The High Country Rancher. Jan Hambright

tingle raced through her body as she looked up at him, unsure if she should be cautious or apologetic. He had, after all, saved her life.

      He must have sensed the quandary she found herself in because he attempted to smile. “This storm has us locked in. It’ll be a couple of days before the outside world knows you’re missing.”

      Mariah felt drained. The edges of her caution melted away for a moment only to be resolidified an instant later.

      “I’ll have to check for myself. Have you got a telephone I can use?”

      “Out. Along with the electricity.” He turned away from her and she stared at the well-developed muscles cording his back as he moved toward the kitchen.

      “I’d stay off your feet for a day or two. You’ve got some frostbite. Walking around could damage the tissue, and you’ve got nice feet. Go back to bed if you want to keep your toes.” With that warning and compliment he disappeared into the darkened kitchen just beyond the firelight.

      Mariah’s heart rate shot up. She’d managed to get herself into one heck of a mess. The idea of being trapped on a mountain with no phone, no car and a suspect with a foot fetish was more than she’d bargained for when she’d left the station this afternoon.

      Still, she was glad he’d found her, because the alternative was a slow, cold death. She shivered, unsure if it was the result of the air temperature, or the idea of being held up with Baylor McCullough. Her prime suspect in the disappearance of James Endicott, the prosecutor who’d tried to charge him with vehicular manslaughter in his wife Amy’s death.

      Hobbling back to the bedroom, she clutched the .38 a little tighter.

      

      BAYLOR PULLED A MUG out of the cupboard next to the sink and carried it over to the counter next to the cookstove. Every nerve in his body had twisted into a knot the moment he’d discovered her badge and gun in the process of removing her wet clothes.

      He knew the lanky blonde with a kick-ass body who warmed his bed wasn’t here to sell him a subscription to Ladies’ Home Journal. So what did she want? He’d seen the way she gripped her pistol, picked up on the embarrassment of the situation she found herself in. Worse, she was afraid of him. That knowledge put his emotions in a tailspin. He’d never hurt a woman and he didn’t plan to start now.

      Opening a canister, he pulled out a tea bag, unwrapped it and put it in the cup, before filling it with hot water and setting the kettle back on the cookstove.

      He dunked the tea bag, watching the liquid turn to amber in the candlelight before he removed it, squeezed it and laid it on the counter, trying to rid his mind of the body contact images branded on it.

      He’d followed medical protocol for hypothermia. Right down to the skin-on-skin contact to rewarm her. He overrode a swell of desire that charged through him.

      Detective Ellis was a beautiful woman, but now that he’d thawed her out, he had to keep her warm. Ice crystals in the bloodstream could cause cardiac arrest. The next several hours were critical.

      Gradual rewarming was key, from the inside and out. But there was no way to tell how bad the bump on her head was. He had to watch over her until he could get her to the hospital in Grangeville sixty miles away.

      He picked up the steaming mug and headed for the bedroom.

      

      MARIAH SHOVED THE PISTOL under the pillow next to her and settled into bed, covering herself with the down comforter. She hated to admit Baylor McCullough was right. She’d had enough first-aid training to know walking around on frozen feet could result in losing toes. She jiggled her legs, trying to aid circulation.

      The clop of boots on hardwood brought her gaze up. He entered the room with a steaming mug in hand.

      Her pulse kicked up a notch. She tried to crush the instant attraction that sizzled through her, by remembering why she was here, but it didn’t work.

      She was a cop, not blind, and Baylor McCullough was an attractive man, from his intense blue-gray eyes, to his dark good looks and muscular build.

      At any other time in her life, she might have explored her reaction to him, but she was here in an official capacity. The only thing that would have made her feel better was being dressed, instead of tied up in a slinky robe that had probably belonged to Amy McCullough, a dead woman.

      “How are your feet?”

      Damn…damn…damn, she thought, as she stared up at him, her gaze locked with his. There was that foot thing again.

      “They feel like the only pincushion at a ladies’ quilt club on a Monday afternoon.”

      “You should have stayed down.” He set the cup on the nightstand and retreated to the foot of the bed.

      Before she could utter an objection, he pulled the comforter back and exposed her feet.

      Mariah braced herself when he touched her right foot, taking it in both hands.

      She was unprepared for her body’s response to his gentle touch, or the desire that flared and twisted through her, taking her breath with it. She closed her eyes, hoping he hadn’t gotten a read on her, but the moment she opened them again, she knew that wish was futile.

      His eyes narrowed, a half smile pulling at the left side of his sexy mouth. “Better?” he asked.

      Mariah cleared her throat and focused on the sensation. The needling was slowly beginning to relent. She wiggled her toes trying to ignore the feel of his warm hands firmly forcing the blood to the surface of her skin with each stroke.

      “It’s not too bad. I can feel my toes.”

      “We caught it in time, but you need to stay off them.” He put her right foot down and started on the left. By now she’d gotten used to his hands on her skin and she tried to relax. Tried to make it a clinical experience even though her body was humming and aware of his every movement.

      “You’ve dealt with frostbite a time or two?”

      “Living this far from civilization, it’s a necessary skill.”

      “One I’m glad you possess.” Warmth worked its way up her lower legs. “Thank you for rescuing me, and my toes.”

      “You’re welcome.” He settled her foot onto the bed and pulled the covers back over her feet.

      “I’d like to know what you’re doing on my ranch, Detective Ellis.”

      Mariah bristled at the abrupt change of subject. “I’m here to ask you a few questions.”

      He didn’t speak. She pushed on. “Were you aware James Endicott went missing two weeks ago?” She considered herself an expert on suspect behavior and body language; she planned to absorb even the slightest measure of reaction he exhibited.

      His blue eyes glistened with anger. A muscle pulsed along his square jawline, and his breathing rate shot up.

      Mariah’s heart skipped a beat as she visualized the pistol tucked under the pillow next to her, ready to be used if he showed any sign of aggression toward her.

      He knew something; he had to. His dislike for the man was obvious from his physical reaction.

      “And you believe I had something to do with it? Once a suspect, always a suspect?” A glimmer of amusement flashed in his eyes and played out of sync with the seriousness of the implication.

      “He tried to put you behind bars, Mr. McCullough. That’s motive.”

      “For the record, Detective, he has tried to put hundreds behind bars. Many more badass than me.”

      She knew it was true, but she planned to push him. Interesting things bubbled out of people when you stressed them beyond their capacity to withhold the truth.

      “I’ll give you that one, but we’re not talking about those badasses. We’re