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For my brother, Robert McKinnell, who really does own and wear an acorn-brown Resistol cowboy hat and who read an early draft for western Minnesotan accuracy.
Sorry about those scar-inducing sex scenes. :-D
Acknowledgments
Thank you to:
Susannah Taylor for never giving up on this project.
Amy Pierpont, my editor, for making me rewrite this damn book a bamillion zillion times.
And to my Facebook friend, Anne Bornschein, for Otter the Dog’s awesome name.
Chapter One
DAY ONE
Shit. Maisa Burnsey’s heartbeat did a little stumble as the familiar police car halted behind her. She pushed up her chunky black glasses. Every damned time she passed through Coot Lake, Minnesota, she got stopped.
In her rearview mirror she watched the tall trooper climb from the squad car. He sauntered toward her Beetle, loose-hipped and long-legged, as if he had all the time in the world. And like the good guy in a black-and-white western, he wore a stupid cowboy hat.
Maisa snorted softly.
He stopped by her car door, his pelvis framed by her window exactly at eye level, as if he was showing off the bulge of his package.
Not that she was looking.
There was an American flag on the left breast of his padded navy uniform jacket, a metal badge on his right, and below that a name tag that read WEST. One gloved hand rested on a lean hip, behind a holstered gun. His upper face, obscured by mirrored sunglasses and the cowboy hat, was stern and intimidating. His lips, though, were wide and almost soft, the top just a little fuller than the bottom. The man had a mouth that was beautiful enough to make a woman ache just by looking.
Maisa straightened her spine and glared at him. Okay, she could do this.
He twirled his gloved finger to tell her to roll down the window.
She opened it, letting in the freezing January wind. “What?”
He nodded. “Hey, May.”
His voice was deep and gravelly, like he smoked, though she knew for a fact that he didn’t.
“Maisa,” she snapped automatically. She wasn’t going to think about the last time he’d called her May. “This is the fourth time you’ve stopped me here.”
“Maybe you should quit speeding.” That beautiful mouth quirked. “Or quit running away.”
“I’m not running away,” she lied, poker-faced.
“Darlin’, you’ve been running away from me since last August.”
Maisa felt her teeth click together. “I’m talking about pulling me over for speeding.”
His wide mouth curved. “I’m not.”
She breathed deeply. Evenly. God damn it, meditation was supposed to make her less angry. “This is entrapment.”
“Now,” he drawled, his small town accent broadening, “I don’t have any fancy un-ee-versity learnin’, but I’m pretty sure entrapment is if I falsely lure you into breaking the law—”
“What do you call a speed trap, then?”
“—which, since I didn’t make you drive well above the speed limit—”
“And that’s ridiculous as well.” She scowled. “The limit’s seventy everywhere else but this stretch of highway.”
He shrugged. “Still fifty-five here.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be. There should be better things for you to do than lie in wait for some poor driver who hasn’t noticed that the speed has gone down so you can pounce.” She stopped to inhale.
He looked at her. “Like what?”
“What?”
“What should I be doing instead?”
She licked her lips. God damn it. Did he have to stand so close? “Doing your job.”
“This is my job.”
“Following me isn’t your job.” She could feel the heat mounting her neck with her anger. Oh, to hell with it. “Speeding isn’t why you stopped me and you know it. You’re harassing me.”
There was a pause as if she’d broken some obscure rule in their game. The wind whipped icy snow against her car, making the vehicle sway.
He didn’t even flinch, steady as a granite monument to male stubbornness.
“That right? You know, you don’t have to take this route every month when you drive up from Minneapolis.” His voice was terribly gentle, and she had a flash of him straight-armed over her, his mouth wet, his voice a gravel whisper as he’d murmured, Like that? And shoved inside of her, quick and hard and confident.
One night. One night last August she’d let him in. It’d been hot and muggy, and her uncle’s cabin hadn’t had any air-conditioning. She’d booked a room at the Coot Lake Inn and then gone to the only bar in town to have a cold beer. Sam had been there, looking way too sexy in faded jeans and a T-shirt so thin she could see the outline of his nipples when the condensation on his beer bottle had dripped on his chest. He’d bought her another beer and flirted and she’d thought, Why not? Why not just one night? So she’d brought him back to her tacky motel room and let him undress her and kiss her and make love to her, and in the morning she’d woken with her heart already beating too fast in panic. She’d dressed without showering, grabbed her bags, and left him there, still asleep on his belly, his wide shoulders bare and erotic in the stark morning light.
It’d been a mistake. One terrible, unforgettable mistake.
She exhaled through her nose, glancing away from him, feeling suddenly sad and vulnerable.
She hated that feeling. “This route is the easiest way to my uncle’s house.”
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t even bother to sound like he believed her, which was just insulting. “And me being the cop on duty most of the time along this stretch of highway has nothing to do with it.”
“Yes.” She was going to chip a tooth if she ground down any harder.
“May—”
“Maisa. Look, just give me the goddamned ticket and I’ll be on my way.”
She could see him shift his weight from one leg to the other out of the corner of her eye. “Your brake light’s out.”
She swung back. “What?”
He nodded his head at the back of her car. “Right rear.”
Maisa started to crane her neck to look before she realized how silly that was. “Oh. I’ll get it fixed.”
“ ’Preciate that,” he drawled. Did anyone else drawl in freaking Minnesota? “But I’ll have to cite you in the meantime.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Sam!”
That got a gloved finger sliding his mirrored glasses down just enough to see the flash of his electric blue eyes. “Well now. Glad to hear you remember my name.”
She didn’t give herself time to think, just slipped the knife between his ribs, quick and nasty. “Of course I remember, Sam. It’s not a big deal, you know. You were a good lay, but that’s all you were.”
For a moment everything seemed to still along the stretch of lonely highway. The land was nearly flat here, rolling farmland broken by small clumps of trees. The wind was relentless, blowing across the prairie in winter. In order to survive it those trees had to be tough, hardy, and tenacious.
Maybe tenacious most of all.
Sam sighed and took off his glasses and she thought obscurely that he’d never hide those eyes if he had any idea what the sight of them did to women. He was thirty-three, but he had lines around his eyes as if he’d been squinting into the sun—like Clint Eastwood looking for the bad guys on the open plains. Except Sam had already found the bad guy and was too stupid—or too bullheaded—to know it.
“You practiced that in front of your bathroom mirror, didn’t you,” he said, flat.
Of course she had. No way was she letting him in again. Sam West was just too dangerous to her peace of mind—and heart. “Just give me the ticket.”
He leaned one arm on the car roof just over her head, bending to look at her through the window. The position put his face close enough to hers that she could smell mint on his breath.
She tried not to breathe, refusing to look at him again. If she could just get away, if he’d just let her go, everything would be okay.
She could freehand a dozen dress designs in one night, she could set a dart so perfectly it’d make any woman’s ass look like gold, but she couldn’t deal with the emotions Sam West made her feel.
She. Just. Couldn’t.
“Listen, May,” he said, too near, too damned intimate, “I won’t give you a ticket this time. Just be—”
The sound of a revving engine came from behind them on the highway.
Sam looked up.
“Fuck,” he murmured, and in one graceful movement vaulted onto the hood of her car. He slid spectacularly across the surface on one hip, just as a little red car tore past, so close it rocked the Beetle in its wake. The red car’s taillights flashed as it braked for the curve, tires squealing. But the car just kept going straight. It slapped into the packed snow at the outer curve, climbing the embankment, nose skyward, engine squealing before suddenly cutting.
In the silent aftermath Maisa stared, open-mouthed with shock.
Then she remembered Sam. He was no longer on the hood of her car. She couldn’t see him anywhere. Panic crowded her chest as she began battling the car door handle.
Oh, God, oh, God, please don’t let him be hurt.
Chapter Two
Sam lay flat on his back in freezing snow, watching snowflakes sail down to land in his eyelashes.
A scowling, feminine face inserted itself into his vision. Maisa Burnsey had a sharp little chin and nose, delicately curved lips, and big brown eyes behind those ugly black glasses. She kept her fine, black hair cut very short. The style made her look kind of innocent and girlish at first glance, which was about as far from the truth as could be. She wore a shiny black down jacket and black spike-heeled boots, her hair mostly hidden under a beret—black, natch—pulled jauntily down over one eyebrow. He’d dreamed of her face on lonely nights in his cabin.
Generally in his dreams she’d worn a much more welcoming expression.
“What are you doing?” May asked. Demanded, really. The woman would never win any awards for her sweet personality.
“Breathing.” He sat up gingerly.
“You shouldn’t do that,” she said, her hands spread and hovering as if she wanted to touch him but was afraid to.
Which was pretty much the problem with their entire relationship.
“Breathe?”
She scowled harder, stamping lines between her eyebrows. The look made him want to put his tongue in her mouth until she forgot to frown. “Get up.”
“I’m fine.” He keyed his shoulder radio, contacting the Coot Lake police dispatcher. “Hey, Becky.”
“Yeah?” Becky Soderholm was in her midfifties and had run Coot Lake’s police station since anyone could remember. Probably she’d started in diapers.
“Got a speeder, possible wreck up on 52 just past the 101 mile marker,” Sam said. “Damn fool nearly ran me down.”
“You’re not hurt, are you Sam?” Becky’s voice was full on exasperated. “ ’Cause you know Dylan’s off today and Tick is still up at his aunt’s in Fergus. Not expected back until tomorrow.”
“Nope, just got the wind knocked out of me.” Sam stood and shook the snow off his jacket. His right shoulder and hip ached like hell, but he made an effort not to limp. Male pride and all. He took May’s arm, ignoring her squawk, and helped her up the bank back to the road. “But I may need an ambulance and a wrecker, depending.”
“Depending on what?” Becky snapped.
“If the driver’s still alive.” They’d reached the highway now. He could see the red compact. It had climbed the hardened mound of snow left by the plows on the opposite side of the highway. The compact’s little nose pointed forlornly at the darkening clouds.
Behind him, May muttered under her breath.
A corner of his mouth kicked up. She sounded pissed.
“Get in your car.” He said without turning. A semi rocketed by, making the snow whip around his legs. “You can turn on the heat, but don’t go anywhere.”
“Who’re you talking to?” Becky demanded.
“Maisa Burnsey,” Sam said as he jogged across the highway.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sam,” Becky hissed. “How many times are you going to pull that woman over before you give up?”
“Dunno.” Sam reached the compact. “Just a sec.”
He could hear Becky’s impatient grunt by his ear, but he was more concerned with the compact’s driver’s door opening.
“Don’t move, sir.”
But the driver wasn’t listening. A short, dumpy guy in a bright red windbreaker too thin for the weather tumbled out of the car. He slid on the snow before catching himself with an outstretched hand on the car. He was in his early sixties. His thinning gray hair was slicked straight back from a pasty, soft face that looked like it’d never seen sunlight. Square glasses sat crookedly over an overlarge nose. He had an abrasion on his left cheek and powder from the airbag on his face and chest. Otherwise he seemed fine. ’Course, looks could be deceiving in a crash victim.
“Whoa, there.” Sam placed a hand on the guy’s upper arm. “Becky, that’s an affirmative on the ambulance and we’ll need a wrecker, too.”
“No ambulance!” The man’s voice was high and with a distinct accent. “I do not need an ambulance, you imbecile.”
Sam raised an eyebrow, but kept his voice even and calm. “You might have internal injuries.”
“No.” The guy suddenly clutched at his heart, which didn’t exactly make his case, and sat back down on the tilted driver’s seat. “Do I?”
“I don’t know. That’s why—”
Imbecile Man got up suddenly and staggered to the red compact’s back. His windbreaker nearly matched the color of the car.
“Sir,” Sam said. “I’d appreciate it if you could sit down until we can get you some help.”
The guy was crouched awkwardly, struggling with the trunk.
The radio on his shoulder crackled. “Sam, we’ve got at least an hour’s wait on that ambulance,” Becky said. “And a God-only-knows on the wrecker. Cars in ditches everywhere, looks like.”
Sam keyed the mike. “Okay. I’ll take him in myself. And the wrecker can wait until tomorrow, I guess.”
“No!” The guy turned so quickly he nearly toppled into the snow. He’d worked his way back around to the driver’s side door. “You do not understand! I need… I need to get this car to drive.” He leaned in to pull something and the trunk popped open.
Sam looked at the compact. It was a Hyundai, maybe an Elantra, with rental license plates. Even if the little car were horizontal, the front bumper was ripped off, the left front corner was crumpled, and that wheel was leaning in as if the axle might be broken.
“Yeah, about that,” Sam said. “I don’t think you’re going anywhere anytime soon.”
The guy looked around wildly. A few strands of his sparse hair were standing on end, waving gently in the wind. He was making an odd sound—kind of a whining moan under his breath. Must need to go somewhere quick.
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Let
me see your license.”
A clear sneer began on Imbecile Man’s lips before he suddenly switched tactics. He smiled, revealing stained teeth and said with a pronounced accent, “No problem! No problem, Officer! I shall just go on my way, yes?”
Sam didn’t bother replying to that. Just held out his hand and wriggled his fingers.
The guy sighed in defeat and fumbled a wallet out of his pocket. He gave Sam a laminated card.
Sam took it, his brows rising when he saw the State of Nevada emblem. “Long way from home, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“Ilya Kasyanov, that right?” Sam waited until Kasyanov nodded. There was something off about the guy—even taking into account that he’d just been in a wreck. “If you won’t accept an ambulance, sir, then I can take you into town. Maybe set you up at the Coot Lake Inn.”
“Coot Lake?” Kasyanov perked up. “This is Coot Lake?”
Sam raised his eyebrows. Most out-of-towners weren’t too thrilled by—or had ever heard of—Coot Lake. It was a small, northwestern Minnesota town and the Crow County seat. Fergus Falls lay a bit to the north and west; Alexandria, a bit to the south; but neither were in Crow County. In winter, Coot Lake had about four thousand residents, give or take. In summer, the population doubled with the onslaught of summer folk heading to their lake cabins.
But in any case, Coot Lake wasn’t exactly on the way to anywhere. “Just outside. How about you get into my squad car and I’ll run you into town. That is, if you still don’t want to go to the hospital?”
“No.” The guy immediately shook his head. “No hospital.”
He scrambled to the back of the Hyundai’s open trunk. There was a black suitcase inside, one of those compact things people took on airplanes.
Sam stepped forward. “Here.”
He started to reach inside, but the guy squeaked and grabbed the handle. “Is okay.”
“I can see that,” Sam said, easy. “Let me help you.” He took the guy’s elbow, despite the man’s instinctive jerk away.
“He needs an ambulance,” came a cranky female voice behind them.