Chapter One
‡
C ain Whitfield wasn’t the sort of man who put much stock in premonitions or sixth sense. But the moment he’d first spotted the shy brunette through the window of the Prickly Pear Motel, he’d known trouble had arrived in Caldera.
His gaze had snagged on her ill-fitting clothing and her wildly curling hair. Not unusual, his noticing a stranger arriving in his little town. But the minute his dick twitched, he should have heeded the warning.
Yeah, he sure could pick ’em. Just like his ex, only Susan hadn’t burned down a cabin. She’d left his place cleaner than she’d managed to keep it the entire six months they’d been together. Hell, the woman hadn’t even left him a can of beans in the pantry when she’d walked out on their marriage. On a Monday. After he’d left for work. Via a note taped to the kitchen counter because she couldn’t put that into a U-Haul trailer.
Staring at the fire that lit the Texas night sky, he shook his head. The strobing lights of police and fire vehicles were no competition for the furious blaze. No simple kitchen fire or leaf pile run amok. It was going to be a long night.
The minute he’d gotten a call to come to a house fire out on Old Amity Road, he’d suspected the owner of the cabin, Mutt Owens, the father of his fellow deputy, Tank Owens, had finally committed arson, because the old ramshackle cabin hadn’t had a tenant in a couple of years.
That suspicion had been quickly squashed when he’d spied that same pretty brunette who had pricked his attention two nights earlier standing apart from the men surrounding the fire truck.
He spotted the sheriff, Josh Penske, also standing beside the fire crew, not that the firefighters could do much more than wet the grass surrounding the building. This far out of town they didn’t have a hydrant to hook up to. The water they carried on the pumper truck ensured the blaze didn’t set fire to the tall buffalo grass surrounding the clearing, and they were busy unrolling more hoses.
As he stood, more vehicles arrived—volunteer firefighters, among them Jeremiah McCord whose ranch butted up against this property. Jeremiah would be the first to arrive—he’d nearly lost his shirt the last time a fire swept across his ranch. The rancher gave Cain a nod then hurried to join the mostly volunteer crew beside the truck.
Chief Blake Thacker roamed around the cabin, carrying a portable water bladder used for prescribed burns and pointing his hose toward the ground to extinguish embers wherever they flew. His expression was drawn and harsh.
No one was paying much attention to the slender figure leaning against an older model Ford Taurus with Illinois plates, her shoulders hunched and her face mostly obscured by the fall of thick dark hair.
The first time he’d seen her, he’d known something was off. She’d been standing in front of the counter, filling out forms at the motel’s registration desk in clothes that didn’t fit well—too slouchy and mud-colored, when her pale skin and dark hair cried out for vibrant colors. That the clothing wasn’t hers was apparent. Her furtive glance out the window at his squad car had further piqued his interest. This time, not due to any attraction he’d initially felt, but because she’d looked scared.
But just as he’d decided to park next to the office and introduce himself to the newcomer in town, he’d gotten a call about a domestic disturbance, and after circling the parking lot, he’d left.
Until tonight, he hadn’t thought about her again.
What she was doing here was a mystery. But he knew she was somehow involved in this fire. And as he raised his nose to the air, he began adding up the charges—too pretty, too quiet, and by the way her gaze kept sweeping the clearing, still scared. And was that gas he smelled? Did they have another firebug in their midst?
Jeremiah McCord had gone and married their last arsonist. Something that still had most of the
‡
C ain Whitfield wasn’t the sort of man who put much stock in premonitions or sixth sense. But the moment he’d first spotted the shy brunette through the window of the Prickly Pear Motel, he’d known trouble had arrived in Caldera.
His gaze had snagged on her ill-fitting clothing and her wildly curling hair. Not unusual, his noticing a stranger arriving in his little town. But the minute his dick twitched, he should have heeded the warning.
Yeah, he sure could pick ’em. Just like his ex, only Susan hadn’t burned down a cabin. She’d left his place cleaner than she’d managed to keep it the entire six months they’d been together. Hell, the woman hadn’t even left him a can of beans in the pantry when she’d walked out on their marriage. On a Monday. After he’d left for work. Via a note taped to the kitchen counter because she couldn’t put that into a U-Haul trailer.
Staring at the fire that lit the Texas night sky, he shook his head. The strobing lights of police and fire vehicles were no competition for the furious blaze. No simple kitchen fire or leaf pile run amok. It was going to be a long night.
The minute he’d gotten a call to come to a house fire out on Old Amity Road, he’d suspected the owner of the cabin, Mutt Owens, the father of his fellow deputy, Tank Owens, had finally committed arson, because the old ramshackle cabin hadn’t had a tenant in a couple of years.
That suspicion had been quickly squashed when he’d spied that same pretty brunette who had pricked his attention two nights earlier standing apart from the men surrounding the fire truck.
He spotted the sheriff, Josh Penske, also standing beside the fire crew, not that the firefighters could do much more than wet the grass surrounding the building. This far out of town they didn’t have a hydrant to hook up to. The water they carried on the pumper truck ensured the blaze didn’t set fire to the tall buffalo grass surrounding the clearing, and they were busy unrolling more hoses.
As he stood, more vehicles arrived—volunteer firefighters, among them Jeremiah McCord whose ranch butted up against this property. Jeremiah would be the first to arrive—he’d nearly lost his shirt the last time a fire swept across his ranch. The rancher gave Cain a nod then hurried to join the mostly volunteer crew beside the truck.
Chief Blake Thacker roamed around the cabin, carrying a portable water bladder used for prescribed burns and pointing his hose toward the ground to extinguish embers wherever they flew. His expression was drawn and harsh.
No one was paying much attention to the slender figure leaning against an older model Ford Taurus with Illinois plates, her shoulders hunched and her face mostly obscured by the fall of thick dark hair.
The first time he’d seen her, he’d known something was off. She’d been standing in front of the counter, filling out forms at the motel’s registration desk in clothes that didn’t fit well—too slouchy and mud-colored, when her pale skin and dark hair cried out for vibrant colors. That the clothing wasn’t hers was apparent. Her furtive glance out the window at his squad car had further piqued his interest. This time, not due to any attraction he’d initially felt, but because she’d looked scared.
But just as he’d decided to park next to the office and introduce himself to the newcomer in town, he’d gotten a call about a domestic disturbance, and after circling the parking lot, he’d left.
Until tonight, he hadn’t thought about her again.
What she was doing here was a mystery. But he knew she was somehow involved in this fire. And as he raised his nose to the air, he began adding up the charges—too pretty, too quiet, and by the way her gaze kept sweeping the clearing, still scared. And was that gas he smelled? Did they have another firebug in their midst?
Jeremiah McCord had gone and married their last arsonist. Something that still had most of the
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