Obsessed By Wildfire

By Autumn Jordon

From award-winning author, comes this fun romantic contemporary with a dash of suspense set in the small town of Mule Post, Texas where the nights can get hotter than the summer days.

Isobel Trinidad vows no man will rope her into the humdrum life of a housewife and take away her dreams of becoming the National Barrel Champion like her father had done to her mother. Her mind is set, until a handsome Yankee comes to Mule Post, Texas and upsets everything she has believed about herself.

A rash of arsons brings State Fire Marshal Warner Keyson to the small Texas community, where a wildfire of a woman stops him in his tracks. Intrigued by Issy’s fire, he contrives ways to keep her close while conducting his investigation. What they create, which neither of them bargained for, is the blaze of a lifetime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Autumn Jordon
• Release date: Apr 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513058979

Book preview

OBSESSED BY WILDFIRE

by

Autumn Jordon

OBSESSED BY WILFIRE

by Autumn Jordon

––––––––

Isobel Trinidad vows no man will rope her into the humdrum life of a housewife and take away her dreams of becoming the National Barrel Champion like her father had done to her mother. Her mind is set, until a handsome Yankee comes to Mule Post, Texas and upsets everything she has believed about herself.

A rash of arsons brings State Fire Marshal Warner Keyson to the small Texas community, where a wildfire of a woman stops him in his tracks. Intrigued by Issy’s fire, he contrives ways to keep her close while conducting his investigation. What they create, which neither of them bargained for, is the blaze of a lifetime.

Other Titles By Autumn Jordon

Romantic Suspense:

Seized By Darkness

Obsessed By Darkness

His Witness To Evil

In The Presence Of Evil

Contemporary Romance:

Perfect

Perfect Hearts

Perfect Fall

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entire coincidental.

OBSESSED BY WILFIRE

COPYRIGHT 2009 by Dianne Gerber

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted material in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover design by Rae Monet

Published in the United States of America

Acknowledgements

To my husband, Jim.

You’ve changed my life. Without your support and love,

I would not be who I am.

You are my hero.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

About The Author

Other Titles by Autumn Jordon

Chapter One

––––––––

The sun had set.

Mini dust tornados swirled off the tires of Isobel Trinidad’s seen-better-days Chevy pickup. She maneuvered through the Blue Moon Saloon’s crammed lot at a less than safe speed, nearly taking the fender off of Suzie’s prized classic Mustang. Suz would scalp her next time she went into the Crazy Curls Salon to get the dead ends trimmed from her waist length hair. And she was partial to her raven locks.

A couple of orange cones flew as she reached her destination and slammed on the brakes. The pickup skidded to a stop in the no parking area in front of the double doors. She jammed her truck into park and shouldered the door open before the four-by-four’s engine stopped its final whine.

The neon light above the Blue Moon’s entry turned her white tank top a beautiful, light shade of sapphire and glazed her bare arms with an indigo tint.

Why hadn’t Chicky used blue? Blue was comforting. But no, he’d used gut-wrenching yellow. The town’s handyman knew she hated yellow. Why he’d even helped her spray paint her yellow taxi purple. The man didn’t listen. She hated men who thought they knew what was best for a woman when they had no clue.

Chicky left her no choice. She had to kill him.

She reached over the side of the truck, into the bed, and grabbed her lunge whip. It was the Thursday night before a holiday weekend and Mule Post’s hot spot was packed. Did she care? No. It just meant there would be a whole herd of witnesses to watch Chicky cower his way back to her spread and fix what he’d done while she’d been off checking out a promising two-year old stallion.

Her fingers curled around the leather strap in her hand. In the morning, she wanted to walk out on her front porch—the one that still needed a dozen or so floorboards replaced—look out over the hundred fifty-seven point eight acres she’d inherited from her Gran, sip her morning cup of tea and see anything but yellow wood siding. There still was no promise of rain in the forecast and a brilliant full moon hung over Mule Post. Chicky could paint in the dark.

White would be good.

She kicked up small puffs of dust as she rounded the truck’s front end.

Prickly pear green would be good.

You know, you should be more careful.

The late-night-radio voice stopped Isobel’s right heel from stomping the Blue Moon’s step. She turned. If it wasn’t for the fact her blood pressure was already at a dangerous level, it would’ve shot there staring into the cornflower blue eyes of this stranger. He was a good six inches taller than her five foot eight, broad at the shoulders and chest, trim at the waist and hips and from what she could tell by the stretch of his jeans, his package was where he got the gumption to face off with her while she was in a hellish ass-kicking mood.

There was no doubt he was a Yankee. He wore sneakers. No Texan would wear running shoes to go dancing. And his scent wasn’t leather, hay or old horse. She lifted her chin a notch, just a little, to let him know what he was about to take on. Who are you?

Warner Keyson. You? He folded his arms across his chest. His muscles bulged from beneath the rolled back sleeves of his white dress shirt. She’d seen bigger forearms—on a few NFL players.

Isobel Trinidad.

Well, Ms. Trinidad, you could’ve caused some damage or killed someone the way you barreled in here.

The last time I heard, Raleigh was Mule Post’s chief and you’re not one of his officers. Besides everyone’s inside.

There could be a couple or two in the backseat of those cars. You know, enjoying the night.

Warner Keyson’s warm caramel gaze drifted over her and Isobel’s legs buckled a degree before she roped off her reaction. Refusing to look away, she wrestled the urge to step closer and touch the cute dark lock that curled behind Mr. Keyson’s right ear. Were you peeking in windows?

Nah, not peeking. His full lips pulled up the tiniest bit.

Looking pass him, she scanned the cars. Had he been in the backseat of one of them? Had one of the local girls already run him down and claimed him?

So what do you have in mind with that whip? He broke her musing.

Whip? She’d forgotten it was still in her grasp, and the reason why.

Chicky. Her fire to kill the devil with a paintbrush had taken a new direction. This blaze was much more alluring, but she had a ton and half of chores to do this weekend, starting with thrashing Chicky. She couldn’t be distracted by a weekend fling, not this weekend.

I’m going to use it on a man who doesn’t listen. So if you don’t mind—

He chuckled. Not at all. You’ve got business to tend to and so do I.

He took a step back and Isobel’s psyche tickled with disappointment. Was his business a half-naked woman waiting in his car? Longing for his strong arms to pull her close, feel his large hands travel over her body and help to unwrap his package?

Goodnight, Isobel Trinidad.

He’d said her name again, like he meant to remember it.

The Yankee smiled, turned and walked back through the dozens of cars. He had a damn fine flank side.

What brought Warner Keyson to Mule Post? Certainly wasn’t the rodeo. There wasn’t a bit of hayseed scent about the man.

Focusing on her original quest, Isobel yanked open the Blue Moon’s door. Inside a tune by Willy and Waylon echoed out into the lobby. Decades of spilled beer and whiskey soaked the floor planks and gave the place ambiance, despite the sweet smoke of pipe tobacco which mingled with the stench of cigarettes and went right to her sinuses.

Hey, little Bella, you’re back. How was the valley? Ray-Roy a local good old boy slid to a stop in his bee-line to the little cowpoke’s room. Blocking her path to the dance floor, he looped his thumbs over the waistband of his out-on-the-town Wranglers.

Isobel ignored how Ray-Roy butchered her name and that his gaze landed on her breasts. She’d warned him time and again to look up at her but her words were lost somewhere between her mouth and his oversize ears. He was harmless and had a big heart and for that reason she could never get mad at him. Hot.

Yup, valley is always hotter than Satan’s oven. The smooth pad of his boot slid across the polished floor planks as he boot-scooted to her side. Speaking of hot—you’re looking mighty good tonight. Especially with that whip. Do you plan to use it?

He twisted in front of her so that his backside was a prime target.

Isobel rolled her eyes. Not on you. Have you seen Chicky?

The shorter man tipped his Stetson back on his head and finally made eye-to-eye contact. Chicky? You and Chicky?

Feeling her neck muscles tighten again, Isobel drew a breath. No. Not me and Chicky. I’m going to whip his tail for what he did.

Ray-Roy chuckled knowing full well she’d never hurt anyone. What’s that?

Pissed me off. She side-stepped him and headed into the saloon’s ballroom.

Within eight seconds, her eyes landed on her target. Chicky was right where she knew he’d be—dead center on the hardwood, kicking up his heels. It didn’t matter he hadn’t found a partner to join him. The man loved to dance.

She waited at the edge of the dance floor, watching Chicky’s every out-of-joint jerk. He would never see it coming. The music ended and as the dance floor cleared, she walked, with whip ready, toward her soon-to-be-ex-painter.

Whoa there, Issy. On step three, her arm was yanked behind her. The force, and the smooth bottoms of her best visitn’ boots, twirled her around to come nose to nose with Angel