FALLS 26 MILES.
Ben Wolf smiled when he saw the warped metal road sign up ahead. No one had bothered to replace it, and now, fifteen years later, it still bore his mark—the large dent made by his baseball bat the day before he’d left town. He’d been leaning out of his friend Buster’s pickup going thirty-five miles per hour when he’d taken a swing, and nearly dislocated his shoulder.
He’d been so damn angry that day. At his mother for all the lies, at the father he could barely remember, at the McAllister brothers for being better than him. Sure, the family had accepted him as if he’d been one of their own—and not only their maid’s son—but that still didn’t make him a McAllister.
Ben pressed down on the accelerator as he passed the sign and steered the Porsche into the curve in the highway. He hadn’t thought about that day in years. Hell, he’d dislocated both shoulders since then, busted his ribs more times than he could recall and broken his jaw twice. The difference now was he got paid damn well to risk the occasional visit to the ER.
The sky was blue and cloudless, the air pleasantly warm considering the April sun was headed for the Rockies, their peaks still packed with snow. Patches of the mountainside below the tree line were still bare. Another month and the spring leaves would take care of that.
Northwest Montana was beautiful country. No argument there. In a way, Ben had been lucky to grow up on the Sundance. The ranch spread right up to the foothills, where clear water flowed in streams carrying all the fish a kid could catch. How many times had he fallen asleep in a grassy meadow, lulled by the warmth of the sun and the smell of wild sage?
Ben rolled down his window and breathed in the crisp, clean air. He watched a hawk wheeling and soaring through the sky. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the mountains. Working as a stunt man, he’d seen plenty of great spots all over the States, Canada and Mexico. Even Europe once for an indie film. But nothing could beat the scenery here.
Hollywood had hills. Some nice views. And the city had other charms. But after living there for so many years, the glitter and sparkle had started to dim.
Maybe if everything went okay with his mother, he’d stick around for a week. Claudia had warned him their mom had aged. His sister saw her a couple times a year. All Ben had managed since leaving were phone calls at Christmas and sometimes on her birthday.
Distracted by his thoughts, he didn’t swerve in time to avoid a rut in the road. The two right tires hit the packed dirt and sent dust flying everywhere. Ben cursed a blue streak for all the good it did. He’d gone an hour out of his way to have the Porsche washed and waxed in Great Falls. Just so it would be nice and shiny when he pulled into the Sundance.
Half the population of Blackfoot Falls would be there for Rachel McAllister’s wedding, including a number of folks who thought Ben would never amount to anything. Let ’em see he’d done well for himself. Few things screamed success louder than a shiny red Porsche.
He peered at the road ahead, then glanced in the rearview mirror. The dust hadn’t settled. A brisk breeze sent the airborne dirt swirling across the highway and chasing behind him. He accelerated, hoping that once he drove past the clearing, the scrubby brush would block some of the wind.
Taking another look in the mirror, Ben saw a flashing red light through the dusty haze. A second later, he heard the distinct blare of a siren.
A cop? Way out here?
“You gotta be kidding,” he muttered, tempted to floor the accelerator.
The white truck had to be county-issue. Too old to keep up with his Porsche. Hell, his sports car had to be the only one around for miles. They’d catch him sooner or later. With his luck, a deputy would cuff him at the wedding.
Right. A deputy.
Not highway patrol. This was a county road.
Ben smiled as he pulled off to the side. Chances were damn good he’d gone to school with whoever was driving that truck. Kids from Blackfoot Falls rarely left after graduating. They normally stayed to work on the family ranch or found local jobs.
After turning off the engine, he stared into the rearview mirror and waited. The truck stopped several yards behind him. He couldn’t make out the driver. Only that he was wearing a blue ball cap, which was odd. The sheriff and deputies had always worn Stetsons.
The truck door opened.
Ben turned his gaze to the larger reflection in his side mirror. The deputy was a woman. Medium height, slim, her tan uniform shirt tucked into snug-fitting jeans that showed off a small waist and curvy hips.
She closed the door and slowly approached him. Her hair was pulled back, the color somewhere between brown and auburn. Sunglasses covered half her face, but he didn’t think he knew her. He would’ve recognized her walk. Few women carried off that easy sensual sway. In his experience, it worked only if a woman was unaware of it.
Now, the ticket book in her hand he recognized immediately. Man, he did not need another mark on his record. His insurance premium had shot through the roof with the last ticket. But all wasn’t lost. Lucky for him, he had a way with women.
“Good afternoon,” she said with a small nod. “License and registration, please.”
He removed his sunglasses, hoping she’d do the same. “Deputy Hendrix,” he said, glancing at the name tag fastened just above her left breast. Then he gave her a slow lazy smile. “Is there a problem?”
Her lips parted slightly. “Really?” One corner of her mouth quirked up. “You’re going to pretend you weren’t speeding?”
At the unexpected response, Ben’s smile faltered. “Not by much.”
Her brows rose over the dark lenses, and she smiled a little. Not necessarily in a good way. “License and registration.”
Jesus. Here they were in the middle of nowhere and she was going to push the issue? Ben dug out his wallet and then rifled through his glove box. He was getting to be a pro at this, he thought wryly, and handed over everything.
“Thank you,” she said, her politeness annoying as hell.
Trying to keep his cool, Ben watched her step back and study his license. A faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose made her look young, probably midtwenties. If she’d gone to school in Blackfoot Falls, she would’ve been quite a few grades behind him.
“I know you, don’t I?” he said.
The deputy looked up. “I doubt it.”
Blue. He’d bet that was the color of her eyes behind the dark glasses. “Blackfoot Falls High?” He tried out another smile. “Obviously, I was ahead of you.”
She cocked her head to the side. “So you’re from here and know better than to go racing around these curves. Deer could come out of the brush at any time.”
Irritated, Ben snorted. “You giving me a ticket or a lecture?”
“Both, if necessary.”
So much for laying on the charm. He knew for a fact she hadn’t been following him because he would’ve seen her. That meant she’d been parked off to the side. “You didn’t clock my speed.”
