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  He held out a hand and she stared at it. His hand was big and it looked strong, capable. Like him. But he didn’t strike her as a man who’d have a mother who would cry over his being rude. Or like a man who’d care what anyone else thought of him. He looked tough and selfsufficient, like a man whose emotions were always under control, who did what he pleased and didn’t much care who didn’t like it.

  But the funny thing was, he did sound sorry. And he was standing there with his hand out, patiently waiting for her answer. The languid thrum of the music caressed her senses. Everyone in the place was dancing. “What do you say?” Ty Barclay asked again.

  “I wouldn’t want to upset anybody’s mother,” she muttered. She rose to her feet but ignored his outstretched hand, hurrying ahead of him toward the dance floor, wondering why she was even bothering to go through with this.

  A slow country song flowed from the jukebox and the floor was packed with couples dancing closely together. As his arms went around her waist, drawing her to him, Josy couldn’t help but be aware of the rock-hard strength packed into his six-foot-two-inch frame, and of the whip-cord tension she felt in those broad, sloping shoulders. Maybe it was her imagination, but a hot jolt of fire seemed to quiver through her when the fingers of his right hand closed around hers.

  It means nothing, she told herself as they began to sway to the music. Except that I haven’t gotten out much lately.

  She’d danced with men she didn’t know in Manhattan clubs a hundred times or more, but here in the Tumbleweed Bar and Grill in the middle of Wyoming, it felt different. Maybe it was the country song playing in the darkness, or the sultry night, or the clean scent of soap and the sage-scented outdoors on the man whose arm encircled her waist, but somehow there was an intimacy here that felt completely unlike the typical scene at Suede or Nocturne.

  “Did you get that flat tire fixed all right?”

  His words yanked her out of her thoughts. “Oh . . . yes. I did.” She forced herself to say the word. “Thanks.”

  There was silence then between them as the music flowed, and she might have relaxed a little except that she was intensely aware of the heat where his hand touched her waist.

  “That rig of yours looks like she’s been ridden hard and put away wet.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He shook his head as if she were a dimwitted child. “Never mind.” He was glancing over at the pool table, no doubt regretting the fact that someone seemed to have taken his place there. Josy felt a surge of annoyance.

  “Look,” she said. Her chin angled up so she could meet his eyes. “I appreciate your trying to make up for before, but it isn’t necessary. You don’t have to be nice to me or try to make small talk with me. The song’s almost over. Your torture will be ended soon.”

  His eyes glinted like cobalt through the dim, smoky light. “You’re the one who seems tortured. I’m holding up just fine.”

  “Are you?”

  “Considering.”

  She gritted her teeth. “I can’t imagine why your cousin is so eager to set you up in a dance with a complete stranger. With your charm, you must be able to score plenty of phone numbers on your own.”

  Ouch, Ty thought, amused. This one could bite. He let the sarcasm slide and glanced at her again, this slim lithe blonde with the cameo face and eyes the color of new Wyoming grass. She looked elegant and delicate, as if a strong wind would carry her off. As if she didn’t belong here in this town, or in this bar, but someplace sheltered and protected, someplace soft and tame.

  “I’m not into scoring phone numbers,” he told her with a shrug.

  “Obviously.” She saw Corinne and Roy dancing only a few feet away, both of them looking dreamy-eyed. It was the only reason, she told herself, why she wouldn’t kill Roy Hewett the moment the song ended. She sighed. “So what are you into?”

  “Now who’s making small talk? You don’t want to know.”

  “Oh, c’mon, try me. What else do I have to do?”

  He looked her dead in the eye. “Guns, handcuffs, and Krispy Kremes.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a cop.” He deftly turned her so that a huge cowboy dancing with a woman almost as tall as her partner avoided smashing into them. “More specifically, I’m the sheriff here in Thunder Creek.”

  The sheriff. Josy lost track of her feet and stepped on his toes. “Sorry,” she murmured, as he glanced downward. Her three-inch boot heel must have dug into his big toe, but if it hurt at all through the leather of his own boot, he didn’t show it.

  “You’re not . . . wearing a uniform,” she stammered.

  “I’m off-duty.” He was looking carefully at her, she realized in dismay. Examining her face. He appeared torn between amusement and something else. Like the beginnings of suspicion. “It seems to bother you that I’m a cop. Why is that?”

  Josy drew a deep breath. She wasn’t about to tell him, though he’d no doubt be fascinated to learn that he was dancing with a woman on the run, a woman hiding out from other cops, cops like him. And from whoever had killed Archie—and ransacked her apartment—and framed Ricky.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she heard herself say in an airy tone that sounded just a little too shrill. She tried again. “It doesn’t bother me,” she assured him. “It’s just . . . you don’t look like a cop.”

  Actually he did. Like Ricky, he had an alertness about him, a toughness. And that same flat, intense way of looking at you that seemed to be x-raying your brain.

  He was doing it now.

  “So, what do you do for a living?” he asked, making it sound like a casual question, but Josy wasn’t fooled.

  “I’m here to catch up on some work. I just needed to get away from it all.” Yes, like murderers, the people who trashed my apartment, and possibly the entire NYPD.

  “What kind of work do you do?”

  “Creative stuff. I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested,” she said hurriedly. “The music’s stopped.”

  “So it has.”

  He was still watching her with those piercing eyes, no doubt trying to recall if he’d ever spotted her face on a mug sheet. Josy tried to fight the panic thumping in her chest. Why had she been so snotty to him? Why hadn’t she just kept her mouth shut, put up with the dance, and done nothing to attract his attention?

  “Thanks for the dance. You’ve done your good deed for the night.” She forced a smile, hoping she looked polite and natural, and not on the verge of a meltdown. “I’m sure your mother will be proud.”

  He grinned suddenly, and it was like a punch to the gut. He was much too attractive and even more so when he smiled. Which, she told herself, he probably did only once in a millennium.

  To her dismay, he escorted her back to the table, where Corinne and Roy had already returned. Roberta was still dancing, this time to an upbeat song by Shania Twain. Her long frosted ponytail bounced as she swung on the arm of a thin sixtyish man in a bright yellow shirt. Josy remembered Corinne’s comment about Roberta and all the widowers in town. At least someone’s having fun, she thought as the middle-aged waitress and her dance partner showed off their moves.

  “Hope my big cousin didn’t step on your toes,” Roy said as she slipped into her chair.

  “Actually, I stepped on his. But I don’t think I hurt him too much,” she managed to say in a light tone.

  “If you did, no doubt he had it coming. Don’t worry, he’s pretty tough. Big-city cop and all—” Roy broke off at her shocked look.

  Big-city cop?

  “What? He didn’t tell you?”

  “He . . . said he’s the sheriff here.” Josy threw Ty a sharp glance as he dropped into the chair next to hers.

  “Well, yeah, he is, but he used to be a homicide cop in Philadelphia. He’s been decorated, shot, honored by the mayor, the works. You were dancing with a hero.”

  “Cut it out, Roy.” Ty signaled the waitress passing by for a beer.

  Corinne jumped into the breach, talking f
ast. “Roy, did you know that Josy works for an interior designer? She’s going to give me some tips for redecorating your place . . . I mean, our place. After the wedding, of course.” She looked hopefully at Josy. “You’ll still be here after the twenty-second of May, right?”

  “I’m not sure. I . . . think so.”

  “Interior decorator, eh?” Ty Barclay’s sharp gaze flicked again to her face. “Goes to show what kind of a detective I am. You got more out of her than I did, Corinne. She wouldn’t even tell me what she did for a living.”

  “That’s probably because you scared her, cuz,” Roy put in.

  “Can’t imagine how.” Ty gave a slow, hard smile, but his eyes were too keen for comfort. Josy heard alarm bells screaming in her head.

  Damn it. She’d stirred the suspicions of a cop after only twenty-four hours in Thunder Creek. This wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.

  The only thing she could do now was try to act as normal as possible. She had to try to stop Ty Barclay from wondering about her, or checking out her background.

  I’m sorry, Ricky, she thought. I’m not very good at lying. But I’ll try to fix it.

  “It’s just . . . my ex-boyfriend was a cop,” she heard herself saying, before she could think twice. “And it ended badly.”

  At least that much was true. “So . . . it shook me up a little when you said you were the sheriff here in Thunder Creek. I’m over it now,” she added with a pleasant smile, determined to douse any suspicions Ty might have about her before they could spark into dangerous flames.

  He nodded and leaned back, not saying anything, not even looking at her anymore. He’s lost interest, she thought with a stab of hope. Good.

  Corinne pushed back her chair suddenly. “I’m going to powder my nose,” she announced. She grabbed Josy’s arm. “Come with me.”

  Josy hadn’t traveled to the ladies’ room in a pack since high school, but she was only too glad to escape. Corinne charged through the door showing a cowgirl holding a lasso and dragged her inside the small two-stall restroom, which reeked of drugstore perfume and cigarettes.

  “Sorry Roy pushed you into dancing with Ty,” she said immediately. “He meant well, but . . . it was a bad idea from the start. Roy and I have tried setting Ty up with lots of girls since he moved to Thunder Creek, but he’s not into dating these days, not at all. I’m sorry if he took it out on you—we’re the ones he’s really annoyed with.”

  “I did get the impression he’d rather be doing almost anything other than dancing with me.”

  “That’s no reflection on you, honey, believe me.” Corinne had whipped a deep pink lipstick from her purse, but she paused after snapping off the cap. “Ty lost his wife two years ago. She was with the police department in Philadelphia just like him, and this criminal got loose in the station house and grabbed a gun. It hit Ty really hard. She was pregnant at the time. Ever since then he’s blocked out just about everything except for his work.”

  “I’m sorry . . . that’s awful.” Josy was stunned.

  “Yeah.” Corinne looked grim. “It was awful. Roy says he and Ty have always been close, but now Roy can’t even get through to him. Ty won’t let his brother or his sister get close to him anymore either. He’s basically shut down his personal life.”

  “That’s too bad.” Josy thought of the frown on Ty Barclay’s face the first time she met him in the stairwell. “He must have loved his wife very much,” she said slowly.

  “Oh, he did. According to Roy, they had this fairy-tale thing. This magic . . .” Corinne glided the lipstick carefully over her mouth. “But even so . . . he’s got to get over her sometime, right? When he moved here, we gave him a few months to settle in, and then we figured he’d want to meet some women, start getting back into the swing of things, but he only went on one or two dates and he never called either woman back again. And, honey, I assure you, there’s plenty of girls in this town who’d love the chance to help him forget his wife. But he’s not having any of it.”

  “I’m sure he will when he’s ready.”

  “It’s been two years. To tell you the truth,” Corinne sighed, “Roy and I are starting to think he won’t ever be ready.” She dropped the lipstick back into her purse. “That’s why I didn’t want Roy to bulldoze you two into dancing together. I had a feeling Ty wouldn’t like our pushing him toward someone again. So if he seemed standoffish or . . . rude, or anything like that, it’s not you. It’s him. He might be drop-dead gorgeous, smart, and the best shot I’ve ever seen, but right now, Ty Barclay is poison for any woman’s ego.”

  “My ego’s intact, Corinne. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I heard Chance Roper threw his hat into the ring.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Corinne finger-combed her hair and her eyes danced. “He came into Bessie’s Diner today and pumped Roberta for information about you. Told her all about how he saw this knockout blonde on Main Street, and how he carried your groceries even though you wouldn’t give him the time of day.”

  “Oh, God. So what they say about small towns is true. News travels fast.”

  “Speed of light.” Corinne chuckled. “A new woman in town is always big news. Most of the ones who stay at the dude ranch don’t get to meet many people beyond the ranch hands there. Tammie and Wood don’t mind some flirtation between the guests and the employees—they think it adds to the business. But you must’ve told Chance you’re not part of the tourist crowd and he wanted all the deets he could get. Bessie’s Diner is sort of the unofficial town center, and he figured if anyone knows what’s going on and who’s who, it’d be Roberta. Or Bessie and Ada, once they get back.”

  “Oh, right. From Las Vegas.” She moistened her lips. “So . . . are they big gamblers? Or do they just like the shows?”

  Corinne opened the restroom door and threw Josy an amused glance as they walked back into the noisy dimness of the bar.

  “I notice you’re changing the subject. Listen, Chance is a good guy. He’s going to track you down and ask you out again sooner rather than later, just so you know.”

  He’ll be disappointed, Josy thought as they joined Roy and Roberta and several other people who had pulled up chairs around their table. She noted that Ty Barclay was nowhere to be seen and that his chair had been taken by the plaid-shirted man Roberta had danced with earlier. The next moment she spotted Ty striding out the double doors into the night.

  Relief swept through her. She was glad he’d left. The less she had to do with anyone connected to the police, the better.

  She sipped her wine, letting the others chatter around her. Corinne had a warm heart, Roberta was a stitch who seemed to flirt with any man within a half mile, and Roy was like a big, gregarious puppy dog, buying drinks and burgers and cheese fries for everyone at the table.

  But she wondered what was going on with Reese and Jane and the studio. She wondered where Ricky was—if he was safe. And even, to her shame, where Doug was tonight.

  Was he with his wife and his kids? Watching TV, reading a story out loud to his children, going out for ice cream? Or picking up another woman at a business party, telling her he was single, turning on the charm?

  She set down her wineglass. It was still three-quarters full. But she suddenly needed to get away, get home.

  She excused herself, said her good nights, and left the Tumbleweed. The air outside was cool, drenched with the scent of pine. And the hint of rain.

  The moon was covered by murky clouds.

  But she had enough light to see Ty Barclay sitting in a police cruiser no more than ten feet away. And to see that he was watching someone—two someones. Two men getting out of a black pickup. She saw his gaze trained on them as they ambled toward the Tumbleweed.

  They glanced toward the cruiser once, but didn’t slow their steps, just kept on walking, not even speaking to each other. As they passed her, she caught sight of their faces.

  The taller of the two had the kind of tough, pockmarked face a
nd hard, beady eyes usually found in B-movie bad guys. His nose looked like it had been broken more than once and his lips seemed stuck in a perpetual sneer. He looked to be in his midthirties. The second man, dressed in a black shirt and pants, cowboy boots, and a gray Stetson, had a square face, nondescript features, and a stocky build, with stringy hair that touched his collarbone. He looked to be a few years younger than his companion.

  They both eyed her for a moment as they passed by, but neither spoke and then they disappeared inside the Tumbleweed.

  As Josy entered her Blazer and slammed the door, Ty Barclay’s cruiser suddenly roared to life and he took off, the car squealing out of the parking lot and onto the road with a blaring screech of tires.

  At this rate he’ll definitely beat me back to the Pine Hills, she thought, wondering vaguely why he’d been watching the two men. And why he’d taken off like that, like a bat out of hell. Not that it mattered. Nothing about Sheriff Ty Barclay mattered.

  Making contact with Ricky did matter. And so did meeting Ada Scott. With any luck, she thought, driving home through the inky night, and doing her best to put Ty Barclay out of her mind, tomorrow she would do both.

  Chapter 6

  “LET HER GO, VERNON! OPEN THE DOOR!” From inside the ranch house twenty miles from the nearest highway, Ty Barclay heard Sue Ann Watkins screaming. And he heard her husband bellowing, his voice a drunken roar.

  “Go to hell, Sheriff!”

  “Open the door, Vernon,” Ty yelled back. “Now!”

  There was the slamming thump of something hitting a wall, and Ty hoped to hell it wasn’t Sue Ann. The siren of the state police cruiser shrieked down the highway in response to his call for backup, but Ty wasn’t about to wait for them as he heard another high-pitched scream from Sue Ann.

  He backed up a few feet, then placed a well-aimed kick that sent the door crashing in. He went in fast, his revolver trained and ready.

  “Shoot me, go ahead, get it over with!” Vernon shouted, holding a kitchen chair frozen over his head, caught in the act of hurling it. He was a huge man, big as a linebacker, for all that he was past fifty. Ty’s swift gaze took in Sue Ann cowering, white-faced and distraught, in the corner under the staircase, watching her husband through red-rimmed terrified eyes. But she didn’t appear to be hurt, Ty noted as he centered all of his attention on the giant drunken rancher facing him.