Wind River Lawman

Book 6: Wind River Valley

by Lindsay McKenna

Genres: Military Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

The new novel from the bestselling author of Lone Rider.

Sometimes, the war comes to you....

After serving as a Navy medic, Dawson Callahan is back in the States and ready to start over. Leaving his native Texas, he heads for the wide-open spaces of Wyoming, where he finds work as a wrangler. True, he'll mainly be wrangling chickens—and wrangling Sarah Carter's granny, who's still spry, but in need of a little caregiving. But ranch work is ranch work, and it's hard to turn down a job offer from the beautiful Sheriff Carter—especially when she deputizes him as one of her lawmen.

Sarah loves her grandmother, but with her law-enforcement career keeping her busy, they could both use some help from a strong, steady man. Policing Lincoln County has only gotten tougher since a merciless drug lord arrived in the area. When Sarah takes a bullet on the job, it's Dawson who comes to her rescue—and though they both thought they left war behind in Afghanistan, they'll do whatever it takes to protect what's theirs, even if it means facing down traumas they've buried for years. Because love isn't for the faint of heart....

Release date: August 28, 2018

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Sheriff Sarah Carter didn’t know what the hell to do. She stared down at the help wanted ad she was going to place in the Jackson Hole, Wyoming, newspaper. Her finger hovered over the Send button. Had she gotten this right? Had she revealed enough about the person she was looking to hire? Conflicted, feeling as if the devil on her right shoulder was shouting at her to cut out some of the work qualifications she’d put in and the angel on her left, saying it was fine as is, she sat back, frustrated.

Her office was glass-enclosed on three sides, with a red-brick wall behind her squeaky desk chair. Outside, the deputies for Lincoln County were getting ready for a shift change at four p.m. It was the weekend, always a brutal time for drunks on the roadways. Every Saturday during the summer months, she’d assign a small task force to pull over suspected drinkers to give them Breathalyzer tests. The Wind River Valley stretched a hundred miles long, hugging the western border of the state with Idaho and Utah. It was a fifty-mile-wide valley, bracketed by the Wilson Range on the west and the Salt River Mountain on the eastern border.

What to do? What to do? Her red eyebrows bunched as she studied the computer screen.

Was that enough of a description? Wrangler and assistant? Actually, she had little hope that any man who applied for the position would meet both criteria. Sarah desperately needed a male wrangler to fill in and help her spry, seventy-five-year-old grandmother, Gertie Carter. She was her father, David’s, mother. And the word spry was less than what she would use: rocket was more like it. Type A, unbound. A go-getter. Or, as Gertie would say, no moss ever grew under her feet. No siree Bob!

Her lips twitched. She dearly loved both her grandmothers, Gertie and Nell. Both were intelligent, accomplished businesswomen, but in completely different ways. On her ranch, Nell sold grass leases to cattlemen from other western states every spring and summer, so they could fatten their cattle on some of the greenest, richest fodder in the US.

Gertie Carter’s husband, Isaac, had died a year ago. They’d been married at eighteen, started the Loosey Goosey Ranch and the rest was history. Together, they’d built an organic egg empire with free-range fowl. Today, it was the largest company in the country, providing organic eggs and fryers to all the major grocery chains. Gertie’s egg empire was worth three hundred million dollars.

Now, Gertie needed some male help. Isaac had always taken care of the chicken and egg business while she tended the accounting books, the contacts with the grocery stores, orders and such. Without Isaac, and having arthritis in both her wrists, Gertie couldn’t possibly fill Isaac’s shoes. No, she needed a wrangler. But she also needed a man who had a medical background because Gertie would get sudden, unexpected dizzy spells and lose her balance. She’d fallen many times. And each time, she called Sarah on the cell phone, asking for help instead of dialing 911.

The problem was, Sarah was often involved in law-enforcement situations as the sheriff of the county, and she couldn’t just pick up and drive back to the ranch to help her grandmother. Gertie needed help. Desperately. Right now, Sarah’s father was filling in, but he couldn’t do it forever. No, they had to hire someone much younger.

But who? Who would want to be known as the chicken wrangler of Wind River Valley? Maybe she should tell the prospective applicants they’d be an egg wrangler. Clearly, there was no pride in telling folks you were a chicken wrangler? With a sigh, Sarah put down her private phone number, hit the Send key and prayed for the best, not really expecting anyone to answer the ad.

Dawson Callahan was sitting at a café in Jackson Hole, having just driven to the cow town an hour earlier. He’d come from his parents’ Amarillo, Texas, ranch. They’d tried to dissuade him, but he’d always wanted to find out what it would be like to live in Wyoming. No, it didn’t have the Alamo. No, it didn’t have the history of being the largest state in the union. All those attributes his father, Henry, always talked about, fell on deaf ears.

He’d managed to survive as a Navy combat corpsman assigned to a US Marine Corps company from age eighteen through twenty-nine. When his enlistment was up, he went home to Texas, back to being a wrangler on his father’s small ranch, where they raised cattle. But it didn’t fulfill him. He was restless. He wanted to strike out on his own. How many times had he dreamed of coming to Wyoming? Too many. Well, this was his chance. And as he read the help wanted ads, one caught his eye: for a wrangler with a medical background. That was him. And because his Grandma Lorena had helped raise him while both his parents worked, Dawson had a soft spot for older men and women, seeing his own grams in all of them.

Okay, he’d answer the ad as soon as he got a big breakfast. He’d find a local motel, use their business computer, fill out his résumé and see if he couldn’t get hired.

Sarah’s eyes widened. There on her personal computer the next morning was a résumé for the ad she’d placed! She quickly scanned the email.

She sat at her desk in her own small home, a block from the courthouse where the sheriff’s department was located. It was seven a.m. and she was due to go to work at eight. The only thing good about being the sheriff was that she wasn’t on a shift schedule, which she hated but had done for many years earlier in her career. Trying to quell her excitement, she opened up the file that said “Résumé” on it.

Leaning down, looking at her Apple Macintosh laptop screen, she watched the file open. As she rapidly scanned the résumé, her heart beat a little harder in her chest. This man was a Texas-born wrangler, thirty years old, single and had been in the US Navy as a combat corpsman for over ten years before his enlistment was up.

What were the chances? Sarah let a soft sigh escape from between her lips, staring at the résumé, reading it again. Making sure she didn’t miss anything. This sounded too good to be true. Was it? In her business as sheriff, she saw the worst of society. Not the best. Without thinking, she touched the screen with her fingertips. Dawson Callahan sounded perfect for the job, but she cautioned herself to be wary.

First, when she got to work she’d run a thorough search on him via law-enforcement channels. There was no way she wanted a felon or someone with a bad background working with her beloved grandmother. No way.

Next, after ruthlessly researching his background for law-breaking issues, Sarah would contact a friend she had at the Pentagon. He would get her the man’s DD Form 214, which would fill in any blanks about his entire military service: what kind of discharge he got and if he’d had any issues within that time frame. People lied all the time. Or they told half truths or half lies, thinking that was all right. It wasn’t. She wanted to know everything about this Texan—if, indeed, he really had been born in Amarillo—before setting up a meeting with him to pursue the possibility of hiring him as Gertie’s assistant.

She wished she had a photo of him. She ran a Google search and came up with nothing. That was strange. Most people nowadays had a social media account, but he had no Facebook page, no Twitter account . . . no . . . nothing. That raised a red flag to a point. He’d been a US Navy medic, a combat-trained one, assigned to a Marine Corps company. She was intimately familiar with the Corps because she’d joined at age eighteen and left at twenty-two, but not before serving in Afghanistan in Helmand Province, one of the most dangerous places to have a deployment. Every squad in a company had a Navy combat corpsman assigned to them. So that part fit and was likely accurate.

Sitting back, she wiped her face with her hands, feeling the weight and stress on her shoulders. Funny how she could let the stress in her sheriff’s role slide off and found it much less troublesome than family stress. Family was as personal as it got, and Sarah understood why it was taking a toll on her. She loved Gertie. And she wanted to protect her and find someone who was damn near an angel in quality and mentality, and very compassionate to aid her. And she knew just how long the odds were of finding a man like that.

Her mind canted to the past, to the Navy corpsman in her squad. He was kind, quiet and listened a lot but didn’t say much. Most of the others she’d met in those years in the Corps were like that. They were people you’d want at your side if you were bleeding out, knowing you were going to die. There was a streak of compassion in them, a humanity that Sarah rarely found in fields other than medical first responders—whether EMT, paramedic or combat corpsman. There was no question that those in the medical service field had a certain personality type. She hoped with all her heart Callahan possessed that same kind of personality, but she’d only find out if he passed the first series of rigorous searches. What did he look like? She was dying to find out because she had a knack for reading faces.

Dawson looked at his cell phone when he got up at six a.m. The motel where he’d stayed was the cheapest he could find, on the outskirts of the wealthy corporate community. Jackson Hole, he’d found out real quick, wasn’t for the poor, the disenfranchised or even the struggling middle class. When he looked at house sales, he realized Palm Springs, a very rich community, had been transplanted here. No one without a lot of money could afford to stay in this town. Himself included.

Rising to his six-foot, two-inch frame, feet bare on the oak floor, he stretched fitfully. The bed was lumpy and not supportive, leaving him with a backache that would probably sort itself out by noon. He ambled over to the desk, where there was a coffeemaker, and made a cup. Turning, he walked to the window, seeing the sky was a pale blue, the sun tipping the horizon, the town just beginning to wake up. He’d left the phone number of his hotel when he sent the résumé. Wanting to hear, he opened his cell phone email. The note was cryptic: I’ve received your résumé, Mr. Callahan. I’ll contact you in two days. Thank you. SC.

Well, he wasn’t black ops for nothing. He’d been ordered to Recon Marines, their stealth branch, and served in that capacity for ten years. More than likely? This SC, whoever that was, was checking and vetting him about now. He grinned a little and sipped his coffee, heading to the bathroom to take a hot shower. It didn’t bother him that SC was giving him a thorough background check; he had a grandmother, too, and he’d want to protect her from any man who wasn’t on the up-and-up. Nowadays, people lied too easily. And fake news was believed, unfortunately. In the world he came from, you didn’t lie at all. If you did, you were tossed out with a bad reputation and no one wanted you around them, became a pariah.

His curiosity rose as he wondered if SC was the individual who’d placed the ad. Man or woman? He didn’t know. Finishing off his coffee, he pulled open the shower-stall door.

Deciding to take in the scope of Wind River Valley, Dawson had spent the last couple of days nosing around about potential work in the Jackson Hole area. Now, it was time to explore this valley south of the famous town.

The small burg of Wind River had 965 inhabitants, or so the sign read. It was built up on both sides of Route 89 and looked more turn-of-the-century—the twentieth one—to Dawson. He’d gone to the Tucson Wild West show and the OK Corral depiction of that historical shoot-out. This town’s footprint building-wise reminded him of that time. The only impressive place was a three-story red-brick building midway down on the right, the courthouse. He saw a number of deputy cruisers on the left side of the large, 1910-style building. The jail was part of the sprawling complex. It had Victorian touches, with white wooden decorations, black, freshly painted wrought-iron fencing around the entire area, plus lots of nicely trimmed bushes and colorful foliage with a rich green lawn in the front.

It was clear to Dawson that this was a ranching town. Coming into the city limits, he’d seen at least four different three-quarter-ton pickup trucks with different ranch names painted on the side doors. There was Charlie Becker’s Hay and Feed store, and he swung in and parked because the lot was full and busy with ranchers. He saw a number of men who seemed to be employed either by the ranchers or by the store, hefting hundred-pound sacks of grain or using hay hooks to load alfalfa or timothy hay into the backs of the waiting trucks in line at the two busy docks. This would be a good place to find out if there were any jobs for wranglers in this lush, verdant valley. Climbing out, he saw a sheriff’s black Tahoe SUV parked with the other trucks, with gold on the sides: Lincoln County Sheriff.

Dressed in a pair of clean Levi’s and a plaid gold, orange and white shirt, the sleeves rolled up, he wore his comfortable, beat-up cowboy boots and settled the tan Stetson on his head as he mounted the long, wide, wooden steps up to the double doors. Men and women were coming and going. They all looked like outdoor types, the men darkly tanned thanks to the coming summer, the women looking fit, firm and confident. Most of them wore their hair in pigtails or ponytails, all sporting either a straw hat or a Stetson. Working ranch women, just like his mother was, among her many other duties.

As he entered, he saw a gent in his sixties behind the counter with silver hair, a pair of bifocals perched on his nose and a canvas apron over his white cotton cowboy shirt and dungarees. He was sitting on a four-legged stool and punching an old-time calculator. But what got Dawson’s attention was the tall, statuesque woman standing nearby in a sheriff’s uniform. Her ginger-colored hair was caught up in a ponytail and she wore a black baseball cap on her head. He liked the strength of her body purely from a combat standpoint: medium boned, about five foot eight or nine inches tall, shoulders thrown back, and an easy confidence radiated from her. Dawson would swear she’d been in the military. He could only see her profile, but he would bet anything she had a heart-shaped face. From a male point of view, she was the whole package. Long, long legs encased in tan trousers that were pressed to perfection. The huge black leather belt around her waist sported a pistol and several other leather pockets, plus a flashlight, pepper spray and a pair of handcuffs. It blocked his view of her waist and hips. The long-sleeved tan blouse she wore wouldn’t stop anyone from realizing she was a woman, however.

“Ha ha!” a woman called as she came in the rear door of the large store. “Here they are, Charlie! Brownies with walnuts! Come and get ’em!” and she placed a huge cookie pan that was covered with foil on the coffee table in the rear.

Charlie grinned and looked up at the sheriff. “There you go, Sarah. I think Pixie made enough for your shift-change people. Grab a box below the table where they’re sitting and put one in for each deputy coming on duty, eh?”

Sarah grinned. “You know that’s why I dropped by, Charlie,” and she laughed huskily, lifted her hand in thanks and swung around the end of the long L-shaped counter, heading for where Pixie was bustling about.

Craning his neck, Dawson saw the huge number of brownies being uncovered by Pixie. His gaze drifted back to the gentle sway of Sarah’s hips. He liked her more than he should have. Walking up to the empty counter, Dawson said, “Brownies?”

Charlie grinned. “Hello, stranger. Saw you come in the door. I’m Charlie Becker. Who might you be?” and he thrust his hand across the counter toward him.

“Dawson Callahan, sir. Nice to meet you.”

“What can we do for you, Son? Or did you hear that my wife brings baked goods here around this time every day and you’d like to eat some of them?” He grinned and waggled his silver eyebrows.

Releasing the man’s paper-thin hand, Dawson said, “No, sir, I’m checking out if there are any wrangling jobs in the valley. I figured a feedstore would know about such things.” And then he added with a sliver of a grin, “But those brownies do smell good.”

Nodding, Charlie finished adding all the items on his calculator, then ran the tape. Looking up, he said, “Well, Sarah Carter, our sheriff, is lookin’ for someone who has a wrangler and medical background. That’s the only job I know about right now.” He waved his hand toward the rear, where Sarah and Pixie were filling a large cardboard container with enough brownies for the oncoming shift at the sheriff ’s department. “Might go over and introduce yourself, Son. Sarah doesn’t bite,” he added, his smile increasing. “And grab one of Pixie’s brownies before the horde comes in the door after seeing my wife bringing in all those goodies.”

Lips twitching, Dawson said, “I’ll do that. Thanks.”

So, Sarah Carter was the one who’d put the ad in the paper. The SC he’d seen signed on the email clicked. His mind worked at the speed of light—back into combat mode, he supposed—as he slowly approached the two women who were gabbing and laughing with each other. Because of his combat duties, Dawson rarely missed anything. He liked the slender length of Sarah’s hand as she daintily chose brownies from the cookie sheet to place in the cardboard box she held in her other hand for her deputies. Pixie, who was very short, in her sixties, was giggling about something the sheriff had whispered to her, helping her pile the gooey, frosted brownies into the container.

It was impossible, even in so-called male clothing and wearing a baseball cap, that he would call Sarah mannish. That just wasn’t gonna happen. Sarah wore loose clothing, but not too loose. Nothing was tight or body-fitting. But she sure filled out those pants and shirt nicely. Tucking away his purely sexual reaction to the woman, he saw her briefly glance in his direction, as if sensing him approaching her from the rear.

“Coming for some brownies?” she asked him, amusement dancing in her green eyes.

Dawson halted and met her teasing grin with one of his own. “Yes, ma’am.”

Sarah stepped aside, placing the lid on the box and setting it on the table. “Help yourself. And drop the ma’am. Okay?”

He liked her style, liked her low, husky voice. Turning to Pixie, he said, “Ma’am? May I take one?”

“Of course you can!” she said, pointing a finger at them. “Are you new? I don’t recognize you. I’m Pixie, Charlie’s wife,” and she grabbed his hand, shaking it warmly.

Liking Pixie’s warmth, he gently held her small hand in his. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. I’m Dawson Callahan.”

“Oh,” Pixie muttered, shaking her head, “I’m just like Sarah: don’t ma’am me.”

Hearing Sarah make an inarticulate sound in the back of her throat, he turned back to her. He extended his hand toward her. “I’m Dawson Callahan.”

He saw the shock in her eyes, recognizing his name. And just as quickly, she recovered and extended her hand to him.

“Sarah Carter.”

He enjoyed the warm strength of her fingers wrapping around his. Not bone crushing, but a woman who was fully in charge of herself and her life. “I know. I think you’re the SC I sent my résumé to a few days ago.”

She released his hand. “Yes, I am.”

Pixie tilted her head. “Oh, I saw that ad, Sarah.” She gave Dawson a thorough up-and-down look. “And you’re applying for that job with Sarah’s grandmother, Mr. Callahan? To be Gertie’s assistant?”

“Yes, ma’—I mean, yes, I am.”

Sarah gave Pixie an amused look. “I’ve had his résumé and”—she turned, looking up at him—“was going to contact him via email after the shift change. He beat me to it.”

He liked her easygoing style, seeing a faint pink blush across her wide cheekbones. And sure enough, she did have a heart-shaped face. Tendrils of ginger had escaped her ponytail, collecting at each of her temples, emphasizing the light sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks. “I didn’t mean to,” Dawson said, reaching for a brownie and the paper napkin Pixie gave him. “I’ve spent the last few days nosing around for any wrangler work up in the Jackson Hole area and decided to drive down here today to scope out the valley.”

Sarah nodded. “Kind of synchronistic we met here.”

The brownie was mouthwateringly sweet as he chewed on it. Pixie was looking up at him expectantly, hands on her hips.

“Well? How’s it taste, Mr. Callahan?” she demanded pertly.

With a chuckle, he said, “Best brownie I’ve ever tasted, Pixie. Thank you for making them for all of us. Do I owe you or the store some money for taking one of them?”

“Oh heavens, no!” Pixie muttered, giving him a dark look. “Anyone who ambles into Charlie’s store is welcome to them. There’s no charge. I like makin’ people happy.”

“Thanks,” he said between bites. “It’s really good.” And it was. He could sense Sarah’s gaze on him and felt his skin contracting in response. Maybe because of his black ops background, he could always feel the enemy’s eyes on him, his skin crawling in warning. But this wasn’t about a threat. He inhaled her feminine scent, light and citrusy combined with her own unique fragrance. Sarah didn’t wear any perfume, that was for sure, but his nose and ears were supersensitive, honed by years of knowing if he wasn’t hyperalert, he could get killed.

Pleased, Pixie patted his arm. “Well, I’ll leave you two alone. I’m gonna go up and give Charlie two of these brownies or they’ll all be gone before he can walk back here to grab some for himself,” she tittered.

Dawson watched the small woman go off with two brownies in hand. He could feel Sarah’s intense inspection. She stood about six feet away from him. Turning, he connected with her assessing dark green gaze and said, “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

Shrugging, Sarah said, “I don’t feel like I’m in a spot, Mr. Callahan, so relax.”

“Not much gets your dander up,” he drawled. “Does it?” Again, he saw those full, well-shaped lips, without lipstick on them, curve faintly upward at the corners.

“Not in my line of work. Doesn’t pay to let one’s emotions run roughshod on someone else. Never ends up well, and I don’t like to see a confrontation escalate.”

She’d chosen her words carefully. He wiped the last of the chocolate frosting off the tips of his fingers. “I don’t care for them myself.”

“No, I can see you don’t.” She lowered her voice. “I was going to email you later to ask you to meet me at Kassie’s Café, across the street, to talk with you about the job possibility.”

He stood there listening to the tone of her low voice, understanding this was personal business, not law enforcement, because she was the sheriff. “Sure, that’s doable.” The corners of his eyes crinkled and he added, “I’m assuming I passed your deep, broad background check on me? Pentagon? Law enforcement?” The corners of her mouth deepened, and he could feel or maybe sense her humor about his knowledgeable comment.

“Yes,” she answered coolly, “you did.”

“Check out my DD Form 214, did you?” Dawson wanted her to know he realized, as a law enforcement officer, she would do such an investigation on anyone applying for a job with her grandmother. She needed to know he expected such research on her part.

The humor transferred to her eyes. “You were in black ops, Mr. Dawson. I figured you knew I’d be doing something to dig up the dirt on you when you were in the Navy.”

A rumble came through his chest. “Indeed, I did, Sheriff.”

“Call me Sarah when we’re alone,” she said.

“Call me Dawson anytime you want.”

“I like your style, Dawson.”

“And I like yours.”

He saw pinkness once more stain her cheeks, realizing she was blushing. She might be all business, cool, calm and collected, but there was a mighty nice personal side to her, too. “We have a good place to start, then.” He felt her hesitancy. Worry, maybe? He sensed it, but she had her game face in place. Was she ex-military? He was itching to know. Because she sure as hell fit the image to a tee.

Sarah had opened her mouth to speak when the radio on her left shoulder squawked to life. She held up her finger to him, then devoted her attention to the incoming call from Dispatch.

Dawson listened intently to the short conv. . .