Savior in the Saddle by Delores Fossen Page A

the restaurant.
    They repeated that process for three more buildings, putting some distance between the hotel and them.
    Willa heard the sirens, but it only heightened her fear. However, Brandon paused and looked out as if he were considering the possibility of going to the responding officers.
    “Please tell me you’re not going out there,” she whispered.
    “Not a chance.” He grabbed her arm again and got them moving farther away from the hotel and from those approaching sirens.
    “Then where are we going once we get a car?” Willa demanded.
    Brandon lifted her hand so she would have a reminder of what she’d written there. “You have to trust me a little longer, Willa. Because I’m taking you to the one place I know where I can keep you safe.”

Chapter Nine
    They were home.
    Well, they were at his home anyway, Willa amended.
    It was apparently the one place he knew where he could keep her safe. Maybe he felt that way because of the two dogs. The minute they turned into the gravel driveway that led to the isolated house, two Dobermans came racing toward them. Neither dog looked very welcoming, and they barked and chased the car.
    It wasn’t exactly a friendly greeting.
    The trek to his rural Crockett Creek house hadn’t been a friendly one, either. It’d taken them more than an hour to get far enough away from the hotel and to a pay phone he thought might be safe to use. He’d called one of his deputies, Pete Sanchez, a fiftysomething-year-old man who had arrived to pick them up in San Antonio, so he could then drive them out to Brandon’s place.
    The drive had been long and tedious. Along with bathroom stops to accommodate Willa and the round about route the deputy had used to get them to the small Texas town, the trip was more than three hours. Willa was beyond exhausted, and that was probably a good thing because the exhaustion numbed some of the fear.
    Temporarily, anyway.
    The fear returned when she studied the house itself. Despite the barking dogs, it wasn’t a fortress, that’s for sure. It looked more like, well, a home.
    Deputy Sanchez pulled to a stop in front of the porch and steps.
    “Are you sure we’ll be safe here?” Willa asked, eyeing the cottage-style house.
    With the iron-gray sky and the icy drizzle spitting at them, the house was the only spot of color in the winter landscape. It was a cheery shade of yellow and had dark green shutters and door. There were even flower boxes anchored beneath the windows. It wasn’t what she expected from a dark and brooding small-town Texas sheriff.
    “The place was painted like this when I bought it,” Brandon mumbled, probably sensing her surprise. “Wait here,” he told her.
    Brandon drew his gun, and just like that, the fatigue could no longer numb the fear. Willa sat there on the backseat of the deputy’s four-door black Ford and watched as Brandon got out. He didn’t say anything to the dogs. He merely lifted his left hand, and they both went silent. The pair followed Brandon up the steps and to the door he then unlocked. However, they didn’t go inside. The dogs waited for him on the porch.
    “Please, don’t let there be anyone in there,” Willa mumbled. But she obviously didn’t mumble it softly enough because the deputy eased around in the seat and looked at her.
    “Butch and Sundance wouldn’t have let anyone inside,” Deputy Sanchez drawled. “Brandon’s just being extra cautious. If the dogs are alive and kickin’, then no one got near the place and remained in one piece.”
    Even though Willa didn’t like the idea of being around attack dogs, it was better than having no outside protection against a professional assassin.
    Pete kept the windshield wipers on, and they scraped away at the sleety drizzle, smearing the ice on the glass.
    “I’m assuming Brandon doesn’t need the dogs for security,” she commented. “Because I’d figured Crockett Creek was a safe town.”
    “Don’t worry, it is. I think the dogs