tonight. But it was Saturday. There would be a band at one of the bars. There would be men who would get drunk and want to dance with her.
She thought of the smell of them, the feel of their sweaty hands on the blue dress, the sound of their breathing as they pressed themselves against her.
She put on the dress and picked up the bat. A woman on TV was gagging loudly as if unable to swallow something revolting.
She went out the back door, letting it slam. It was Saturday night. She was wearing her blue dress. She had the bat. And wouldn’t some man be surprised tonight.
Chapter Two
Sunday morning Laney Cavanaugh looked down at the book in her lap, then out at the country. She was having trouble keeping her mind on what was being touted the summer beach-book read. Maybe it required a beach.
This part of northeastern Montana couldn’t be farther from the shore. She could see from horizon to horizon, the rolling landscape awash with tall golden grass that undulated in the morning breeze. Etched against the horizon to the east was the dark outline of an old windmill. To the southwest was the faint smudge of the Little Rockies and the Bear Paw Mountains. In between was prairie, miles and miles of it.
“Boring, huh?” her sister said as she came out of the house, the screen door slamming behind her. “No wonder Mother hated it here.” Laci plopped down in the chair next to Laney’s with a huge sigh.
Laney didn’t hate it here. Coming here had always given her a sense of peace. She liked the quiet, the only sound crickets chirping in the grass or the closer buzz of a bee in the flower bed along the porch. At night sometimes the wind blew or rain fell in a monotonous drone that lulled her to sleep.
Today though, she felt restless. The July air seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for something. She felt that same sense of anticipation inside her like the flutter of butterfly wings. Something was about to happen.
She didn’t share these thoughts with Laci, who would have made fun of her. “You are so dramatic,” her younger sister often said. “You should have been an actor or a writer or well, anything but an accountant.”
“I’m going to bake some cookies,” Laci said, shoving herself out of the chair. Her sister had never been able to sit still for long. It was only nine in the morning. Laci had already made them both breakfast including a blueberry coffee cake, a spinach-and-bacon quiche and smoothies. But then Laci wasn’t happy unless she was cooking.
“I’ve never understood why Gramps keeps this place,” Laci said as the screen slammed behind her.
Laney understood. This house was all they had left of their daughter Geneva. She and Laci had been born here. That was before their father had been killed in a car accident between here and the small Montana town of Whitehorse to the north.
The first settlement of Whitehorse had been nearer the Missouri River. But when the railroad came through, the town migrated five miles north, taking the name with it.
The original settlement of Whitehorse was now little more than a ghost town except for a handful of ranches and a few of the original