Rylie Thorn pulled at her earlobe as she guided her battered ranch pickup into the parking lot of the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department. The stupid wreck bucked and hiccupped like it wanted to die, then steam billowed out from under its hood as she slammed on its bad brakes and threw it into park. The poor old work vehicle wasn’t meant for driving distances, but it wasn’t like she had a whole lot of choices.
None, in fact.
Rylie wished she could spit smoke like the wreck. Just driving the piece of shit was an unwelcome flashback to childhood. They had struggled so much. And her mom, the doormat... She shook her head.
Then and now. Big difference. Life wasn’t easy, but it was nothing like her early years. Rylie knew things would get better soon, and she’d damned sure never be anybody’s doormat.
She used an old rag in the seat to wipe sweat off her forehead. Air-conditioning? Of course, the beat-up hunk of junk didn’t have any air. She jerked the keys out of the wreck’s ignition and slammed the door as she got out. She’d had it up to here with the damn truck thefts, and she was determined to give the new hotshot sheriff a piece of her mind.
Rylie had been pissed about Skylar MacKenna’s cattle being stolen last year, and now trucks were going missing all along the border. The Thorn Ranch had been ripped off. Things had definitely gotten personal.
She marched across the parking lot to the sheriff’s office, her boot heels clattering against the pavement and her jeans skirt bouncing against the back of her knees. She had on short sleeves, and it was past hot already. Spring never could hold off summer in Douglas. Even though it was only April, the second the night’s chill burned away in the morning, she started to sweat. Being furious didn’t help that situation one bit.
She shoved the glass doors open and stomped into the reception area.
A busty brunette raised a sculpted eyebrow, her scarlet lips set in a what-the-hell-do-you-want smile. “May I help you?”
“I’d like to see Sheriff Wayland.” Rylie propped her hands on her slim jean-clad hips. “Now.”
“I don’t think he’s available.” Boob Queen gave a don’t-you-wish-he-was-available sniff as she picked up the phone. “Let me check.” Her temper escalating beyond eruption level, Rylie glanced past the reception area. She looked into a room that was empty save for desks sporting computers and equipment... and that sorry excuse for a deputy, Hazard Quinn. Young, dark-haired, too good-looking for his own good—Quinn was more country-music-star-to-be than skilled law enforcement—at least in his own mind.
Without so much as a by-your-leave, Rylie headed straight for Quinn. She set her gaze on stun with shoot-to-kill as an alternative if the deputy didn’t give her satisfaction.
“You can’t—” Miss Mega-Tits spouted behind Rylie.
“I need a word with you.” Rylie strode right up to Quinn, propped her hands on her hips, and frowned up at him. At just five feet four, she only came to the deputy’s shoulder—but her glare was enough to cut down a man three times her size. And Rylie knew how to wield her icy gaze like a sword.
Quinn’s Adam’s apple bobbed and he diverted his eyes, waving off Boob Queen, then turning his attention back to Rylie. “What do you need, Ms. Thorn?”
“I’ll tell you what I need.” Rylie poked one finger at his deputy’s star, punctuating each word with a jab at the metal. “I need my trucks back. I lost five last night. Five. At the same time! Four of the ranch hands’ vehicles, and my personal truck, too. I need you guys to get off your asses and figure out who the hell is stealing everybody’s rides.”
Quinn stepped back. “We’re working on it. It’s a border-wide problem.”
“Don’t give me that crap.” Rylie advanced on the deputy as he retreated. “Get me the sheriff. Now.”
“What can I do for you?” A deep rumbling voice startled Rylie out of her tirade and sent shivers down her spine.
She whipped her head to the side and her gaze locked with the most amazing crystalline green eyes—and the hottest man she’d ever seen. Her entire body shivered, every coherent thought fleeing her mind as she got lost in the pull of those magnetic eyes.
He had his hip and shoulder propped against the doorway of an office, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his snug Wrangler jeans, and a copper sheriff’s star on his shirt. The man raised one hand to push up the brim of his tan felt Stetson as he studied her. His sable mustache twitched as he smiled.
Oh. My. God. For the first time in her life, Rylie Thorn was speechless.
Sheriff Clay Wayland studied the little wildcat who’d stormed into his office and ripped Deputy Quinn a new one. Damn she’d been cute as she’d spouted off at Quinn. Clay had enjoyed watching the flush in her fair cheeks, how her short blond hair shimmered as she spoke, and the way that sprinkling of freckles made her look so damn adorable.
He’d almost hated to interrupt her. And now... well, hell. The desire that sparked in those chocolate-brown eyes charged up his own libido. Something in his gut told him this was a woman worth getting to know—in every way a man could know a woman.
He pushed away from the door of his office and strode toward her. “Clay Wayland,” he said as he held out his hand.
Quinn mumbled something about “work to be done,” and headed on out of the office, leaving Clay alone with the woman in the empty control room.
“Rylie Thorn.” The petite woman drew herself up and raised her chin as she took his hand.
Her vanilla musk teased his senses, along with the current that sizzled between them as he clasped her hand in his. He wished he wasn’t on duty so he could make things a little more personal between them. “A most definite pleasure, Rylie Thorn.”
As though remembering why she was there in the first place, the little spitfire pulled her hand from his and stepped back. “This bunch of truck thefts up and down the border, it’s gone on long enough—especially here.”
Clay nodded as he hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “You’re telling me.”
“Well, what do you intend to do about it?” Rylie put her hands on her hips, that fiery glint back in her eyes. “We just lost all of our functioning ranch trucks. New Fords, tricked out just like the hands wanted—and my personal vehicle, too. We’re one of the smaller ranches in the area, and that’s something we sure as hell can’t afford.”
Frustration at their inability to track the bastards down was a fire in Clay’s gut. “Believe me, we’re putting everything and everyone we can on it.”
“Obviously, that’s not good enough.” Rylie raised her chin. “What’s it been? Six weeks since the first truck went missing? I know they end up across the border where you can’t do squat to get them back—but by God, they have to get from here to there. Somebody’s running point right here in Douglas.”
Clay ran a hand over his mustache. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but we’re working on it.”
“Well, that’s just great.” Her pretty eyes narrowed even more, and he wondered if she might throw a few sparks. “You know that bastard Francisco Guerrero’s got a hand in this somewhere. Why don’t you have him and his expensive hat down here right now, interrogating him?”
Clay kept his polite smile in place, not wanting the woman to see his sudden unease. Guerrero. That oily bastard was a big fish— and big trouble. He didn’t want her making noise that might get her in trouble with Guerrero’s thugs. Clay had a plan to bring down Douglas’s own personal crime lord when he could get enough evidence—and Rylie Thorn getting tortured to death by pissed-off goons didn’t fit into that plan.
Clay gestured toward the office’s front desk. In his most placating tone, he said, “Why don’t you file a report about your trucks, Ms. Thorn? I’ll put your case at the top of my list.”
The little wildcat glared at him. She didn’t spit, but she didn’t kill him, either. That had to be a win. After a second or two of stripping him down with those hot eyes, she spun and marched out of the control room.
The natural sway of her slim hips damn near killed him.
She paused at the front desk long enough to snarl, “My trucks got stolen. Send somebody out.” Then she headed out the front door, muttering something about, “Damn bureaucrats. If you won’t investigate, I’ll just do it myself.”
Clay shifted his position, trying to alleviate the new ache in his body.
What that woman just did to him, it wasn’t natural.
Or maybe it was the most natural thing in the world.
Looked like he’d have to pay a visit to the Thorn Ranch.
He stood for another few seconds as the fog in his mind cleared— then he realized what she’d said as she slammed the door.
If you won’t investigate, I’ll just do it myself.
In the movies, when cops said, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” it was time to cue the scary music.
Bad feeling didn’t cover the wave of instinct that hit Clay Wayland.
Do it myself...
He thought about the little spitfire, and about Francisco Guerrero. She thought the drug lord was guilty—and Clay had a pretty good idea Rylie Thorn thought she was ten feet tall and bulletproof, too.
That sealed it.
“Ah, shit.” He grabbed his hat and headed out the door, barking orders at everyone standing in the office.