The Christmas Target. Charlotte Douglas

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      Everything went black.

      Chapter Two

      Jessica, head throbbing, muscles stiff with cold, slowly regained consciousness. Moving gingerly, she tested her arms and legs. Nothing felt broken. She ran cold-numbed fingers over her body. No sign of bleeding or other injury. She was only bruised.

      And freezing to death.

      To her great relief, she discovered her door would open, and she climbed from the car. The sight that greeted her drove all further relief from her thoughts. The sedan had soared across a ditch and crashed into a wall of earth on the other side. Even if the car was drivable, she’d need a tow truck to extract it from its current resting place.

      She scanned the area, searching, with mixed emotions, for the vehicle that had hit her. She needed someone to save her from the cold, but the driver of the pickup definitely hadn’t had her welfare in mind. She should be glad he hadn’t returned to finish her off. Maybe he figured she’d perished in the crash, and if she hadn’t, the cold would kill her.

      She didn’t want to believe someone had run her off the road on purpose, but the person who caused the accident hadn’t stopped to assist. A glance at her watch indicated at least fifteen minutes had passed since the collision. Her assailant was long gone.

      The storm was intensifying, and if she didn’t get help soon, she’d die from hypothermia. She tried her cell phone, but Hayes had already warned her it would be unreliable in this part of the country where relay towers were scarce. She was disappointed but not surprised when she couldn’t receive roaming service.

      Recalling vaguely hearing or reading something about staying with the car if stranded in a snow-storm—whoever would have thought a Miami resident would need that bit of info?—she started to climb back into the vehicle.

      And smelled gasoline.

      The tank must have ruptured. The ominous liquid was dripping from beneath the chassis and puddling in the ditch. Afraid to risk the danger of remaining in a potential fireball, she figured she should at least attempt to retrieve her luggage. Donning extra layers of clothing—even clothing woefully unsuitable for southeastern Montana’s cruel winter climate—might be her only chance for survival.

      The car had landed at an angle, and she had to struggle to drag her luggage from the trunk that rested shoulder-high. She carried her bag to the side of the road and hoped someone would pass and give her a lift.

      If they could see her in the blowing snow.

      Her head pounded, her bruised knees and shoulders ached, and she swore that Max was going to owe her big-time.

      If she lived to collect.

      She was on her knees, rummaging through her open case for additional clothing, when the howling wind carried the sound of an engine, approaching from the direction of town. Grabbing a red silk dress, Jessica raced to the center of the road and brandished the garment like a flag.

      The car appeared suddenly out of the driving snow, almost on top of her. Jessica dived for the side of the road. The driver slammed on brakes, going into a skid that would have landed the SUV next to her car in the ditch without some first-class maneuvers on the part of the driver.

      Jessica pushed to her feet and brushed snow from her ruined stockings.

      The SUV’s door opened. A massive man exited the car and descended on her like a charging bull.

      “Hell’s bells, lady! You got a death wish?” It was the sheriff from Swenson. Even hopping mad, he was the sweetest sight she’d ever seen. “You could have been hit, standing in the middle of the road like that!”

      “I’ve already been hit,” Jessica said hotly. “And if I hadn’t been in the middle of the road, you wouldn’t have seen me, and I would have frozen to death in this godforsaken wilderness.”

      She doubted he understood a word she’d said, since her teeth were chattering so hard, her speech was almost incomprehensible.

      He must have comprehended enough, though, because his anger seemed to leave him, like the air from a deflating balloon. “Are you hurt?”

      “Luckily,” she managed to utter through her chattering teeth, “not as badly as my car.”

      She nodded toward the ditch, and the sheriff followed her gaze.

      “Aw, sh—” He bit off the curse, then turned and loped back to his car. He returned seconds later with a blanket, and without giving Jessica time to react, he’d wrapped her tightly, lifted her in his arms and settled her on the front seat of the deliciously warm SUV, his official car from the looks of the radio and shotgun mounted on the dash.

      Before she could say a word, he returned to the roadside and made a quick inspection of the wrecked sedan. After gathering her luggage from the shoulder, he placed it in the back of the SUV and climbed into the driver’s seat.

      She opened her mouth to speak, but he grabbed the microphone off the dash and depressed a button. “I need a tow truck on Highway 7, eighteen miles south of town. Car’s in a ditch. Tell Pete he can wait till the storm passes. I’ve picked up the driver.”

      “Ten-four,” a no-nonsense female voice replied. “Need medical assistance?”

      “Negative.” The sheriff gave a call number, signed off and replaced the microphone on the dash.

      Warmth from the heater was slowly thawing Jessica, and either the bump on her head or the welcomed heat was making her drowsy. She seemed to be floating, a state she’d experienced only once before, when she’d drunk too much champagne at Max’s New Year’s Eve party last January. In such a blissful state, she found maintaining a good head of steam over her situation difficult.

      And ignoring the attributes of the man next to her impossible.

      She’d sworn off men, she reminded herself, except as the occasional dinner date, although Max never gave up playing matchmaker, hoping she’d find the right man and settle down to raise a family. Having witnessed the chaos and heartbreak that emotional entanglements had created in her parents’ lives, she wanted none of it. Her life was full enough as it was. She had her fantastic job, her South Beach condo, her friends. She didn’t need love or anything slightly resembling it. She’d avoided infatuations as fiercely as she avoided accounting errors. She’d never had a broken heart, never shed a tear over a man, never sat by the phone for a call that never came….

      Never intended to.

      “Now—” The sheriff, who appeared even more attractive at close range than he had in the bank, turned to her. “Want me to take you back to the hotel?”

      Even in its groggy state, her mind somehow continued to function. If she went back to town, she’d have to rent another car, drive the same treacherous roads and arrive hours, if not an entire day, later than she’d planned. And she had no intention of remaining in Montana a day longer than she had to. She hated the dinky little town, the monotony of the landscape, and, most of all, the intolerably frigid weather.

      To plead her case, she lifted her lips in what she hoped was an alluring smile. “I don’t suppose you could take me to the Shooting Star Ranch?”

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