Authors: Diana Palmer
Sara waved at her to hush. Nettie rolled her eyes. None of the eyewitness accounts about the Gentleman Caller jived. Several frightened bank employees swore he’d flashed a gun; others said he’d merely claimed to have one. He’d been described variously as suave, dangerous, unflappable and, by one particularly whimsical teller, sweet.
“And,” Ernie’s voice crackled across the Kalamoose airwaves again, this time with ominous portent. “He’s wearing a Ducks’ cap.”
“Ducks’ cap?” Sara repeated, scribbling again.
“Anaheim Ducks.”
“I don’t remember that from the bulletin.”
“It weren’t in the bulletin. But tell me this—what kinda fella roots for a hockey team in a city that wouldn’t recognize snow if they stepped on it? Anaheim. Shee-oot!”
Nettie rocked with laughter. Sara shot her a dirty look, then growled tightly into the radio, “Ernie, I can’t question somebody because you don’t like the Ducks.”
“I don’t like Anaheim.”
Flinging herself against the back of the chair, Sara hurled her pencil at the CB. “Aw, for crying out loud!”
“Okay, Sheriff, how ‘bout this: You know how when Gloria puts the food down, she sets the check down, too? Well, this fella paid right away, and when he reached into his pocket, he took out a wad of cash big enough to choke a horse. Smallest bill he had was a C-note. I gotta go into the safe to make change. And he started askin’ Gloria about the layout of the town, too. Where’s the market and how late does it stay open? And he’s been real polite like they say, but he talks quiet, unnatural soft,
like he’s disguisin’ his voice. And he don’t make eye contact if he can help it.” There was a slight pause. “Over.”
The sudden tensing of Sara’s shoulders telegraphed her alertness. Nettie’s grin faded. She sat motionless, watching her sister’s reaction.
“Oh, boy! Gloria just signaled me again. He finished the potatoes. You better get here, Sheriff, and I mean quick-like. Over.”
Leaning forward, Sara spoke calmly but firmly. “I’ll be at the diner in a few minutes. Keep him there if you can, Ernie.”
“Well, sure we can!” There was a brief pause. “How? Over.”
Sara was already on her feet. “Give him free pie, coffee…Have Gloria spill lemonade on his trousers…You’ll think of something. But don’t try to detain him against his will or do anything to make him suspicious, you hear?”
“Roger, Sheriff, you can count on us.” Ernie sounded like a radio spot for the United States Marine Corps. “Over and out.”
As Sara prepared to leave, her hands moved automatically to her gun belt, checking to make sure everything was in place.
Nettie’s eyes widened as an eerie chill skittered up her spine. “You’re serious about this?”
Sara was too preoccupied to reply. She reached for her hat.
Hopping off the desk, Nettie moved swiftly toward her sister. “Sara, do you honestly think this man is the bank robber?”
Sara answered vaguely, her mind on the business ahead. “I don’t know. Could be.”
Despite her initial disbelief, Nettie’s heart began to pound. “You’re not going to go over there alone then?”
“What?” Sara plucked her jacket off a wooden rack by the door. “’Course I am. What are you talking about?”
Nettie began chewing on a thumbnail, realized what she was doing and whipped her hand down and behind her back. Scarcely two hours earlier she’d promised herself she would stop worrying and start living.
She’d always had rotten timing when it came to resolutions.
“If this man is the Gentleman Caller,” she began, knowing she would not win a battle against fear when the safety of someone she loved was at stake, “then he’s a hunted felon. When
hunted felons feel cornered, they strike out. You could be walking into a potentially explosive situation. Call for backup.”
Sara looked at her sister. “Have you been watching ‘Dragnet’ again?” She headed for the door.
“That’s not funny.” Nettie followed after her. “Why can’t you wait until—”
“Fifty thousand dollars in reward money if this is the guy, Nettie.” It was all Sara had to say. Opening the door, she strode to a squad car parked by the curb out front.
Nettie rushed outside, alarm bells ringing in her head like a Sunday call to church. She knew exactly what her sister was thinking. Kalamoose was in financial distress, nearly bankrupt, a state of affairs that had become a fact of life for the struggling farming community. Years ago, Sara had gotten it into her head that she was going to do more than protect and serve; she was hell-bent on saving the town she loved. Fifty thousand dollars in reward money would be a good start.
When Sara wanted something badly enough, she could be single-minded, unafraid and, too often, downright reckless.
“Don’t go!” Nettie blurted as Sara got in the squad car. “You know how Ernie likes to exaggerate. This man probably isn’t a thief at all.” She endeavored to sound reasonable. “He’s probably a tourist who forgot to buy traveler’s checks. You’ll be wasting your time.”
Sara made a face. “A tourist in Kalamoose?” She started the car.
Good point. Kalamoose wasn’t even on the way to anyplace. “A lost tourist.” Nettie groped for a logical argument, but time was an issue so she settled for a highly emotional plea. “Sara, please don’t go there alone. I’ll be worried sick.”
The headlights came on, but out of respect for her sister, Sara took a moment to lean out the window. “I’m the sheriff, Net, this is my job. Go home, will you, please? And try to relax. Play one of those California mood music tapes Lilah sent you. I’ll be home soon.” She backed away from the curb while she was still speaking, turned the car and sped down the block.
Nettie stood at the curb, feeling chastened, damned ridiculous—and scared.
She walked back to the jail and opened the door, but changed
her mind about going inside. It was cooler on the street, easier to breathe.
All right, so she was a coward. But she’d learned some things about life that Sara hadn’t yet…Lilah, either. Like about how even when you were absolutely certain there were no more low cards in the deck, Fate could pull another one out of her sleeve. If she was overly cautious, it was only because she had learned the hard way to grab whatever control she could in life; there wasn’t much.
Still, as she stood on the deserted street the bitter taste of shame filled her mouth. Her sister was willing to march into the lion’s den, and her own grand contribution to the situation was to stay home and fret.
Leaning back against the cold brick of the building, she gritted her teeth in sheer frustration. Oh, how she had come to loathe feeling alone and afraid.
It was pitch black with a multitude of visible stars in the sky when Chase walked into the Kalamoose jail with his hands cuffed behind his back and his eyes narrowed into two angry slits.
If anyone had told him that his first arrest would come at the hands of a skinny girl sheriff in a town so small you could spit and overshoot the city limits, he never would have believed it. Over the past years, he’d gotten himself into some pretty close calls—pelted by gunfire, detained by officials in three foreign countries and interrogated by the best agents the FBI had to offer. He’d managed to emerge every time without a scratch.
Less than an hour after arriving in Kalamoose, North Dakota, however, he was handcuffed; and that was only after he’d been force-fed pie and soaked to the skin by a flying pitcher of lemonade. He just didn’t get it.
“Keep moving!” Snapping the order, the foul-tempered sheriff gave him another in a series of small shoves. Chase clenched his jaw. If she did that just one more time, he would not be responsible for his actions.
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the jail, he glanced around, amazed by what he saw. Curtains, cute curtains with ruffled edges, framed every window. The building was old, a
squat brick-and-wood structure that looked like it hadn’t seen many updates through the years, but there was a vase with flowers perched on a small wood table, and pictures, mostly pastoral scenes of grazing sheep, dotted the walls.
Aw, hell, he thought, stopping dead in his tracks, I’ve been arrested by the sheriff of Mayberry, RFD.
Irritated by his abrupt halt, the sheriff jabbed him again, “I said—” she began, but Chase spun around before she could finish.
“Do not,” he growled, enunciating each word clearly through gritted teeth, “do that again.”
To her credit, the gangly sheriff glared back at him, hesitating only a fraction despite the fact that she was a good four inches shorter than his six-foot one.
“Don’t tell me what to do, smart mouth,” she shot back, “you’re the one wearing the bracelets.” With a decided lack of subtlety, her right hand moved to rest on her gun. “Your room’s on the left.” She hitched her chin. “Head over. Continental breakfast is at eight.”
Giving her a long, malevolent glare, Chase ultimately complied with the order, largely because he was too damned tired to argue anymore tonight. For some reason, the yokels in this misbegotten haystack had it in for him, and he’d sealed his own fate for the night by failing to provide identification for the good sheriff. He complied with her command s-l-o-w-l-y, though, strolling to the cell as if he was on a nature walk and couldn’t be troubled to rush.
If his right to a phone call was granted, he’d ring his lawyer, who was probably tired of hearing from him this month, and then Nick, who expected him to arrive at the ranch, wherever it was, sometime tomorrow. In the meantime all he could do was get some sleep and try not to imagine the publicity this arrest would generate if the AP picked up on it. And that really irritated him, because publicity, good or bad, could only interfere with what he needed to do right now.
His approach came to a halt several feet in front of the cell. Chased blinked, wondering if his tired eyes deceived him: It appeared that the cell on his left was already occupied.
Lying on her side on the narrow cot, eyes closed, hands tucked beneath her cheek, was a woman whose lush beauty
seemed almost cherubic. Chase’s brows rose. Her ebony curls were glossy and thick; escaping from a loosely gathered ponytail, they tumbled across the blue pillow and against her silky cheek. She wore a round-necked white T-shirt; a thin, waistlength sweater; and a skirt that skimmed a pair of wondrously round hips and long legs. There was nothing intentionally provocative about the way she was dressed; she possessed an inherent sensuality, and Chase felt his body react immediately. The response surprised him. Women had been the furthest thing from his mind of late…though he’d always considered himself a man with an open mind.
“Nettie!”
Behind him, the sheriff’s exclamation held surprise and agitation. As Chase took a step closer to the cell, the sleeping beauty stirred. Long lashes fluttered, the cupid’s lips twitched. When she opened her eyes, she looked directly at him.
“Well, well,” he murmured, a slow smile curving his mouth as if he were flirting at a nightclub bar, not standing in a tiny town jail with his hands cuffed behind his back. “Tell me again, sheriff…what time is the continental breakfast?”
N
ettie popped up on the cot as if her spine were a spring. Hands braced on either side of her, fingers curled over the edge of the mattress, she gazed at the man standing outside the cell.
From beneath the bill of his cap, his shadowed eyes seemed to gleam, like animal eyes staring out from a cave. Nettie caught a flash of white teeth when he smiled, and her heart skittered with a shot of adrenaline. Frantically, she struggled to shake off the lingering effects of sleep. She had decided there was no way she was going to go home and stew while the action happened someplace else. Unfortunately, exhaustion had overtaken her while she was tidying the jail and she’d dozed off waiting for the action to begin. When the man spoke again, his voice came to her like a slow rolling tide.
“Hello, Sleeping Beauty. Are you always here to greet the inmates or did I get lucky tonight?”
The last syllable had barely rolled off his tongue before he was lurching forward—shoved from behind.
“You keep your nasty thoughts to yourself!”
Sara’s ringing growl cut through the fog in Nettie’s brain. As the man stumbled and caught himself, Nettie saw the flash of
silver binding his wrists. Her breath stopped. Sara had returned with the Gentleman Caller!
Tall, imposing and angry, the bank robber took a deep breath and turned with deliberate slowness to face Sara. He spoke through clenched teeth. “I asked you not to push me again.” His tone shifted with such subtlety from the silky drawl he’d used with Nettie that one could almost miss the threat—almost. “Didn’t I?”
“Yeah.” One corner of Sara’s mouth curled derisively. “But you forgot to say please.”
Sara! Nettie wanted to wave her arms, stop her sister from saying or doing anything more.
Nettie realized already that this “Gentleman Caller” was not the benign anti-hero the press made him out to be. Tension enlivened his every muscle. There was a final-straw grimness to the line of his lips. Also, he was unpredictable, smiling one moment, growling the next. Moreover, he was large. Even with his hands cuffed behind his back, he would be stronger than Sara. And Sara hadn’t yet learned fear.
When he took a step in Sara’s direction, Nettie’s response was swift and unpremeditated. She jumped from the cot and rushed to the open cell door.
“Leave her alone!” Her throat clutched at the words.
Chase turned at the choked order. His eyes widened when he saw the beautiful woman—Nettie—standing at the cell door like an avenging angel, her lips parted, blue eyes blazing, escaped black curls wild about her face. She grasped the bars of the cell door in such a white-knuckled grip, he was sure the steel longed to cry out for mercy.
His brows swooped into a frown. Why was she afraid? Other than telling Olive Oyl not to shove him, he’d been pretty damn nice so far. What did she think he was going to do? Chase held her gaze, questioning her. It was strange, but everything else faded away in that moment—the jail, the sheriff, his predicament—until he saw only the brave, frightened beauty before him and felt only the tightness in his own chest as he realized that for her, fear was nothing new.
Don’t be afraid, angel, not of me.
Lost in the silent communication, he took a step toward her, intending to reach up, forgetting the handcuffs on his wrists. He
felt the slice of the steel rings at the same time that he saw her jerk back. A second later, he heard the sheriff’s gun being whisked from its leather holster.
“Hold it! Take one more step, and you’ll walk bowlegged the rest of your days.” The sheriff’s voice was low and deadly serious. “My gun’s aimed behind your knee.”
Chase froze. He sucked in a breath, then spoke with forced control. “Really. Which one?”
“That’s your guess, smart mouth. Nettie, come out of there.” Obviously surprised by the sheriff’s threat to shoot, Nettie complied, moving carefully.
It may have been his anger over having a loaded pistol pointed his way, or the stress that had been mounting inside him for weeks…It could have been his frustration over frightening the fragile beauty or all three factors combined, but something inside Chase started to feel like a geyser held too long in check.
He released a startlingly rude word and then bit it off with hard-won control. Turning slowly in the hope she wouldn’t shoot him before he could insult her some more, he said, “Let me spell it out for you—I’ve had all the country hospitality I’m going to take for one night. If there is anyone in this town who isn’t one can short of a six-pack, get him over here and tell him to call my lawyer.”
“Get in that cell right now, mister! You’re making me lose my patience.”
Chase responded to her order with a bark of laughter. “That’s priceless! I’m being held at gunpoint—probably illegally—and you’re losing your patience? Let me guess: That’s a toy gun and Barney Fife is your favorite action-adventure hero.”
“Get…in…the…cell.”
Raising the gun, Sara spat the words through gritted teeth, her expression suggesting she’d just as soon put a hole in him and toss his carcass in the alley as lock him safely behind bars.
Standing to the side of the cell, Nettie shook her head. If they kept baiting each other, someone was sure to snap. Sara looked like steam might shoot out of her ears at any moment, and the stranger seemed poised to pounce.
When Sara issued another order, to which the man growled, “Make me,” Nettie’s heart began to palpitate. The desire to flee was almost overpowering. This time, however, she shut her mind
against the fear. She could not, would not, allow her anxiety to paralyze her, not when a member of her family was in danger.
Raised voices buzzed in her ears as she used the adrenaline shooting through her veins to move with a purpose. Praying her rubbery legs would continue to hold her, she fled to the storeroom where Sara kept the guns.
It didn’t take long to grab the rifle she knew Sara kept loaded. Raising it, Nettie checked and then released the safety lock the way her father and Uncle Harm had taught all three of the Owens girls years ago. Taking a deep, determined breath, she turned and raced back to the cell.
When she arrived, the Gentleman Caller was in mid threat, leaning forward as if he no longer cared a bit about the gun pointed his way. He smiled evilly. “I sincerely hope you know of a good paper route, because when I’m through suing you for false arrest you can kiss your current job good-bye.”
Nettie winced. Unbeknownst to him, he’d just hit Sara where it hurt the most. “Is that so?” Sara snarled back. “Let me tell you something. Not only will I have a job after your trial, I’ll send you a thank-you note. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone named a city—or maybe a bank—after me.”
He scowled. “You’re delusional.”
“No, just happy. In case you haven’t been reading the papers lately, there’s a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for your arrogant hide—”
“What?”
“—and I’m going to collect it!”
“The only thing you’re going to collect is dust while your sanity hearing is pending, you nutcase. Now take these damn handcuffs off me!” His roar shook the rafters.
“Stop it, both of you!” Punctuating the order, Nettie cocked the Winchester. A bullet slid loudly into the chamber.
Chase and the sheriff each gave a jolt and then froze.
Chase turned his head slowly. The other woman, Nettie, stood ten feet away, a wood-stocked rifle hoisted in her thin arms. Her face was flushed and her arms shook so badly it looked like she was dancing a jig with the rifle, but the expression in her eyes was fierce and determined.
“Stop it, I said,” she repeated, though no one had moved a pinky since she’d cocked the gun. “You ought to be ashamed,
acting like this,” she admonished in a voice that telegraphed her strain. “Why can’t you behave like a normal sheriff and bank robber?”
“Bank rob—” Chase’s stunned protest was abbreviated by the rifle being raised a notch. Figuring he’d tempted fate enough for the time being, he nodded in what he hoped was a conciliatory manner. “Okay. You’re absolutely right. We should all calm down.” He smiled. “I’m sure we can work out whatever misunderstanding has brought us all here.”
“Oh, gag me,” Sara muttered.
“I’d love to,” Chase growled back.
“That’s enough!
I want quiet!
” Nettie shouted the command with more force than anyone including her, thought she possessed.
“Okay!” Chase and Sara answered in unison and each backed up a step.
“I have a problem with tension,” Nettie shared with them.
“Okay,” they answered again.
“So no more arguing.”
They nodded, and she released a long, slow breath. “All right. Now you—” Indicating Chase, she directed him with the gun barrel. “Please step into the cell as my sister asked.”
Sister? Chase glanced between the two women. This whole situation was starting to seem more and more surreal, like a Robert Altman movie. Or
Nightmare on Elm Street.
Maybe if he fell asleep on the cot, he’d awaken to find this was all a bizarre dream, induced by stress and a very greasy chicken-fried steak.
He studied Nettie, her eyes wide and glowing blue, like a sea on fire. Wielding a rifle and fighting to be brave only made her seem more vulnerable. Illogically, he had the impulse to comply with her request—for now, at least.
“All right.” Slowly, he moved, demonstrating how cooperative he intended to be. “I’ll step into the cell.” He flicked a quick, sour glance at the sheriff. “But only because you said please.”
He was halfway across the cell’s threshold when he felt a boot pressed firmly to the seat of his jeans. Caught off guard and unbalanced by his bound hands, he stumbled headlong onto the cot as the boot shoved him forward. Angry as a bull, he let
loose a string of oaths as he fell onto the narrow cot and his shoulder smacked into the brick wall.
“Sara! What’s the matter with you? I told you to behave.”
“I don’t have to behave. I’m the sheriff.” She pointed to Chase. “And I don’t like his attitude.”
Chase had never before hit a woman. Fortunately, he thought he could make a pretty good case that this sheriff was no woman.
Lowering the rifle, Nettie took a few steps toward a wood chair. “I can’t take anymore. I have to sit down,” she muttered. As she collapsed onto the hard seat, her exhausted muscles shook and the rifle slipped from her grasp. The butt of the gun thunked onto the hardwood floor.
KA-BLAM!
The blast that echoed through the jail jolted them all. Nettie heard a shriek, which turned out to be her own, a loud curse—Sara’s—and a series of sharp pings as the discharged bullet ricocheted first off the iron cell bars, then the light fixture above the cot, imbedding itself finally in the brick wall behind Chase.
There was a moment of stunned silence from the dazed trio, punctuated only by a tinny creak as the light fixture swayed.
Heart pounding, Nettie looked at Sara, who for once seemed incapable of immediate speech. With his hands still bound behind his back, the Gentleman Caller lowered his head, shaking it. It took Nettie only a moment to realize the man was laughing. The low chuckle was rich with irony and seemed to blend perfectly with the creak-creak of the light fixture.
Nettie looked up. She tilted her head, realizing that the short chain suspending the fixture from the ceiling had been sliced through. The severed link struggled to hang on, but with each rusty creak the connection grew more and more tenuous, and then—
“Oh! Look—” Nettie started a warning she had no time to finish before the hanging light cracked loose, plummeting. It might have landed harmlessly on the cot—if the Gentleman Caller’s head hadn’t gotten in the way. “—out,” she finished.
With his arms behind his back, he had no way to protect himself, even if there had been time. Unfortunately his thin canvas cap offered no protection against the thunk of steel against skull.
A moment’s surprise crossed his whiskered face. He blinked and wagged his head as if to clear it.
Nettie and Sara watched open-mouthed as he teetered, looked curiously at the light, then back at them.
“When,” he asked, working hard to make his lips and tongue form letters, “do I get my free phone call?”
With that, their Gentleman Caller fell soundly, face-first onto the cot.
“Do you see any blood?”
“A little.” Gingerly, Nettie parted the man’s dark hair to examine his scalp. “His hair is so thick.”
“To cover his thick skull, I suppose.”
“Sara, stop it! You’re making everything worse. Haven’t we got enough trouble?”
“What trouble?” Sara waved a hand at the figure lying on the cot. “He hit his head and got a boo-boo.” But she didn’t look altogether confident right now, and Nettie was glad to see it.
“He’s out cold, and we’re responsible,” she countered firmly. “If we haven’t already killed him, we’d better hope he wakes up with amnesia.”
Reaching into her sweater pocket, Nettie withdrew a clean tissue and pressed it gently but firmly against the wound, wincing in sympathy. Though she could never figure out why, the fears that had governed her life the past few years would sometimes abate at the oddest times—when she was in the midst of an actual crisis, for instance. Efficiently, she placed two fingers beneath the man’s unshaven jaw to check for a pulse. His skin was warm, alive. He didn’t feel unconscious at all.
“Is he still kickin’?”
It took Nettie a moment to register Sara’s question. She pulled her hand away quickly. “Yes—” Her mouth felt dry and her tongue thick. She swallowed and tried again. “Yes, his…his pulse is steady. Strong.” Like the rest of him.
“Good. So he’ll come to and—What do you mean ‘we’re responsible’?” Sara jumped back to Nettie’s previous comment. “This was an accident.”
Nettie spared her sister a look that said
puh-lease.
“Is it standard
practice to boot your prisoners into the cell?” She shook her head. “And I had no business handling that rifle.”
Sara frowned. “Yeah. I almost had a heart attack. I haven’t seen you pick up a gun in years. What got into you?”
“I was afraid the two of you were going to kill each other. And I do know how to handle a gun,” she reminded her sister for the record. Of herself, Lilah and Sara, she’d always been the best shot, but popping soda cans at fifty paces was different from pointing a rifle at another human being. Still, she refused to take all the responsibility for the trouble they were currently in. And she did sense trouble. Studying the man’s features, peaceful and handsome in repose, she said, “Sara, are you sure he’s the Gentleman Caller?”