Linda Warren - The Sheriff of Horseshoe, Texas

Her hair was wet and hung in strands around her face. Soft, silky skin dotted with cream peeped around the towel. Sleepy eyes stared back at him. Raw, primitive and all-male emotions roused his lower abdomen and below.

Wyatt handed her the case. “Here are your things. Your wallet is in the safe at the office. Just thought I’d remove temptation.”

Frowning, Peyton held the towel with one hand while taking the case with the other. Her fingers brushed across his and he felt as if he’d been baptized by fire. Baptized like a teenager who had just been touched by an attractive, sexy woman for the first time.

Dear Reader,

One day my husband and I were returning home and we passed a red convertible sports car pulled over to the side of the road by a highway patrolman. A young blonde was driving, her Hollywood-style sunglasses perched on top of her head. The patrolman’s arm rested on top of the windshield as he leaned in, talking to her. He was smiling. A big this-is-my-lucky-day smile. I told my husband that woman would not be getting a ticket.

From this a story began to emerge about a hard-nosed sheriff, Wyatt Carson, and a feisty socialite, Peyton Ross, who’s never taken responsibility for anything in her life. Not only is Peyton caught speeding, but she offers the sheriff a bribe to let her go. Wyatt is determined to make Peyton pay for her crimes, but she is just as determined to make the high and mighty sheriff regret the day he ever put her in handcuffs.

A small warning—you probably won’t like Peyton when you first meet her, but give her a chance. I promise by the end of the book you will love her. So come along and see who’s the first to bend, the first to have a change of attitude, a change of heart.

I had fun writing this story, and I hope you have as much fun reading it.

With love and thanks,

Linda Warren

P.S. Make my day and let me know (good or bad) what you think of this book. You can e-mail me at Lw1508@aol.com or write me at P.O. Box 5182, Bryan, TX 77805 or visit my Web site at www.lindawarren.net or www.myspace.com/authorlindawarren. Your letters will be answered.

Award-winning, bestselling author Linda Warren has written twenty-one books for Harlequin Superromance and Harlequin American Romance. She grew up in the farming and ranching community of Smetana, Texas, the only girl in a family of boys. She loves to write about Texas, and from time to time scenes and characters from her childhood show up in her books. Linda lives in College Station, Texas, not far from her birthplace, with her husband, Billy, and a menagerie of wild animals, from Canada geese to bobcats. Visit her Web site at www.lindawarren.net.

A big thank-you to Beverly Straub for graciously answering my many questions about fashion and socialites.

And a special thanks to Margie Lawson and her Deep Editing Techniques. I thoroughly enjoyed her workshop and getting to know her. Thank you, Margie, for opening my eyes to the power of words, the power of writing.

Thanks to Dorothy Kissman and Phyllis Fletcher for once again kindly sharing information about their hometown, Austin, Texas.

I dedicate this book to the community

of Smetana, Texas, where I grew up and learned

about small-town America and bonds and

friendships that last a lifetime.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Sunday afternoons were made for love.

The scent of lilacs, the taste of strawberry wine and Lori. Sweet Lorelei.

His wife.

A smile tugged at Sheriff Wyatt Carson’s mouth. But a second later his daydream was hijacked by the present, and gut-wrenching reality.

Painful memories sliced into his heart. When they were teenagers, Lori would call and say, “It’s Sunday afternoon. Where are you?” It had been the same in college. “It’s Sunday. I’ll meet you in an hour.” When they both had gone into law enforcement and worked a beat in Austin, those afternoons had been their special time.

But no more.

His Lori died six years ago.

The weight on his chest pressed down, feeling heavier than a two-thousand-pound bull. No air. No breath. Just pain.

At last he inhaled and he welcomed the rush of air. Yet he cursed it, too. He needed the memories. They kept him going. They kept him strong. Though years had passed, Wyatt still took life one day at a time, but the pain never lessened. It only grew deeper.

Blinking against the bright June sun, he slipped on his sunglasses and strolled to his patrol car at the courthouse. Now his Sunday afternoons were made for fishing—with his eight-year-old daughter, Jody. He’d moved from Austin to his small hometown to raise their child alone, in a safe environment. The way Lori would have wanted.

With a sigh, Wyatt slid into his car. His daughter was waiting.

Backing out, he waved at Delmar Ferguson, who owned the auto-parts store. Delmar was opening up for the afternoon trade.

Horseshoe, Texas, was much the same as it had been when Wyatt was a kid. An old two-story limestone courthouse, yellowing and graying in spots from age, sat in the center of a town square that happened to be in the shape of a horseshoe. Gnarled oaks and blooming red crepe myrtles gave the old structure a touch of beauty.

The weathered brick and mortar storefronts that surrounded the square were still the same, too. Some had been boarded up—the old furniture store, the fabric shop and the Perry Brothers’ Five and Dime. The casualties of a changing America.

But new businesses had opened, including Miss Hattie’s Tea Room, Flo’s Antiques, Betty Jo’s Candle Shop and a dollar store. The old Wiznowski family bakery was still on the corner. For five generations it had kept going strong, and probably would for years to come.

Horseshoe was the epitome of small-town America, its citizens upholding strong family values. It was a place where friendly neighbors helped each other. That had been the main reason Wyatt had chosen to come home—to heal while finding a way to live again.

For Jody.

He had to hurry because his daughter was not patient. First he had to go to the bait stand on the highway. As he reached Texas Highway 77, which ran on the outskirts of Horseshoe, a red convertible sports car zoomed by, barely missing Mrs. Harriet Peabody as she crossed the highway from her son’s fruit-and-vegetable stand.

Harriet shook her walking cane at the car in vain. Then she saw Wyatt and pointed with her cane in the direction the car had gone.

Wyatt tipped his hat, signaling that he had seen the whole thing. He turned on his siren and roared after the speeder. The first thing he noticed was the blond hair whipping in the wind. The next thing was the woman’s failure to respond to the siren. She kept going—faster.