Taking Aim At The Sheriff. Delores Fossen
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Obviously, it’d been reinforced in some kind of way, because the front fender wasn’t even crushed.
“The next shot goes through the windshield,” Jericho warned him. Easier than putting bullets through metal, anyway. “And right into you.”
The warning must have worked because this time the guy didn’t crash into him. The driver threw the SUV into Reverse and hit the accelerator, the tires kicking up smoke and stench as they squealed away.
Since this was a farm road, less than a quarter of a mile from Jericho’s family ranch, there wasn’t much traffic, but he didn’t want an innocent bystander hit by someone who was either drunk or just plain dangerous. He was more than ready to go after the idiot, but the spewing steam from his engine stopped him. The radiator had probably been busted in the collision, and he wasn’t going to get far. Best to try to get to the ranch and regroup.
Cursing, Jericho took out his phone and pressed his brother’s number. Jax, who was a deputy and still at work, answered on the first ring.
“I think somebody just tried to kill me,” Jericho said instead of a greeting. He eased his foot down on the accelerator, hoping the truck would make it home.
“Again?” Jax asked. It wasn’t exactly a smart-mouthed question. Earlier in the day, Jericho had been shot at during a domestic dispute. Now, this.
“A black SUV rammed into me three times, tore up my truck and then drove off. Run the plates for me.” Jericho rattled off the license numbers, and he heard the clicks his brother was making on the computer keyboard back at the sheriff’s office in the nearby town of Appaloosa Pass.
“You okay?” Jax sounded considerably more concerned with this question than his last one.
“I’m fine.” Well, except for what would no doubt be a god-awful bruise on his shoulder. It was already throbbing like a toothache.
“The plates aren’t registered,” Jax provided a moment later. “They’re bogus.”
Of course they were. “Find this moron and arrest his sorry butt. Once I’m at my house, I’ll get another vehicle and help you look for him.”
“I can handle this. No need for you—”
“I’ll be there,” Jericho insisted, and he ended the call.
Well, there went his plans for a quiet night. Dinner and sleep. Maybe not even in that order since he was fully spent after pulling a twelve-hour shift. But apparently his shift wasn’t over. Yes, his brother could handle this. Jax could handle pretty much anything when it came to a lawman’s work. But this was personal, and that meant Jericho would have his hands in it.
The truck engine continued to chug and spew steam, but he was finally able to reach his place. Thankfully, it was at the front of the ranch property, the house that’d once belonged to his great-aunt and -uncle.
Jericho kept watch around him, just in case the bad-driving nut job returned, and he hurried up the back steps and into his kitchen so he could get the keys for his spare truck. He instantly spotted the note taped to his door.
“‘I put up a tree for you. Love, Mom,” he read aloud.
He automatically scowled. He wasn’t much of a Christmas person. Definitely didn’t put up trees—even though Christmas was only two days away. But he made a mental note to thank his mother, anyway.
Jericho stepped inside and cursed again once he turned on the lights and noticed the blood on his shirt.
Then, on his shoulder.
He peeled off his jacket and cowboy hat, dropping them on the table, and after he removed his badge, he sent the shirt flying straight toward the washer in the adjoining laundry room. It wasn’t a deep cut, barely a nick, but it was bleeding enough that he’d need a bandage.
Jericho made it one step into the living room when he heard someone moving around.
And he put down his badge and drew his gun.
Great day in the morning, had the idiot in the SUV gotten here ahead of him?
“Jericho,” a woman said. Her voice was a whisper.
He picked through the dark room and located her. Right next to a Christmas tree with all the trimmings. Even though he could barely see the brunette sitting on his sofa, he knew exactly who she was.
Laurel Tate.
She wasn’t the very last person on earth that he would have expected to see in his house, but it was close. Jericho hadn’t laid eyes on Laurel in over two years, since she’d moved from her father’s nearby ranch to Dallas where she was supposed to run one of her family’s businesses.
A shady one, no doubt.
Which pretty much described all her family’s businesses.
Heck, Jericho’s nights with her had been shady of a different sort since she was hands off. But those nights had been memorable, as well. He wasn’t very happy about that. Wasn’t happy about giving in to this scalding heat that’d always been between them.
Still was.
Much to his disgust.
“Nice tree,” she remarked. “Your mother’s doing?”
“Really? I doubt this visit is about Christmas trees. Or my mother. Why are you here?” he growled. “And how’d you get in?”
She fluttered her fingers toward the back door. “It wasn’t locked, and I had to see you, alone, so I didn’t want to go to your office,” Laurel said, as if that explained everything.
It didn’t explain squat. “Well, you can use that same unlocked door to let yourself out. I don’t have time for a visit.”
Laurel got to her feet. Slowly. Her cool blue eyes fastened to him. Not just on his face, either. Her gaze slid over his upper body, reminding him that he was bleeding and shirtless. Jericho hoped it was the blood that caused her breath to go all shivery like that, because he wasn’t the least bit interested in having her react to his body.
They were enemies now. But lovers once.
Okay, not just once.
They’d been sixteen when they’d first discovered sex together, in this very house the summer he’d been staying at the place when his great-aunt and -uncle had been away. Jericho had actually discovered sex a year earlier with the cute cheerleader whose name he couldn’t remember, but he’d been Laurel’s first. A first had turned to a second, third and so on until his father’s murder two years later.
Things had changed big-time between them then.
Everything had changed.
But he damn sure remembered Laurel’s name.
Every inch of her body, too. A reminder that Jericho told to take a hike.
“You’re bleeding,” she said.
“And you’re leaving so I can take care of it.” But then he got a bad thought. Really bad. “Did you have something to do with the guy in the SUV who ran into me? Let me rephrase that. Did your scummy father have anything to do with it?”
Because Laurel wasn’t the sort to get her hands dirty. She just associated with the lowlifes who did.
Her eyes widened and she shook her head. “Someone tried to hurt you?” And yeah, it sounded like a genuine question from a concerned, surprised woman.
“Is your father responsible for my bloody shoulder and bashed-up truck?” he pressed.
It wouldn’t have been Herschel Tate’s MO to be so obvious. He was more a knife-to-the-back sort of guy. Too bad Jericho had never been able to pin any crimes on him. Especially one big crime.
The murder of Jericho’s own father.
Twenty years later, the