West

Sheriff Hansen stood in the doorway, shotgun resting against one shoulder. He was shirtless and dressed in pants that hung low on his hips, as if he'd been sleeping when he heard us approach. I stared at his lean chest and his chiseled abs, his wiry form molded from physical labor.

Wow. He was even better looking without clothes.

And then it clicked whom I was staring at. "Sorry. Wrong number," I said and backed away, not about to get stuck with the man who was a suspect in the deaths of the girls who came before me.

Running Bear blocked my path.

"Hold on," the sheriff said and reached out, taking my arm. "What are you doing out in this storm?" His green eyes swept over my features and down my soaked clothing.

"Nothing. Lost. But I figured it out," I stammered, eyes on the way his shoulder muscles moved.

"Let her tell you why she wanted to see our uncle," Running Bear said with a trace of amusement.

I gave a noisy sigh.

"C'mon. You're soaked." The sheriff pulled me into the cabin. "You need shelter, brother?" he asked the native standing on the porch.

A clap of thunder rendered his response inaudible to me, though the sheriff seemed to hear it. He chuckled and closed the door behind me.

Not my best day ever. I moved away from him towards the fire. Too aware of his uncanny knowledge of me and the shotgun he held, I spoke before filtering my words. "You won't kill me, right?" Not that it made a difference. I was too cold to run if he said yes. My teeth chattered, and I inched closer to the fire.

"Hadn't planned on it," he replied, setting the shotgun by the door. "Running Bear find you or you find him?"

"A little of both."

"He's always draggin' stragglers here." He studied me for a moment before shaking his head. "I guess this gives us a chance to have that talk we need to have." He snatched a loose cotton shirt from the back of a chair and tugged it on, hiding the expanse of skin and lean muscle.

I knelt beside the fire, unable to feel my fingers or toes. I was in no shape to run, not with half my body frozen and the dress weighing me down. I debated silently what to say. Without turning my back to him, I got as close as possible to the fire and didn't start to relax until the heat had sunk into my skin.

"You want a change of clothes?" the sheriff asked.

There it was again. Near-concern. It contrasted greatly with his determination to talk to me and the threats of throwing me in prison until I did. "You keep gowns here?" I replied skeptically.