Kelsey Roberts - Landry's Law

Seth turned and looked in the direction of the voice. It was a man in his early thirties. He had the dress and manner of a yuppie tourist. Seth went over to the man.

“Why not?”

The yuppie shrugged. “I saw him last night in the bar.”

“And?” Seth prompted.

“He was staring at the clock.”

“When was this?” Seth asked.

“Maybe ten after nine or so.”

“And you’re sure it was him?”

The yuppie insisted that he was.

“How can you be so sure? You aren’t a local.”

“I remember him because of the babe who showed up to meet him. I mean, no offense to the dead or anything, but that guy isn’t exactly GQ material, and he managed to snag the prettiest woman in the place.”

“What did she look like?”

“Pretty brown hair, incredible green eyes, a body to die for—sorry, poor choice of words—I mean—”

“Did you happen to hear him call her by name?”

The yuppie nodded with enthusiasm. “That’s why I don’t think that writing on his hand is a phone number.”

“Because?” Seth prodded.

“Because he called the woman Savannah.”

Seth swallowed, hard. Savannah Wyatt.

Savannah Wyatt was armed for a sneak attack. Slowly, cautiously, she tiptoed across the cool wood floor, moving ever closer to her prey. Her victim didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn around in time to see her coming.

“Gotcha!” she exclaimed as she captured the field mouse between the floor and the box. Its days of stalking her dried goods for the better part of a week were history!

She could hear the little thing scurrying around under the box, clearly frightened and disoriented. She muttered a guilty curse and blew out a breath. The kitchen, where she had trapped the varmint, was a good twenty feet from the front door. She was less than three feet from the kitchen door, but a five-foot snowdrift blocked it. Silently, she said a few choice words about Montana in the grips of winter, none of them flattering.

Considering her options, Savannah tried to think of a way to grant the mouse freedom without actually touching it. One of the solutions she considered was barbecue tongs, but that would mean lifting the shoe box edge high enough for the furry little monster to make an escape, so that was abandoned.

Lifting her foot, she applied pressure, thus leaving her hands free to search for a way out of this mess.

Catching sight of herself in the stainless steel refrigerator, she decided she looked a tad like a brunette version of the painting of George Washington crossing the Delaware River by Larry Rivers. Shaking her head, Savannah reminded herself that art and fashion were her past. Her present was the very unglamorous job of liberating Mighty Mouse.

A knock reverberated through the two-room cabin.

“Enter at your own risk,” Savannah called. She had stopped locking the door of the secluded cabin during the day after her first few desolate weeks in Jasper. Besides, it wasn’t as if she had lots of strangers dropping in.

She smelled his inexpensive cologne a flash before she turned and saw Junior Baumgartner standing in the foyer, stomping snow from his boots on a rag rug designed to save the finish on the wide pine flooring from potential water damage. His balding head was covered by a navy watch cap, which was the same shade as his down parka. She smiled at him. Frederick—known only as Junior around Jasper—was a kind of friend. She worked part-time for his mother and the two of them sort of came as a package deal, in spite of the fact that Junior had to be pushing forty.

As was his habit, he kept his eyes downcast when he spoke. “What are you doing?”

“I was smart enough to trap a mouse but not smart enough to know how to get rid of it once I did,” she replied in a rather self-deprecating tone.

“Want me to kill it?” Junior offered.

“Lord, no!” she fairly shouted. “I just want to put him outside to fend for himself. Mice can live outside in this kind of weather, right?”

Junior was about to respond when another knock sounded at the door. The sound made Junior jump nervously. Not for the first time, Savannah felt pangs of compassion for the man. Though he was a lifelong resident of the tight-knit ranching community, she seemed to be his only friend—unless you counted his sweet but overbearing parent as a friend. Savannah had learned her first day on the job that Olive was Junior’s friend, mentor, and fiercest protector. He spoke with a slight lisp and seemed incapable of making eye contact with anyone. Poor man. She wondered what made him so shy, jumpy and awkward. Possibly his mother—it seemed as if the widowed Olive still hadn’t cut the umbilical cord to her only child.

“Hey, Junior,” came a friendly greeting that immediately set Savannah’s teeth on edge.

Sheriff Seth Landry didn’t take the time to shake the snow from his boots. He entered her small home, removing his hat as he came closer. Too close, her little voice screamed.

“Some new form of intense yoga, Miss Wyatt?” he asked with enough charm to melt her bones.

Which was exactly what she didn’t like about this man. Two weeks earlier he’d all but accused her of murdering Richard Fowler. Now he was sauntering in as if he’d been invited for afternoon tea.

“Sheriff,” she acknowledged evenly.

“Junior?” Seth said as he opened the buttons on his leather uniform jacket. “I need some time alone with Miss Wyatt.”

“But I have to help her with the mouse,” Junior protested almost forcefully. “Besides, she didn’t kill that Fowler man and you should leave her alone.”

She was surprised to hear Junior so adamant, but then again, she knew he liked her and was probably just being chivalrous. The sheriff didn’t seem to notice or care that he had upset Junior.

She watched Seth’s inky-black eyes go from Junior’s up-turned red face to the box she was guarding with the weight of her foot. “I’ll take care of the mouse,” Seth assured Junior. “You go on home now, but be careful out on the highway. Those roads are mighty slick.”

“Yes, sir,” Junior said, deflated, then in a brighter tone he added, “Bye, Savannah.”

“Bye, Junior,” she called over her shoulder. To Seth, she said, “Do your civic duty. Please.”

“Where’s the top of the box?” Seth asked, shrugging out of his jacket.

Savannah’s mind threatened to go blank as she took in his broad shoulders, trim waist and uniform. She never would have pegged herself as a sucker for a man in uniform, but she was wrong. Seth Landry was an incredible blend of dark, dangerous and delightful. Too bad her life in Jasper was temporary.

Too bad he hasn’t technically cleared me as a suspect in Richard Fowler’s murder.

“The top?” Seth prompted.

“On—on the bed,” she stammered.

Being in Savannah’s bedroom made Seth a little uncomfortable. What should have been an investigation was quickly turning into an inventory. The room was neat as a pin and incredibly feminine. The subtle scent of flowers hung in the air. Candles adorned nearly every inch of the bedroom and what he could see of the open bathroom. Even though he knew better, he could just imagine the reflection of candlelight in her eyes. Savannah had the most incredible eyes. They tried to be brown, but somehow managed to be blue near the pupil. Her face was on the square side, but that just made her full lips seem invitingly pouty.

Like most doctoral candidates he’d met, she had a penchant for wearing casual clothing. Only, she wore tight casual clothing. He knew it was the style. He also knew that when he returned to the kitchen, he’d have to pretend not to notice that her shape-hugging sweater fell just shy of the waistband of her jeans. He couldn’t notice that she worked out enough to have a perfectly toned midriff, or that her belly button was pierced with a small gold ring.