Once There Was a Lawman
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Synopsis
Christmas and romance are a combination even the most jaded tough guy can’t resist in this charming contemporary western tale from the New York Times bestselling author. Perfect for fans of Linda Lael Miller, Jill Shalvis, and Maisey Yates.
FBI agent Thomas Kincaid Jones has soured on both love and Christmas. But Annalisa Davis could change all that. Except the lovely nurse isn’t looking to get involved with someone whose job requires a gun on his hip. And Tom has a case to solve that has nothing to do with love.
Yet the spirit of the holidays just might spark a lifetime connection . . .
Release date: September 26, 2023
Publisher: Zebra Books
Print pages: 96
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Once There Was a Lawman
Diana Palmer
Thomas Kincaid Jones hated the little Colorado town of Raven Springs on sight. He was a city man, from Chicago. He liked the music of traffic, the horns, the eternal movement around him. Here, there was nothing to see, not much to do. Raven Springs, just a few miles out of Benton, Colorado, where he was temporarily assigned on a case, was the end of the world. It was a little town in northwestern Colorado, surrounded by majestic snow-covered mountains, with a small and tight-knit population that seemed to disdain any stranger. The holiday season had apparently been kicked off even before Thanksgiving, because the town was decked out in lights and Christmas decorations in the store windows. And Christmas was at least three weeks away.
He hated Christmas. It was a cold Christmas morning in Chicago when the woman he loved told him that she’d met somebody else and fallen in love, really in love, and that she was leaving him. He’d tried to talk her out of it. They’d been in an on-off relationship for months, and he’d been on the verge of proposing. He knew she dated other men, but he’d been fairly certain that there was no real competition. Well, not until that morning, when she’d hit him in the gut with her confession.
Maybe it hadn’t been love as much as physical attraction that held them together, but he’d felt lost when she left town. He’d decided then and there that he wouldn’t ever let another woman get that close to him. Six years ago, that had happened. And while he’d had infrequent liaisons, he’d never loved any of them. If a woman could think of men as disposable, surely it was fair play for a man to consider them disposable. He was still bitter about Angie taking off with another man. Especially when he’d considered marriage for the first time in his life.
Just before she left, there had been one last, parting shot. She didn’t really want to spend her life with a man in law enforcement who could be killed anytime he went out on a case. She hated guns. He’d thought she was just using that as an excuse. Probably she had. She’d never acted like she cared. He had a job, his service with the Chicago Police Department, and he’d been in Army Intelligence while he was in the service, in between law enforcement positions. Any man could be killed, by a car crash, a riot, a flaming meteor hitting the ground. Law enforcement had its risks, but so did life itself. He didn’t dwell on that, anyway. He was a good shot and he had a solid background, starting at his service with the Chicago Police Department right out of school. He’d wanted something more adventurous, though, so even before Angie left him, he’d applied for a job with the Bureau. After months of checking and rechecking, they’d hired him. He’d had physical encounters with criminals, of course. One memorable one was right outside the local FBI office: two guys trying to kill each other over a girl. He’d stepped in, without thinking about it, and separated them. His reward had been a knife slashing into his chest. He’d subdued the suspect and called for backup, bleeding all the while. One of the local police officers, a man he knew, insisted that he go to the emergency room for treatment. He still had the scar. It wasn’t too noticeable, in the thick hair that covered the solid muscle of his chest. But it was long and deep.
He was a big guy, over six feet, not fat but husky and broad-shouldered, like a wrestler. He had thick black hair and large hands. His eyes were dark and piercing, and he almost never smiled. They’d called him Stone Face back in Chicago. Not in front of him, though. Not ever.
He was bored out of his mind. He was here on a case for the FBI. It was a federal crime, kidnapping, and he was partnering with local law enforcement to apprehend the perpetrator who’d left his heavily bound hostage—a young woman—to freeze to death in a lonely, unheated, mountain cabin.
Stuff of heroes, this assignment, he kept telling himself as he cleaned the .45 caliber automatic on a table in his motel room. Except he didn’t feel like a hero. He missed the city. All you could hear in this place were barking dogs and even damned singing crickets! There was one in the room right now, driving him nuts. Why was it here in the first place, in the dead of winter? He’d tried to find it, finally realizing it was just outside the room, not in it. And he couldn’t very well go to the room next to his, in the dark, trying to shoot a cricket. He imagined the occupant of the room would take offense if he asked to be let in on a search-and-destroy mission.
He knew his size could be intimidating. He’d played football in college, but he was a little past that now, at thirty-six. The job had become his life. He’d been with the Bureau going on six years now. He was comfortably settled, often applauded for his devotion to duty. Now, here he sat in this little dinky motel room in the back of beyond, listening to that damned cricket. It was absurd!
Before this came up in Raven Springs, Tom had been assigned another case in Denver. Since he was the closest agent to the small town, and the case he was on wasn’t urgent, he’d been requested to help Jeff Ralston, the local sheriff, find the perpetrator who’d collected ransom for a dead hostage. The case had twists and turns like a snake, and it was especially sad at this time of year.
He was out of humor already, being reminded, every step he took, of Christmas. He wasn’t looking forward to being stuck here for any lengthy period of time. Maybe the perp would feel guilty and present himself at the sheriff’s office, hands outstretched for the handcuffs. He chuckled to himself. Sure. That was how it worked.
He’d just finished cleaning his .45 automatic and was putting away his cleaning tools when there was a knock at his motel room door. He holstered the automatic on his hip, and went to the door, one hand on the butt of the weapon. He was always cautious.
He opened the door a crack and was met by pale, icy-silver eyes in a pretty face, surrounded by long, blond, wavy hair that she was quickly plaiting.
“Yes?” he asked coldly.
“Do you drive a black Crown Victoria?” she asked politely.
“Yes.”
“Did you park it in a driveway next to the motel?”
He blinked. “Yes.”
“Well, would you mind moving it?” she asked curtly. “I’d like to get my car out of my driveway so that I can go to work!”
He held up his arm and looked at his watch. His thick dark brows arched. “It’s almost eleven. What the hell kind of job do you have, pole dancing at a bar?”
Her eyes flashed pale lightning at him. “My job is none of your business. Will you please move your car?”
He shrugged. “If I must.”
He followed her out the door. She wasn’t tall. The top of her head came to his shoulder. She was slender and not bad looking at all. She had on a coat that had seen a lot of wear. There was a button missing on one sleeve. Her shoes were thick-soled and laced up. He wondered what sort of work she did. Maybe she cleaned offices. Didn’t they do that at night?
He got into his car, started it, and backed down the driveway. He pulled in next to the curb and got out, locking it back up.
“Just for future reference,” she said, “this is not part of the motel parking lot.”
He pursed his lips and studied her. Indignant. Young. Very young. He glanced past her at a house that needed more repairs than he could take in all at once.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” he said.
For the first time, she noticed the pistol in its holster. “You’re wearing a gun.”
“Goes with the job.”
“You’re an assassin?” she asked with a snarky smile.
He glared at her. “FBI.”
“Oh. The horrible kidnapping,” she said. She nodded. “I knew her. Julie Crane. She was a sweet, kind person. She was standoffish if she didn’t know you, but people understood why she was like she was. I can’t imagine that anybody would hurt her. Of course, her stepfather has money, but they didn’t get along. He was crazy in love with his wife. When she got lung cancer and went in for treatment, he went with her. He even hired a nurse to do private duty with her when she got really bad.” She made a face. “Nobody liked the nurse. Julie certainly didn’t—she said the nurse took credit for what Julie did when she cared for her mother. May Strickland, that’s the nurse, wouldn’t even change the bed linen.”
“Well, aren’t you a buffet of news.”
“You look like you’d need to eat a buffet twice a day,” she returned, giving him a long look.
“I’m big-boned,” he said resentfully.
“Salads are very good for you. So is yoghurt.”
“I don’t need health advice from kids, thanks.”
She drew herself up to her full height. “I’m not a kid! I’m twenty-five.”
“You’re a kid. Drive carefully.”
She made a face at him. “I always drive carefully.”
He stood on the sidewalk and watched her back out. She went over the curb, almost hit his car, got into gear on the second try and putted down the street. The vehicle she was driving was pouring black smoke and it looked to be at least twenty years old. He shook his head. Talk about town characters, he told himself.
The next morning, he was sitting in Jeff Ralston’s office, drinking coffee and going over witness statements.
“There was a kid last night who mentioned some things about the victim,” he began.
“Who?”
“No idea. I was parked in her driveway next to the motel. Blonde, silver eyes, comes up to my shoulder. And twenty-five years old.”
“Oh, yes. Annalisa Davis,” Jeff replied with a warm smile. “She lost her dad last year.” He didn’t say how. That was Anna’s business. “Her mother died a couple of years before that. She insisted on staying in the house, although it’s falling apart around her ears. Proud as the devil. She won’t let anybody help her.”
Annalisa. It suited her somehow. “She’s got a mouth on her,” he remarked.
Jeff chuckled. “Just like her late mother. But she’s a sucker for lost pets, small animals, and little children.”
Something stirred deep inside him. He smothered it. The kid was years too young, and he didn’t even know her. Best not to get involved.
“About the victim—” he began.
“Julie Crane,” Jeff interrupted. “Her stepdad’s filthy rich; he inherited all the money Julie’s mother had, and it was a lot. He’s kept the nurse who took care of his late wife. Her name is May Strickland. She and Julie didn’t get along at all. I guess May wasn’t mour. . .
He hated Christmas. It was a cold Christmas morning in Chicago when the woman he loved told him that she’d met somebody else and fallen in love, really in love, and that she was leaving him. He’d tried to talk her out of it. They’d been in an on-off relationship for months, and he’d been on the verge of proposing. He knew she dated other men, but he’d been fairly certain that there was no real competition. Well, not until that morning, when she’d hit him in the gut with her confession.
Maybe it hadn’t been love as much as physical attraction that held them together, but he’d felt lost when she left town. He’d decided then and there that he wouldn’t ever let another woman get that close to him. Six years ago, that had happened. And while he’d had infrequent liaisons, he’d never loved any of them. If a woman could think of men as disposable, surely it was fair play for a man to consider them disposable. He was still bitter about Angie taking off with another man. Especially when he’d considered marriage for the first time in his life.
Just before she left, there had been one last, parting shot. She didn’t really want to spend her life with a man in law enforcement who could be killed anytime he went out on a case. She hated guns. He’d thought she was just using that as an excuse. Probably she had. She’d never acted like she cared. He had a job, his service with the Chicago Police Department, and he’d been in Army Intelligence while he was in the service, in between law enforcement positions. Any man could be killed, by a car crash, a riot, a flaming meteor hitting the ground. Law enforcement had its risks, but so did life itself. He didn’t dwell on that, anyway. He was a good shot and he had a solid background, starting at his service with the Chicago Police Department right out of school. He’d wanted something more adventurous, though, so even before Angie left him, he’d applied for a job with the Bureau. After months of checking and rechecking, they’d hired him. He’d had physical encounters with criminals, of course. One memorable one was right outside the local FBI office: two guys trying to kill each other over a girl. He’d stepped in, without thinking about it, and separated them. His reward had been a knife slashing into his chest. He’d subdued the suspect and called for backup, bleeding all the while. One of the local police officers, a man he knew, insisted that he go to the emergency room for treatment. He still had the scar. It wasn’t too noticeable, in the thick hair that covered the solid muscle of his chest. But it was long and deep.
He was a big guy, over six feet, not fat but husky and broad-shouldered, like a wrestler. He had thick black hair and large hands. His eyes were dark and piercing, and he almost never smiled. They’d called him Stone Face back in Chicago. Not in front of him, though. Not ever.
He was bored out of his mind. He was here on a case for the FBI. It was a federal crime, kidnapping, and he was partnering with local law enforcement to apprehend the perpetrator who’d left his heavily bound hostage—a young woman—to freeze to death in a lonely, unheated, mountain cabin.
Stuff of heroes, this assignment, he kept telling himself as he cleaned the .45 caliber automatic on a table in his motel room. Except he didn’t feel like a hero. He missed the city. All you could hear in this place were barking dogs and even damned singing crickets! There was one in the room right now, driving him nuts. Why was it here in the first place, in the dead of winter? He’d tried to find it, finally realizing it was just outside the room, not in it. And he couldn’t very well go to the room next to his, in the dark, trying to shoot a cricket. He imagined the occupant of the room would take offense if he asked to be let in on a search-and-destroy mission.
He knew his size could be intimidating. He’d played football in college, but he was a little past that now, at thirty-six. The job had become his life. He’d been with the Bureau going on six years now. He was comfortably settled, often applauded for his devotion to duty. Now, here he sat in this little dinky motel room in the back of beyond, listening to that damned cricket. It was absurd!
Before this came up in Raven Springs, Tom had been assigned another case in Denver. Since he was the closest agent to the small town, and the case he was on wasn’t urgent, he’d been requested to help Jeff Ralston, the local sheriff, find the perpetrator who’d collected ransom for a dead hostage. The case had twists and turns like a snake, and it was especially sad at this time of year.
He was out of humor already, being reminded, every step he took, of Christmas. He wasn’t looking forward to being stuck here for any lengthy period of time. Maybe the perp would feel guilty and present himself at the sheriff’s office, hands outstretched for the handcuffs. He chuckled to himself. Sure. That was how it worked.
He’d just finished cleaning his .45 automatic and was putting away his cleaning tools when there was a knock at his motel room door. He holstered the automatic on his hip, and went to the door, one hand on the butt of the weapon. He was always cautious.
He opened the door a crack and was met by pale, icy-silver eyes in a pretty face, surrounded by long, blond, wavy hair that she was quickly plaiting.
“Yes?” he asked coldly.
“Do you drive a black Crown Victoria?” she asked politely.
“Yes.”
“Did you park it in a driveway next to the motel?”
He blinked. “Yes.”
“Well, would you mind moving it?” she asked curtly. “I’d like to get my car out of my driveway so that I can go to work!”
He held up his arm and looked at his watch. His thick dark brows arched. “It’s almost eleven. What the hell kind of job do you have, pole dancing at a bar?”
Her eyes flashed pale lightning at him. “My job is none of your business. Will you please move your car?”
He shrugged. “If I must.”
He followed her out the door. She wasn’t tall. The top of her head came to his shoulder. She was slender and not bad looking at all. She had on a coat that had seen a lot of wear. There was a button missing on one sleeve. Her shoes were thick-soled and laced up. He wondered what sort of work she did. Maybe she cleaned offices. Didn’t they do that at night?
He got into his car, started it, and backed down the driveway. He pulled in next to the curb and got out, locking it back up.
“Just for future reference,” she said, “this is not part of the motel parking lot.”
He pursed his lips and studied her. Indignant. Young. Very young. He glanced past her at a house that needed more repairs than he could take in all at once.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” he said.
For the first time, she noticed the pistol in its holster. “You’re wearing a gun.”
“Goes with the job.”
“You’re an assassin?” she asked with a snarky smile.
He glared at her. “FBI.”
“Oh. The horrible kidnapping,” she said. She nodded. “I knew her. Julie Crane. She was a sweet, kind person. She was standoffish if she didn’t know you, but people understood why she was like she was. I can’t imagine that anybody would hurt her. Of course, her stepfather has money, but they didn’t get along. He was crazy in love with his wife. When she got lung cancer and went in for treatment, he went with her. He even hired a nurse to do private duty with her when she got really bad.” She made a face. “Nobody liked the nurse. Julie certainly didn’t—she said the nurse took credit for what Julie did when she cared for her mother. May Strickland, that’s the nurse, wouldn’t even change the bed linen.”
“Well, aren’t you a buffet of news.”
“You look like you’d need to eat a buffet twice a day,” she returned, giving him a long look.
“I’m big-boned,” he said resentfully.
“Salads are very good for you. So is yoghurt.”
“I don’t need health advice from kids, thanks.”
She drew herself up to her full height. “I’m not a kid! I’m twenty-five.”
“You’re a kid. Drive carefully.”
She made a face at him. “I always drive carefully.”
He stood on the sidewalk and watched her back out. She went over the curb, almost hit his car, got into gear on the second try and putted down the street. The vehicle she was driving was pouring black smoke and it looked to be at least twenty years old. He shook his head. Talk about town characters, he told himself.
The next morning, he was sitting in Jeff Ralston’s office, drinking coffee and going over witness statements.
“There was a kid last night who mentioned some things about the victim,” he began.
“Who?”
“No idea. I was parked in her driveway next to the motel. Blonde, silver eyes, comes up to my shoulder. And twenty-five years old.”
“Oh, yes. Annalisa Davis,” Jeff replied with a warm smile. “She lost her dad last year.” He didn’t say how. That was Anna’s business. “Her mother died a couple of years before that. She insisted on staying in the house, although it’s falling apart around her ears. Proud as the devil. She won’t let anybody help her.”
Annalisa. It suited her somehow. “She’s got a mouth on her,” he remarked.
Jeff chuckled. “Just like her late mother. But she’s a sucker for lost pets, small animals, and little children.”
Something stirred deep inside him. He smothered it. The kid was years too young, and he didn’t even know her. Best not to get involved.
“About the victim—” he began.
“Julie Crane,” Jeff interrupted. “Her stepdad’s filthy rich; he inherited all the money Julie’s mother had, and it was a lot. He’s kept the nurse who took care of his late wife. Her name is May Strickland. She and Julie didn’t get along at all. I guess May wasn’t mour. . .
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