Own the Night. Debbi Rawlins

number of stores stretched toward the far end of town, but Alana couldn’t make out what they were except perhaps for another gas station. Other than a banner strung between two streetlights announcing the annual fall festival, and the ubiquitous Halloween decorations, the town was rather nondescript. She wouldn’t be surprised if some of the shops had been abandoned, just like the old boarding house in back of her.

      Her purse slipped off her shoulder as she noticed a woman and child carrying packages and walking toward a parked truck. As if a button had been pressed, the town seemed to spring to life. A pack of high-school-age kids started making themselves heard from down a long block. Three more pickups turned onto Main Street, one right behind the other, and a short, bowlegged man appeared on the sidewalk, headed in the opposite direction from her. Judging by his gait, Alana guessed he’d just left a bar.

      Hell, she wouldn’t mind a cosmo about now herself. She added her purse to the carefully stacked pile of bags, and then grabbed the suitcase handle and started walking, rolling her cargo behind her. By the time she’d made it a block, more people had shown up—a few in cars, but monster-size, dusty pickups appeared to be the vehicle of choice.

      The action was clearly centered on the other side of town, so she hadn’t received any curious looks yet. Although three women riding in a green sedan gave her a once-over as they passed. She watched them park and get out, and knew instantly by their tight, trendy clothes that they weren’t locals. Had to be guests from one of the dude ranches in the area.

      A few minutes later she got her first friendly wave from a man driving by in a white pickup with heavily tinted windows. Her pulse jumped when she saw the word Sheriff emblazoned in bold black letters on the door, but the driver wasn’t the hottie she’d seen in the review pictures. Nevertheless, she watched him pull to the curb, get out and cross the street, then disappear inside the sheriff’s office.

      The wheels of her suitcase caught on a crack in the sidewalk, and she turned to give it a tug over the bulging concrete. The rough jerk upset the balance and she nearly lost the case with her laptop. Alana exhaled in relief, made sure stability had been restored, and headed for the green sedan. Maybe she’d be lucky enough to catch a ride with the blondes. Otherwise, she could call the Sundance, ask someone there to send a car for her. Or better yet, why not ask the sheriff for information?

      She smiled at the idea. It was a perfectly reasonable thing for a tourist in a strange town to do. Even if said tourist could tell full well the town was too small to offer public transportation. What would be the harm? She’d get a nice close look and see for herself if the reviewers were right about him being all that. Not that she cared about small-town sheriffs, even if they did know how to fill out a uniform.

      She picked up her pace, bumping along on the uneven sidewalk, watching more trucks coming down Main Street as if in a parade. They seemed to be headed to the same place, and though she wouldn’t admit it, it was fun seeing all those cowboys pile out as each vehicle parked at the curb. Some of the men wore hats, some didn’t. All were dressed in jeans and Western-cut shirts, and sported cowboy boots.

      A few of them spotted her and gave her quick smiles, but they were more interested in the blondes artfully lounging near the sedan. Alana didn’t take offense or give it a second thought. The women had dressed the part of tourists on the prowl, and she hadn’t. Nor would she. She never flirted, acted coy or did any of those things. Even if she wanted to play the helpless, eye-batting, oh-aren’t-you-a-big-strong-man game just for fun, she’d be really bad at it.

      She crossed the street and saw the sign for the Watering Hole. Every time the door opened, country music blasted onto the sidewalk. Not only that, but the acrid smell of smoke was enough to choke a horse, and she was still half a block away. Guess she’d skip that place.

      Too late, she realized she shouldn’t have crossed yet. Groups of cowboys gathered outside the bar, smoking, talking or just plain gawking at the three women. Next door was a bank, with people coming and going, and in general, crowding the sidewalk.

      The sheriff’s office was only three doors down, so Alana stayed her course, weaving her way through the bottleneck.

      “You staying at the Sundance?”

      The gravelly voice sounded as if it came from behind her. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder, finding only an alley that seemed to lead to a dirt parking lot. The cowboys in front of the bar were talking among themselves; a couple of them were flirting with the women. No one paid her any attention.

      “Over here.”

      She turned the other way and saw a tall, trim, older man with graying hair leaning against a post. His cowboy hat was pulled too low for her to see his eyes, and though the corners of his thin lips slowly lifted, it wasn’t a particularly friendly smile.

      “Yes,” she said, noting that his boots were newer, expensive looking, and he was better dressed than the others. “Are you affiliated with the Sundance?”

      His smirk turned a shade nasty. “Hell, no.”

      “Ah, then never mind.”

      “Sorry, miss …” He put out a weathered hand. “Didn’t mean anything by that.”

      She stared at his fingers, brown and wrinkled from the sun, unsure what he expected from her.

      After a long, awkward moment, he shoved both hands in his pockets. “You need help with anything? Directions, maybe?” He was showing lots of teeth now, suddenly a picture of charm, his voice silky smooth. “How about a drink?”

      Her lips parted but her voice failed her. Dear God, this man could not be hitting on her. He was old enough to be her father. Helplessly, she cast a gaze at the cute young cowboys several yards away. They were focused on the blondes.

      “No, thank you,” she said finally, and flexed her fingers. They’d started to ache from pulling all her stuff. “I was just headed for the sheriff’s office.”

      “Is there a problem?”

      Her patience slipped, and she glanced pointedly at her watch. “I have to go. Thanks for the offer.” She felt for the baggage handle, finding nothing but a brisk breeze that made her pull the lapels of her blazer together.

      He lightly touched her arm. “You have a ride to the Sundance?”

      She wouldn’t go with him, that was for sure. “Excuse me, please.”

      A loud noise came from inside the bar—of glass shattering, someone yelling. It sounded as if an entire tray of drinks had crashed to the floor. Everyone’s attention jerked toward the open door, and one of the cowboys hollered out something to Sheila, presumably a waitress, who responded with a salty curse.

      Alana smiled and again reached behind her for her luggage handle. Again all she found was air. She jerked around.

      And blinked.

      What the hell? She made a complete circle. Her suitcase, her purse, her laptop … they were all gone. That couldn’t be. Her hand had been resting on the handle just a moment ago. This was crazy.

      She spun around again, her heart nearly leaping out of her chest. A red truck was parked at the curb a couple feet away. She glanced in the bed, then checked the pickup parked close behind it. Panicked, she turned and looked up the alley, but there was nothing there.

      “Dammit!”

      This cannot be happening.

      Frantic, she scanned the crowd, spotting the older man who’d talked to her walking in the direction she’d come from. “Sir, wait.”

      He ignored her and kept going, but then her voice barely carried above the music coming from the bar.

      In fact, no one seemed to have heard her except a cowboy in a tan shirt, who swung her an inquiring look.

      “That man,” she said, pointing and hurrying toward the older gentleman, pushing her way through the crowd.

      “Mr. Gunderson?” The cowboy frowned, but just when