studded leather dog collar. The thing appeared to be a poodle and it looked as harmless as a flea. His eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses when she flashed him a big smile before sauntering past, decked out in black leather pants, jacket and biker boots. His gut—that had never failed him—screamed the woman and her sidekick were trouble. He hadn’t missed the wariness in her eyes she tried to hide behind the big friendly smile.
Taking several long strides to catch up with her, Ethan slapped a hand on the door leading to Lucy’s Café, effectively stopping her when she tried to pull it open. “Ma’am, you can’t leave dog poop on the ground. We have city ordinances.”
She lifted her head slowly, an anticipatory gleam in her eyes. “I wouldn’t move if I were you.”
Ethan went on high alert and glanced at her hands for weapons, but they were empty. It was then he noticed she had dropped the leash. A low growl, very close to his right ankle, rose from below him. He removed his arm from the door and the growl turned into a snarl. Without moving, he glanced down. The previously friendly looking little mutt had his gums peeled back, revealing a mouthful of sharp, pointed teeth.
The woman had the audacity to chuckle before snapping out a command.
“Geordie! Off!”
In a split second, the small—Ethan would put the dog at twelve to fifteen pounds—vicious beast closed his mouth and plopped onto his hind quarters, transforming back into the deceiving appearance of a sweet, docile dog. The thing was covered in brown curls. Ethan could barely see its beady little eyes, which were now warm and pleasant looking, as if the thing had never threatened to chew his leg off.
“I came here to grab a bite to eat. Now, are you going to call the police, or am I allowed to go inside the restaurant and get some paper napkins to clean up Geordie’s mess? I ran out of poop bags several days ago.”
Ethan took a deep breath. He’d just made a fool of himself and could only chalk it up to the sudden appearance of Dorothy carting Toto around on a motorcycle.
Time to back up and get some information. He wanted to know where she was from. Evidently the woman and her companion had been on the road for several days. He flashed her an apologetic grin and held out his hand. “The name’s Hoyt, Sheriff Ethan Hoyt,” he said with relish. He tended to dress in jeans and a civilian shirt when he was on duty.
Her eyes widened for a mere moment after he introduced himself as sheriff. She quickly masked her reaction and shook his hand. “Name’s Samantha Bailey.”
Was that a slight hesitation in her voice when she said her name, or was it his imagination?
“Welcome to Jackson Hole, Ms. Bailey. You here on vacation? Visiting friends?”
She grabbed the leash off the ground and petted her dog before straightening and looking him in the eye. No wilting flower here.
“Are you the official welcoming committee for Jackson Hole? If so, you need to brush up on your etiquette.”
Time to back off. Other than his gut tightening, he had no grounds to suspect her of anything, and he was being rude. “I do apologize.” He glanced down at the mutt. “I’m happy to hold on to your, uh, dog while you get some napkins to clean up his mess.”
Her lips tightened. “His name is Geordie, and he’s a highly trained, purebred male miniature poodle.”
Ethan tried to appear suitably impressed, but the scraggly thing didn’t look as if it had an ounce of testosterone backing up her claim that he was male. He barely heard what sounded like a small growl, and it hadn’t come from the dog. He took the leash from Ms. Bailey, and she flung the door open and disappeared inside Lucy’s Café.
He stared at the dog. “So where do you hail from, Geordie?” The dog’s tail thumped on the sidewalk. “I caught a whiff of a Northern accent with a touch of Southern flavor from your mom. You from New York?”
“Are you interrogating my dog, Sheriff?”
His body jerked, and he felt like an idiot. It was an unfamiliar emotion. He never even heard her approach. The woman was light on her feet. He flashed her a big smile when he turned. “Just being cordial, ma’am.”
She cleaned up the poop, took the leash from his hand, scooped up her dog and placed him back inside the black leather satchel.
“There’s a nice bed-and-breakfast down the street, if you plan on staying.” Ms. Bailey intrigued him, and for some strange reason, he wasn’t ready for her to move on if she was just passing through.
Throwing a leg over the Harley, she showed all her teeth. Not exactly a smile. “I did my research, Sheriff, and it so happens I have a reservation at Mrs. Denton’s Bed-and-Breakfast. I’ll grab something to eat later.” Flicking the kickstand up with her left heel, she tugged the helmet onto her head. “And just so you won’t worry, I’m here on vacation, but if I like it, I might stay a few weeks.”
Frowning as she revved the motorcycle’s engine, Ethan stood on the sidewalk and watched her travel two blocks and stop in front of Mrs. Denton’s place. He took note of the motorcycle’s New York tag.
Jackson Hole was a tourist town, and he was used to seeing all types of people come and go, but Ms. Bailey was an entity of her own. Was she an eccentric, wealthy elite with too much time and money on her hands? Or was she running from something? The only lead he had was the moment of wariness he saw in her eyes. That wasn’t enough to suspect the woman of being up to no good, but his time spent as a high-ranking detective in Chicago had left its mark. He’d learned years ago to listen to his gut, and his gut was balled in a tight knot.
He paused on the sidewalk as a beige sedan slowed in front of Mrs. Denton’s place and then picked up speed as it shot forward. It passed by him. Two large men sat in the front seats. They didn’t even glance at him as they passed, but he noticed the New York plate. He pulled his pad and pencil out of his shirt pocket and wrote down both the car and motorcycle’s tag numbers. Odds were the men were in Jackson Hole to hunt and fish, but it never hurt to check.
Interesting thing when two New York vehicles showed up in Jackson Hole within thirty minutes of each other. It was a long way for anyone to drive.
Chloe quickly opened the front door to the bed-and-breakfast and slipped inside with Geordie at her heels. Spinning around, she stole a glance through one of the glass panes bordering the door. The thick, old glass was wavy, but clear enough for her to catch sight of a large beige sedan whizzing down the street. She squinted and caught the New York tag but couldn’t make out the number.
Her dog nudged his nose against her leg. She scanned the rest of the neighborhood through the window. “The car’s from New York, Geordie. I felt eyes on us from the time we left Lucy’s Café. You think the killer’s hired toadies followed us from the city? I picked Jackson Hole because I don’t know anyone here and it’s clear across the country. I covered our tracks. Stan always claimed I was slippery as an eel.”
While studying the surrounding area through the wavy glass, her thoughts were invaded by the sheriff’s expressive face. She didn’t want to admit—to herself, or her dog—that the good sheriff had shaken her up a bit. He was good-looking, no doubt about it. Well over six feet, dark hair
