2000 Kisses (8 page)

“What do you mean the money isn't
there!
What kind of game are you playing?”

“It's not there. I'm looking at my account right now, dammit. Your last eight deposits are missing!”

“That's impossible.” He had coded them himself.

“Tell that to the man who's flying in tonight from Seattle.”

“That's not necessary,” he replied in a deadly cold voice. “We'll find the problem and take care of it from our end. We always do.”

“Damn straight, we'll find the problem. But if you'd like to stay alive, you'll find it for us first.”

Hie phone clicked off.

He stared at the receiver.

He hadn't made a mistake. Had he?

S
heriff Jackson McCall was almost asleep.

His chair was cocked to forty-five degrees against a split-rail fence in front of the sheriffs office.

“T.J., you there?”

The tall cowboy, known as TJ. to his friends, scowled and shoved his Stetson lower on his head. He'd been up most of the prior twenty-four hours running down stray stock from a neighboring ranch and he wasn't overly pleased to be roused from a colorful dream involving palm trees, cool water, and a dozen nearly naked women in red sarongs.

His handset buzzed again. “T.J., I know you're there, and I know this blamed radio works, so you'd better answer me.”

The sheriff of Almost, Arizona, didn't move a muscle beneath his battered Stetson. “What is it, Grady? Another hitchhiker with a sign warning us the world has ended?”

“Hell, no. That was last month. This is a whole lot better.”

“I'm sleeping, Grady. You're on duty now. Call me when the mother ship enters final approach. Until then I've got a hot date with a lady in a red sarong.”

Grady chuckled. “You're making a big mistake, boy.”

“Mistake's my middle name.” T.J. eased his broad shoulders back against the chair. His eyes were closed and he was already halfway back into what was becoming a very inventive fantasy.

Lately it seemed as if fantasies were all the sheriff had time for.

“Dammit, T.J., you git yourself off that chair right now. It's a woman I'm calling you about, hear?”

Sighing, McCall shoved back his hat and squinted down the quiet street. Then he rocked his chair flat and stood up slowly.

A powder-blue Mercedes convertible stood angled before the General Mercantile, one wheel hitched over the dusty curb. The other was flattening a crate that appeared to be filled with peaches. Or what had
been
peaches.

“You seeing that car, T.J.?”

“I see it”

Static crackled over the handset. “Bound to be a clear traffic violation in there somewhere. We can't let people go charging down Main Street in violation of town safety codes.”

“Nothing violated that I can see. Except maybe those peaches.” T.J. flipped off his handset as his grizzled deputy strode out of the cafg directly across the street and walked toward him. “You're just itchy because you always wanted a car like that.”

Grady looked offended. “I am speaking as a man with honest town spirit A man with a true concern for the welfare and livelihood of our respected citizens.”

“And a man who's drowning in envy.”

“You paint a sorry picture of a colleague and an old
friend, Sheriff. I am simply trying to see justice done. Can't have Main Street turned into an eyesore.”

“Give over, Grady. You're a deputy and no disturbance of the peace has taken place.”

The deputy ignored him, tugging a worn pencil stub from behind his ear. “Maybe we could go for property damage or a charge of reckless endangerment. I could get an interview for the paper.” Grady started across the street, then turned impatiently. “Aren't you coming?”

“Looks like I don't have any choice, not with you chewing at my saddle.”

T.J. shoved back his hat and stretched slowly, working the knotted muscles at his shoulder where a charging cow had snapped him sideways. He stared at the crushed peaches, which were already drying in the fierce desert sun.

Anything for news, T. J. McCall thought. In addition to serving as a deputy officer, Grady was also the editor of the
Almost Gazette
, and news had been scarce lately. It was downright pathetic how boredom could wear a man down.

“Relax, Grady. The Mercantile looks intact, and as far as I can see, no shots have been fired and there are no dead bodies littering Main Street.”

They crossed the street, matching each other stride for stride.

Grady scratched his head. “Maybe the woman in the car is a spy for a foreign government.” His eyes darkened. “Or maybe she's a key witness on the run from indictment in an organized-crime investigation.”

“Maybe she's just lost.”

“The trouble with you, McCall, is you don't have any imagination. Leastways go and git her name. There's still some space left in the next issue.”

“There's
always
space left in the next issue.”

Grady gave a low whistle. “Well, would you look at that.”

T. J. McCall barely heard his deputy's comment. He was too busy staring at the vision emerging from behind the wheel of the Mercedes. She was a true apparition in soft denim and teal-blue suede, and her hair reminded T.J. of a sunrise he'd seen as a boy camping out in the Superstitions. He'd never seen that much red, gold, and silver in one head before, and it took his breath away.

Another tourist, he decided. He
hated
tourists. They brought nothing but trouble and complaints. Plagued with too much money and too little sense, in his general experience.

There was another possibility, of course. She could be that baby sister that Andrew O'Mara was sending to Almost.

T.J. scowled at the polished Mercedes and the even more polished female leaning against the hood. This sleek number wasn't
anyone's
baby sister. No woman who looked like that came to Almost except by mistake. There wasn't a sushi bar, day spa, or destination resort anywhere in sight.

The woman still hadn't noticed him, and for some reason that added to T.J.'s irritation. She was hunched over the hood, fiddling with her map, giving T.J. a clear view of her rounded backside.

He took a slow breath and let his gaze wander over the curves hidden beneath soft denim. A tooled leather belt circled her slim waist and a fringed suede jacket was slung over her shoulders.

Oddly enough, there were tire tracks running right down the back of it.

T.J. felt his throat go bone dry, the way it did when a dust devil cut over the mountains from Mexico, clogging his breath and whipping sand and grit in a dozen directions at once. Amazing how something so pretty could hurt so bad.

“You need any help interrogating her, Sheriff?”

“I think I can manage without backup, Grady. But thanks for the offer.”

“You're the boss. But I reckon I'll stick around, just in case.”

T.J. picked his way past the mutilated peaches. “Can I help you, Ma'am?”

She didn't seem to hear, bent over a wrinkled map she was awkwardly folding and refolding. Each time the folds came out wrong.

T.J. noticed that her hands were shaking.

“Ma'am?”

No answer.

He slanted a look inside the expensive car. The seats were loaded with bags, books, and some kind of fancy silver appliance. A pair of new red cowboy boots leaned against the passenger door. Excellent leather work, T.J. decided with an expert eye.

But there was no water anywhere in sight.

The woman swayed slightly. She ran her hand through that glorious mass of red-and-gold hair and turned.

McCall blinked. At that moment he remembered what it felt like for a mean horse to kick him hard in the backside.

The woman gave the word radiance new meaning. It wasn't just because of her fine skin or the moss-green eyes alive with amber glints. T.J. thought it might be the
way freckles dotted her nose. Or maybe it was that full, stubborn mouth.

Suddenly he couldn't seem to breathe properly. He cleared his throat and shoved away an erotic vision of her mouth—on his body. “Ma' am?'”

She was shaking and her face had gone sickly white.

“It just won't work.” Her voice was painfully sexy, husky and low. Or maybe it was just dry.

“Forget the damn map,” T.J. growled. “When was the last time you had anything to drink?”

“Drink?” She peered at him over the map, and TJ. felt something slam him hard in the chest. To his disgust, the sensation promptly moved lower, gathering just below the weight of his silver belt buckle. If this turned out to be Andrew O'Mara's baby sister, TJ. was going to be very, very sorry.

“That's right,” he growled, “what have you been drinking?”

Her chin shot up. “Are you suggesting that I'm drunk?”

“I'm talking about liquid in general. Preferably water.”

She frowned at something in the air over his head.” “I had some wine last night with dinner. That was back in New Mexico. A zinfandel from Sonoma, nothing fancy. I had orange juice at breakfast. Unsweetened. Natural pulp. But I don't see why—” Suddenly her hand opened on the car hood. “I don't feel—” She took a sharp breath.

“Damn fool creature.” If he hadn't been so gut-wrenched by that first sight of her, T J. would have seen the signs immediately. As it was, he barely managed to lunge forward as she toppled onto his chest.

Out cold.

A crowd had gathered by the time Grady held open the door so that TJ. could carry the new arrival into his office. With no water in twenty-four hours, the blasted female was lucky she'd lasted this long.

T.J. settled his unconscious visitor on the cot beside his gunmetal-gray desk and spun his hat onto a peg by the door. “Somebody go get Doc Felton.” He tugged off her suede jacket and unbuttoned the top three buttons of her white shirt to drizzle cool water over her skin. Just doing his job, he told himself. He damned well wasn't enjoying the sight, either.

Not her long, slim neck. Not the faint shadow below the edge of her shirt.

Grady cleared his throat. “Think she's someone important, TJ.? Someone on the run? Mafia witness? Government courier maybe?”

“We're never going to find out if you don't give her some air,” T.J. growled. With quick movements he soaked a second washcloth in water from his cooler and laid it over her forehead. “The fool hasn't had any water all day.”

“Yep,” Grady said thoughtfully. “That'd put a body out sure enough.” Grady stared at the cot in morbid fascination. “Maybe she's gonna die.”

“Nobody's dying in my office,” TJ. said tightly. “Now, everyone out. Floor show's over.” But she still didn't move, and his anxiety grew. Heat stroke was never a pretty sight. She needed to drink, but he didn't dare force liquids while she was unconscious, in case she choked.

He was greatly relieved when the town doctor pushed through the door. Ernest Felton was sixty-something,
with stooped shoulders and keen eyes that had seen just about every calamity and bodily trauma in forty years of general practice. “Got a patient for me, McCall?”

“Hasn't moved an inch since I brought her in, Doc. She looks pretty beat.”

The doctor slid a digital thermometer between her lips. “A hundred and one. That's a good sign.”