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He rocked forward in the chair, pushing the ottoman aside before he stood up, tall, broad-shouldered and silhouetted against the firelight.
Panic zipped along her nerve endings and her mouth went bone-dry.
“I believe you already know the answer, considering you found your way into my ranch.”
Irritation warmed her insides as she lowered the pistol, her vulnerability exposed under his intense stare like a Norwegian tourist’s winter skin on Maui in December.
Embarrassment fired in her body and hit its target on her cheeks. She wasn’t a rookie; feeling like one bothered her.
“You…rescued me from the storm?”
He gave a tiny nod, confirming her suspicion and solidifying her troubles.
“My car slid into the ditch half a mile from here.” She swallowed the lump in her throat, trying to salvage whatever thread of dignity she had left. She was bare-butt naked inside the silky robe, and she was sure he’d been the one who’d facilitated that little detail. This was no way to start an interview with a suspect, but it was the only starting point she had.
His chiseled features softened. His steel-blue eyes twinkled with amusement as he moved toward her in relaxed, even strides.
“I’ve got water on the cookstove. I’ll make you some hot tea. You need to drink it.”
“And my badge?”
The twinkle disappeared. His jaw, darkened by stubble, set in a hard line. He clamped his teeth together. “Hanging in the closet with your dry clothes.”
A tingle raced through her body as she looked up at him, unsure if she should be cautious or apologetic. He had, after all, saved her life.
He must have sensed the quandary she found herself in because he attempted to smile. “This storm has us locked in. It’ll be a couple of days before the outside world knows you’re missing.”
Mariah felt drained. The edges of her caution melted away for a moment only to be resolidified an instant later.
“I’ll have to check for myself. Have you got a telephone I can use?”
“Out. Along with the electricity.” He turned away from her and she stared at the well-developed muscles cording his back as he moved toward the kitchen.
“I’d stay off your feet for a day or two. You’ve got some frostbite. Walking around could damage the tissue, and you’ve got nice feet. Go back to bed if you want to keep your toes.” With that warning and compliment he disappeared into the darkened kitchen just beyond the firelight.
Mariah’s heart rate shot up. She’d managed to get herself into one heck of a mess. The idea of being trapped on a mountain with no phone, no car and a suspect with a foot fetish was more than she’d bargained for when she’d left the station this afternoon.
Still, she was glad he’d found her, because the alternative was a slow, cold death. She shivered, unsure if it was the result of the air temperature, or the idea of being held up with Baylor McCullough. Her prime suspect in the disappearance of James Endicott, the prosecutor who’d tried to charge him with vehicular manslaughter in his wife Amy’s death.
Hobbling back to the bedroom, she clutched the .38 a little tighter.
BAYLOR PULLED A MUG out of the cupboard next to the sink and carried it over to the counter next to the cookstove. Every nerve in his body had twisted into a knot the moment he’d discovered her badge and gun in the process of removing her wet clothes.
He knew the lanky blonde with a kick-ass body who warmed his bed wasn’t here to sell him a subscription to Ladies’ Home Journal. So what did she want? He’d seen the way she gripped her pistol, picked up on the embarrassment of the situation she found herself in. Worse, she was afraid of him. That knowledge put his emotions in a tailspin. He’d never hurt a woman and he didn’t plan to start now.
Opening a canister, he pulled out a tea bag, unwrapped it and put it in the cup, before filling it with hot water and setting the kettle back on the cookstove.
He dunked the tea bag, watching the liquid turn to amber in the candlelight before he removed it, squeezed it and laid it on the counter, trying to rid his mind of the body contact images branded on it.
He’d followed medical protocol for hypothermia. Right down to the skin-on-skin contact to rewarm her. He overrode a swell of desire that charged through him.
Detective Ellis was a beautiful woman, but now that he’d thawed her out, he had to keep her warm. Ice crystals in the bloodstream could cause cardiac arrest. The next several hours were critical.
Gradual rewarming was key, from the inside and out. But there was no way to tell how bad the bump on her head was. He had to watch over her until he could get her to the hospital in Grangeville sixty miles away.
He picked up the steaming mug and headed for the bedroom.
MARIAH SHOVED THE PISTOL under the pillow next to her and settled into bed, covering herself with the down comforter. She hated to admit Baylor McCullough was right. She’d had enough first-aid training to know walking around on frozen feet could result in losing toes. She jiggled her legs, trying to aid circulation.
The clop of boots on hardwood brought her gaze up. He entered the room with a steaming mug in hand.
Her pulse kicked up a notch. She tried to crush the instant attraction that sizzled through her, by remembering why she was here, but it didn’t work.
She was a cop, not blind, and Baylor McCullough was an attractive man, from his intense blue-gray eyes, to his dark good looks and muscular build.
At any other time in her life, she might have explored her reaction to him, but she was here in an official capacity. The only thing that would have made her feel better was being dressed, instead of tied up in a slinky robe that had probably belonged to Amy McCullough, a dead woman.
“How are your feet?”
Damn…damn…damn, she thought, as she stared up at him, her gaze locked with his. There was that foot thing again.
“They feel like the only pincushion at a ladies’ quilt club on a Monday afternoon.”
“You should have stayed down.” He set the cup on the nightstand and retreated to the foot of the bed.
Before she could utter an objection, he pulled the comforter back and exposed her feet.
Mariah braced herself when he touched her right foot, taking it in both hands.
She was unprepared for her body’s response to his gentle touch, or the desire that flared and twisted through her, taking her breath with it. She closed her eyes, hoping he hadn’t gotten a read on her, but the moment she opened them again, she knew that wish was futile.
His eyes narrowed, a half smile pulling at the left side of his sexy mouth. “Better?” he asked.
Mariah cleared her throat and focused on the sensation. The needling was slowly beginning to relent. She wiggled her toes trying to ignore the feel of his warm hands firmly forcing the blood to the surface of her skin with each stroke.
“It’s not too bad. I can feel my toes.”
“We caught it in time, but you need to stay off them.” He put her right foot down and started on the left. By now she’d gotten used to his hands on her skin and she tried to relax. Tried to make it a clinical experience even though her body was humming and aware of his every movement.
“You’ve dealt with frostbite a time or two?”
“Living this far from civilization, it’s a necessary skill.”
“One I’m glad you possess.” Warmth worked its way up her lower legs. “Thank you for rescuing me, and my toes.”
“You’re welcome.” He settled her foot onto the bed and pulled the covers back over her feet.
“I’d like to know what you’re doing on my ranch, Detective Ellis.”
Mariah bristled at the abrupt change of subject. “I’m here to ask you a few questions.”
He didn’t speak. She pushed on. “Were you aware James Endicott went missing two weeks ago?” She considered herself an expert on suspect behavior and body language; she planned to absorb even the slightest measure of reaction he exhibited.
His blue eyes glistened with anger. A muscle pulsed along his square jawline, and his breathing rate shot up.
Mariah’s heart skipped a beat as she visualized the pistol tucked under the pillow next to her, ready to be used if he showed any sign of aggression toward her.
He knew something; he had to. His dislike for the man was obvious from his physical reaction.
“And you believe I had something to do with it? Once a suspect, always a suspect?” A glimmer of amusement flashed in his eyes and played out of sync with the seriousness of the implication.
“He tried to put you behind bars, Mr. McCullough. That’s motive.”
“For the record, Detective, he has tried to put hundreds behind bars. Many more badass than me.”
She knew it was true, but she planned to push him. Interesting things bubbled out of people when you stressed them beyond their capacity to withhold the truth.
“I’ll give you that one, but we’re not talking about those badasses. We’re talking about you. You’ve got to have some resentment built up. You’ve had almost a year to plan your revenge.”
His face went placid, hiding the emotions she knew rippled just under the surface and beyond her reach for the moment.
“I’ve had time to figure things out. Time to make sense of what happened to Amy. A patch of hell, Detective, not a minute of it spent on revenge.”
He stood at the foot of the bed looking like a warrior poised for battle. Hard, prepared, invincible.
Mariah suppressed an insurmountable wave of sympathy. “Will you consent to a polygraph?”
Clutching the footboard rail, he stared at her for a moment before she saw his shoulders relax. Whatever grudge existed between the two men was still there. She had the facts of the case, but not from his point of view.
“No.” His arms dropped to his sides. “Get some rest.” He strode out of the room, leaving her alone with a crackling fire and more questions than answers.
Gingerly she picked up the steaming mug he’d carried in, and smelled the vapors. Earl Grey, her favorite. Its rich aroma of bergamot wafted up her nose and calmed her nerves. She clutched the mug in both hands, letting the blessed warmth infuse her fingers.
She was lucky to be alive. She owed Baylor McCullough her life. Could she cut him some slack?
The question burned a path in her brain between her professional obligation as an officer of the law, and her happiness at being alive instead of a human popsicle.
She sipped the tea, letting it heat her throat, until she was warm and relaxed and barely able to keep her eyelids open. Setting the empty mug on the nightstand, she snuggled into the covers, listening to the wind batter the sturdy ranch house, much like her gratitude toward Baylor McCullough battered her resolve about his guilt.
Amy McCullough had been her friend years ago, but she’d lost touch with her after high school. How had she and Baylor met? What had their relationship been like?
She closed her eyes, letting the questions compile in her brain. She’d read every last word of the accident report, every interview…so why had James Endicott been so determined to prosecute Baylor in a case that read like a tragic accident out of a horror flick?
Chapter Two (#ulink_76996671-9750-57f1-bdec-5455b49f0bef)
Wham…wham…wham.
Mariah bolted awake and sat up, trying to place the loud banging coming from somewhere in the unfamiliar house.
A fire still blazed in the fireplace. Fresh wood had recently been added, judging by the still uncharred ends of the logs.
“Hello,” she called out. No response.
Where was Baylor?
A measure of caution edged down her spine. She threw back the covers and crept out of bed.
“Hello,” she called as she crossed to the doorway and stared out into the living room.
The fire in the living-room hearth was little more than a heap of glowing embers now, but Baylor’s woodsy scent hung in the air, surrounding her, and she sensed he hadn’t been gone long.
Wham!
Mariah jumped.
A cut of icy wind sliced into her, raising goose bumps on her body. The noise was coming from somewhere in the area of the kitchen.
Easing forward, she searched the darkness, heading toward the sound.
Wham!
Through the mudroom adjacent to the kitchen, she spotted the source of the racket and stalked toward it.
The back door stood wide-open before another gust of wind caught it and slammed it against the jamb.
A shudder coursed through her as she stepped out onto the porch and grabbed the knob. She paused in place, staring out into the darkness.
The storm had passed while she’d slept. A full moon gleamed against the platinum snow and bathed the landscape in brilliant white light. Somewhere in the surrounding woods a series of howls built to a mournful crescendo and echoed against the mountains. She half expected to see a wolf silhouette itself against the moon, and the stark beauty of the place, along with its mystery, appealed to her artist’s eye.
But where was Baylor McCullough?
Stepping back, she pulled the door shut, but it wouldn’t latch. She jiggled the knob back and forth. The bolt released. She pulled it shut again, and heard the cylinder pop into the kick plate.
Taking one last glance through the small panel of windows in the door, she saw a trail of movement. In the timberline a hundred yards from the house, someone waded through the snow, before vanishing out of sight in the dense line of trees.
Was it McCullough? What was he doing out there? She turned the dead bolt and heard it lock in place.
“Detective?”
She jerked around, instinct taking over. Every muscle in her body coiled for maximum self-preservation. She lashed out at the man standing too close to her, catching him in the jaw with an uppercut from her elbow before she realized she’d just hit Baylor in the face.
“Oh, shoot, I’m sorry. I thought you were outside.” She glanced back to the spot where she’d seen someone only an instant ago.
“I’ve been in the barn, checking on the calves.” Baylor rubbed the spot on his jaw where she’d popped him. “I use the front door. I keep this one locked until I can get a locksmith up here to fix it. It doesn’t always latch.”
“I saw someone, up there, just at the timberline.” She pointed to the spot. “Were you up there?”
“No. You probably saw deer feeding by the moonlight.” He moved in next to her and stared out the window.
