The Last Wilder Read online

  “Except for the ones who break into motel rooms and trash people’s belongings,” he said darkly.

  “Don’t spoil things by reminding me,” she muttered. “I was having a good time.”

  “Sorry. Here we are.” Instead of turning into his driveway, he pulled past it and backed in, as he’d done earlier.

  Stacey didn’t ask why. She’d been married to a cop. Many of them preferred to back in, so that if they had to leave in a hurry on a call, they could get out of the driveway faster.

  On her way up the sidewalk a minute later, with Dane following behind with her purchases, Stacey laughed at herself. “And I was worried about what your neighbors might think about my staying at your house.”

  “Does this mean you’re not worried now?”

  “Apparently they don’t have much left to speculate about,” she said. “It seems everybody knows who I am and why I’m with you.”

  Dane shrugged as he unlocked the front door. “If you’d let me take you to stay with the Wilders, the way I wanted, no one would know where you were or what you’re doing. You stay with me, you more or less become public property.”

  “Now you tell me.” She thumped her way to the bedroom he’d assigned to her earlier.

  “Stacey.” Dane placed the shopping bags on the bed and turned to face her. “I’m a highly visible person in the community. In the whole county. If you’re with me, people are going to see you. That might let the bad guys know exactly where you are, but it also lets all the good guys know, too.”

  “You mean your deputies.”

  “I mean everybody in town. We’re a close community. We’ve got our share of people who wouldn’t cross the street to give a dying man a drink of water, but we’ve got plenty of the other kind, too, people who look out for each other, who care what happens to their neighbors, and even to strangers. It’s an added layer of protection for you. But if you’d rather not be in the spotlight that way, I can still make that call to the Flying Ace. You’ll be just as safe there. Probably safer.”

  “What, and give up the excitement of last night’s high-speed chase?” She shook her head and smiled. “I’ll be fine. As long as you can put up with me, and I can put up with you, I’m staying in your house. Are you going to make a pass at me?” The instant the question was out, Stacey wanted to swallow her tongue. She couldn’t believe she’d asked such a thing! Couldn’t believe the answer she was more than half hoping for.

  The shock on Dane’s face was almost comical. Almost.

  “Well,” she said, wanting to feel relief, but not sure it was there. “I guess that answers that question. I can feel safe around you.”

  “Of course you can,” he nearly bellowed. “Good God, woman, you’re only twenty-five years old. I’m old enough to be your…your older brother.”

  Stunned by his outburst, Stacey gaped at him. Then she burst out laughing so hard she nearly lost her balance on her crutches.

  Dane braced his hands on his hips and pursed his lips. When she finally wiped the tears from her face, he said, “I’m glad you think my age is so funny.”

  “Oh, Lord.” She tried to catch her breath but kept breaking up. “Ask a stupid question, right?”

  “You think my answer—or my age—is stupid?”

  She broke up again. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t make fun of old people.”

  “Oh, now that’s funny.” But he wasn’t laughing.

  “Yes,” she said, striving for some semblance of dignity. “I thought so. Now get out of here, grandpa, so we can both get some sleep.”

  “Older brother,” he practically growled.

  “Hey, old is old. I’d offer you my crutches to help you get around, but a cane would probably serve you better.”

  “You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said, surprised. “I am. Now, scoot. It’s not appropriate for grandpa to watch me strip.”

  His only answer was a grunt as he headed for the door. But he stopped short and turned back to her. “How’s your ankle?”

  It was killing her. Or had been until he’d made her laugh and she’d forgotten about the pain. “It’ll be better when I lie down and prop it on a pillow.”

  Dane frowned. “Let’s have a look.”

  “It’s nothing a little rest won’t take care of.”

  “Is it still swollen? When’s the last time you put ice on it?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I do. The hospital.” He turned toward the door again. “When I get back, have that foot propped up.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she muttered to his retreating back. She didn’t like being told what to do, and that had been an order if she’d ever heard one. She might have searched for the energy to tell him off, if her ankle wasn’t throbbing so badly. Wherever he’d gone, propping her foot up sounded good. She just wished he hadn’t told her to do it.

  But she wasn’t going to sit on that bed and relax until she’d taken care of a few other needs first.

  Digging through her new purchases, she pulled out the toothpaste, toothbrush, cleansing cream, and a few other items and put them all into one bag that she could carry and still manage her crutches, then made her way down the short hallway to the bathroom.

  When Dane returned to her room with an ice pack for her ankle she was gone. It didn’t take a detective to figure out where she went. He could hear the water running in the bathroom sink. He moved her shopping bags from the bed to the dresser, then sat on the foot of the bed to wait.

  He hadn’t been sitting there more than a minute when he heard the water shut off. Then Stacey cried out. As if in sudden pain.

  Dane was off the bed and at the closed bathroom door in two seconds flat. He gripped the doorknob but, at the sound of her swearing, stopped short of rushing in. “Stacey?”

  The only response was more muttered curses.

  “Stacey, talk to me.” He had visions of her crumpled on the floor in a heap of pain and misery. “Stacey?”

  “What?”

  Okay, a heap of anger. “Are you all right?” he demanded.

  “Oh, I’m just peachy.” There was a definite snarl in her voice. And what sounded suspiciously like the pain he’d first imagined.

  “You yelled,” he said.

  “There’s that cop in you, noticing a little detail like that.”

  “How bad did you hurt yourself?”

  “Bad enough,” came her answer through the door. “But I guess I’ll live.”

  Praying for patience—the woman was absolutely maddening when she wanted to be—Dane closed his eyes. “Do you need help?”

  “No.” Another muttered curse, “I can—” umph “—manage.”

  Dane paused, about to turn away and give her privacy, when she cried out again. Her cry was followed instantly by a crashing clatter.

  “That cuts it.” He opened the door. “What the—are you all right? What happened?” She was on the floor, on her hands and knees, between the sink and the toilet.

  Her face, when she turned her head to glare at him, was beet-red from what appeared to be a combination of physical effort, embarrassment and plain old fury.

  “I was trying to reach my crutches,” she muttered through clenched teeth. The items in question lay scattered on the floor, one beneath the sink, the other next to Stacey. She lifted one hand and rubbed the top of her head. “One of them reached me, instead.”

  Dane was sincerely sorry she had hurt her ankle and then been conked in the head by her crutches, but he was hard-pressed not to laugh at the sight of her, mad enough to spit, with her rear in the air and her hair falling forward over her face.

  If that wasn’t enough to set him off, he’d just made out the pattern on her new white flannel pajamas. They were covered with dozens of little pictures of pigs with wings. Underneath each picture were the words When Pigs Fly.

  Then he realized that he was staring at the part of her
pajamas that covered her rear.

  Fleetingly he wondered if all men were animalistic jerks. He’d never thought of himself in such terms, but what else could explain the fact that she was injured, partially because of him, she was a guest in his home, a witness in his care, ten years younger than he was, and there he stood, like some sex-starved letch, staring at her backside, wishing his hand was cupped there so he could learn if she was firm or soft, or that tantalizing combination of both that some women managed.

  He oughta be shot.

  “Here, let me help you,” he finally said.

  He lifted her by the waist and sat her on the toilet lid, but instead of releasing her, he slid one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back, and carried her to the bedroom.

  “I could have made it on my own,” she mumbled.

  “You’re welcome.” He placed her on the bed.

  “Okay, okay, thank you. I appreciate the help.”

  “Then you’re going to love this.” He grabbed the extra pillow from beside her and gently placed it beneath her injured foot. “Let’s have a look.”

  “Don’t touch it,” she said in a rush.

  “I won’t.” He tugged slightly on the hem of her pajama leg to get a better view of the ankle. Her bare feet were delicate and shapely. The bright pink polish on her toenails should have looked frivolous, but instead looked sexy.

  Ankle. He was supposed to be checking her ankle. When he did, he winced. “It’s pretty swollen.” Clear down past her anklebone.

  “Well, it’s swollen,” she agreed. “I’d have to argue about the pretty.”

  At least she hadn’t lost her sense of humor, he thought. Reaching across her legs, he retrieved the ice pack he’d left on the foot of the bed. “Let’s try this.” As gently as possible he eased the ice pack against the bandage wrapped around her ankle.

  “It’s cold.”

  “That’s why they call it ice. Get some sleep,” he told her. Dane straightened and looked at her. She looked pale and tired. Dark circles marred the perfection of her skin. He had the most inappropriate urge to reach out and touch that beautiful face, offer what comfort he could. Maybe ease down beside her and hold her while she slept.

  Yeah, right.

  Okay, so he’d rather do something other than sleep. But that would just stay his little secret. If he even hinted at his attraction to her, she’d be reading him that saying on her pajamas in a heartbeat.

  When pigs fly.

  Abruptly he turned away. “I’ll come back and take this off in twenty minutes.”

  “Dane?”

  He paused at the door and looked back. “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.” Her eyes drifted shut, as if her lids were too heavy to keep up.

  “You’re welcome.”

  But she was already asleep.

  Dane hadn’t slept more than two hours when the doorbell woke him. He rolled from the bed and reached for his jeans. Dammit, whoever it was might wake Stacey.

  He’d gone back and removed the ice pack after twenty minutes, and she’d still been out like a light. He had eased the bedcovers from beneath her and pulled them over her. He’d thought he’d awakened her, but she had merely curled up in a ball on her side and snuggled deep into her pillow.

  The urge to stay had been strong, and shocking. Hadn’t he told himself—more than once—all the reasons why he had no business being attracted to her? She was a witness, ten years his junior, and in his protection. She was the last woman on earth he could allow himself to get involved with. The last woman for whom he should feel a growing fondness. He shouldn’t enjoy her wit, her sense of humor, her loyalty to whoever sent her on her grave-decorating errand. He shouldn’t like her smile or the way she smelled or that sassy mouth of hers. He was supposed to keep things between them strictly professional.

  She hadn’t helped anything by leaving her personal laundry in his bathroom. After getting her to bed he’d discovered a dainty pair of pink, lacy bikini panties hanging on the shower rod to dry, and next to them, a matching bra.

  His bachelor home would never be the same. He was tempted to grumble and gripe about it, but what the hell. What man didn’t fantasize about women’s lacy underwear now and then?

  “Forget the damn underwear and get the door,” he ordered himself.

  Just as he reached the front door, the doorbell rang again. Biting back another curse, he checked the peephole. “Well, hell.” This could be good, or it could be bad. The way his luck had been running lately, he wasn’t holding out much hope for the former. He opened the door. “Aunt Karen.”

  Karen Atwater was Dane’s mother’s sister, and he loved her dearly. She was the only living member of his mother’s family he had anything to do with. But she could be stubborn as a Kentucky mule on certain subjects, and it had been a while since she’d stuck her nose in his business. He had a sinking feeling, brought on by the light of battle in her eyes, that his luck had run out where she was concerned.

  “Dane, sweetie.” She was a small woman and he was a large man, but she could envelop him in a hug tight enough to squeeze the breath out of him.

  “This is a surprise,” he said once he’d gotten his breath back. She lived in Cheyenne. Hope Springs wasn’t exactly a short drive for her.

  “I was on my way to Jackson Hole and just couldn’t drive through your county without saying hello.” She slipped out of her coat and handed it to him, queen to peasant, although she didn’t mean it that way. “I stopped at your office and they told me about that dreadful cattle rustling.” She patted him on the arm. “I know you’ll take care of it, sweetie. You’re a wonderful sheriff. Don’t you think you should put on a shirt?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He was thirty-five years old, but when she got that slightly disapproving tone in her voice he suddenly felt like an eight-year-old who’d just been caught tracking mud across the clean kitchen floor. “I’ll be right back.”

  He hung her coat on the coat tree beside the front door, then went to his room and put on a shirt.

  Dammit, he was a grown man. If he wanted to walk around inside his own home without a shirt…

  Who was he kidding? He wouldn’t offend Aunt Karen for the world. Not over something so simple as the lack of a shirt.

  When Dane’s mother had turned up pregnant with him, and unmarried, her parents had callously tossed her out. If not for her older sister, Karen, Dane didn’t know how his mother would have managed. All his life Aunt Karen had been there for them. Now, but for the grandparents he refused to speak to for their treatment of his mother, Karen was, for all practical purposes, the only family Dane had. If she wanted him to put on a shirt, he would put on a shirt.

  While he was at it he decided to splash some cold water on his face. He figured he knew what subject Karen was going to bring up. It wouldn’t pay him to be anything other than as alert as possible. But when he left the bathroom to rejoin his aunt in the living room, he carried with him the mental picture of pink lace underwear hanging on his shower rod.

  In the living room, his aunt gave his shirt the once-over and smiled. “Thank you, sweetie. From what they said at your office, I guess maybe I woke you up.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “If you’d driven through town without stopping you would have hurt my feelings.”

  She stretched up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “You say the sweetest things.”

  He offered her coffee, tea or a cola, but she declined.

  “I really can’t stay but a few minutes. I just wanted to see how you were doing and find out if you’ve talked to the Wilders yet.”

  Bingo. Dane heaved a sigh, but managed to avoid rolling his eyes. “You know better than that.”

  Her sigh was every bit as loud as his. “I can always hope, can’t I? You simply cannot keep this secret any longer, Dane. You have to tell them who you are.”

  It wasn’t even a new verse, Dane thought wearily. Just the same old refrain. “I don’t have to tell them anything. They�
��re getting along just fine without knowing their old man was an even bigger bastard than they think. Or, should I say, without knowing he sired at least one more bastard than they know about.”

  Chapter Eight

  In the first bedroom off the hall, Stacy stood at her door, stunned. She couldn’t have heard right. She must have misunderstood.

  She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. The doorbell had awakened her. Wondering if there was news about the sketch artist they were waiting for, or the cattle rustlers, she’d sat up and this time remembered not to put weight on her right foot when she stood.

  It took a minute for her mind to clear. When it did, she noted that not only had Dane removed the ice pack as he’d promised, but he had tucked her in and retrieved her crutches from the bathroom. She must have fallen asleep the minute he left after putting the ice pack on her ankle. She didn’t remember his leaving. What she did remember was the gentle touch of his fingers against her skin, the soothing coolness of the ice, the swift easing of pain.

  The thought of his tucking her in, touching her while she slept unaware made her heart race, but not in fear. With the prospect of news about an end to her need for Dane’s protection, she’d grabbed the crutches he’d left beside the bed and made her way to the door, which he’d left ajar. It was only three feet from there to the living room, so the voices carried. She thought she heard Dane and his aunt discussing the fact that Dane and the Wilders had…the same father?

  Stacey clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out in shock. Dane? A Wilder? She didn’t want him to be a Wilder! Granted, she had liked the two Wilders she’d met, Ace and Rachel. But she liked Dane a great deal more, and if what her grandmother feared turned out to be true, Stacey didn’t want him to be part of that family. The current generation might be all right, but their father…no, Stacey did not want to contemplate Dane Powell being the son of King Wilder. If what Gran suspected was true, Dane wouldn’t want to contemplate it either.

  What cop wanted to be the son of a murderer?