The Lawman's Noelle. Stella Bagwell
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pattern was worn through to the black backing, but she’d hidden most of it with a braided rug in the center.
Along with the red couch he’d rested on the other day, there was a stuffed red armchair, both of which had faded to the color of a half-ripened watermelon. A wooden rocker with a thin pad tied to the seat was jammed in one corner, while directly across from it was a small television set equipped with a pair of rabbit ears. Without a proper antenna, he doubted she received enough signal to get the public-access channel out of Carson City, much less a regular station with nationwide programming.
Did she live in this manner because she was frugal, he wondered, or simply because she lacked the funds to do better? Either way, he was more than intrigued by the woman. Yet the lifestyle she’d chosen was her business, and she’d already made it fairly clear that she didn’t want him poking his nose in it.
The sound of her footsteps had him turning to see her stepping through the open doorway. A gray woolen coat was thrown over her arm, while a brown leather purse swung from her shoulder.
“Will I need anything other than my coat and purse?”
“Not a thing,” he said with a smile. “Do you have the barn situated like you need it? The horses—”
“Yes. Everything will be fine until this evening.”
“Good. Then let’s get going. If we’re lucky, Grandmother will have something cooking on the stove.”
He followed her out of the house, then stepped to one side while he waited for her to lock the door. But she didn’t. When she started toward his truck, Evan stared after her in dismay.
“Noelle? You forgot to lock the house.”
Glancing over her shoulder at him, she shook her head. “I didn’t forget. I never lock it.”
Stunned, Evan quickly caught up to her. “Never lock it? But someone could walk in and steal anything they wanted!”
She shot him a bored look. “And just what would they be getting, Mr. Detective? A few pieces of clothing? Some mismatched dishes? A little trinket box full of costume jewelry? A TV set that you’d do well to sell at a pawnshop for twenty-five dollars? No. If someone wants to get in the house that badly, I’d rather them walk through the door instead of breaking out the windows.”
Her logic set him back on his heels. For a moment, he wasn’t sure how to reply. Her reasoning made sense, and it pointed out just how few material things she owned.
“What about Christmas gifts?” he asked. “At this time of year, if you have any of those hidden away—”
“No,” she interrupted him. “I don’t really do much in the way of Christmas buying.”
He wondered whether her finances didn’t allow for shopping or she simply didn’t enjoy the holiday. Either way, now wasn’t the time to ask.
Taking her by the arm, he urged her on to the truck. Along the way, he said, “As an officer of the law, I tell folks all the time not to make it easy for thieves to steal or commit a crime. But—and don’t ever repeat this to Sheriff Wainwright—in your case, I can see your point.”
As he opened the truck door to help her into the cab, she actually gave him a broad smile. “You can? That’s surprising.”
He chuckled. “I can have an open mind. When I really work at it.”
* * *
Minutes later, after they’d driven away from her place, Noelle glanced around the plush interior of the truck, then allowed her gaze to settle on Evan. Although he was dressed casually in faded jeans and a denim jacket over a green paisley shirt, he wore the clothes with an easy air that could only come from a wealth of self-confidence. And though she hated to admit it, the attitude added volumes to his sexy appearance.
They’d traveled a few miles in companionable silence when she asked, “What made you want to become a lawman?”
With his brows pulled together, he darted her a glance. “You make it sound like I’ve chosen to have an incurable disease.”
She could’ve told him that for the past five years, she’d considered lawmen as loathsome as an incurable disease, but this man was going out of his way to repay her for a kind deed. For today she would try to forget that he wore a pistol on his hip and a badge on his chest.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s hard for me to figure you out. I mean, your family owns and runs a huge ranch. You had other options and directions you could’ve taken in your life. Instead, you chose to be an officer of the law.”
He stared thoughtfully ahead at the lonesome two-lane highway. “You’re right. I grew up learning all about raising cattle and horses and the round-the-clock work it takes to run a place the size of the Horn. My dad even says I’m good at ranching, and maybe I am. But I had other interests, too.” Glancing at her again, he said, “To answer your question better, it was my granddad Tuck, the one you’ll meet today, who directed me toward being a law officer.”
“Oh. So I take it he’s not a rancher.”
“No. Not like the Calhoun family. Granddad runs a few head of cows and has a couple of horses, but he doesn’t do it for a living. Having livestock around is just something to give him a reason to get outdoors and stay busy. And keep out of Grandmother’s hair. You see, he’s a retired sheriff.”
Dear Lord, somehow she’d managed to land herself smack in the middle of a family of lawmen! What had she done to deserve a bunch of sad reminders shoved at her? Why couldn’t she have found an old, wrinkled rancher in the gulch that day? A bent, bowlegged cowboy who had simply ridden off his range and gotten lost? Instead, she’d found a hunky deputy who happened to be a member of one of the richest families in the state.
“Oh,” she said. “Did he work for the same office you do now?”
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