His Holiday Bride. Jillian Hart
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I didn’t see you there.”
“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Plum.” Autumn’s smile of welcome was one of greeting for old friends. She rose, the tires forgotten. “This is our new sheriff. He’s your neighbor, too.”
“Howdy.” Ford climbed to his feet.
“Oh. Mighty fine to meet you, sir.” The older man had a powerful stance, a direct gaze and a firm handshake. “Velma and I thought we saw someone at Miller’s rental place, but we didn’t look too close. It could have been the Realtor.”
“Martha’s been in and out now and again showing the place. Didn’t know it was let.” Velma Plum patted his hand in a motherly welcome. “If I’d known, I would have had an apple crisp ready for you. I’d best get crackin’. Hal, remind me when we get home. You know how I am—”
“Always stopping to chat with everyone. Always talking away and losing track of everything else.” Hal winked, as if he didn’t mind at all. When he gazed at his wife, it was with great, accepting love. “Look, there’s Betty. See what I mean?”
“I see.” Ford watched a woman in her fifties greet Velma with a hug. Both of the women fell to talking.
“Need a hand there, young fella?” Hal asked.
“What I need is information. You wouldn’t have noticed anyone slinking around this truck, would you?”
“Besides you?” Hal quipped.
Autumn’s amusement hit him like a wind gust. He could feel her holding back laughter. More folks came out of the diner to congregate on the sidewalk, already discussing the slashed tires.
Looked like she was right. Apparently, little went unnoticed in a small town.
Chapter Three
“Autumn!”
Somewhere far away in the dark she heard her name, but it wasn’t powerful enough to yank her out of her dream. Her bed was warm and her electric blanket cozy, and in her mind she was at the diner running her spoon through the hot fudge and trying not to feel a pull in Ford’s direction.
Keep your attention on the ice cream, she told herself. Ice cream is better for you, calories and all, than he is. Dudes are nothing but heartache.
“Autumn!” A full-fisted pounding rattled her bedroom door. “Wake up!”
“Dad?” The dream evaporated and she sat up. Her pillow tumbled to the floor, she kicked off her covers and rubbed her eyes. Cool air enveloped her. The numbers on the clock shone blurrily in the ink-dark room. She squinted, bringing them into focus. Two-forty-three. What was going on?
Then she heard it: a faint, rhythmic, rapid-fire sputtering. A helicopter.
“We got trouble,” Dad shouted, moving on down the hall to pound on Cheyenne’s door. “Up and at ’em!”
Rustlers. Her feet hit the floor and she grabbed her clothes from last night, pulling them on as she went. By the time she threw open her door, she was only missing shoes. She’d grab her boots on her way through the mudroom.
In the hall up ahead, Dad hammered on the last door—Addison’s—before racing downstairs. She jammed her bare feet into her riding boots and grabbed her cell from her purse.
“Here.” Frank handed her a rifle and a box of cartridges. His phone rang and he answered it, grabbing a second rifle. “I just put a call in to the sheriff and the county. They said they’d be here in ten to twenty. They’ve got the only chopper aound, and it will take a while to get in the air.”
Rifle in hand, she flew out the door and into the night. Surrounded by darkness and shadows, she ignored the nearby cow mooing plaintively, wondering what was going on, and hit the ground running. She ate up distance, whistling for Aggie. The whop-whop grew louder. She could see the faint flash of a helicopter’s safety lights above the far hillside’s crest before the vehicle nosed down to make another pass. No doubt it was rounding up their animals and scaring them into a hard run. She prayed the Lord was watching over the livestock.
Aggie nickered, hooves pounding the dirt as she skidded to a stop. No time to bridle up. Autumn ripped open the gate, caught Aggie by a handful of mane and leaped. She landed on her mare’s back as the horse broke into a hard gallop. They rode in sync, bulleting up the gravel road that stretched from the house to the long row of barns, stables and outbuildings.
Dad was behind her, calling for Rogue. His cutting horse answered with an anxious whinny. In the shadows, she caught sight of her sisters dashing full speed from the house. She searched the darkness ahead. Where was Justin? Best guess, he was headed for the rustlers.
She wheeled Aggie toward the hillside, leaning low and urging the mare into a hard canter. She heard an engine flare to life, and a headlight pierced the darkness. Justin. Halfway up the hill, her dad on Rogue passed her. No time to say anything, but she knew her father’s plan. She gripped the gun tightly in her right hand and prayed she wouldn’t have to use it.
The helicopter wheeled around to make another pass, and gunfire flashed from the loading door. Bullets zinged through the air, biting into rock and earth and kicking up dust all around them. Aggie didn’t startle but put her head down with determination, her hooves eating up ground.
Up ahead, both Dad on horseback and Justin on the ATV ground to a halt. Her dad was fast, sighting and firing first. Must have been a hit, because the rustler’s semiautomatic fired in a fast burst, bullets licking haphazardly along the hillside away from them before falling silent. The helicopter went nose up and ate distance.
“They’re not done with us yet,” Frank shouted. “You girls split up. Addison and Cheyenne, go with Justin along the section line.”
“I’m with you, Dad.” She signaled Aggie around to the field gate and unlatched it, backing the horse to swing it wide. “You didn’t take a bullet this time, did you?”
“No. Don’t you worry about me, missy.” He flashed a grin as he raced past her. “You stay behind me, you hear?”
That was her dad, always taking the lead, fearless, although years ago he’d taken two bullets to the chest chasing off rustlers. If the county’s helicopter hadn’t been on site and flown him straight to the hospital at Jackson, they would have lost him.
Please keep protecting him, she prayed, clinging to Aggie as the horse lunged up the dark, treacherous slope. Rocks rolled, earth shifted and Aggie lost her footing. For one terrible second Autumn felt them tumbling backwards. She leaned forward, resisting the instinct to dismount, and stuck with her horse.
Aggie pawed her way back onto the trail and surged forward until they were on solid ground again. Grateful, Autumn wiped grit from her face, ignored the adrenaline spiking through her system and focused on following her dad along the ridge. The helicopter, farther away now, made one low sweep. Another shot rang out in their direction. Before she could hit the safety and lift her rifle, bullets whizzed by and dirt and rock flew. Something hit her in the leg—a slight sting. A rock sliver. Her dad got off another shot before the helicopter wheeled low and began to smoke.
“Got ’em.” He sounded grim. “Trouble is, I think they got me, too.”
It was strange to be woken out of a sound sleep by the dispatch operator and to hear the words, “Cattle rustlers.” Ford felt like he was sleepwalking through an old cowboy movie as he jumped into clothes and his Jeep. Lights flashing, he barreled through the sleeping town and along the rolling countryside, startling owls and coyotes as he broke speed barriers following directions to a ranch off Mustang Lane.
Good thing he knew where Mustang Lane was. That brought up images of the pretty red-haired cowgirl he’d taken a shine to—now he was thinking like an old Western. Made it seem even more like a dream until he spotted the address he was looking for on a big black mailbox and the last name spelled out in silver reflective letters. Granger.
Autumn’s ranch. Fear gripped