In A Cowboy's Embrace. Charlotte Maclay

head of the town’s morality police.

      “Seems to me you folks ought to be out catching criminals instead of standing there chewing the fat.” She whipped out a notepad and slapped it on the counter. “Now then, Sheriff, what are you planning to do about those rustlers stealing the livelihoods right out from under our citizens’ noses?”

      Larry exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “We’re working on it, Winnie. Like always.”

      “Fine lot of good you’re doing. How many head were taken last night?” Something about her narrow nose and drooping eyebrows gave her a perpetually sour expression that made it easy to understand why she’d never married. Her shrill voice alone would be enough to scare away any man.

      “The Kings figure about thirty,” Larry told her.

      Winnie jotted that fact down in her notebook.

      Having no interest in Winifred’s interrogation of the sheriff, Cliff eased away from the counter. The rustlers could be hiding their truck in a whole different county—hell, a different state, for that matter. If they had something more to go on, they could ask other jurisdictions to keep an eye out for the suspect vehicle. As it was, any truck going down the highway could be the one involved in the crime. But they couldn’t stop them all to check the tires. Not without probable cause.

      Finished with Larry, Winifred cornered Cliff as he was riffling through Wanted flyers. “I want to know what you plan to do about the band of rustlers if you’re elected sheriff.”

      “I’m likely to be elected,” he said easily, “since I’m running unopposed.”

      “That might change. There’s another two days left before the filing deadline, young man, and there’s talk in town of wanting new blood in the sheriff’s office.”

      “Sorry to hear that, ma’am.”

      “Well, you’d best come up with a statement saying how you plan to catch those crooks. There’s folks in this county saying they won’t stand for another do-nothing sheriff.”

      Irritated by Winifred’s criticism of Larry—who’d been a damn good sheriff—Cliff struggled to come up with a decent quote. Of course he planned to catch the rustlers. But in his business there were no guarantees. The voters shouldn’t ask for them, but he supposed they had the right, even when that wasn’t a fair way to make a judgment. All he could promise was to do his very best.

      After what seemed like ages, Winifred left, her notebook filled with misquotes, Cliff was sure. Dealing with the Reed County Register and its star reporter wasn’t going to be the favorite part of his job as sheriff.

      He was just getting ready to go out on patrol when Larry said, “Looks like you’ve got a new housekeeper.”

      Cliff froze. Had the word already spread he had a cover model working for him—temporarily? “Where’d you hear that?”

      “Didn’t.” Larry got a Santa Claus twinkle in his eyes. “Whoever ironed your shirt scorched a big triangle right smack in the middle. Figured Sylvia wasn’t the culprit.”

      Practically dislocating both his neck and his shoulder in order to look at his back, Cliff cursed. Why him? Why couldn’t some other man have been in line when they passed out an incompetent housekeeper, one who just happened to be the sexiest female this side of the Mississippi?

      One who was definitely double trouble.

      CLIFF CAME HOME on his dinner break and Tasha couldn’t decide if he looked sexiest dressed in jeans and a work shirt with his Stetson tipped back on his head at a rakish angle, or in his khaki sheriff’s uniform, tailored to fit his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Difficult decision, she thought as she watched him wash up at the kitchen sink.

      “Hey, Daddy, what’s that on the back of your shirt?” Stevie asked. Sitting at the table opposite Melissa, his little legs were swinging back and forth expending nervous energy.

      Cliff dried his hands with a towel. “Somebody was using an iron that was too hot.”

      “Actually, I got distracted when Melissa fell off the porch swing and was screaming bloody murder.”

      “Stevie pushed me,” Melissa said.

      “Did not.”

      Melissa held up her elbow. “I got an owie, Uncle Cliff. Wanna see?”

      Tasha contemplated the back of Cliff’s shirt as he bent over to examine the Snoopy bandage. “It doesn’t look too bad.”

      “I think she’ll live,” Cliff said. In an easy gesture of affection, he brushed a quick kiss to Melissa’s elbow.

      Tasha’s heart squeezed tight at the sight of his gentle caring. Just the way a father should be, except Melissa had never really known her daddy. “No, I meant your shirt.”

      Eyeing her, Cliff took his place at the head of the table. “I’ll change after we eat. It’s an old Western custom that we don’t wear scorched shirts out in public, particularly when we may have to make an arrest. If the crooks get too many laughs, it makes them unruly.”

      She flipped her hair behind her shoulder. “Who knows? You might start a new fad.”

      A reluctant smile played around the corners of his mouth, and she noticed what really nice lips he had—not so full that he’d give sloppy kisses, but pleasantly soft, a shape hers could easily mold to. And that was a thought she shouldn’t be considering.

      “Are we going to eat anytime soon?” he asked.

      She gazed at his mouth for another long heartbeat, thinking—

      “Mommy? You aren’t going to burn the dinner, are you?”

      “No! Absolutely not.” Whirling, she grabbed a hot pad, opened the oven door and pulled out the chicken and rice casserole she’d been keeping warm. Not burned. A little dried around the edges maybe but no charcoal.

      With a degree of pride, she put the casserole on the table and produced a big bowl of salad from the refrigerator. All the grocery store in town carried was iceberg lettuce and a little wilted Romaine—nothing resembling endive or alfalfa sprouts—but she’d chopped a half-dozen fresh veggies into the mix. Definitely nutritious.

      Cliff ladled some of the casserole onto her plate, and she held up her hand to stop him from serving her too much. Then he served Melissa and Stevie.

      “I thought we were having steak tonight.” He piled several spoonfuls on his own plate, no doubt relieved to see she’d made an adequate quantity to fill up a hardworking cowboy.

      “Chicken’s better for you. The children, too.”

      “Better not let the folks around here hear you say that. Those are fightin’ words in cattle country.”

      She met his teasing blue eyes with a wink of her own. “I’ll be sure to keep my radical N’Yawker ideas to myself.”

      As they ate dinner, the children were eager to relate their afternoon activities, which had included Stevie giving Melissa and Tasha a tour of the corral and barn. They’d met Peaches, the aging mare Cliff had apparently decided would be placid enough for Tasha to ride. Henry, the mule, appeared less tranquil, had big yellow teeth and a disposition that would make Manhattan’s pushiest panhandlers keep their distance.

      “You catch any bad guys today?” Stevie finally asked.

      “Not so far.” He forked the last of the rice on his plate into his mouth and eyed the remains in the casserole dish.

      Tasha gestured for him to help himself to more.

      “Ricky Monroe says there’s bank robbers ’n murderers ’n aliens all over the place.”

      He reached over to ruffle his son’s hair. “Not in our town, bucko. You’re safe here.”

      Smiling at the boy, Tasha said, “I’d say your friend