Buried Secrets by Evelyn Vaughn

a bad thing!
    â€œSee you tomorrow, then.” He took a step backward andfolded his arms. Yep. Calling it a day. That was them. “Eightish.”
    His clear determination to watch her get into her truck allowed Jo to relax into mild exasperation, far safer than the other feelings she fought. After all, a gal never knew when she might need manly protection in a well-lit, small-town parking lot.
    She went to her Bronco, thought to check it for snakes and climbed in. Zack was still standing outside his motel room.
    When she cranked the engine, which hurt her scraped hands, it took three tries to catch. It was just old, but the comparison to Zack’s Ferrari felt sad. Finally the engine caught and settled into a regular rumble, if not a purr. When Jo glanced back to #7, Zack was closing the door behind him.
    She relaxed for the first time in what felt like hours and steered from the parking lot toward the highway. Only as she stopped to wait for a passing car did she look behind her one more time, at the motel room.
    Zack Lorenzo had pulled his drapes.
    Â 
    Some men shouldn’t take that first drink, or light that first cigarette—or hell, pick up that first Playboy.
    Watching to be sure the sheriff was safely on her way, Zack wished his problem was so easily monitored. It wasn’t like he could shun all women for fear they might need rescuing. But of all the ladies who should have been self-sufficient and safe…
    Jo fell, he rescued, and now he was even more responsible for her than ever. Just what he didn’t need.
    It made her matter far more than she should.
    Seeing her old truck start moving—finally—he stepped inside and quickly pulled the cords to close the drapes. With a practiced twitch, he made sure they overlapped in the middle, so he wouldn’t accidentally catch a glimpse out. Better.
    Only then did he turn on the room lights.
    Zack didn’t like uncovered windows at night, not for a couple of years now. Not with the lights on inside anyway, which was the only reason he could still drive at night. For one thing, lights turned rooms into bright displays for any buttinsky who bothered to glance in. And for another…
    He just didn’t like them, was all.
    He hated to admit that anything scared him. Most things didn’t. Once a guy faces down what could’ve been a demon—the junkie he’d rescued from near sacrifice claimed it was—average scares don’t pack a lot of punch. Today’s Bruja had been strange, sure, but not scary. The snakes had put him on alert, yeah, but he’d been too busy dealing with them to be scared.
    But Jo…
    What if he’d been standing farther from her? What if he hadn’t caught her in time, or his hand had slipped? What if one of the rattlesnakes had made good on its buzzing threat, before he’d gotten the leverage to pull her up?
    He didn’t want another woman’s death on his conscience, damn it. Sure, he wouldn’t be actively at fault here, any more than with Gabriella. But there would’ve been something he could have done and hadn’t, all the same. He’d still have to live with the guilt of that omission.
    Not that Jo was anything to him like Gabriella.
    From his suitcase, Zack unearthed a bottle of bourbon and poured an inch into one of the generic motel glasses. The swallow of liquor eased into his aching shoulders, his tense arms. It helped him remind himself that he hadn’t let Jo die. He’d dragged her up until she’d landed on top of him, soft and safe and alive.
    And for that, more than anything, Zack was suddenly and increasingly scared. Because damn, he’d liked how she felt on top of him. He’d liked her panting breaths, and her funny, macho conceits and the fact that she might be as good a shot as he was. Against snakes, anyway.
    Despite his best efforts, he liked the sheriff. He was attracted to her. Nothing long-term, of course—she lived