and warm and welcoming.
He’d wanted nothing more than to lead her to the nearest bed and make slow, sweet love to her. To caress her silken skin, run his fingers through her hair, bury his face in the curve of her neck.
And a few other places.
He knew she’d wanted him, too. Knew she would have arched her back and gasped his name as she received him.
In the cold silence of his otherwise empty bed, Eli bit back a groan.
Brynne wasn’t like other women he’d known, and not just because she was so beautiful. He sensed that, beneath that fragility, that desperate need to proceed with caution where any romantic entanglement was concerned, she was strong as steel.
With Brynne, casual sex wasn’t an option—never had been.
Not that Eli had anything against casual sex; he’d indulged in it plenty of times, starting with Reba Shannon. That had been irresponsible, of course, but after that crazy, hormonal summer, his eighteenth year on the planet, he’d always taken precautions.
He thought back to the time before Reba, when he and Brynne had “gone steady”—an old-fashioned term, these days. For most kids, it meant swapping class rings, doing a lot of necking, and pairing up for movies, dances and the like. Maybe a burger and fries, if the funds were available.
He and Brynne had done plenty of kissing and plenty of hand holding, too, but things had never gotten hot and heavy between them. God knew, he’d been as horny as any other kid his age, but he’d enjoyed a special kind of intimacy with Brynne.
She told him her secrets.
Shared her dreams.
As much as he’d wanted Brynne, Eli hadn’t pushed for more than she was willing to give.
And he wouldn’t push her now.
He’d wait, if it killed him.
Which he figured it might.
He lay sprawled on his back because lying on his stomach would have been like straddling a fallen fence post.
He considered taking another shower, this time a cold one, and decided he didn’t have the energy. He’d just have to suffer for a while.
So he closed his eyes, and the next thing he knew, it was morning, and his phone was moving around like a Mexican jumping bean on his bedside table.
“Sheriff Garrett,” he said, out of long habit.
“It’s Melba,” came the response.
Eli sat up, wide-awake. “What?”
“We need you out at the Painted Pony Creek Motel, pronto,” Melba answered. “Specifically the lot behind it.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Eli said, throwing back the covers on his bed and getting to his feet. “What’s going on?”
“You’re not going to like it,” Melba said. She was smart as hell, and one of the best cops Eli had ever had the privilege of working with, but she could get on his last nerve when it came to getting to the point.
“Try me,” Eli barked, out of bed, pulling on a pair of jeans. Then he yelled, “Eric! Get up now!”
“Ouch,” Melba complained.
“Talk to me, damn it.”
“Well, Sheriff,” his new favorite deputy replied matter-of-factly, “we’ve got ourselves a body out here.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
BRYNNE WATCHED FROM her apartment’s front windows, coffee cup in hand, as several police cars sped past, streaks of light and sound.
It was almost a parade, she reflected on the calm surface of her mind, although there was certainly nothing celebratory about the scene. Beneath, where the deeper waters ran, Brynne’s spirit churned with alarm.
Where was Eli? That was her most urgent thought.
As rapidly as the vehicles moved, she saw and registered each insignia—the Creek’s small municipal force, the Montana state police, the sheriff’s department—not Eli’s SUV, but one of the cruisers.
Where was he?
The two rigs bringing up the rear moved at a slow, solemn pace: the van marked Wild Horse County Coroner and the ambulance.
No lights, no sirens.
No hurry.
Brynne bit her lower lip and pressed her face closer to the breath-fogged glass, straining to see farther down the street, but the window frame and the sign next door—Nellie’s Nails—blocked her view.
And that was when the first what-if struck her.
What if the call all those police were answering was “officer down”?
And what if that officer is Eli?
What if he’s been shot or stabbed or God knows what else in the line of duty, and that coroner’s van is for him?
Sickness surged, scalding, into the back of Brynne’s throat and, for a long and treacherous moment, she actually thought she might faint.
She set her cup down and grasped the wide windowsill until her head stopped spinning and her breathing slowed enough to rule out hyperventilation.
At her feet, poor