Loving a Lawman

PRAISE FOR

Amy Lillard

“Amy Lillard never disappoints! Her writing is always fun, fresh, and fabulous!”

—
USA Today
bestselling author Arial Burnz

“Amy Lillard's novels are funny, sweet, charming, and utterly delicious. Reading her stories is like indulging in gourmet chocolates: You'll savor every delightful page, and when you reach the end, you'll always wish there was more!”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Michele Bardsley

“Amy Lillard's characters will tug at your heartstrings and leave you wanting to meet more!”

—Laura Marie Altom

“At the top of my autobuy list, Amy Lillard's romances always leave a smile on my face and a sigh in my heart.”

—RONE finalist A. J. Nuest

“Amy Lillard is one of my go-to authors for a sexy, witty romance.”

—Readers' Choice finalist Kelly Moran

“Amy Lillard weaves well-developed characters that create for lovers of romance a rich fabric of love.”

—Vonnie Davis, author of the Wild Heat series

“Funny, warm, and thoroughly charming. Make room on your keeper shelf for Amy Lillard!”

—Karen Toller
Whittenburg

SIGNET ECLIPSE

Published by New American Library,

an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of New American Library.

Copyright © Amy Lillard, 2016

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eBook ISBN: 9781101990940

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

To Rob, my very own
lawman.

When I first started this book, I had no idea that it would come to mean so much to me. And even more, that it would come to mean so much to the people around me.

Thank you, Stacey Barbalace, for always believing in Seth and Jessie and for all your hand-holding support. This book would not have been the same without you! Love ya, babe!

To Sarah Grimm, author extraordinaire, who always finds the time to read “one little bit” to make sure it “works” even though it's midnight her time. Your friendship means more to me than you will ever know.

And a big, big thanks goes out to Deona Thompson. Through the course of my researching and writing this book, she has not only become a good friend of mine, but also had the forethought not to call the police when I sent e-mail after e-mail asking about the specifics of the town of Big Lake, Texas. Even when I asked how many deputies worked for the county and how many were on duty at any given time. Deona, you're the bestest!

Thank you, Laura Marie Altom and Karen Crane. Who knew that day in the coffee shop that it would come to this? That day I turned to the both of you and said, “I have a cowboy story I want to write.” I love you both!

Thanks to Julie Gwinn, my superagent. You helped me get the book of my heart into print. I'm forever grateful!

And super thanks to editors Laura Fazio, for taking a chance on me, and Katherine Pelz, for picking up the torch. I'm so grateful to be a part of the New American Library family!

And to my family, the Teen and the Major, who smile politely when I talk about Seth and Page County as if they're real. You mean the world to me!

B
y the time Sheriff Seth Langston pulled his patrol vehicle to a stop in front of Manny's Place, there had already been one casualty.

It had taken him exactly seven and a half minutes to reach the scene of the crime, but a crowd had already gathered in the graveled parking lot in front of the bar. The area was dim, lit only by the neon beer signs in the windows and twin security lights that buzzed and hummed and attracted moths.

The onlookers were talking amongst themselves, pointing to the body, and shaking their heads. No big wonder why. In a town the size of Cattle Creek, Texas, not much happened.

Ever.

And given the rare occasion when something noteworthy actually
did
happen, everyone lined up to be the first to see it.

Seth switched off the strobe lights and slid from the seat of his Explorer as his chief deputy parked his own car in the closest available spot and got out.

“Clear the scene,” Seth said strictly out of habit. “And find out if there're any witnesses.”

Dusty nodded, then limped toward the crowd of about twenty people, all of whom had been enjoying an evening at the honky-tonk before the goings-on outside Manny's got more interesting than the goings-on inside the bar. “You folks get on back to what you were doing. There's nothing more to see here. Go on with you.”

Seth took a deep breath. It was damn near one o'clock in the morning. He was tired, hungry, and tired. This was the last thing he needed.

This was their third call of the night—not counting ol' Johnson Jones. Jones had been booked so many times Seth was about ready to give him his own key to the jail. Seth
expected
Jones to show up somewhere drunk as a skunk, so he figured he couldn't exactly count that arrest in the evening's tally.

Three calls in one night, plus Jonesy. Yeah, it was a busy night in Cattle-town. And this call was the worst by far. This one he hadn't expected.

At Dusty's direction, the crowd reluctantly shuffled back into the bar. Every so often, one of them glanced over their shoulder and grumbled about history repeating itself.

“It's just like Homecoming '08,” Seth heard someone say, before he turned his attention back to the matter at hand.

The victim.

His brother's truck.

Or at least what was left of it.

Seth slowly walked around the crumpled body of the once shiny, candy apple red four-wheel-drive. It was a cryin' shame. The windshield was busted, taillights busted, headlights busted. Tires slashed, driver's-side door dented, windows . . . well, Seth couldn't tell if the windows of the Ford were rolled down or gone. But judging by the amount of glass that sparkled like misplaced diamonds across the
ground surrounding the truck—and the fact that Jessie McAllen was a loose cannon—he'd put his money on gone.

The waitress in the parking lot with the baseball bat.

Given time—and a good paint and body man—the victim might possibly make it. His brother . . . well, Seth wasn't so sure about Chase.

“Get her outta here,” Chase yelled. “Before I kill her. I swear to God, Seth. I'll do it.”

And then there was the perp—
alleged
perp. Jessie McAllen stood next to one of the weathered railroad ties that created a barrier in front of the tiny bar. Her arms were folded across her waist, chest heaving. Her straw cowboy hat shielded her face from view, but Seth had been a witness to this too many times not to know that her eyes were blazing, her freckled cheeks flushed.

Seth thumbed back his buff-colored Resistol and ignored the dueling pair. “Anybody see who did this?”

“What are you talkin' about? She did it,” Chase yelled.

Seth looked to the three men who stood between Chase and Jessie. The two biggest, Joe Dan Stacey and Buster Williams, both worked at the Diamond, the Langston family ranch. The other, smaller man was Skeeter McCutcheon, a rodeo friend of Chase's. All three of them shook their heads and held their ground. Their attempt to protect Jessie from the full brunt of Chase's wrath was noble but questionable all the same.

Regardless of Chase's threats, Seth—and everyone in Page County for that matter—knew he expended effort for only two things. Rodeo and sex. Even the destruction of his truck wouldn't change that. Not that the youngest Langston had to expend any significant effort toward his favorite pastimes. Rodeo was in his blood. And women seemed to serve themselves up on platters whenever he was within a hundred feet of them. Or yards. Sometimes even miles. His charmed record of riding the rankest bulls around wasn't the only reason they called him Lucky.

Tonight was no exception. Despite the fact that he had to be in New Mexico early tomorrow afternoon, Chase stood with his feet apart, the fingers of his right hand curled around the neck of a bottle of Bud, his left braced on one Wrangler-clad hip. Not far behind him stood a tiny bleached blonde with jiggly breasts and glossy lips.

Seth cut his eyes from the buckle bunny back to Jessie. It wasn't fair to make comparisons. The little blond thing in her shiny satin halter top and skintight jeans oozed sex, whereas Jessie in her pink gingham and secondhand denim was as wholesome as white bread. But the rodeo groupie was a one-night stand—two if she was lucky—and Jessie had been Chase's girl since she was seven years old.

“Anybody see anything at all?”

“Arrest her,” Chase continued. “Jail's the only safe place for her now.”

Seth's gaze centered on each of the men standing before him. “Nobody saw anything.”

“No, but—” Joe Dan started.

“But what?” Seth asked.

The big man shrugged and looked to Buster as if he had all the answers.

“Somebody tell me.”

It was Buster's turn to shrug. “It's just that . . . well . . . you know.”

“Yeah.” Seth glanced back toward Jessie. At least she didn't have the baseball bat any longer. “I know.”

When he'd gotten the call he expected to have to talk her down, have Dusty distract her while he snuck up from behind, snaked one arm around her waist, and used his other to snatch the bat from her grasp. Then despite her kicking and screaming, he would have used his hold on her to haul her pretty little ass to jail.

Uh-hum . . . did he say pretty? He meant . . . feisty. Yeah, that was it.

Inside the bar, someone's quarter dropped in the jukebox,
and George Strait gave way to Toby Keith.
How do you like me now?

“If you're not a witness, then get on back inside,” Seth said.

The three men hesitated a fraction of a second before they ambled toward the blue-painted door of Manny's, feet dragging as if they'd rather do anything but leave their friend and the firebrand waitress behind. Joe Dan stopped only to give the bat to Seth, then followed behind the others.

“I mean it. I want to press charges. I don't care how long we've known each other. It ain't right to do that to a man's truck.”

“I'll handle it, Chase.” Seth tried to keep his words calm and controlled, even though he wanted to smack his brother upside the head for being so damned stupid and even though he wanted to shake Jessie till her teeth rattled for . . . well, for being so damned stupid.

“Just how am I supposed to get to Santa Fe, huh?”

The blonde nodded in solemn agreement and slipped her arms around Chase's waist in a gesture of support. He took an angry swig of beer and made no attempt to stop her as she possessively ran her hands over his torso.

Jessie didn't move despite the interloper's familiar manner.

Seth raised a brow at the girl hanging all over his brother like a bad case of Spanish moss, but Chase just shrugged as if to say,
Can I help it if I'm irresistible?

Nights like this made Seth feel old and worn down and more than just a little tired of cleaning up after his baby brother.

He mentally counted to ten before asking, “Is she of age?”

The blonde tittered—Lord help him, she actually tittered. “He's funny.”

“Yeah,” Chase agreed. “A real riot.” But he wasn't even smiling. “What do you think?”

I think you've hurt Jessie—again—and deserve more than just having your truck smashed in.

“I think you have some explaining to do,” he said.

Chase actually had the cheek to look affronted. “Hey, I'm the victim here.”

Blondie bobbed her head again.

“You want to give me your side of the story? Alone,” Seth added when Chase opened his mouth to speak.

His brother looked none too happy but didn't protest. He simply nodded, then disentangled himself from the buckle bunny's clutches. She shoved her hands into the back pockets of her designer jeans as if she didn't know what else to do with them if she didn't have Chase to maul. Then she pouted in a put-on sort of way as Seth led Chase a few feet away where they couldn't be overheard, but he could still keep an eye on his perp.

“You stay right there,” Seth said to Jessie.

She looked as if she might protest; then she flopped down on the railroad tie to wait it out as Seth turned his attention back to his brother.

“Why're you here, Chase?”

The youngest Langston shrugged. “I just needed to blow off some steam. You know how it is.”

He didn't, but there was no gold in telling Chase that. “In Texas,” Seth clarified.

“I found a litter of kittens out on 81 in Kansas.”

“You brought them here.” It wasn't a question.

The trip was at least twelve hours out of his way, but Seth knew better than to point this out to Chase. Lucky Langston was always picking up strays of one kind or another. Seth resisted the urge to let his gaze wander back over to where the buckle bunny waited.

“Their mama had been hit by a truck. I couldn't just leave them there.”

“Where are they now?” Seth knew even before the words left his mouth that he wasn't going to like the answer.

Chase grinned in his good-old-boy, “aw, shucks, ma'am” kind of way that pretty much got him through life.
“You'd think the sheriff would know better than to leave a spare key under the welcome mat.”

Seth counted to ten again. There was no key. Hell, there was no welcome mat. Which meant Chase had used his legendary charm to convince Nita to let him into the garage apartment Seth rented from her. “You left a litter of kittens at my place.”

“It's a small litter,” Chase said, as if that made everything better. “Only four of them.”

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. And Seth had thought the night couldn't get any worse. “Shouldn't you be on your way to New Mexico?”

“Well, since we were already here—”

“You decided to come on out and party down.”

“We thought we might grab a beer or two.”

“Who's we?”

“Me and Skeeter and Angela.”

Business first. He'd worry about the kittens later. “What's Angela's last name?”

Chase shrugged. “Does that matter?”

Yeah, it did. It mattered because a question answered with another question meant Chase didn't know Angela's last name. Details, details.

“You've never brought a . . . woman here.”

“I didn't bring her, she followed me.”

“From?”

“Nebraska.”

“Damn it, Chase, that doesn't mean you have to—” Seth stopped.

Chase took a lazy draw off his beer. “Hell, Seth. If I'd wanted a sermon, I'd've stopped off at the First Baptist.”

“Jessie deserves better.” It took everything in Seth's power not to grind the words out from between clenched teeth. He'd brought this up once before, but Chase was Chase and Seth had given up. It wasn't his place to interfere.

“Yeah, well, Jessie knows how it is.”

“I suppose she does.” Even to his own ears, the words sounded strained, though he doubted his brother would notice.

“After a couple of dances, we—me and Angela—” he added before Seth could question him, “decided to get some fresh air and found Jessie out here with a baseball bat.”

“You see any of it happen?”

“No, but—”

“But what?”

Chase shrugged again. “Well . . . you know.”

“Yeah,” Seth said. “I know.”

Chase looked back over to his truck, the night breeze ruffling the ends of his blond hair where it stuck out from underneath his signature black hat. “How am I supposed to get to New Mexico?”

“You could ride with Skeeter.”

“He was riding with me.”

“You could fly.”

Chase shot him a “no way in hell” look.

Despite the price of gas and the current pack of professional bull riders who hopped planes to get from one rodeo to the next, Chase found a thrill in driving. In drinking, dancing, and loving until the last possible minute before gunning his truck toward the desired state line.