Every Last Call (Gamble & Siobhan): His to Claim, #6

By Christa Wick

I'd attended my meddling Great Aunt Dotty's local bachelor auction with every intention of winning a date with the handsome doctor in town I've had my eye on for a few years now. And even if that hadn't been the case, believe you me, Sheriff Gamble is the absolute last man that should've been on my radar when the bidding began. 

It's tough enough being a female deputy in a small town and a big family with way more overprotective males than any single girl should have. Last thing I need is gossip flying about me and my admittedly hot, mysteriously brooding boss.

Still. Something happened when that auction got under way. Things got heated, and somehow I ended up outbidding every damn woman in the place.

Now, I've officially won buff, gruff Jude Gamble for eight hours next week.

And I don't have a clue in hell what to do with him…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christa Wick
• Release date: Dec 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223003250

Book preview

PROLOGUE

— GAMBLE —

Four Months Ago

Sitting in the front passenger seat on a routine training patrol, I force my muscles to relax for about the thousandth time since my shift started. All around the police cruiser, open meadows meander toward the mountains that hug their perimeters. The occasional radio traffic assures me the unit still has reception and that the rest of my deputies are enjoying a drama free afternoon in beautiful Elkhead County.

The day unfolding is exactly why I moved to Montana after a decade of law enforcement in Dallas.

So why does the tension in my chest and shoulders keep getting worse?

Taking one hand off the wheel, Deputy Siobhan Turk adjusts the driver-side air vent. As she slides the control dials, her fingernails flash yellow and blue, the colors of the local college sports team that she avidly supports.

Something's not right, I murmur.

The instant the words slip out, Siobhan sits a little straighter. Her gaze darts first to the rearview mirror then the empty road in front of us before scanning left and right. Her head tilts like she’s straining to hear something despite the windows being up and the heat blowing through the vents.

I don't understand, she says after a few more seconds pass.

I dismiss the apprehension gnawing at my gut with a hand wave. Quiet must be getting to me.

She scoffs. Even though I only have her profile to study, I can tell that Siobhan is rolling her eyes by the way her brows lift and the forward push of her full lips.

The knot in my chest doubles. I could have sent another training officer out on patrol with Siobhan, but the evaluation would be inconclusive. She has a talent for wrapping pretty much everyone around her little finger.

If you want me to talk, she offers, I already have a full conversation going in my head.

I laugh while a resounding HELL NO thunders through my thoughts. I can only imagine the dialogue somersaulting inside that skull of hers. It probably centers on the local doctor at the emergency clinic. The man doesn't just look like a Viking, he has actual Viking blood running through his veins.

Thorne Nygård, MD, is a Norwegian transplant by way of Baltimore. Even before the man stepped foot in the Willow Gap clinic for the first time, Siobhan had fallen head-over-heels in lust with him. Now she exploits every opportunity she can to interact with the good doctor.

No, thanks, I answer, voice roughening.

The shapely black brows lift with another eye roll as she exhales a soft puff that probably smells like the cherry lipgloss she wears.

Grumpy old man. Are you sure you didn't just turn sixty?

Jaw tightening, I resume scanning the empty fields around us.

Clearly your hearing is starting to go, she pokes.

There, I say, pointing to our forward right where a small black sedan travels along one of the few intersecting roads.

With the police cruiser moving perpendicular to the other driver, the radar gun is useless.

Look like it's speeding to you?

Like a bat-out-of-hell, Siobhan agrees, her foot pressing down on the accelerator.

Don't scare him, Baby Bear, I warn. And stay sharp. Today just hasn't felt right.

Her head bobs in acknowledgment. The fingers with their blue and yellow tips tighten around the steering wheel.

And now he's slowing, Siobhan sighs. Please tell me I don't have to work this stretch of eternal boredom for long. That's the only vehicle we've seen in over two hours!

The patrol route belongs to Frank Herrera, but the man's wife is eight month's pregnant with what her obstetrician promises will be triplets. Until the babies are out and settled into a routine at home, I intend to keep Frank at a desk.

Just stay behind him, I answer. We'll run the plates.

I still can't see the driver's face or whether there are any passengers.

The car reaches the intersection about fifteen seconds before the cruiser. I note that the driver is male, bearded, with collar length hair and sunglasses. Unless his passenger is scrunched down, he’s alone. He’s also a stranger to my little corner of the state.

Seedy looking as hell, Siobhan says.

I unhook the radio's microphone. Dispatch, this is unit eight, heading west on Old Gap about a quarter mile past Sunridge. Run a plate out of Idaho for us.

Copy that, Frank Herrera answers. Ready when you are.

I rattle off the plate number, the first two characters telling me that the car is registered out of Kootenai County.

He's accelerating, Siobhan warns.

Comes back to a Margaret Jackson in Coeur d'Alene, Frank says. Black Kia Forte, 2014 model year, four doors.

That's not a Margaret, Siobhan cracks, excitement obvious in her voice.

Any reports on the vehicle? I ask before adding in our current location. Still heading west on Old Gap. Just passed Sundowner's access road.

Copy that, Frank says. Vehicle is clean.

At least eight miles an hour over the limit, Siobhan calls out.

I flip the lights on.

Check for warrants that correspond with the vehicle's registration address, I tell Herrera. And send a backup unit to our location.

Got a runner! Siobhan crows as the Kia leaves the paved surface of Old Gap Road. Bet you twenty the idiot rolls that toy car of his.

Herrera swears over the radio as I slide the rifled shotgun from the rack but keep the safety engaged.

Got a bench warrant for a Charles Jackson at that address, Herrera says. Failure to appear on a domestic, restraining order, too. Judging by the age difference, looks like Margaret is his mom. Past domestics on various women, weapons charge, drug possession…additional units en route to your location, boss.

Copy that, I respond before directing Siobhan where to steer. Get me on his left and keep me there.

She shifts gears just as the suspect's rear tire blows out from the sharp rocks we’re speeding over. The little sedan's back end whips in a counterclockwise direction. Siobhan pumps the breaks, downshifts. My stomach feels like it's just been flipped upside down, but the cruiser responds with only a slight shudder of protest and keeps its traction over the loose dirt