Accidental Hero Page 2

  Ross’s gaze narrowed curiously. “You know I have an aunt Ruby? Have we met?”

  He’d practically undressed her, but he still didn’t have the vaguest idea who she was? How flattering. Maggie fought to keep her poise. “I heard you ask the sheriff if you could order from your aunt’s café, Mr. Dalton. Now, what would you like?”

  His low chuckle only made her angrier. “Wow, you’re tough. It usually takes me a lot longer to tick off a woman this badly. How about a couple of cheeseburgers, a chocolate milk shake and a slice of apple pie?” Skidding lower on his tailbone, he crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. “I’ll pay whoever makes the delivery. Actually,” he added, “I’d be happy to buy you a hot lunch, too, if you’d quit being so uppity.”

  Maggie stared at him for a full moment, wondering how a man who’d been in such deep trouble three years ago could still act like the world spun just to please him. How could anyone go through something like that and not come out changed? “You don’t give a damn about anything, do you?”

  “Of course I do. I definitely give a damn about going hungry, and I’m beginning to give a warm, fuzzy damn about your long braid and pretty brown eyes.”

  “Get up.”

  Ross cracked one of his eyes open. “What?”

  “Get up and take off your belt.”

  A teasing light rose in both eyes as he swept off his hat, tossed a hand through his hair to lessen the crushing effect of the Stetson, and ambled over to the bars where she stood. “You want my belt?”

  “Prisoners aren’t permitted to have belts, and I suspect you know that.”

  “Is that in the manual?”

  “The belt.”

  “Afraid I’ll do myself in, deputy?”

  “I’m not a deputy yet. I’m only the dispatcher, and I couldn’t begin to guess what you’re capable of.”

  Ross smiled slowly and undid the flashy rodeo belt buckle, then slid the leather out of his belt loops. “What if my pants fall down, Ms. Dispatcher-who-isn’t-a-deputy-yet?”

  Maggie reached through the bars, snatched the belt away, and strode back into the reception area. “Then I guess you’ll be wearing them around your ankles, won’t you? I’ll call your order in to the café. The county will pick up the bill.” She wasn’t sure how Farrell handled the issue, but prisoners the world over were allowed to have lunch—no matter how aggravating they were.

  This time when she closed the door, she made sure it stayed shut.

  The sheriff was back and ensconced in his office by the time Ruby Cayhill stormed inside carrying a take-out box and a milk shake. A frown deepened the creases in her already lined face. “Where is he?” she demanded. She bumped her bony behind against the door, shutting out the early June heat.

  At a brisk clip, she gained the reception desk. Aunt Ruby, as she directed everyone to call her, was ninety pounds and four feet eleven inches of righteous indignation, and today it was all directed at her great-nephew.

  She passed her spectacled blue gaze over Maggie, then softened her irritation a bit. “Heard you were back in town, Maggie. How’s yer uncle Moe? That was a nasty accident.”

  “He’s better now, thanks, but he’s really limited in what he can do. I’ll be helping my Aunt Lila and cousin Scott for a while.” Maggie paused. “I guess you’re here to see Ross.”

  “I guess I am,” she answered crisply.

  “Then let’s go wake him. I’ll open the cell so you can hand in his food, but if you want to visit, you’ll have to stay in the aisle. I’ll bring a chair in for you.”

  “That young pup’s sleepin’ through this?” Ruby started toward the cells, her red high-top sneakers squeaking on the floor tiles, and her red cardigan flapping like a flag on a pole over her white waitress’s uniform. A hair net squished frizzy silver curls to her head.

  For the next few minutes, Maggie sat at her desk, thoroughly enjoying the lambasting Ross was getting. Then she quirked her head as the low rumble of his voice carried to her. A moment later, Ruby strode across the reception area to Farrell’s office, her strident accusations ricocheting off the walls.

  “It ain’t bad enough you been harassin’ my family since Ross’s brother took yer girl away—a girl neither of you needed, I might add. Now you lock up my nephew for defendin’ a helpless horse?”

  “Aunt Ruby—”

  “Don’t you ‘Aunt Ruby’ me when I’m talkin’ sense to you. You let that boy out right now, or so help me, I’ll get my patrons to vote fer someone else come election day if I have to run for sheriff myself!”

  “I’m sorry,” Cy offered sincerely, “but my hands are tied. A complaint has been filed—”

  “Well, another complaint’s gonna be filed soon as I git to my phone, mister, and you’re not gonna like it.” Whirling abruptly, Ruby trooped out of the office, nodded shortly to Maggie, then threw the door open wide and marched out.

  The low chuckles emanating from the lockup didn’t register in Maggie’s mind until Ruby was midway across the street. She hurried to shut the door before the sound carried to Farrell’s office.

  Ross stood, grinning, his forearms draped loosely through the bars of his cell and resting on the crossbeam, his blue eyes full of amusement. “I warned you.”

  Maggie paused in the doorway. “About what?”

  “I told you I had something more effective in mind than a lawyer, Ms. Dispatcher. Now, may I have my belt back, please? I expect I’ll be leaving within the hour.”

  He was only off by fifteen minutes. Maggie had just hung up on the air-conditioner repairman and had gotten his promise to come by first thing the next morning, when Ben Campion’s commanding presence filled the doorway. His brooding son followed him inside.

  “Miss,” he said, with a gallant tip of his white Stetson. “I wonder if I could have a word with the sheriff?” Campion was sixty-something with gray-white hair and tanned, handsome features. Though he was simply dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and slacks, his gold-nugget string tie and Rolex watch were not-so-subtle reminders that he was a wealthy man.

  Cy hurried out of his office, his ingratiating smile making Maggie a little sick. After the good ol’ boy backslapping and handshakes had ceased, the elder Campion’s forehead lined.

  “It seems there’s been a misunderstanding.” Ben smiled at Trent, but there was no warmth in it. “My boy’s decided he was a little rash in insisting Ross Dalton be locked up this morning. He’d like to drop those charges now, wouldn’t you, son?”

  Trent nodded sullenly, but didn’t speak.

  Farrell beamed. “Absolutely, Ben. No problem at all. In fact, I think if you ask Trent what I said earlier, you’ll find that I thought it’d be a good idea to let bygones be bygones, too.”

  Campion’s shrewd black eyes judged Farrell. “Well, I surely wish you’d been a bit stronger with your objections, Cy. Woulda saved me a trip to town. A sheriff’s got to be in control, you know what I’m sayin’? Especially a sheriff who wants to be reelected this fall.”

  Farrell flushed deeply, but it was an angry flush that said Campion had taken his reprimand a step too far. “Of course, Ben. Sorry for the inconvenience.” He turned away. “I’ll see if our prisoner’s ready to get out of here.”

  “Appreciate it, Cy.”

  A few moments later, Ross reentered the reception area, a whisper of a grin still touching his lips. “Hi, Ben, nice to see you. What brings you to town?”

  Campion’s gaze darkened, and with slow, purposeful strides, he crossed the room to Ross. He lowered his voice, but not low enough. “I put up with your aunt’s threats because she’s an old woman. But don’t you ever interfere with Campion business, or try to embarrass my family again. If you do, you’ll be sorry for a long, long time.” With a bracing smile for Maggie, Ben walked out, Trent and Farrell following behind him.

  Ross strolled over to Maggie’s desk. “Guess it’s okay if his kid rides roughshod over half the county, as long as he leaves the horses alone. Ben�
��s got a real soft spot when it comes to his prize Appaloosas.”

  Maggie nodded. When Ross continued to stand there, however, she sent him a questioning look. For some reason, she didn’t feel nearly as antagonistic toward him as she had earlier. Maybe because the other men she’d dealt with today were so much worse. “Is there something else?”

  “My belt? Unless you’d like to keep it till Saturday night.”

  Maggie blinked, not understanding. “Saturday night?”

  He smiled. “I could pick you up around eight, and we could drive out to Dusty’s Roadhouse...have some laughs, dance a bit?”

  Not in this lifetime. She’d been down that road before with this man—even if he had no recollection of it. She wouldn’t be “picked up” by him again.

  Locking her gaze on his, Maggie reached inside a deep desk drawer and withdrew a large manila envelope with his name on it. “Sorry, I don’t dance. Here’s your belt. Try to stay out of trouble.”

  Chuckling, Ross withdrew his property, then laid the envelope on her desk. “Only if you’ll do something for me.”

  “What?”

  “Let your hair down a little.”

  “My hair is down, Mr. Dalton. Now isn’t there somewhere else you’d like to be?”

  Maggie saw his gaze slip down the front of her uniform to her name tag, and a tingling she hadn’t felt in a long time vibrated over her nerve endings.

  “Actually, there is. But since the woman I’d like to be there with isn’t exactly falling at my feet, I guess I’ll just go back to Brokenstraw and round up a few more strays.” Smiling, he touched the brim of his hat and headed for the door. “Bye, Miss Maggie. It’s been interesting.”

  Yes, Maggie thought, watching him through the window as he climbed into his truck and drove away. It certainly had been that.

  Chapter 2

  Maggie pulled her little blue Ford onto the gravel pad beside the house, shut off the engine and got out. She freed the top button of her uniform as she walked up to the wide white porch where her uncle sat, dressed in a work shirt and a pair of roomy pajama bottoms. Moe Jackson was a big man in his early sixties, with a weathered face and hazel eyes, and he was wearing the same “just shoot me, I’m not worth a dang” look he’d been treating his family to since his accident had put him out of commission. His hair was still as black as the day he was born, a Jackson trait Maggie’s mother had shared. When she had died four years ago, Amanda Bristol’s hair had been that same shade of ebony.

  “Hi,” Maggie called.

  “Hi. Your pa phoned.”

  “Great. I’ll call him back in a few minutes. You’re looking good. You’re getting some color back.” Ascending the steps, she kissed his cheek and plopped down on the porch swing. “The fresh air and sunshine must be agreeing with you.”

  Moe gestured to his taped ribs and his cast-encased leg, the latter propped up on a wicker ottoman and cushioned by pillows. “Gettin’ rid of this nonsense would agree with me more. I feel like a useless old woman sitting here on the swing while other folks are out doin’ my work.”

  “I know,” Maggie said kindly. “But you can’t roll a tractor over on yourself and expect to come out without a scratch. You’re lucky it wasn’t a lot worse.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled. Wincing, he reached for the glass of lemonade on the small wicker table beside him, then took a sip. “How was your day?”

  “Oh, about as much fun as yours, I imagine. The air conditioner was down, and everyone who came in had an ax to grind. Which makes sense, I suppose. No one visits the sheriff unless he has a problem.” Maggie paused for a moment, studying the car keys in her hand. “I did something today I probably shouldn’t have done. I kind of overstepped my bounds.”

  Moe raised a thick black eyebrow, finally interested in something besides his own discomfort. “Oh? What?”

  “I pulled Ross Dalton’s file and read it.”

  If he was annoyed before, the mention of Ross’s name tripled his vexation. “I expect you would’ve found better readin’ on a bathroom wall. Hell-bent for destruction, that one. Been wild since his momma and old Ross died.”

  Maggie remembered the small plane crash that had taken the lives of Ross’s parents; they’d been members of her father’s church. “It had to be hard on him, losing his parents so young.”

  “His brother Jess turned out fine—and he lost his parents, too.” Moe took another swallow of his lemonade. “Why did you want to read Ross’s file?”

  His rugged face appeared in Maggie’s mind and, against her will, a tingle of attraction ran through her. “Oh, just curiosity, I guess. Farrell pulled him in today, and I thought I’d take a peek at what he’s been up to lately. There really wasn’t much in the file except...that rustling business.”

  “That rustling business?” Moe echoed. “Those were my steers, Maggie, and if the courts hadn’t forced those thievin’ skunks to make restitution, I’d still be tryin’ to recoup my losses.”

  Maggie inched closer on the swing, feeling a bit odd because she was about to defend Ross. Not because she cared one whit about him—but because he didn’t deserve to be lumped into the same category as “thievin’ skunks.”

  “According to the report, he didn’t actively participate in the rustling. The file said that when he realized what those men were up to, he refused to have anything to do with it. The court gave him immunity for his testimony—which did put the actual criminals behind bars.”

  “Makes no difference,” Moe snorted. “He was weak to get involved with them people in the first place. All that drinkin’ and gamblin’—owin’ money to the wrong folks. He didn’t just put his family’s ranch at risk, he damn near got his sister-in-law killed because he couldn’t stay away from the cards.”

  That wasn’t exactly what had happened, Maggie knew. In fact, Ross had acted heroically on the night in question. But when she verbalized her thoughts, Moe scowled again.

  “Maggie, if Ross Dalton did anything heroic, then he was an accidental hero. You keep that in mind.” His scowl deepened. “Now—what’s he done this time?”

  “Nothing terrible. He and Trent Campion mixed it up earlier in the day. Trent and his father came in later to drop the charges.”

  Suddenly her uncle’s tone became a lot more patient. “Now, there’s a fella for you, Maggie. Young Campion would be a fine catch.”

  Trent? She couldn’t imagine Trent Campion being a “catch” for anyone, much less her.

  “Aside from money, education and him not bein’ all that ugly, his daddy’s priming him for the state legislature.”

  “I didn’t realize Trent was involved in politics.”

  “He ain’t yet, exactly. But he’s up in the capital pretty often lobbyin’ for conservation groups and such. When he’s ready to run for office, he’ll get in. The Campions have some powerful friends.” Moe frowned and met her gaze. “Wouldn’t hurt you to pay Trent some mind instead of wasting your time readin’ about Ross Dalton.”

  Maggie was about to say that she wouldn’t be interested in Trent if his father were priming him for the presidency, when her aunt stepped outside, looking lean and fit in jeans and a light blue T-shirt.

  An indulgent smile tipped the corners of Lila Jackson’s mouth. “My goodness, but you’re ornery today.” With her slim build and feathered cap of gray hair, she looked much younger than her fifty-eight years. “And by the way, Your Grumpiness, I’d take ten of Ross over one Trent Campion any day. It wasn’t Trent who rode over here the day after your accident to offer his help, now was it?”

  “Too little, too late,” Moe growled.

  “Ross offered to help out, Uncle Moe?”

  “Yeah, but I ran him off. I don’t need his kind of help.”

  Lila sighed audibly, then turned a smile on Maggie. “Supper’s almost ready, honey. I hope you like shepherd’s pie.”

  “Love it,” Maggie said, grinning. “I’ll set the table. Is Scott staying?” Moe and Lila’s son was mar
ried and lived in town, but he still worked the Lazy J with his father.

  “Not tonight. He and Marly are having dinner with her folks.”

  “He’s lucky,” Moe grumbled. “No self-respectin’ cattleman should be eatin’ anything called shepherd’s pie.”

  “You’re absolutely right, sweetheart,” Lila said with a twinkling look at Maggie. “That’s why we’re popping a toaster waffle in for you.”

  On Saturday morning, Maggie saddled up her uncle’s chestnut gelding and rode out right after breakfast. The day before, Scott and Lila had moved the new calf-and-mother units to the west pasture to make next week’s branding more convenient; today Maggie’s job was to check for stock that might have been missed.

  As she rode, she reflected on her first full week back home. Time had flown by. She’d thrown herself into managing the office, gritted her teeth while she made coffee for the men, and tried to control her envy as Farrell and his two deputies went out on calls. Her evenings were spent tending to the ranch work Scott and Lila didn’t get to during the day.

  But the nights that she didn’t fall asleep the instant her head hit her pillow, Maggie’s thoughts somehow found their way to Ross Dalton—which thoroughly annoyed her.

  Maybe it was because they were neighbors with the Daltons’ Brokenstraw ranch, which bordered the Lazy J to the east. Or maybe it was because she’d spent too many nights thinking about him when she was a teenager, and old habits were hard to break. Either way, there was a physical attraction there that made her nervous. Not that it would ever go further than that, and not that seeing Ross would quash any hopes of Farrell giving her that deputyship. She’d recently ended a two-year involvement with Todd, a man who’d finally admitted that he couldn’t take the next steps in their relationship—engagement, marriage, children.

  Hitching her wagon to Comfort’s commitment-phobic bad boy was just asking for another dose of heartbreak. And she knew from experience that—given the opportunity—Ross Dalton could break her heart quicker than a Chinook wind could melt a mountainside. He’d done it before.