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The gelding moved Alex’s way, his steps sure and deliberate, head nodding. As Alex proffered his hand, the horse blew out a breath, hesitated, waited and watched. Alex stood still, hand out, his eyes on Cress. She held her position as well, glad the horse was making his own moves and thoroughly ticked off that he came to Alex right off the bat. What was it with this guy? Old ladies, horses and little kids loved him. Oh, and the traitor dog
she
fed every night. Ol’ Shep was like the president of the “Bark-if-you-love-Alex-Westmore” fan club.

Life was
not fair.

The horse reached out, nostrils wide, sniffing.
Alex uncurled his hand, his gaze still directed to Cress. Snorting slimy, equine saliva onto Alex’s hand, the horse accepted the sugar cube, savoring the sweetness palpably. Once he swallowed the treat, he nudged Alex’s hand for more. When none was forthcoming, he gave a light whinny and poked his nose up and under Alex’s arm.

Traitor dog. Traitor horse.

Why did Cress even bother trying?

Alex
maintained his posture, his gaze on her, while the hand that had held the sugar lightly smoothed one side of the horse’s face and neck. “So. You say he’s jumpy?”

Cress would have loved to stomp off but
refused to do anything that might startle the horse. “He was.”

The
slow, lazy signature grin stole over Alex’s features. “He likes me.”

Oh, bother. She huffed a breath and nodded, reluctant. “So it would seem.”

“How about you?”

Cress shrugged. “He’s beginning to trust me.” No way in this world was she about to tell
Alex the horse wouldn’t let her within three feet of him as yet.

“I meant me.”

Cress frowned.

“You like me.”

“Yeah. Right.” She rolled her eyes and tapped her foot, impatient.

“Come on, Cress. Admit it.”

“Come on, Alex. Stuff it.”

Keeping a light circular motion going against the horse’s skin,
Alex sent her a look that pooled inside her, warm and good. “Now what do we do about it?”

“You’re crazy, Counselor.”

He nodded, his face easy, as if letting her off the hook. “I’ve been called worse. So. Why didn’t you show last night?”

“I already answered that.”

He wasn’t buying it, but then he was a lawyer and they had that sneaky way of bringing things back around to the original question when you weren’t looking.

But so did cops, and she was a good cop. Well.
Had been
a good cop. “Alex, my first concern is my grandmother. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her happy, keep her comfortable, keep her alive because I love her. And for some totally obscure reason, despite the fact that you took her for a ride and sold her farm out from under her, she seems to have a soft spot for you. But that’s her, not me, so don’t—”

She’d drawn closer as she spoke, her face agitated, her voice pitching up. When she got just close enough,
Alex silenced her with a kiss, his lips soft, his mouth firm, his skin smelling of slightly worn high-dollar after shave, breath mints and horse.

A heady combination because Cress happened to love all three.

He snaked his free arm around her, his mouth tasting, testing.

Hers did the same, wondering why she should feel so good while kissing
Alex Westmore. His mouth wandered her face, pressing soft, half-kisses here and there while she leaned into him, hoping he’d never stop. When he finally released her she had to work not to whimper, looking for more, sounding strangely like her dog.

“Well.”

“Well.”

He nodded as if he’d confirmed something he knew all along, then took a step back. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, maybe we can talk sensibly.”

Talk sensibly with the scent of him still on her face, her hair? Not even remotely possible. “Exactly what did you want to be sensible about, Counselor? And let me just add that if this is the way you handle girls after kissing them senseless, it’s no small wonder you’re single.”

“Senseless?” He grinned, disarming. “I like the sound of that.”

“I thought you would. So. Okay.” With deliberate motion Cress wiped her mouth on the back of her sleeve. “What exactly did you want to talk about?”

He shook his head at her childish gesture which made her feel that much more childish.

She really should cling to hating him, because disliking Alex was far less confusing.

“You went to the sheriff’s office this morning.”

She hummed a few bars of Miranda Lambert’s “Everybody Dies Famous in a Small Town”.

Alex
acknowledged her intimation with a nod. “Word gets around, but only because one of the deputies thought we were friends.”

“We’re not.”

Alex gave her a “get-over-yourself” look that shamed her. She shrugged. “All right. Why’d they run to you?”

He shook his head easy, mindful of the horse. “He went to
Cruz and Cruz came to me.”

“And you came looking for me.”

“I came to remind you that you’re not exactly in prime shape to be chasing down sketchy people on your own.”

“I seem to be holding my own with you, Counselor.”

He blew out a breath, exasperated. Startled, the horse pushed up, banging Alex’s face with its head. Blood gushed forth, splattering Cress and the front of Alex’s really nice shirt. “Son of a –”

He bit back what he wanted to say, strode off a dozen paces, holding his face, chin down, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to stave the bleeding.

“Here.” Cress whipped off her t-shirt and thrust it at him. “Put this against your face and apply pressure. And sit down, for heaven’s sake.”

He moved to a wood-slatted barrel off to one side of the paddock and did as she instructed. Long seconds ticked by as
he pressed the fabric to his face, head down, fingers clenched against the bridge of his nose.

When the throbbing and bleeding eased, he opened his eyes.

Cress squatted before him, a pale cami covering polka-dot bra straps that screamed summer fun in bright, random circles of color. Awareness washed over him and he sat back, withdrew the fabric from his face, staring, amazed. “You gave me your shirt.”

“Yes.” She must have read the look in his eyes because she waved her gesture off as nothing special. “As you can see, I had another one on underneath.”

“Half-of-one.”

“It’s a cami,” she retorted. “No different than a summer tank top. Give me a break, Counselor.”

Oh, it was way different from a summer tank top. The ivory lace trimming the upper edge with tiny, hot pink satin bows marking thin ivory straps didn’t resemble any summer tank tops he’d been privy to lately.

Alex
wasn’t exactly clueless about women’s underwear. And cami or not, the thing was a mix of sex and subtlety, sweetness and scamp.

The fact that the raspberry bows matched some of the polka dots made him wonder if she liked
everything
matching.

He smacked himself internally. He wasn’t the kind of guy who ogled women,
but something about Cress kneeling before him, her eyes clouded with concern, concern for
him
, no less, like that was an expected circumstance, made him want to take care of her. Cover her up.

But her t-shirt was blood-soaked, so he couldn’t. Except…

Wiping his hands on her already ruined shirt, he pulled off his Armani with ease and settled it over her head before she could protest.

“
Alex, I—”

“It’s chilling off.”

“But all you’ve got is a t-shirt on.”

“More than what you had, Crescent.”

“Oh, please.” She sent him a look that dawned with understanding. “It’s not like I was indecent or anything. Give me a break.”

No, not indecent. Not at all. But definitely inspirational.
Alex didn’t have a hard time jumping from polka dots peeking beneath the lace edging to polka dots elsewhere, and if he took that leap he’d be darned if some other guy would get the chance. Uh, uh.

He watched her hug the shirt close, and then she did something totally out of character, totally un-Cress-like.

“Thank you.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, her skin soft, her breath light. She stepped back and Alex noted a new awareness in her eyes, her expression. He nodded and stood, holding her ruined shirt off to the side to avoid further destruction. “You’re welcome.”

*

What was she thinking? Doing? Kissing Alex like that.

Oh, yeah, he’d initiated the maneuver, and well done to boot, but she’d responded in kind, the feel of him, the scent of him so nice. So perfect.

Except he was Alex Westmore and had duped her beloved grandmother out of the family farm Cress had loved. What on earth came over her?

And what did the stupid horse and dog know that she didn’t? So much for animal instinct. They sucked
up to the big guy like he was Santa Claus minus the red suit.

“Cress? You up?”

Of course she was. She’d figured out the Sunday routine the week previous, but this time she’d out-smarted Alex and left him a message that she’d be taking Gran to church, relieving him of his duty until notified otherwise. That at least would prevent a slip like they’d had the week before.

That thought brought to mind the feel of his hands along her arms, the look in his eye, the way his left eye crinkled
a hint more, the deep brown softening in appreciation as he held her.

Caught her, she corrected herself, then spewed a half-cry when she grabbed for the
dress pants she’d draped on the back of the desk chair.

Stop. Bite your tongue. Count to ten.

The hum of the washing machine said it all. In Gran’s rush to keep all things bright and beautiful, she’d nabbed Cress’s dress pants, the skirt and her good jeans. The only thing still hanging in the closet was a summer dress she’d brought just in case.

Tugging on
undergarments that worked beneath the trim shirt-waist, Cress slipped into sling-back pumps and turned quickly to head downstairs, ruing an old woman’s bent toward cleanliness akin to godliness.

Her image in the mirrored closet door paused her. She slid a hand to her throat, contemplating.

She looked pretty. Young. Sweet.

Swallowing the instant gag reflex, she studied the image a long moment, hunting differences.

She’d worn this dress before. Not often. Cress’s life in the Twin Cities hadn’t lent itself to dressing up, going out, heading to church on a warm, sunny Sunday morning.

The dress looked different. No. She looked different. Calmer. Prettier.

Happier.

A flush climbed her neck as realization grew.

The dress hadn’t changed in the short weeks she’d been home.

She had. Bit by bit the toughened, in-your-face detective was realigning with the small-town Midwestern woman within.
A Midwestern girl that looked real good in floral crepe with a nipped in waist, a soft belt and cute shoes.

Meeting her reflective gaze, Cress fingered the
tiny, raised, ruffled collar, soft tendrils of hair framing her face. She’d almost forgotten this woman, this Cress, the girl who stared back from the mirror, a hint of gentility warming her features.

Don’t get soft
, an inner voice warned.
Soft cops become dead cops.

But another voice interrupted, a gentler voice. Warmer. Wiser.

Not in Chippewa County, honey.

Cress firmed her look and shoved
both voices aside. At the moment she wasn’t sure she wanted to be a cop at all, ever again, thoughts of a collar gone bad, grabbing her.

The memory of Les Budall
tweaked an internal nudge, the rent-a-cop mentality pervading Watkins Ridge.

But then she pictured
Cruz Westmore, a solid cop, a trooper, a man who stood for what was right in the face of so much gone wrong, despite what happened to his father at a cop’s hands. Or maybe because of it.

“Cress? You coming?”

She closed the mirrored closet door, then did the same thing to her thoughts. Too much, too soon. She couldn’t think about that bullet tearing through her leg without knowing it could have been her partner’s life instead. Moments of indecision or split thoughts had no business on cop calls. None.

Better she’d taken the bullet this time. Her fault entirely. But no way could she chance someone else’s life with her mental anxieties. For the moment she was best where she was. Helping and hiding in small town USA.

*

Alex
refused to shift his gaze to where Cress sat, legs crossed, eyes front, the folds of some soft, swingy material outlining her figure as she’d walked in, the soft red and brown floral tones perfect with her hair, her eyes.