Snowbound With the Sheriff (2 page)

Chapter Two

There was a boulder stuck in the spokes, all right, and
it took all three of them, Chayston, Riley and Coop, to get it out. Just as it
had taken all three of them to get the stage out of the snow. The clouds he’d
noticed earlier were now overhead and dropping flakes the size of silver dollars
that were going to make the trip to Spring Valley miserable.

As if she hadn’t already made him miserable enough. Having Miss
Violet Ritter plastered to his chest had ignited sensations that had no right
being awakened. Not here, not with her.

Chayston bent to pick up another bag, but before tossing it up
to Coop on top of the stage, he glanced toward the woman sitting on Buster.
She’d tucked her toes up beneath her, and he wondered how she’d stayed balanced
in the saddle, perched like that. She had, though, for more than an hour.

No shoes. None. With all this luggage. Absurd. So was the way
she sat there like an Indian chief wrapped in her red scarf and the buffalo-hide
blanket Coop had provided her out of the stage.

Thoroughly disgusted, Chayston tossed up the last bag and then
walked over to pluck her out of the saddle. This time he carried her with one
arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees so she couldn’t wrap her
legs around him. A few steps later, and without a single word, he dumped her
onto the floor of the stage and slammed the door.

“Let’s go,” he ordered. “This storm’s only going to get
worse.”

As predicted, the weather got worse—edging toward a
full-fledged blizzard—and a mile or more after they’d passed the Johansson
place, Chayston wondered if he should have made everyone hold up there. Storm or
not, staying there, with Seth and Becca, was not something he could do,
therefore trekking onward to Spring Valley was the only choice. Hopefully they’d
make it to town before the heart of the storm hit so he could see Miss Ritter
settled in the hotel until he could deliver her to the General.

There, too, things didn’t go as he planned. The hotel was owned
by Gertrude Guldbrandson, who hated Chayston and wasn’t in the mood to grant him
any favors. “Surely you have a cot or even the couch in your parlor she can
sleep on,” Chayston argued without looking toward the adjacent room. Gertrude’s
daughter, Winifred was in there, waving at him. His refusal to court Winifred
had put him permanently on Gertrude’s bad side, but even if he was
ever—ever—stupid enough to consider marriage again, it wouldn’t be to Winifred.
She was about as pleasant to be around as her mother.

“Absolutely, not,” Gertrude replied to his suggestion. “I’m
full up. Every room taken.” Planting both hands on her mile-wide hips, the woman
continued, “And don’t bother asking Ruth Sutton to take her in, either. No one’s
happy about the General’s foolish behavior.”

Chayston kept the contempt surging inside from showing on his
face. He wasn’t impressed his father had ordered a bride, either, but the
all-out scorn Gertrude was showering upon Violet was truly uncalled for.

Spinning about, he grabbed Violet by the arm. Coop and Riley
hovered at the door, waiting to know where to deposit her luggage so they could
get the horses to shelter and find a place to bed down themselves. “Haul her
stuff to the sheriff’s office,” he ordered gruffly.

Once the men exited, he hoisted Violet into his arms again and
walked out, Gertrude slamming the door so hard her Christmas wreath hit his back
before it landed on the porch.

Violet cringed in his arms. “The sheriff’s office? Do you
expect me to spend the night in a—a jail?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that won’t do,” she said.

The storm was still picking up momentum. Seeing much of
anything was difficult and grew impossible when the wind caught her scarf,
flapping it over his face. “Unless you want to start trekking through the snow
to the ranch on your own, you don’t have a choice because I’m damn sick of
carrying you.”

She pulled the scarf off his face and grabbed ahold of his
neck. “You’re a beast.”

“Yes, I am,” he stated, faltering slightly while searching for
the bottom step of the hotel’s porch. “Remember that.”

Thankfully that shut her up and he trudged forward.

The floor of the sheriff’s office felt as cold beneath her
stocking feet as if he’d set her down outside in the snow. Violet didn’t dare
move, though. The place was as black as a hole. A lantern was soon lit and she
got her first look around while Chayston told Mr. Riley and Mr. Coop to set her
luggage down by the door and go see to the horses. She bid both men goodbye and
thanked them for all of their efforts while huddling deeper into her wool coat,
wishing she’d taken the buffalo-hide blanket from the stage.

She wasn’t a stranger to winter weather—Ohio was known for its
snowfalls, but the magnitude of this storm worried her. Or maybe it was the
coldness she’d felt at the hotel still freezing her blood. She’d thought by
leaving Ohio she’d be escaping spiteful women, but evidently that wasn’t to be.
Ever since their parents had married—her mother and Eleanor’s father—her
stepsister had hated her, but Eleanor’s wrath was put to shame by Gertrude
Guldbrandson’s.

If only her boots hadn’t been stolen. Then she could
have...What? She had nowhere else to go. And a promise was a promise.

Chayston was building a fire in the stove across the room, and
with her body craving the heat his had given off—right through his heavy coat
every time he’d picked her up—Violet examined the room more closely. Spying a
door, she moved a few steps to open it, the light from the lantern on the desk
highlighted the area enough for her to make out two cells complete with iron
bars. She quickly closed the door.

“Leave it open,” he said. “Or you’ll be frozen by morning.”

She did open the door again, but spun around. “I’m not...”
Pausing to search where he could have disappeared to, she noticed another open
door and spoke louder, “Not sleeping in a jail cell.”

He didn’t comment, but light appeared in the other room. She
rounded the desk to peer in. It was living quarters of sorts, complete with a
kitchen stove, table and chairs, cupboards and a rather comfortable-looking bed.
He was busy building another fire in the large cookstove. She took note of other
things, too, like the tub sitting upside down in the far corner, and the sink,
complete with a water pump. It had been a week since she’d had a bath.

Although she assumed the answer, she asked anyway, “Whose bed
is that?”

“Mine,” he answered without glancing up.

“Well,” she said, moving farther into the room, inspecting
things thoroughly, particularly how clean and neat everything appeared, “a
gentleman would give a lady his bed while he slept in one of the cells.”

“Who said I’m a gentleman?”

“No one, but—”

“I’m not.”

“Not what?”

He shut the stove door and turned to face her as he unfolded
his legs and rose to once again become a good head taller than her. “A
gentleman, nor am I going to give you my bed.”

This man was infuriating in so many ways. Tall and broad
shouldered, his size was a bit intimidating, but it was his looks that had
consumed her mind while traveling the last trek of her journey to Spring Valley.
It had led her to wonder if his father looked like him. Not that it would
matter, she’d promised her stepfather she’d marry General Williams, and she
would.

In fact, she was looking forward to it. Her mother’s marriage
to her stepfather had been arranged by a family member and they’d come to love
one another deeply. She’d witnessed it, and knew it was a real possibility for
her, too. Her optimism had gulled Eleanor to no end, making Violet even more
determined to make this marriage work and prove Eleanor wrong once and for
all.

Chayston hadn’t taken off his coat, and was pulling his gloves
back on. “It’ll warm up in here fast enough,” he said. “Make sure to add wood to
both stoves.”

“Where are you going?”

A determined stride carried him across the room. “Out.”

“There’s a blizzard out there,” she reminded him.

“Yes, there is,” he said. “Which makes it even more important I
check that everyone’s accounted for.”

Violet held the other protests that surfaced. She certainly
didn’t want him thinking she was concerned for his safety, because she wasn’t.
Furthermore, anyone foolish enough to go back out in that weather wouldn’t
listen to common sense. She waited until the outer door closed and then
reentered the office area. Grabbing the chair from behind the desk, she rushed
toward the stove. There, she opened the door and sat down to hold both feet in
front of the flames. They stung at first, chilled to the bone, but soon started
to warm.

The heat was wonderful and she could have sat there for hours
but didn’t. After adding more wood to this stove and the one in the living area,
she carted both of her bags into the living space. She then pushed, shoved and
tugged all three of her trunks in there as well. Gentleman or not, Chayston
would be the one to sleep in the cell.

By then, delightful heat filled the rooms and she removed her
coat and scarf, hanging them on hooks she made available by transferring what
must be Chayston’s clothes to other hooks. Warmed by the fire beneath it, the
coffeepot on the cookstove started emitting a scent that sent her stomach
growling. Finding a good supply of foodstuff, she made a fresh pot of coffee and
assembled a pan of bacon and beans, as well as a batch of biscuits. Used to
being busy, she set a pan of water to heat and found a broom. The entire area,
including the office and the cells, was surprisingly clean, leaving Violet to
wonder if Chayston lived by himself. There were no signs of a woman, but there
was a shelf with several fancy teacups and a picture of a very pretty woman near
the bed.

After sweeping and mopping up the water left behind from the
snow that had melted off of Chayston’s boots and her luggage, there was little
else to do, other than set the table. When that was done, she poured herself a
cup of coffee and carried it with her, taking tiny sips as she explored the
office. Wanted posters and newspapers were stacked on a shelf in the corner. She
glanced through them, wondering more about the sheriff than anything else. Like
where had he gone? When would he be back, and how did he get that little scar on
his chin?

Eventually, cooking drew her back into the other room. She’d
just transferred the biscuits onto a plate when the front door opened. Violet
wasn’t sure why her heart skipped a beat, other than she’d been thinking about
her future, of having a meal on the table when her husband came home. It’s what
she’d always wanted—a family where everyone loved one another. Up until now that
had been impossible. Eleanor had seen to that. Violet had tried, as she’d
promised her mother she would from the moment they’d moved into John’s house,
but Eleanor had never ceased reminding her that they weren’t sisters—that John
wasn’t Violet’s father—right up until the moment she’d boarded the train for
Montana.

The sound of stomping boots jostled her and she moved to carry
the plate to the table, glancing through the open doorway in the process.
Chayston was knocking the snow from his pant legs, and she couldn’t help but
speculate about his father again and hope just a bit that the General was
perhaps as handsome as his son. A tiny bit of excitement danced inside her at
the thought of sending Eleanor a letter about her new, overly handsome husband.
That would be spiteful, but spite was something Eleanor knew well.

Violet went back to the stove to retrieve the pot of bacon and
beans. Chayston entered the room, and frowned deeply as he glanced from the
table to her then to the table again as he moved toward the hooks where her coat
hung. After moving a few other things, he hung up his coat and hat, and her
heart fluttered again. His hair was dark brown, cut short and parted on the
side. Once again, writing Eleanor came to mind, but this time a small portion of
her optimism plummeted. Her stepsister would write back and point out her new
husband was probably too old to want more children.

Without a word, Violet filled a cup of coffee for the sheriff
and then sat down, placing both hands in her lap while waiting for him to take
the opposite chair.

Chayston’s nerves were in high gear, ticking beneath his skin
as if he was o waiting for robbers to strike. That had only happened once, and
they’d captured all three, but he’d never forget the sensation. Keeping his eyes
averted, he moved to the sink and washed his hands, slowly. He hadn’t expected
this. A meal on the table that smelled so good he was practically drooling.

Violet Ritter, without her red scarf and encompassing gray
coat, was something of a surprise, too. He’d known she was tiny from carrying
her, but he hadn’t notice how unique her eyes were—pale blue like the sky early
in the morning. He hadn’t noticed her hair, either. It was as yellow as
dandelions and though it was pinned up, several corkscrews hung around her face
and ears. The women of Spring Valley were going to be in an uproar when they
spied her, and his father would be the target of their disdain. For years, every
widow in town had their sights set on the General, and being overthrown by
someone this pretty, and young enough to be his daughter, was sure to set
tongues wagging.

Chayston had been in their sights, too, mainly for their
daughters. Up until Becca, he’d laughed them off, and after Becca, the thought
of marriage left him disgusted.

He flipped the towel over the hook next to the sink and made
his way to the table. Despite the wonderful scents filling the air, his stomach
had soured. Why did he have to be the sheriff right now? The ruckus following
Miss Violet Ritter was going to be worse than what those robbers had caused.

Chapter Three

Chayston spent most of the meal trying not to look at
Violet. It hadn’t worked very well. His eyes were drawn to her, and a little
voice in his head was conjuring up things the men in town might say about her.
Like how she was the prettiest thing they’d ever seen and how lucky the General
was.

After taking a long swig of coffee—which he almost choked on—he
said, “Thank you. That was very good.”

Her smile was tiny and the shine of her cheeks appeared
bashful. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“I did,” he answered honestly. “And I didn’t expect it.”

She frowned and tilted her head to one side slightly. “Expect
it?”

“Yes, expect it.” He took another swallow of coffee. “You
didn’t need to cook.”

With a little shrug, she said, “I’ve been cooking for as long
as I can remember.” After patting her lips with her napkin, she added, “My
mother taught me. For the last three years, since she died, I’ve been in charge
of preparing all the meals.”

“For who?”

“My stepfather and stepsister, and for the past four months
since her marriage, my stepsister’s husband.”

“In Ohio?” he asked, already knowing her answer. Other than her
name and where she was from, the General hadn’t said much, just to bring her to
the ranch posthaste.

“Yes,” she said. “Ohio.” Straightening her already stiff-back
posture, she added, “I’m sorry I didn’t have time to make something for
dessert.”

“I’m used to faring for myself, so I don’t have desserts very
often.” Chayston met her gaze again. “Not like the General. But he has a
cook.”

“He does?”

Why he wanted her to know that wasn’t clear, yet he said, “Yes,
a fine one.”

She nodded, never looking his way. After a few quiet seconds
had ticked by, she asked, “Who is the woman in the picture?”

Busy contemplating how his father might have found her, it was
a moment before her question registered. “What picture?”

“The one on the shelf with the teacups.”

He glanced across the room. “That would be Roy’s wife,” he
said. “How’d you and the General start writing?”

“We didn’t write,” she said. “Who’s Roy?”

“The sheriff,” he answered. “Did you send telegrams to each
other?”

She frowned and shook her head. “No, the General and my
stepfather wrote to each other. I thought you were the sheriff.”

“Who’s your father?”

The tiniest little laugh sounded as she set her chin in her
palm and gazed across the table. “Can we stick to one subject?”

More curious than he should be, Chayston answered, “Sure. Who’s
your father?”

She let out a small sigh, but answered, “John Lassiter.”

Recognition surprised him. “Lieutenant John Lassiter?”

Her eyes took on a shimmering brightness and a full smile found
her lips. “Yes. Did you know him? He and the General were stationed
together.”

“They were, and yes, I knew him. Before the General left the
army for ranching, we all lived at the fort. The General and John were close
friends.” Chayston had to grin, remembering how John had given him a knife one
year for Christmas—back when he looked forward to the holiday. “How is
John?”

Her smile faded, so did the gleam in her eye. “He died two—no
three weeks ago.”

Remorse washed over Chayston. Unable to come up with anything
better, he said, “I’m sorry.”

She sniffled and rubbed at her nose. “I am too.”

At a loss, Chayston picked up his coffee and swallowed the
last—now very cold—mouthful.

“So,” she said, “how can both you and Roy be the sheriff?”

“I’m just filling in for Roy Galveston. He captured a couple of
bandits, robbers who’d hit a few trains and banks, last fall, and took them down
to Texas where they were wanted for their crimes. He’ll be back by the end of
January.” Chayston hoped that was still the plan. He’d had enough of being a
lawman and was ready to get back to ranching. The General had insisted he
wouldn’t be needed at the ranch during the slower winter months and could fill
in while Roy went south, and the town council agreed, which was usual. No one
ever defied the General. His mother said he’d be like that, too, someday. She’d
been right, at least when it came to the stubborn and bullheaded traits.

A shiver rippled his spine, like a goose walking over his
grave—another of his mother’s sayings—and Chayston let his gaze settle on
Violet, who was looking at him just as seriously.

Then, pushing away from the table, he rose.

She jumped to her feet too. “Could we make a deal?”

Another shiver almost paralyzed him. “What sort of deal?”

“I’ll clean up.” She gestured toward the table and then the
stove. “And cook all the meals until the weather lets up enough for me to travel
to the General’s ranch, if you let me sleep in here instead of in a jail
cell.”

He’d already figured he’d be the one sleeping in the cell, even
before learning she was John Lassiter’s daughter, but there was worry in her
eyes and for some inexplicable reason, he wanted to tease it away. “You’ll make
desserts?”

Watching the smile form on her lips was like watching a
sunrise.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll make desserts.”

Chayston tried to swallow the thickness forming in his throat
but couldn’t. He should go back out in the snow, find someplace else for her to
stay. She was far too pretty, too...feminine to stay here with him. Alone.

Having already carried her plate to the sink, she turned
and—still smiling, still looking pretty and feminine and sweet—said, “I do have
one other small request.”

He gulped. “What’s that?”

“The use of your bathtub,” she said. “It’s been over a week,
and I—”

Spinning around did not stop the vision of her sitting in water
up to her chin from leaping into his head. “I’ll see you in the morning, then,”
Chayston said firmly, closing the door separating the office from the living
quarters with a solid thud. Living at the ranch would be hard, but tonight,
being snowed in with a death-defying blizzard stopping any chances of leaving,
was going to be hell.

He struggled for a breath of air, but his body was recalling
how she’d plastered those sweet little curves of hers against him. Things had
spiked then and were now throbbing. Painfully.

Honeysuckle and spring. That’s what she smelled like, and it
was damn near impossible not to envision her all warm and slick, stepping out of
the bathwater.

Disgusted by his thoughts, Chayston crossed the room to add a
log to the stove, only to be thwarted again. Violet had stoked the fire there as
well, and he wondered how she’d found the time to accomplish everything she had
in the short time he’d been gone. The wind was so strong he’d barely made it up
and down the boardwalks on both sides of Main Street. Everything had been locked
up tight; folks had hunkered down to wait out a storm that could last several
days.

Days.

Aw, hell.

Lifting the lamp off the desk, Chayston made his way into the
narrow room holding two cells. Even with the stove going, the area was cold.
Nothing like the living quarters. ’Course, it never seemed quite as welcoming
as it had tonight, all toasty warm and smelling of fresh-baked biscuits.

John Lassiter’s daughter—if that didn’t beat all. An eerie
sensation tickled his spine, and Chayston turned back around. That couldn’t be.
He crossed the room and waited until she bid entrance before he pushed the door
open. “How old are you?”

At the sink, she continued washing dishes, looking his way over
one shoulder. “Nineteen. Why?”

“I remember John talking about his daughter, but—” He stopped.
John had claimed his daughter was close to Chayston’s age. He’d been about ten
then, twenty-five now.

“That would be my stepsister, Eleanor. John’s first wife,
Eleanor’s mother, died shortly after he returned to Ohio. A few years later,
when I was eight, he and my mother married.”

“Eleanor. That does sound familiar.” And made more sense.

“Did you ever meet her?” she asked.

“No.”

She grinned, but it was more of a grimace, and turned back to
the dishes.

“What’s that look for?” he asked.

“What look?”

“The one that makes me glad I’ve never met Eleanor,” he
replied.

Her laugh was musical, and although he knew he shouldn’t, he
crossed the room.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” he asked.

“Eleanor is Eleanor,” she answered.

“The two of you don’t always see eye to eye?”

With a groan, she answered, “The two of us have never seen eye
to eye.” She glanced at the towel he picked up. “I can do this. You don’t need
to help.”

“I normally do it,” he said. “And the cooking. It comes with
the job.”

“One you don’t like,” she said.

“How would you know that?”

She bowed her head slightly. “The same way you figured out how
I feel about Eleanor, I suspect.”

He let that settle for a moment, or tried to. Trouble was, his
mind had moved on. Thoughts of kissing her now danced like fireflies in his
head. He’d bet his last coin her lips were softer than flower petals and sweeter
than maple syrup. Cutting off that thought, he answered, “I suspect so. It’s not
a bad job, though, as far as jobs go.”

Lifting one finely shaped brow, she nodded. “And Eleanor’s not
a bad person. She just didn’t like sharing her father, and I can’t really blame
her for that.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

“You tell me first.” When he frowned, she added, “Were you
trying to convince me it’s not a bad job, as far as jobs go?”

He dried the last cup, but rather than putting it in the
cupboard, he filled it with coffee. It was a little like playing with fire,
being this close to her, and that was rather enticing. “A little of both, I
guess,” he said after taking a drink. “I miss ranching. One of those things you
don’t know how much you like it until it’s gone.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” She turned around and leaned
her backside against the counter. “I don’t remember my father, he died when I
was little, but we lived with my grandmother then, and I remember her. We were a
family.”

He sensed melancholy and asked, “Were?”

She nodded. “Gran became ill. My father and John were cousins,
and Gran arranged for my mother and John to marry so we wouldn’t be alone after
she died.”

“And now your mother and John are both dead, too.”

She nodded again. “Yes, they are.” Letting out a sigh, she
said, “John was ill for the last year, but I still wasn’t ready to lose
him.”

“We never are,” he said honestly. “Never really ready for most
things life throws at us.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Violet said, blinking at the tears the
conversation had caused.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded, but then, unable to stop herself, shook her head.
However, the next moment, when his arms pulled her close, sadness was not what
overcame her.