Free Too Sexy for his Stetson by Mal Olson

With one hand, Blade grabbed Rambo’s collar and with the other, he nudged Brandy aside.
    Through the jagged opening in the center of the glasspane, a fiery cross glowed from the field beyond. It blazed against the ominous, cloud–brimmed sky, burning dangerously close to the small storage barn. Uncomfortably close to the forest of thirsty summer pines and acres of dry tinder.
    “Damn it!” Blade yelled on his way out the side door with Rambo at his heels. “Call it in.”
    Brandy dialed 911, then rushed outside, following Blade and Rambo.
    “It sure as hell didn’t take them long to find out where I live.” Blade grabbed the garden hose that was hooked up to the spigot on the side of the house and shouted, “Crank that faucet, will you?” He ran toward the flaming cross, gripping the nozzle trigger. At the same time, Rambo took off, chasing the taillights of a vehicle, unidentifiable in the shadowy dusk as it bounced down the drive, speeding away.
    “Rambo, nein! Hier!”
    At Blade’s command, the dog halted, but his gaze remained locked on the shrinking red dots. Meanwhile, Brandy struggled with the rust–gummed faucet until the aged rubber hose bulged as water burst through. She ran to help Blade, who had dragged the hose its full length—had to be over a hundred and fifty feet. He started spraying. “Grab a shovel from over by the fence.”
    When she returned with the shovel, Blade handed her the hose, and he began throwing dirt on flames licking the dry grass that bordered the forest. Brandy squeezed the nozzle of the hose and drenched the ground on the leading edge of the fire.
    Soot mixed with sweat on Blade’s back while Brandy’s shirt glued itself to her skin.
    At last, Blade smothered the last bit of flame gulping at one lone tuft of half–burnt prairie grass. Brandy ran back to what was left of the cross and aimed the hose, drenching the pile of charred sticks until Blade took the nozzle from her, and she realized the threat was over.
    They stood next to the scorched swath of earth, staring at each other, listening to the wail of fire trucks. The drama was over. Thousands of acres of pristine timber had been spared devastation.
    The Neo Nazis had issued a warning, and the sheriff’s department wasn’t going to ignore it nor give in to it.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    A ll that was left of the fire and the roughly assembled cross were a couple of embers, twinkling in the dusk. The firefighters double–checked the perimeters to make sure there was no sign of flames in the grassy area between Blade’s meadow and the forest, and then left.
    The disaster had been averted.
    “Hell, these guys are working really hard at pissing me off.” Blade found himself staring at Brandy catching her breath, her face dirty, her forehead sweaty. Now that the imminent threat was over, his thoughts rolled back to what she’d been about to say before that rock had come crashing through his door.
    “Yeah, I’m with you on that.”
    Their long–awaited conversation loomed like a wraith in the smoky aftermath. What the hell was she going to accuse Coogan of? Dread churned in his stomach. As a cop, he’d seen the worst, and his mind spun with possible scenarios.
    In the shadows of night, she stood three feet from him, looking bedraggled but beautiful, strong, maybe defiant, and on edge. She rubbed her arms and shivered despite the warmth of the smoke–tinged air. Part of him wanted to wrap her in his arms and hold on for dear life.
    But another part pulled taut and mean across his ribs while his darkest secret hammered his brain. His biological father had molested his mother. Men like his biological father took advantage of young women, not men like Coogan.
    “So what do you make of this?” Brandy’s question cut into his thoughts.
    “A burning cross is the Neo Nazi’s calling card. Obviously, they’re ramping up their war against the sheriff’s department. More specifically, me.” The son of a pervert.
    “This is