Free Too Sexy for his Stetson by Mal Olson Page B

sun–bleached curls scattered across Brandy’s damp uniform shirt, he saw in his mind the very young girl she’d been at the time. A girl who had lived through immeasurable heartache. She’d witnessed her mother’s murder trial and heard a judge sentence her to prison. And apparently she’d become determined to take the world on her eleven–year–old shoulders.
    Since finding that article on the computer the other night, Blade had read everything he could get his hands on about the Marilyn Abbott murder. Skip had been involved with the victim. Brandy’s mother, Skip’s wife, had discovered the affair. Even though Brandy didn’t want to believe her mother could commit murder, Blade knew human beings were capable of out–of–character violence when pushed to their limits.
    He looked into the toughened yet tortured expression on her face, and his heart twisted. He had to help her find the truth, and he’d bet his life she was wrong about Skip.
    Skip represented everything Blade was not, a respectable man who came from generations of honorable men who’d worn the badge before him. Running his hand across his nape, Blade slicked the damp hair curling against his neck.
    “Maybe you don’t really know Skip as well as you think you do,” he said quietly, with more compassion than he knew he possessed. Long moments later, he added, “There’s a banquet in his honor Thursday night. Maybe you should come along as my guest? And renew old acquaintances?” In his heart, Blade believed that once the mature Brandy met Skip, she’d realize she was wrong about him.
    He moved closer, and with one finger pressed to her lips, he kept her from refusing his invitation. “Will you do it for me?”
    “I’ll think about it.”
    Blade’s pager sounded.
    He responded to the dispatcher on his cell phone. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
    “What’s up?” Brandy asked.
    “Tour d’Alene’s reported a missing person. A client failed to return a raft. He’s a couple hours past due, and with the storm moving in…” Blade ran inside and grabbed his holster.
    Brandy’s adrenaline kicked in as she chased after Blade. She pushed aside her inner turmoil. “I’ll go with you. I know the rapids and all the most dangerous spots.”
    As they ran toward the cruiser, Rambo stood waiting for an invitation.
    “Can he help with the search?” Brandy asked.
    Blade nodded. “Come on, boy, let’s see what we can find.”
    ****
    En route, Brandy mulled over Blade’s refusal to consider Skip capable of doing any wrong. Unless her attorney and the PI came up with concrete evidence, her chances of getting the stubborn but loyal lieutenant to side with her were about a million in one. That shouldn’t matter– the only thing that mattered was clearing her mother’s name–but her heart still sank at the knowledge that Blade didn’t believe in her enough to even consider that he might be wrong.
    Her nerves brittle, she pushed away personal thoughts and focused on the rescue mission. A missing person. A chance to save a life.
    Blade navigated the curvy mountain roads, the headlights cutting into the darkness as the storm stole the last of the evening twilight. Brandy maintained radio contact with the dispatcher. “It’ll take the dive team at least twenty minutes to get out here once they reach the office and load up,” she told Blade. “And with the storm, the chopper’s on hold.” No heavenly searchlight. Apprehension kicked her in the ribs.
    Blade puffed out a breath and asked, “How much further?”
    “About five minutes. Watch for pull–off A–12.”
    The road continued to snake through Deadman’s Gulch, the highway ribboning through the timber–covered mountainside, sharp–edged drop–offs sometimes looming to the left and other times plunging to the right.
    Four and a half tense minutes later, the headlights reflected off the A–12 sign. The Tahoe skidded to a stop on loose gravel in the pull–off next to Todd