Too Sexy for His Stetson

By Mal Olson

Rookie cop Brandy Wilcox grew up on her own, on the run, and on the wrong side of the tracks. One burning desire drives her—her quest to prove her mother was wrongfully convicted of murder. She never trusted anyone, not until she met her new field training officer Lieutenant Blade Beringer. The Stetson-wearing half of a canine team, Beringer, is honest, fair, and respectable--everything Brandy aspires to be.
Blade finds training the feisty recruit a challenge, especially when Brandy turns him on like no other woman has. He'd like to get close to her in more ways than one...but he shouldn't. Department rules forbid fraternizing between deputies, and he has personal reasons for avoiding a close emotional relationship with any woman.
When Brandy realizes the number one suspect on her most-wanted list is Blade's idol, she doubts their growing and forbidden attraction has a snowball's chance in the Idaho sun.
Will they live long enough to find out if the fragile bond between them can survive? The odds are against them as they investigate a ten-year-old murder case, as they match wits and brawn with a monster rig on a curvy mountainous road, as they tackle a raging torrent-drenched river, dodge bullets, arrows, and radical supremacists, and finally, as they confront madmen in the process of detonating a bomb at the nearby dam.
"Too Sexy For His Stetson, a must read for the adrenaline junky."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mal Olson
• Release date: Jun 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463097090

Mal Olson

Mal Olson writes adrenaline-kicked romantic suspense. When her consuming passion for writing allows time, she enjoys reading, flower gardening, jamming with friends on the mountain dulcimer, and hiking in a nearby state forest (or in the mountains somewhere). She has three grown children and one granddaughter and resides with her own special hero in southeast Wisconsin where she juggles writing time with her freelance landscape design business.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Brandy’s trigger finger twitched. A bead of sweat tickled its way down her backbone. She was inexperienced, off duty, and miles from her truck, which sat near a trailhead in the mountainous wilderness of northern Idaho, and the intruder she held at gunpoint probably had seventy muscled pounds on her.

She studied the cowboy’s sweet-as-honey, wicked-as-sin smile through the sights of her department-issued Remington semiautomatic rifle. From his pose on the rickety porch of the old log cabin, he assessed her right back. His full lips tugged across Crest-white teeth, exposing a small but sexy gap between his central incisors.

He tipped his head toward the jimmied-open window. I know this looks bad, Ma’am, but I can explain, he drawled out Ma’am again.

Deputy Sheriff Brandy Wilcox. Keep your hands where I can see them.

Brandy? Impervious to the deputy sheriff title, he straightened and angled his dusty black Stetson over his forehead so the brim shadowed his cool-water eyes. Name like that could make a man real thirsty.

Brandy had heard just about every come-on in the book, but never from a trespasser on the business end of her rifle. She calculated his over-confident grin, the twinkle in his eyes, the tilt of his head—blond curly hair no less. A sensual package that promised a ride on the wild side—if one was so inclined. Which she was not.

Yet something primal tugged deep in her stomach.

Bracing the Remington more firmly against her shoulder, she steadied her aim and revved up her grit. This guy was banking on his wild smile a little too heavily. What he needed was some taming.

Okay, drop ‘em.

When he lowered his arms, she said, Not your hands, your pants.

For several beats, he stared at her like he hadn’t heard.

Lose your Levis, she urged again. She had no desire to shoot him, but she didn’t have handcuffs on her and she wasn’t about to chance his getting away. If it came to a footrace, his long muscular legs could outrun her in a heartbeat. But he couldn’t get far stomping barefoot in his skivvies through the mountainous shale-scabbed terrain. Not that making a break for it was something she intended to let him try.

Excuse me? You want me to strip? A trill of elation noticeably brightened his whisky-smooth voice. His expression bounced between this is my lucky day and disbelief.

You got it. And while you’re at it, you can get rid of the shirt too.

The fine lines defining his too-blue eyes crinkled as his expression turned sultry, and charisma dripped off his broad shoulders like summer rain over mountain granite.

Charisma, hell. That would get him exactly nowhere with her. Necessary precaution. I wouldn’t want you trying to mosey off. Not before she could engage an on-duty deputy to make an arrest.

She may have looked as young and inexperienced as she was, but she was physically and mentally tougher than her feminine five-foot-four frame suggested. She could outshoot and outthink every cadet in her graduating class at the police academy.

Revenge had a way of empowering a woman.

Despite her upbringing, she’d beaten the odds. She was making something of herself, and she wasn’t about to be intimidated by this guy and his toothpaste poster-boy smile, nor the blond, sweat-soaked curls straggling across his collar. Or the pumped biceps stretching the fabric of his shirtsleeves.

I’m still waiting.

You’re serious? He eyed the lettering on her I’m a Redneck Woman T-shirt, a fifty-cent find at Goodwill. I usually like to get to know a woman a little before taking my clothes off and having a good time. The dazzle of his smile cranked the charisma meter several notches higher.

I can assure you, you won’t be having a good time. Smart ass.

That’s debatable. I’m already enjoying this more than you can imagine.

Too eagerly, his fingers began tugging open his shirt buttons, revealing a deep triangle of bronzed skin dusted with tawny chest hair. More sun-kissed eye candy than she was ready to cope with.

As he slid buttons through buttonholes, her gaze skidded to a stop on abs honed like corrugated steel. She tore her glance upward only to meet those unnerving eyes, speckles of light glinting in the azure pools.

As he reached for the fastener on the waistband of his slim-fit 510’s, the heat blooming on Brandy’s cheeks slid south. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Still, he couldn’t run far in his underwear. Seconds ticked by. Golden sunbeams gleamed off beads of sweat on muscles she didn’t really want to notice, but her attention was completely captured by the liquid heat trickling down his chest. She worked harder to convince herself the quiver in her gut came from adrenaline not feminine hormones. At any moment, her survival instincts and training would take over and stop this ridiculous sensual reaction to him. Turn around and take off your boots.

My boots? The first sign of indignation crept into his voice. Brandy, Honey, I think you’re making a big mistake. Did you ever hear of fairness in apprehension?

You sound experienced. Obviously, this wasn’t his first tangle with the law. "Have you heard of justification of lethal force? Consider yourself lucky that I didn’t shoot first and ask questions later. Now turn around and get to work on those boots."

What about my Miranda rights? Or the proposition that a man’s innocent until proven guilty? he asked even as he followed orders and pivoted, presenting her with a view of his equally impressive backside.

But rather than shucking off his well-worn snakeskin Justins, he removed his shirt and slowly slid his belt through the loops, making a sensual striptease out of the movements.

The cotton fabric of Brandy’s T-shirt dampened, and her concentration started to wane. Not because the temperature was flirting with triple digits and the August sun had bullied every cloud from the sky. The blame rested on blue eyes that had messed with her thermostat.

She cleared her throat. The arresting officer will read you your rights. For now, I’d get to work on those boots if I were you.

You want to separate me from my boots, you’re going to have to do it yourself. His back still to her, he planted his scuffed heels firmly on the cabin’s splintered porch boards and glanced over his shoulder.

On the other hand, if you’re really interested in seeing what’s under my jeans, I’m all yours, Honey. I do love a redneck woman.

Her heart hammered against the fabric of the particular T-shirt she wished she hadn’t selected that morning, which was clinging to her chest like shrink wrap. The Gretchen Wilson song title had made her laugh out loud when she’d come across the tee on the bargain table at the Goodwill store, and because it was a ridiculously outrageous tag for Brandy Wilcox, she’d bought it as a joke.

As she pondered her purchase mistake of the year, wind-tossed grit scratched her throat. Expelling a slow, controlled breath, she dipped into the pocket of her jeans for her cell phone. You have the right to remain silent in the face of any questions that might be put to you. With hardly a waver in her voice, she added, Do you understand?

For untold sun-blistered seconds, he exercised his right to remain silent. She steadied the rifle, her finger alongside the trigger, and flipped her phone open with her free hand. Glanced down to read the screen. The blank, dead screen.

In the pristine silence, the sound of a zipper rasped.

Lord. Way too much sinewy, masculine muscle made her insides twist. The heat index rose to equator level. Before Mr. Totally Ripped revealed the answer to the age old question boxers or briefs, Brandy choked out, Hold it right there.

Jeans hanging low on his hips, he swiveled and faced her. So, Brandy, what are you doing roaming around out here all by yourself?

She narrowed her eyes and tightened her grip on the rifle. Maintaining my sharp-shooter’s status.

A muscle in his cheek twitched. Maybe you should put down that rifle before you accidentally kill someone. Namely me. It would be ill advised for a deputy to shoot a suspect merely on probable cause. That could get said deputy in a lot of trouble. Guaranteed.

If I take you down, Mister, it won’t be any accident, and it won’t necessarily kill you.

His tongue played sexily over the sweat collecting on the indentation above his upper lip. You’re that good, huh?

Double entendre intended—she was sure. Definitely too sexy for his Stetson.

"Good enough to put a hole in your hat and a crease in your skull without turning you into a pulseless, non-breathing suspect. I don’t think you want to chance that. It would smart a whole lot. Guaranteed."

That’s some mighty big talk for such a little lady. The grin that tilted the corner of his mouth irritated more than intimidated her.

A little lady with a big gun that could put a crease just about anywhere I choose. She lowered the barrel of the rifle and set her aim in the vicinity of his zipper. "That’d smart a whole lot more. Absolutely guaranteed."

It warmed her heart when he came to his senses and reined in his smile.

You’ll be having a little conversation with Lieutenant Deputy Beringer when he arrives in town, she added.

Beringer? The name caught his attention. Isn’t he one of the old boys who works out of Boise?

Too bad such a cute cowboy had obviously been tangling with the law from one end of Idaho to the other. He’s joining the Little Chute team. I take it you’ve crossed paths with him before?

You could say that. I imagine you’re good friends with Deputy Beringer?

Very good friends. She stretched the truth and glanced at the still blank screen on her phone before stuffing it back into her pocket.

Okay, think, Wilcox. How the hell was she going to make contact with the department and get this guy back to town? A good deputy always has a backup plan.

The unmistakable rumble of a vehicle pummeling over bedrock interrupted the silence. Dear God, hopefully, it was someone who could assist. A measure of relief pulsed through her veins, and the knot in her stomach relaxed. At this point, she’d be willing to commandeer the help of just about anyone who showed up.

Two seconds later, a bullet pinged and ricocheted off the log siding of the cabin. Her solar plexus clenched, and she ducked. Holy cripes! Now she needed a backup plan for the backup plan.

Get down, she yelled while flinging herself to the ground.

The man in the Stetson followed her lead, his pumped chest filling her view as he crashed to the ground several feet away. Another shot exploded, brain-rattlingly close to her head. Like a combat soldier hunkered on her knees and elbows, she squiggled through bone-dry dirt and moved closer to the burglar.

High-octane adrenaline shot through her bloodstream as smoking cartridges continued to carve up the cabin’s rough-hewn logs. Rifle positioned against her body, prone on her stomach, she arched her back. She steadied herself on her elbows, and aimed, firing repeatedly. Shell casings rained down. The air reeked with the stench of gunpowder.

In reply, another round of rapid gunfire exploded from the opposition.

Stay down, minimize the target, she ordered. Suspected burglar or not, she was responsible for this yahoo.

You think? He managed to zip his jeans, keep his Stetson from getting shot full of holes, and crawl next to her, wedging his body against hers. Hot body.

Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered, she said. He was probably scared out of his mind.

He pressed closer, maneuvered, and somehow placed himself between her and the opposition. We’re not hanging around here like a couple of sitting ducks. He rose to a crouch. On three, unload five or six rounds at those SOBs, and then we’re out of here. Up that hill. He pointed to the rise beyond the cabin. Zigzag.

Brandy touched her finger to the trigger and pressed it repeatedly.

Go! he yelled.

The minute she jumped up, the man in the snakeskin boots snatched her arm and pushed her in front of him. His warm hand pressed against her back as he urged her toward the sharply rising slope. If they made it up the hill without sprouting holes in their circulatory systems, they could disappear into the woods.

Toeing her hiking boots into the rocky incline, she pushed for all she was worth, jogging uphill, and closed in on the ridge.

Excuse me, ma’am. His big hand flattened on her butt and boosted her over the top of the embankment.

Chin first, she landed in dried leaves. He thudded down next to her, then pushed up, pulling her to her feet. Embraced by tree shadows, Brandy jerked her head around to look down at the cabin. Four men. Dark green SUV. Make that six men, counting the two who’d just pulled up in a familiar truck and who were at the very moment scrambling out of her rusty Ford, which she’d left parked along the road.

They’ve got my truck! Her jaw snapped shut. Damn, that truck was the first vehicle she’d ever owned. While she lamented her loss, her detainee grabbed her arm and took off, charging deeper into the woods.

In the span of twenty minutes, she’d encountered more action than she’d seen during her entire first month of field training. She should have been scared, but she wasn’t. Instead, the adrenaline pumping through her system charged her with energy. Harnessing the energy, she forged along the footpath through dense thicket, Stetson Man at her side. Rounds of ammunition bombarded the pristine wilderness around them.

Keep going, he ordered.

Excuse me, who’s in charge? For a split second, she entertained the idea of setting him straight.

Ping. A bullet grazed tree bark inches from her chest. Damn. She ducked, and her companion, with his hand tethered to hers, plunged off the path into the trees and poured on the steam. Sprinting. Stumbling over rocks. Skidding on spree.

He-Who-Thought-He-Was-in-Charge suddenly stopped. Brandy plowed into him. As she glanced around, he leapt over the edge of the narrow pathway, tugging her along. They rolled down a brush-covered slope and hit a narrow ledge. And bounced off.

Falling, sliding, somersaulting. The world spun as she tumbled head-over-heels, making the acquaintance of every rock in her path. Cinders bit the exposed skin between the hem of her T-shirt and the waistband of her jeans, and dry twigs grabbed her hair and snarled in her curls.

At last she came to an abrupt stop at the bottom of the gulch. Atop a mass of steel-hard man. Breathless, nose-to-nose with the handsome suspected thief, she faced off with him. Her heart thumped like a coyote on speed in contrast to his, which held a controlled, steady beat. His hot skin seared her. That would be the hot skin of his rock solid chest, against which her breasts were intimately pressed.

You’re still under arrest.

Shush. Index finger to his lips, he shook his head.

They lay motionless for untold minutes until the sound of angry shouts and tromping footsteps on the trail above subsided. With her legs straddling his hips, she gripped his shoulders and muscled her upper body away. Were those guys after you?

His cool, sexy gaze slid over her sweat-drenched torso as though she were the winner of a wet T-shirt contest. Mentally rolling her eyes, she pulled the damp fabric away from her chest and scowled.

Could be, he drawled.

Her inner cop took charge. With a quick sideways glance, she scanned the surrounding brush and spotted her rifle. Ten feet away. Slowly, she levered herself to a standing position and backed toward the Remington.

Engrossed with examining an ugly scratch that ran horizontally across his washboards, he made no attempt to stop her or go for the firearm.

"So, Deputy, who do you think those guys were?"

I thought you said they were after you.

I said they could be after me. That was just a supposition.

They were probably Neo Nazi Freedom Fighters. Those guys have been flexing their muscles around town. Hassled some hikers in this vicinity earlier this week.

The NNFF faction had been high priority on the sheriff department’s watch list for months. A splinter from the extremists of the 1980s, the white supremacists were believed to be holed up in a compound hidden somewhere in the 1800 square miles of Little Chute County’s forest reserve. They just crossed the line, which will spark the interest of the Feds. So, any reason they’d be after you?

He shrugged. I have the right to remain silent, remember? He pushed off the ground and started to walk away, his thigh muscles bunching against denim that hugged his legs like snakeskin still attached to the snake.

Hey, where do you think you’re going? He wasn’t off the hook for suspected B and E. She had no intention of letting him get away. Although, anyone at odds with the NNFF couldn’t be all bad.

Ignoring her, he ambled toward a patch of fern.

Brandy steadied her rifle.

He retrieved his Stetson and moseyed back. Do you have a plan for getting back to town, Deputy? Do you even know which way the road is from here?

She glanced around at the mass of trees and foliage.

Tall pine loomed in every direction. Not a landmark in sight.

Clamping his Stetson on his head, covering his damp hair, he sidled closer. So close she could feel flash fire radiating off his skin as he towered over her, his bare chest hovering inches from her nose. She tilted her head to look into his face. The heady scent of pine saturated the air. Or did the fragrance emanate from the man?

Mr. Too Sexy took a lingering second to pluck a dried leaf from her hair and another moment to twirl one of her errant curls around his thumb. The beat of her pulse throbbed against her windpipe and constricted her voice.

No plan? He tugged at the lock of hair still entrapped by his fingers. That’s what I thought. Follow me.

How could she possibly be turned on by a suspected burglar? A burst of irritation pumped up her resolve. She gestured with her rifle. You bet I’ll follow you.

Ten minutes later, the roar of water beating over rock told her they were edging in on Quicksilver Falls. They couldn’t have strayed more than a mile off course. That would put them just south of the Shoshone River—somewhere.

Maybe a quarter of a mile from the rapids.

Definitely upstream from the falls. She was almost sure.

Wherever they were, they couldn’t be that far from the road and the trailhead where she’d left her truck. Which obviously wouldn’t be there because the NNFF boys, or whoever the gunslingers were, had snatched it.

She scurried along after the suspect, no longer having the heart to hold him at gunpoint. Stride for stride, she kept up with him, half-jogging to match the pace his long legs set. They hiked steadily until they worked their way up and out of the gulch and hooked up with the trail. Finally, through a break in the trees, she caught a glimpse of the road. A whiff of newly paved blacktop assaulted her nose. Civilization.

But they could hardly walk along the highway, exposing themselves, with the NNFF gang gunning for them. It would take hours on foot to hoof it into town. Yet, the man in the Stetson forged on, trekking toward the road.

Through the foliage, Brandy noted a vehicle parked on the gravel shoulder. Hey, hold it. We’re not out of the proverbial woods yet.

With long-gaited strides, her suspect continued on.

You wouldn’t be planning to take off without me, would you? She slammed in a new clip and leveled the rifle, targeting his back.

Ka-chink.

The sound had a way of grabbing a man’s attention. He froze for a second. But this guy had more grit than some. He walked to the driver’s side of the vehicle before turning to face her and tipped his Stetson back.

Not hardly. He smiled and slowly swiped his forearm across his brow then reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. I thought I’d offer you a ride into town so you could get busy writing up your report. He offered his hand. Blade Beringer at your service, Ma’am. Lieutenant Deputy Sheriff Beringer.

As in her new boss and field training supervisor.

Wilcox, you are so screwed.

CHAPTER TWO

Shit, Brandy mumbled as she jerked the clip from her Remington.

At least Beringer had the grace not to laugh when she climbed into his car and slammed her butt onto the passenger seat.

With her arms crossed over her chest, she tried to ignore the man who could make or break her career and who would, over the next five freaking-long months, be her boss and field training officer. He could have identified himself rather than letting her prove she was greener than the Coeur d’Alene forest and about as smart as a pile of Idaho granite. The first thing she should have done when encountering a B and E was ask for the suspect’s ID.

And double shit, because now that she knew he wasn’t some perverted felon—damn, he was hot. All that lean, mean muscle and charisma stoked fire in the pit of her stomach.

She gritted her teeth. Determined not to steal a glance at his profile, she reminded herself there was no room in her life for distractions. Not now, not when she could almost taste the elusive tang of revenge. She had to stay focused. And a guy like the sexy man in the Stetson next to her could wreak havoc with a woman’s concentration.

Sorry, he said. I just wanted to see how you handled yourself. Should have identified myself sooner, but you kind of came on like gangbusters.

You led me on.

Innovative technique you employed for detaining a suspect.

Yeah, well, I didn’t let the suspect get away, did I?

What red-blooded male would have wanted to get away?

Implying?

He raised his hands in defense. Implying that whatever gets the job done... More power to you and all the redneck women of the world.

His smile said he was impressed. But for all she knew, he could be a chauvinistic jerk. And she wasn’t looking forward to his sharing the details of her attempted arrest with the entire Little Chute County Sheriff’s Department.

In an attempt to sound professional and change the subject, she asked, So, Lieutenant, how much do you know about the Neo Nazi Freedom Fighters?

Looks like they keep life interesting around here.

"They’ve been hanging around northern Idaho for decades. In recent years, they’ve been fairly low-key. But a