Identity: Classified. Liz Shoaf
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in jeans and a civilian shirt when he was on duty.
Her eyes widened for a mere moment after he introduced himself as sheriff. She quickly masked her reaction and shook his hand. “Name’s Samantha Bailey.”
Was that a slight hesitation in her voice when she said her name, or was it his imagination?
“Welcome to Jackson Hole, Ms. Bailey. You here on vacation? Visiting friends?”
She grabbed the leash off the ground and petted her dog before straightening and looking him in the eye. No wilting flower here.
“Are you the official welcoming committee for Jackson Hole? If so, you need to brush up on your etiquette.”
Time to back off. Other than his gut tightening, he had no grounds to suspect her of anything, and he was being rude. “I do apologize.” He glanced down at the mutt. “I’m happy to hold on to your, uh, dog while you get some napkins to clean up his mess.”
Her lips tightened. “His name is Geordie, and he’s a highly trained, purebred male miniature poodle.”
Ethan tried to appear suitably impressed, but the scraggly thing didn’t look as if it had an ounce of testosterone backing up her claim that he was male. He barely heard what sounded like a small growl, and it hadn’t come from the dog. He took the leash from Ms. Bailey, and she flung the door open and disappeared inside Lucy’s Café.
He stared at the dog. “So where do you hail from, Geordie?” The dog’s tail thumped on the sidewalk. “I caught a whiff of a Northern accent with a touch of Southern flavor from your mom. You from New York?”
“Are you interrogating my dog, Sheriff?”
His body jerked, and he felt like an idiot. It was an unfamiliar emotion. He never even heard her approach. The woman was light on her feet. He flashed her a big smile when he turned. “Just being cordial, ma’am.”
She cleaned up the poop, took the leash from his hand, scooped up her dog and placed him back inside the black leather satchel.
“There’s a nice bed-and-breakfast down the street, if you plan on staying.” Ms. Bailey intrigued him, and for some strange reason, he wasn’t ready for her to move on if she was just passing through.
Throwing a leg over the Harley, she showed all her teeth. Not exactly a smile. “I did my research, Sheriff, and it so happens I have a reservation at Mrs. Denton’s Bed-and-Breakfast. I’ll grab something to eat later.” Flicking the kickstand up with her left heel, she tugged the helmet onto her head. “And just so you won’t worry, I’m here on vacation, but if I like it, I might stay a few weeks.”
Frowning as she revved the motorcycle’s engine, Ethan stood on the sidewalk and watched her travel two blocks and stop in front of Mrs. Denton’s place. He took note of the motorcycle’s New York tag.
Jackson Hole was a tourist town, and he was used to seeing all types of people come and go, but Ms. Bailey was an entity of her own. Was she an eccentric, wealthy elite with too much time and money on her hands? Or was she running from something? The only lead he had was the moment of wariness he saw in her eyes. That wasn’t enough to suspect the woman of being up to no good, but his time spent as a high-ranking detective in Chicago had left its mark. He’d learned years ago to listen to his gut, and his gut was balled in a tight knot.
He paused on the sidewalk as a beige sedan slowed in front of Mrs. Denton’s place and then picked up speed as it shot forward. It passed by him. Two large men sat in the front seats. They didn’t even glance at him as they passed, but he noticed the New York plate. He pulled his pad and pencil out of his shirt pocket and wrote down both the car and motorcycle’s tag numbers. Odds were the men were in Jackson Hole to hunt and fish, but it never hurt to check.
Interesting thing when two New York vehicles showed up in Jackson Hole within thirty minutes of each other. It was a long way for anyone to drive.
Chloe quickly opened the front door to the bed-and-breakfast and slipped inside with Geordie at her heels. Spinning around, she stole a glance through one of the glass panes bordering the door. The thick, old glass was wavy, but clear enough for her to catch sight of a large beige sedan whizzing down the street. She squinted and caught the New York tag but couldn’t make out the number.
Her dog nudged his nose against her leg. She scanned the rest of the neighborhood through the window. “The car’s from New York, Geordie. I felt eyes on us from the time we left Lucy’s Café. You think the killer’s hired toadies followed us from the city? I picked Jackson Hole because I don’t know anyone here and it’s clear across the country. I covered our tracks. Stan always claimed I was slippery as an eel.”
While studying the surrounding area through the wavy glass, her thoughts were invaded by the sheriff’s expressive face. She didn’t want to admit—to herself, or her dog—that the good sheriff had shaken her up a bit. He was good-looking, no doubt about it. Well over six feet, dark hair cut short—not quite a military buzz cut, but close. He had sharp, intelligent green eyes. Chloe felt as if he saw deep inside her, past her facade, and was trying to dig up the grave of secrets she kept carefully hidden.
“And why would you need to cover your tracks, young lady?” a sharp voice said from behind her.
Reacting on pure adrenaline, in one smooth move, Chloe pulled the long, thin knife from her shirtsleeve and whipped around. The knife disappeared just as fast when she faced a little old lady who looked like a strong wind could knock her over.
Covering herself with oozing Southern charm, Chloe moved toward whom she assumed to be Mrs. Denton, proprietor of the bed-and-breakfast. “I’m Samantha Bailey. I apologize if I startled you. I have a reservation.”
The stooped gray-haired woman, decked out in jeans and a plaid shirt, gave her a calculating look and grinned. Chloe didn’t trust that grin. Not for one New York minute. No pun intended.
“I don’t think so.”
That didn’t make sense. Maybe the woman was senile.
Chloe softened her tone. “I’m sorry. I’m not quite following you.”
Her survival antennae went haywire. Chloe slid her hand behind her back and had grasped the doorknob, ready to flee, when Mrs. Denton gleefully dropped her bombshell.
“From what I overheard you say, I doubt that’s your real name. Sounds like you’ll be a handful, but I’m up for the job.” The old lady’s chest puffed out. “I fought off two ruffians several months ago. They were after one of my guests.”
Chloe grinned when the older woman whipped a pencil-thin Taser out of her jeans pocket.
“Got one of the kids in town to order me this off the internet after that episode.”
She admired the older woman’s spunk, but Chloe couldn’t stay here. Not if Mrs. Denton was suspicious of her name.
This situation had created a big problem. She’d already introduced herself to the sheriff as Samantha Bailey, and there would be more questions than she wanted to answer if he found out she had lied.
Just as her hand twisted the doorknob behind her, the door was jerked open from outside. Chloe spun around to face the threat, knife back in hand. With one eye on her knife and the other on Geordie, Sheriff Hoyt stopped on the threshold of the door. In the blink of an eye, Chloe slipped the knife back up her shirtsleeve, but Hoyt’s sharp eyes hadn’t missed a thing.
Mrs. Denton nudged Chloe aside and approached the law and order of Jackson Hole.
“Sheriff Hoyt, so good of you to call.” She took him by the elbow and guided him inside.
Chloe girded herself. Her past was about the catch up with her. If Sheriff Hoyt discovered she had lied about her name, with his resources