The Christmas Target. Charlotte Douglas

      Being around the sheriff was making her paranoid, expecting criminals around every corner, she thought, when probably she’d simply been the victim of ugly but common road rage. “Maybe the guy who hit me was drunk, and I was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

      “Maybe.” He slowed the car, turned off the highway and stopped in front of a rustic timber arch, where the words Shooting Star Ranch and the emblem of a star with lines trailing behind it like a comet’s tail had been burned into the sign above the driveway. “We’re here.”

      Jessica peered through the snow. “Where’s the house?”

      The sheriff started the car again. “Five miles up this road.”

      “Five miles! That’s a heck of a driveway.”

      “Short by Montana standards, but don’t worry. I’ll deposit you safely at the front door.”

      They continued up the driveway with snow-covered open fields on either side. After several minutes, dark shadows loomed in front of them. As they approached, Jessica could make out tall, leafless trees in front of a huge, three-story Victorian house, complete with symmetrical Queen Anne turrets flanking spacious porches.

      “This is the main house,” the sheriff announced.

      “It’s not what I expected.”

      “Not every ranch looks like the Ponderosa,” he said with a wry grin.

      When the sheriff brought the SUV to a halt, Jessica could see the Shooting Star emblem carved into the corbels and cornices of the gingerbread trim.

      “It lives up to its name.” She turned to the sheriff and offered her hand. “I don’t know how to thank you. You’ve saved my life. Twice now.”

      He gripped her hand firmly in the calloused warmth of his own. “All in a day’s work. We serve and protect.”

      “And provide delivery service.” She kept her voice light and retracted her hand, unwilling to admit how much she’d enjoyed the contact, how much she liked him. Her attraction to him wouldn’t be a problem, however, since she’d never see him again. “I’ll just hop out and get my luggage. No need to inconvenience you more than I already have.”

      He killed the engine and opened his door. “I’ll get your bag.”

      Jessica climbed out quickly and met him at the back of the SUV. “It isn’t heavy. I can manage. You need to get back to work.”

      “No problem. I’m through for the day.”

      She reached for the luggage, unwilling to obligate herself more to a man she found entirely too appealing. “Then you should be headed home.”

      He took the case from her. “I am home.”

      She stopped short. “What?”

      He grinned and gestured toward the front door. “I’m Ross McGarrett. My family owns Shooting Star Ranch. Welcome, Ms. Landon.”

      ROSS COULDN’T HELP GRINNING even wider at Jessica Landon’s look of surprise. He’d had a hard enough time keeping from laughing earlier when she’d suggested that someone at the ranch might be out to get her. More likely she’d want to kill him when she saw the state of the ranch’s books. Nothing illegal or sinister. Just absolute, unfettered chaos. He hated paperwork worse than criminals.

      Before he could say more, however, the front door swung open, and the light from the hall outlined a tall, regal figure peering into the darkness and swirling snow. “Ross, is that you?”

      Beside him, Jessica’s mouth dropped open, but she snapped it shut quickly when she caught him watching her. He didn’t blame her for the reaction. His grandmother had that effect on people. Meeting her was like meeting the queen. Fiona had grown up in Manhattan, attended the best Eastern finishing schools, traveled throughout Europe and the Far East, and inherited a small fortune before she’d married his grandfather and moved to the West. After all these years in the wilds of Montana, the polished cosmopolitan aura still clung to her, from her elegant sense of style and her cultured voice and accent to her stately posture and expression, all attributes that camouflaged a heart as immense as the Big Sky State.

      “It’s me, Fiona,” he called to his grandmother, “and I have Ms. Landon with me.” Taking Jessica’s elbow with one hand, her bag with the other, he helped her up the broad icy steps into the house.

      “Welcome, Ms. Landon,” Fiona said. “We’ve been expecting you. I’m glad you’re both here safe and sound, Ross. There’s a blizzard coming.”

      Jessica looked surprised and cocked her head toward the door. “What we came through wasn’t a blizzard?”

      Fiona shook her head. “The weather’s mild now compared to a real storm.”

      Jessica shook off her surprise and became the professional, competent woman he’d first noticed in the bank. “Then it’s good I’m here so I can begin work right away.”

      Ross had to give her credit. She’d been caught in the middle of a bank holdup, shot at, and run off the road, all in one day, yet none of her troubles seemed to have daunted her. The woman was either an incurable workaholic or had nerves of steel. Or both.

      Jessica’s small stature and fragile beauty were deceiving. When Fiona had told him she’d engaged a top financial consultant from Miami, Ross had expected an Ivy League male with a button-down collar, expensive suit, a sharp mind and an eagle eye for details. The lovely Jessica had been a pleasing surprise.

      On the one hand.

      On the other, bad enough having another man chastise Ross for his sloppy bookkeeping. He could only imagine the disdain the superefficient Ms. Landon would have for his records.

      And on another hand—

      “No need to start work tonight,” Fiona was saying graciously. “Come into the living room. We’ll have a glass of wine before dinner.”

      “Maybe Ms. Landon would like to see her room and settle in first,” Ross suggested, catching sight of Jessica’s ruined stockings. “She’s had a rough day.”

      “Of course,” his grandmother replied. “The guest suite’s ready. Will you take her bag?”

      Jessica reached for her luggage. “I can manage—”

      “Nonsense,” Fiona said in that tone of hers that squelched any argument. “Ross doesn’t mind.”

      Ross hefted the suitcase, which, judging from its weight, couldn’t possibly hold enough clothing for December on the Montana prairie. Then again, Jessica probably expected to spend the entire time indoors with her very pretty head buried in his accounts.

      “Your room’s upstairs,” he said. “I’m right be hind you.”

      Jessica started up the stairs and Ross followed, unable to keep his eyes off the sculpted curve of her calves, the slender turn of her ankles, the subtle swing of her shapely behind. For such a small package, she certainly packed a wallop. She mesmerized him more than any woman ever had. Which was unfortunate. The last thing he needed now was a distraction from his job.

      “This is it.” He indicated a doorway on the right, halfway down the hall, waited for her to enter, and followed inside with her bag.

      Jessica gazed around the room, her eyes alight with approval. “It’s beautiful.”

      Seeing the room through her eyes, as if for the first time, Ross agreed. A fire burned cheerfully in the fireplace with comfortable chairs grouped in front of it. Piles of pillows edged with lace were heaped at the head of the four-poster mahogany bed. “Fiona uses all her favorite antiques in here. I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

      “Do you always call your grandmother Fiona?” Jessica asked.

      Ross nodded. “She never liked to be called grandma. Said it made