Tyler told himself he should drop his hold on Rosa’s arm, yet he couldn’t bring himself to lose the contact.
Her skin was warm and soft and her nearness made him feel like a man again. A man strong enough to love and protect a woman.
He eased his hand onto her shoulder. The moment his fingers pressed into her bare skin, her face twisted around to his, her lips parted and Tyler’s heartbeat quickened.
“There are other ways for a man and woman to learn about each other besides talking,” he murmured.
“Mr Pickens, I—”
“It’s Tyler to you.” Lowering his voice, he added, “Ty, if you’d like.”
Her dark eyes widened just a fraction as they settled on his mouth. “Ty.”
The whisper of his name was all that passed her lips before he decided to cover them with a kiss.
About the Author
STELLA BAGWELL has written more than seventy novels for Mills & Boon. She credits her loyal readers and hopes her stories have brightened their lives in some small way.
A cowgirl through and through, she loves to watch old Westerns, and has recently learned how to rope a steer. Her days begin and end helping her husband care for a beloved herd of horses on their little ranch located on the south Texas coast. When she’s not ropin’ and ridin’, you’ll find her at her desk, creating her next tale of love.
The couple have a son, who is a high school math teacher and athletic coach. Stella loves to hear from readers and invites them to contact her at [email protected].
The Deputy Gets Her Man
Stella Bagwell
MILLS & BOON
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To Marie Ferrarella, who inspired me long before she became my dear friend. Love and thanks. Always.
Chapter One
The sudden sound of footsteps had Rosalinda Lightfoot turning to see Tyler Pickens stepping onto the porch. At least, she figured the tall, imposing figure of a man had to be the owner of the Pine Ridge Ranch. He certainly looked the part. Dressed in jeans and boots and a cream-colored shirt, she figured him to be somewhere in his thirties. Black hair was combed straight back from a darkly tanned face while the expression on his lean features was nothing but grim.
Quickly rising to her feet, Rosalinda placed her coffee on a table next to her lawn chair. As she extended her hand in greeting, she felt a shiver rush down her spine and her pulse leap into a rapid thud.
She spoke first. “Good morning, Mr. Pickens.”
For one awkward moment she thought he was going to ignore her outstretched hand, but then he wrapped his big fingers tightly around hers and she was acutely aware of warm, abrasive skin and tempered strength.
“Deputy Lightfoot,” he said. “I was expecting a man.”
She met his gaze head-on and the coolness of his green eyes was like sliding across an icy pond that could break through at any given moment. Interviewing this man was definitely going to be a challenge, she thought. But being a deputy for the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Department made it a part of her job.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” she replied.
Releasing her hand, he gestured to the seat she’d just vacated. “Sit,” he insisted.
While she followed his suggestion, he pulled up a matching chair and positioned it so that he was facing her.
As she furtively watched him settle back and cross his boots at the ankles, the relaxed language of his body surprised her. She’d expected to find a tense, rigid man ready to explode at any moment. Perhaps the rumors she’d heard about the man were exaggerated or wrong. Or maybe his moods were always changing. In any case, there was something about him that made it impossible for her to tear her gaze away. He’d not expected her to be a woman. Well, she’d certainly not expected him to look so tough and masculine.
Sharp cheekbones angled beneath his hooded eyes, while a thin, aquiline nose led down to a pair of rough-hewn lips. He was the epitome of man, sex and whipcord strength, and for the first time in a long, long time Rosalinda felt the woman in her staring with interest.
Sipping the coffee that Gib, the house servant, had kindly served her, she gave herself a mental shake. The lack of sleep last night must have left her punch-drunk. Normally, she never looked at a man the way she was looking at Tyler Pickens now.
Clearing her throat, she said, “I’ll try to make this quick, Mr. Pickens. I understand you’re busy dealing with the mess the fire left behind.”
“Ah, yes,” he said softly, “the fire. The reason for your little visit. I don’t suppose you have any information on how it started.”
“Not yet,” she said briskly. Before she’d made the trek out here, Undersheriff Brady Donovan had briefed her on all he knew about Tyler Pickens. During that meeting she’d learned he was a single man and had been ever since he’d moved to this ranch over nine years ago. No one had heard or seen family visiting and the only friends he seemed to have were his ranch hands. And Laramie Jones, the foreman of the Chaparral Ranch and Tyler’s neighbor to the south, had a somewhat amiable relationship with him.
He grimaced. “I should have known better than to ask that question. You probably wouldn’t tell me even if you had a long list of suspects or motives.”
“Probably not,” she said, softening her reply with a faint smile. As best as she could gauge, last night’s fire had stopped at the river, which was situated no more than three miles from the Pine Ridge ranch house. The brunt of the flames had spread mostly over the Chaparral Ranch, the Cantrells’ land, blackening and scorching acres and acres of forest and meadowlands. Thankfully, Laramie Jones and his crew had saved the Chaparral livestock by working through the night to move the cattle as far away from the fire as
