Sheriff Willaby was not a favorite with the townsfolk of Simple. Probably because he was an arrogant, misogynistic bully—something Dixie had figured out in their very first phone interview. But since she had no intentions of working for him longer than a few months, she’d figured she could handle him. Handling men was her forte. Within weeks, she’d wrapped the sheriff around her little finger. Although it was still hard to work for such a petty, small-minded man. She wasn’t the least upset when the governor had gotten so many complaints about the sheriff that he’d “asked” Willaby to take an extended leave of absence until there could be an investigation on his misconduct.
If she weren’t careful, the people of Simple would start complaining about her. A deputy was much easier to get rid of than an elected sheriff.
“Just a second!” she yelled as she scooped up Queenie and shoved her and the purple pillow into the cat carrier. After slipping the carrier under the desk, she quickly peeled off the mask and threw it into the trash before using the tissue she still had in her hand to wipe off her face as she wheeled the chair over to the filing cabinet and unplugged Alexa. Then she wheeled back and shoveled all her pedicure supplies into the top desk drawer. Once she slammed it shut, she pulled on her hat, pinned a smile on her face, and called in a breathy voice, “Come in.”
There was a long stretch of silence, and she thought that whoever it was had given up and left. But just as she was about to relax, the door opened. A man stood in the doorway. A big man. And Dixie was no wilting violet. She was usually as tall, if not taller, than most men. While all her pageant friends complained about being taller than men, Dixie had no problem with it. In fact, she kind of enjoyed looking down.
But even in her five-inch bathing suit competition heels, she wouldn’t be able to look down at this man. The crown of his cowboy hat was only inches from the top of the doorway. And height wasn’t the only thing oversized. He had shoulders as wide as the Dallas Cowboy linebacker Dixie had once dated.
His heavily starched shirt was snapped all the way to his thick neck where a black tie was perfectly knotted between the sharp points of the stiff cotton collar. Two belts encircled his fat-free waist. One looped through the waistband of his razor-edge pressed khaki pants and the other held the low-riding holster resting on his right hip. While lots of folks walked around with guns in Texas, usually only lawmen had them holstered on the hip.
Well, crap on a cracker. She could be in trouble.
But as her mama always said, “The bigger the man, the harder they fall.” And Dixie was an expert at getting men to fall.
She brightened her smile to the highest wattage as she rose to her feet. She would’ve loved to step out from behind the desk and sashay over to him. Her sashay had always been a showstopper. But she couldn’t leave the desk with smudged naked toes. “Well, good mornin’. What can I do for you?” She drew out the “you” into a nice long Texas “ye-e-ew.”
There was a slight hesitation before he spoke. “Who are you?” His “yew” sounded much more country than hers. And sexy. Extremely sexy in his rough baritone voice.
She rested her hands on the desk and tipped her head. “I believe that should be my question, seeing as how you are in my office.”
“Your office? This is Sheriff Willaby’s office.”
“True, but since the sheriff has taken a . . . long vacation, I’m the one in charge.”
Beneath the brim of his low-tugged hat, she watched as his square jaw flexed and his lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re Deputy Meriwether?”
Blistered biscuits! If he knew her name, she was in big trouble. Still, she tried to bluff her way through like she had bluffed her way through high school, college, and the state police academy. “That would be me. And you are?”
He swept off his hat. “Lincoln Hayes, Texas Ranger.”
Dixie could count on one hand the times she’d been struck speechless, but she was speechless now. Not only because he was a Texas Ranger, the elite of Texas law officers, but also because he was hot. Not in a Brad Pitt pretty boy way, but hot in a rugged manly way. If he were a dog, he’d be a pit bull. His dark eyes were deep set and his nose broad and his jaw square. The only things that weren’t masculine were his long dark lashes, the dimple in his chin, and his soft-looking lips—although even those were marred with a jagged white scar in the top right corner.
A shiver of sexual awareness tiptoed up Dixie’s spine. She wasn’t surprised by her body’s reaction. The man was more virile and studly than one of her daddy’s prize stallions. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if women threw themselves at his big-booted feet just for a chance to be his mating mare.
Just not Dixie Leigh.
If anyone was going to be throwing themselves at someone’s feet, it wouldn’t be her.
She stood and swept off her own hat, making sure to give her long blond, highlighted hair just enough shake so it fell nicely around her shoulders. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Officer Hayes.”
His eyes widened, and she couldn’t help doing a mental fist pump. That’s right, Mr. Big Shot Texas Ranger. Don’t think you can strut in here and get the upper hand. This is my turf. She reached her
