The High Country Rancher. Jan Hambright

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      Raising her service revolver, she inched forward, getting a sense of the room’s layout and analyzing it for cover.

      The sound of someone’s deep, even breathing sliced into her senses.

      She turned toward the sound and stopped her advance.

      She spotted the room’s only occupant sprawled in a deep leather chair and focused on his denim-clad thighs, long, lean, well muscled and stretched out in front of him. His boot-encased feet were casually crossed at the ankles and rested on an ottoman.

      By the time her tenuous gaze moved up his shirtless six-packed torso and settled on his face, she realized he was looking back.

      “Detective Ellis.” The surety in his voice rattled her nerves worse than any high-speed chase ever had.

      With a force that took her breath away, she snapped back into the reality that belonged to her. She was a cop and he was her number one suspect, if she could find her badge, and her…clothes.

      “And you’d be Baylor McCullough?”

      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, СКАЧАТЬ