Wind River Lawman Read online

  Dressed in a pair of clean Levi’s and a plaid gold, orange and white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, he wore his comfortable, beat-up cowboy boots and settled the tan Stetson on his head as he mounted the long, wide, wooden steps up to the double doors. Men and women were coming and going. They all looked like outdoor types, the men darkly tanned thanks to the coming summer, the women looking fit, firm and confident. Most of them wore their hair in pigtails or ponytails, all sporting either a straw hat or a Stetson. Working ranch women, just like his mother was, among her many other duties.

  As he entered, he saw a gent in his sixties behind the counter with silver hair, a pair of bifocals perched on his nose and a canvas apron over his white cotton cowboy shirt and dungarees. He was sitting on a four-legged stool and punching an old-time calculator. But what got Dawson’s attention was the tall, statuesque woman standing nearby in a sheriff’s uniform. Her ginger-colored hair was caught up in a ponytail and she wore a black baseball cap on her head. He liked the strength of her body purely from a combat standpoint: medium boned, about five foot eight or nine inches tall, shoulders thrown back, and an easy confidence radiated from her. Dawson would swear she’d been in the military. He could only see her profile, but he would bet anything she had a heart-shaped face. From a male point of view, she was the whole package. Long, long legs encased in tan trousers that were pressed to perfection. The huge black leather belt around her waist sported a pistol and several other leather pockets, plus a flashlight, pepper spray and a pair of handcuffs. It blocked his view of her waist and hips. The long-sleeved tan blouse she wore wouldn’t stop anyone from realizing she was a woman, however.

  “Ha ha!” a woman called as she came in the rear door of the large store. “Here they are, Charlie! Brownies with walnuts! Come and get ’em!” and she placed a huge cookie pan that was covered with foil on the coffee table in the rear.

  Charlie grinned and looked up at the sheriff. “There you go, Sarah. I think Pixie made enough for your shift-change people. Grab a box below the table where they’re sitting and put one in for each deputy coming on duty, eh?”

  Sarah grinned. “You know that’s why I dropped by, Charlie,” and she laughed huskily, lifted her hand in thanks and swung around the end of the long L-shaped counter, heading for where Pixie was bustling about.

  Craning his neck, Dawson saw the huge number of brownies being uncovered by Pixie. His gaze drifted back to the gentle sway of Sarah’s hips. He liked her more than he should have. Walking up to the empty counter, Dawson said, “Brownies?”

  Charlie grinned. “Hello, stranger. Saw you come in the door. I’m Charlie Becker. Who might you be?” and he thrust his hand across the counter toward him.

  “Dawson Callahan, sir. Nice to meet you.”

  “What can we do for you, Son? Or did you hear that my wife brings baked goods here around this time every day and you’d like to eat some of them?” He grinned and waggled his silver eyebrows.

  Releasing the man’s paper-thin hand, Dawson said, “No, sir, I’m checking out if there are any wrangling jobs in the valley. I figured a feedstore would know about such things.” And then he added with a sliver of a grin, “But those brownies do smell good.”

  Nodding, Charlie finished adding all the items on his calculator, then ran the tape. Looking up, he said, “Well, Sarah Carter, our sheriff, is lookin’ for someone who has a wrangler and medical background. That’s the only job I know about right now.” He waved his hand toward the rear, where Sarah and Pixie were filling a large cardboard container with enough brownies for the oncoming shift at the sheriff ’s department. “Might go over and introduce yourself, Son. Sarah doesn’t bite,” he added, his smile increasing. “And grab one of Pixie’s brownies before the horde comes in the door after seeing my wife bringing in all those goodies.”

  Lips twitching, Dawson said, “I’ll do that. Thanks.”

  So, Sarah Carter was the one who’d put the ad in the paper. The SC he’d seen signed on the email clicked. His mind worked at the speed of light—back into combat mode, he supposed—as he slowly approached the two women who were gabbing and laughing with each other. Because of his combat duties, Dawson rarely missed anything. He liked the slender length of Sarah’s hand as she daintily chose brownies from the cookie sheet to place in the cardboard box she held in her other hand for her deputies. Pixie, who was very short, in her sixties, was giggling about something the sheriff had whispered to her, helping her pile the gooey, frosted brownies into the container.

  It was impossible, even in so-called male clothing and wearing a baseball cap, that he would call Sarah mannish. That just wasn’t gonna happen. Sarah wore loose clothing, but not too loose. Nothing was tight or body-fitting. But she sure filled out those pants and shirt nicely. Tucking away his purely sexual reaction to the woman, he saw her briefly glance in his direction, as if sensing him approaching her from the rear.

  “Coming for some brownies?” she asked him, amusement dancing in her green eyes.

  Dawson halted and met her teasing grin with one of his own. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sarah stepped aside, placing the lid on the box and setting it on the table. “Help yourself. And drop the ma’am. Okay?”

  He liked her style, liked her low, husky voice. Turning to Pixie, he said, “Ma’am? May I take one?”

  “Of course you can!” she said, pointing a finger at them. “Are you new? I don’t recognize you. I’m Pixie, Charlie’s wife,” and she grabbed his hand, shaking it warmly.

  Liking Pixie’s warmth, he gently held her small hand in his. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. I’m Dawson Callahan.”

  “Oh,” Pixie muttered, shaking her head, “I’m just like Sarah: don’t ma’am me.”

  Hearing Sarah make an inarticulate sound in the back of her throat, he turned back to her. He extended his hand toward her. “I’m Dawson Callahan.”

  He saw the shock in her eyes, recognizing his name. And just as quickly, she recovered and extended her hand to him.

  “Sarah Carter.”

  He enjoyed the warm strength of her fingers wrapping around his. Not bone crushing, but a woman who was fully in charge of herself and her life. “I know. I think you’re the SC I sent my résumé to a few days ago.”

  She released his hand. “Yes, I am.”

  Pixie tilted her head. “Oh, I saw that ad, Sarah.” She gave Dawson a thorough up-and-down look. “And you’re applying for that job with Sarah’s grandmother, Mr. Callahan? To be Gertie’s assistant?”

  “Yes, ma’—I mean, yes, I am.”

  Sarah gave Pixie an amused look. “I’ve had his résumé and”—she turned, looking up at him—“was going to contact him via email after the shift change. He beat me to it.”

  He liked her easygoing style, seeing a faint pink blush across her wide cheekbones. And sure enough, she did have a heart-shaped face. Tendrils of ginger had escaped her ponytail, collecting at each of her temples, emphasizing the light sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks. “I didn’t mean to,” Dawson said, reaching for a brownie and the paper napkin Pixie gave him. “I’ve spent the last few days nosing around for any wrangler work up in the Jackson Hole area and decided to drive down here today to scope out the valley.”

  Sarah nodded. “Kind of synchronistic we met here.”

  The brownie was mouthwateringly sweet as he chewed on it. Pixie was looking up at him expectantly, hands on her hips.

  “Well? How’s it taste, Mr. Callahan?” she demanded pertly.

  With a chuckle, he said, “Best brownie I’ve ever tasted, Pixie. Thank you for making them for all of us. Do I owe you or the store some money for taking one of them?”

  “Oh heavens, no!” Pixie muttered, giving him a dark look. “Anyone who ambles into Charlie’s store is welcome to them. There’s no charge. I like makin’ people happy.”

  “Thanks,” he said between bites. “It’s really good.” And it was. He could sense Sarah’s gaze on him and felt his skin contracting in resp
onse. Maybe because of his black ops background, he could always feel the enemy’s eyes on him, his skin crawling in warning. But this wasn’t about a threat. He inhaled her feminine scent, light and citrusy combined with her own unique fragrance. Sarah didn’t wear any perfume, that was for sure, but his nose and ears were supersensitive, honed by years of knowing if he wasn’t hyperalert, he could get killed.

  Pleased, Pixie patted his arm. “Well, I’ll leave you two alone. I’m gonna go up and give Charlie two of these brownies or they’ll all be gone before he can walk back here to grab some for himself,” she tittered.

  Dawson watched the small woman go off with two brownies in hand. He could feel Sarah’s intense inspection. She stood about six feet away from him. Turning, he connected with her assessing dark green gaze and said, “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

  Shrugging, Sarah said, “I don’t feel like I’m in a spot, Mr. Callahan, so relax.”

  “Not much gets your dander up,” he drawled. “Does it?” Again, he saw those full, well-shaped lips, without lipstick on them, curve faintly upward at the corners.

  “Not in my line of work. Doesn’t pay to let one’s emotions run roughshod on someone else. Never ends up well, and I don’t like to see a confrontation escalate.”

  She’d chosen her words carefully. He wiped the last of the chocolate frosting off the tips of his fingers. “I don’t care for them myself.”

  “No, I can see you don’t.” She lowered her voice. “I was going to email you later to ask you to meet me at Kassie’s Café, across the street, to talk with you about the job possibility.”

  He stood there listening to the tone of her low voice, understanding this was personal business, not law enforcement, because she was the sheriff. “Sure, that’s doable.” The corners of his eyes crinkled and he added, “I’m assuming I passed your deep, broad background check on me? Pentagon? Law enforcement?” The corners of her mouth deepened, and he could feel or maybe sense her humor about his knowledgeable comment.

  “Yes,” she answered coolly, “you did.”

  “Check out my DD Form 214, did you?” Dawson wanted her to know he realized, as a law enforcement officer, she would do such an investigation on anyone applying for a job with her grandmother. She needed to know he expected such research on her part.

  The humor transferred to her eyes. “You were in black ops, Mr. Dawson. I figured you knew I’d be doing something to dig up the dirt on you when you were in the Navy.”

  A rumble came through his chest. “Indeed, I did, Sheriff.”

  “Call me Sarah when we’re alone,” she said.

  “Call me Dawson anytime you want.”

  “I like your style, Dawson.”

  “And I like yours.”

  He saw pinkness once more stain her cheeks, realizing she was blushing. She might be all business, cool, calm and collected, but there was a mighty nice personal side to her, too. “We have a good place to start, then.” He felt her hesitancy. Worry, maybe? He sensed it, but she had her game face in place. Was she ex-military? He was itching to know. Because she sure as hell fit the image to a tee.

  Sarah had opened her mouth to speak when the radio on her left shoulder squawked to life. She held up her finger to him, then devoted her attention to the incoming call from Dispatch.

  Dawson listened intently to the short conversation. There was a rollover accident on Route 89, ten miles south from where they were. The only ambulance owned by the Wind River Fire Department, which had paramedics, was twenty miles north at another accident scene, tending victims. He saw darkness come to Sarah’s eyes. Then, she glanced over at him.

  “Hold,” she told the dispatcher, lifting her hand off the radio key. “Mr. Callahan? On your résumé, you said you were a licensed paramedic. I checked that out and verified you’re up-to-date and can practice. I need you to come with me right now. Our other two paramedics are north of here and can’t make it to the scene.”

  “I’ll come with you.” He made a gesture with his chin toward the door. “I always travel with my paramedic bag. It’s in the truck.”

  “Good. Come with me? We’ll grab and go.” Sarah was on the radio again, giving the intel to the dispatcher and then signing off. “We’re between shifts right now. All my men and women are coming into the courthouse as we speak,” she said, hurrying toward the door, box of brownies in hand.

  Dawson easily swung past her to open the door for her. She looked shocked by his action, but then shook it off, diving out the door and rapidly taking the steps to the gravel parking lot. “Yes, and not all your people coming in are there yet, right?”

  “Right. Grab your bag and meet me at my cruiser.”

  “On it.”

  Dawson split from her at the bottom of the stairs. It felt good to be needed. He’d always liked being a combat corpsman, and he’d saved many lives with his knowledge. And he already liked Sarah way too much.

  Pushing thoughts of her from his mind, he opened the door to the cab, reached in and grabbed the hefty red canvas bag by the wide, thick nylon straps. In moments, he had locked his truck and was trotting toward the Tahoe, which was now in motion, heading in his direction, lights flashing on the bar on top of the black roof.

  Without preamble, he pulled open the backseat door, throwing in his paramedic bag. Shutting it, he opened the passenger door, quickly climbing in. She put the pedal to the metal and the Tahoe growled deeply, moving swiftly out onto Route 89. He didn’t need to be told to buckle up. All her attention was on driving; they must have hit seventy miles per hour after getting outside the city limits. They were heading down a long, flat expanse now, with few cars on the highway.

  “I’m officially deputizing you, Mr. Callahan. I can’t have a civilian without a medical license with the state of Wyoming serving as a medic to potential injury victims in that rollover. Lawsuit time if I don’t.”

  “Fine by me. I accept being deputized.”

  Her lips twisted. “I like your no-nonsense approach.”

  “Comes with the territory.”

  “You’re okay with this?”

  “Absolutely. I feel like I’m back in Afghanistan on a black ops mission,” and he tossed her a grin.

  She gave a snort. “Good to know.”

  “Call me Dawson. Okay? I don’t stand on ceremony much.”

  “Okay, Dawson.” And then she cast him a warm look. “Thanks for picking up the slack on this. You didn’t have to and I know it.”

  “Glad to help.” And he was. She was a nice blend of being businesslike and vulnerable at the same time. That drew Dawson strongly. He didn’t see a wedding ring on her left hand, but in law enforcement, just as in the military, she probably didn’t wear it for many good reasons. She was in her late twenties, so he would guess she was either engaged or married. Sarah Carter was way too good-looking not to be in a relationship. That saddened him, but he let it go. Since his marriage to Lucia Steward, and their subsequent divorce three years later, he hadn’t been interested at all in another relationship.

  Until now. What a helluva twist.

  Chapter Two

  June 5

  “Are we the only help on this call?” Dawson asked, looking around. The valley was composed of farms and ranches all the way to the Wilson Range on his right and the Salt River Range on the left. There weren’t many cars on the highway this time of morning.

  Sarah said, “Shift changes mean people are coming and going in one concentrated area, the courthouse. We aren’t out on the county highways patrolling like we should be.” Her lips compressed, and she gripped the wheel a bit tighter, pushing the Tahoe to eighty miles an hour down the empty highway. The light bar was flashing, the siren screaming.

  “I never thought of it that way,” Dawson said, “but you’re right. It’s sort of like one of our Marine recon squads coming in while the other is going out beyond the wire. The Taliban would sit for weeks watching our coming and going, keeping tabs and times on us. That’s when they�
�d jump us.”

  “I was in the Corps, too,” Sarah said, wanting to connect with Dawson. For a Texan, he sure seemed laid back, more a type B than a type A, but maybe she was wrong about that. She’d read the unredacted version of his DD Form 214. He’d earned the Bronze Star with a “V” for valor, a Silver Star and three Purple Hearts. He was a true hero. And typical of black ops types, those men and women in combat never pushed their weight around, bragged or boasted of what they’d done to earn those medals. She doubted, once they had time to sit down and talk, that Callahan would admit any of that unless she brought it up first. And even then, he’d probably modestly resist admitting anything.

  “I guess I’m not too surprised,” Dawson said and gave her a wry look. “I knew you’d been in the military.”

  “Oh. How?” Sarah was pleased by his insight. The man saw a lot. She needed someone who was observant like that to monitor her grandmother’s busy, hectic life, to be a support to her. A mind reader of sorts.

  “The way you carried yourself at Charlie’s feedstore. Squaring your shoulders. There’s no slouch in your spine, Sheriff.” He’d said it lightly, with a teasing note, not wanting to make her feel insulted. Or hit on. The longer he sat in the cab of the SUV, the more she interested him. There wasn’t anything to dislike about this woman, he discovered, much to his chagrin. He needed a job. Not a relationship.

  Laughing a bit, Sarah said, “You can’t take the military out of a person, can you?” Slanting a brief look in his direction, she felt warm all over. The man was tall, ruggedly handsome and a gentleman. The old-fashioned kind, but hey, he was from Texas, and they tended to be that way, from her observations in the past.

  “No, you can’t.”

  “We’ll have to trade Corps stories when we get off this call,” she said. “Are you up for some coffee and chatting at Kassie’s? I’ve read your résumé and it all checks out. And after meeting you in person, I think you might be a good fit for Gertie, my grandmother. But we can talk about that later.”