Crazy Horse

Rimrock, Montana

Blackstone Ranch

Fri.7:20 a.m.

"Ayeeeee!"

"Heya.Heya.Heya.Heya."

Sheriff Danger Blackstone switched off the engine of his ten-year-old Jeep and listened to the noises that disrupted the early morning serenity. Danger narrowed his eyes as his grandpa chanted. The sound resonated across the back yard from inside the old ranch house.

And, he was beating on the drums, never a good sign.

Papa Joe must have had one hell of a vision.

Danger climbed out of the Jeep and paused to listen. His grandmother's high-pitched screech, "Ayeeeee," blended with Papa Joe's chanting. Danger shook his head.

His grandparents might be senile and did some rather odd things from time to time, but if Grandma Shalene was involved--then whatever had her shrieking along with Papa Joe's chanting and drumming was major.

Side-stepping the dozen or so hens pecking and scratching in the dirt, Danger opened the back screen door and entered the kitchen to the tantalizing aroma of fried bacon. Concerned about why his grandparents were in a tizzy, he ignored the appreciative rumble of his stomach. At least the old folks had enjoyed breakfast right on schedule.

Maybe that meant things weren't as bad as he thought after all.

Danger paused. Entering Grandma Shalene's kitchen made him feel as if he walked across the Painted Desert--blue table cloth, yellow walls, red and white curtains, everything sparkling clean and filled with the richness of color. Sure, his grandparents home was rundown, the ranch house old, certainly it had outlived its youthful sparkle, but he always felt welcomed. And loved.

His sister, Anna Leigh, leaned against the kitchen counter with her six month old daughter, Gidget. The baby was perched on her hip. Like clockwork, Anna stopped by every morning to cook breakfast and make certain the old ones didn't burn down the house.

Milky drool slid down the baby's tiny chin. Danger took her from his sister and mouthed, "What's going on?"

Anna rolled her eyes and shrugged.

"She's wet," she warned as Gidget's squishy bottom landed against his uniform shirt.

"Yikes! Take her. She's yours." Danger pointed her back toward his sister. "Come on. Take her back, Sis."

Gidget's bare legs dangled in the air as he held the baby at arms length. At the sight of her mother, the baby pumped her chubby little legs in the air and gurgled. Slobbers dribbled down her chin and neck and splattered his hands.

Anna giggled, folded her arms under her breasts, and shook her head. Her dark eyes sparkled with amusement. "No. You keep her. Wet diapers are a part of reality. You need to get used to them. You might get lucky and be a daddy one day."

Danger scoffed and shoved baby Gidget at his sister. "Don't joke about things like that. I don't have a wife, so no, I don't need to learn about disgusting wet diapers."

Anna patted his shoulders in false sympathy and batted her eyelashes at him. "That diaper could be filled with something a lot more disgusting." Anna clutched her side and doubled over. "You should see the look on your face." She paused in her fit of giggles long enough to catch her breath. "Oh, it's priceless. You look positively horrified."

Danger held the baby outstretched toward his sister. "Ha. Ha. Take her back. Take her back, now."

Anna wiped the tears from her eyes, finally gave in, and rescued him from the killer diaper. "Papa Joe's in one of his moods," she tossed over her shoulder, still laughing as she headed into another room to change her daughter. "As soon as I change Gidget's diaper, I have to leave. There's a teacher's meeting before classes. I'll see you tomorrow."

Danger acknowledged her good-bye with a wave of his hand. The rich aroma of strong, black coffee drew his gaze to the kitchen range. Yes. He felt like pumping his fist in the air in victory. His grandmother's blue, chipped enamel coffeepot waited on a back burner. He knew from years of experience she kept a fresh pot of coffee heated for him.

Caffeine.

Having his morning coffee was a sacred ritual in itself, a necessity, kind of like dying and paying taxes. He wasn't a happy camper if something came between him and his java.

Better than sex? Nope.

But the coffee was available.

Sex wasn't.

No. That wasn't exactly true, he reminded himself. Hell, just this morning Cynthia Hemphill, the mayor's beautiful, red-haired wife offered him mind-blowing sex. Actually, she offered him a blowjob. He could have taken her up on her offer. Lord knew it had been a long time since he'd done the wild thing in any form but Cynthia wasn't particular who she slept with and he had a reputation to think about.

Being a bachelor and the sheriff gave him a status symbol in the community.

He snorted, yeah, an available status symbol.

Women came onto him on a regular basis. He just didn't seem to be able to work up much enthusiasm for any of them, especially the mayor's wife, but it wouldn't have mattered who the woman was offering him sex. If she was married, then in his books, she was off limits.

Cynthia was always on the prowl for a new lover, everyone in town knew she was having an affair with Rodney Blake and had for years. Apparently, she'd set her sights on someone new and aimed her hunt in his direction.

By God, if he ever met the right woman and married, he didn't want his wife playing bedroom hopscotch the way Cynthia Hemphill did. He wouldn't be willing to turn a blind eye the way her husband, Clyde, did either.

Maybe he should have taken Cynthia up on her offer. A blowjob would have been nice. Hell, a steady woman would be great, but it wasn't gonna happen--not in Rimrock. He might as well face it, as small as Rimrock was, he'd probably be as old as his grandpa before he ever met the right woman. Ah, well, someday that tiger he wanted in his life and in his bed would come along. He just might lose his gusto for coffee when she did.

Or not.

The steady beat of the drum in the background caused a dull throb to settle between his eyes. He grabbed a homemade earthenware mug from the cabinet and filled it to the brim with coffee. Thank God caffeine never kept him awake, because he had to have more before going off to bed for the day. Working night shift might be ruining his sleep pattern, but nothing was getting between him and his java.

He swung toward the sound of the drumming. His grandparents' combined chanting hadn't quieted down a bit throughout his and Anna's tussle with the baby.

Holy shit. A buffalo horn headdress with a beaded headband was perched on the old man's head. Where the hell had his grandpa gotten the thing? It had to weigh a ton. The headdress completely swallowed his head. The elder shaman resembled a turtle trying to poke its neck out of its shell.

Danger frowned. It didn't matter how much the headdress weighed, his grandpa wouldn't give it up without a battle.

He narrowed his eyes as he blew into the steaming liquid. His grandparents ignored him. They huddled together around the enormous round ceremonial drum and the free standing set of hand drums that took up an entire corner of the kitchen.

His grandpa prized those drums.

Danger grinned and shook his head. Grandma Shalene was as short and round as Papa Joe was tall and skinny. The old man kept reaching up to push the buffalo horns back in place. His grandpa paused long enough to untangle the snowy white strands of his hair from one of the streamers of beadwork on the sides of the buffalo head and then resumed his drumming.

Red, yellow, and purple stripes of paint slashed the old man's dry, withered cheeks. Smeared across his scrawny hollow chest and stooped shoulders were several multi-colored handprints in stunning orange, vibrant red, and forest green.

Well, hell. They must have found the face paint his brother Coe had been dumb enough to buy for them last Christmas. He thought he'd hidden it well enough. Guess not.

Now, he could look forward to the old couple declaring war. When they were finished, multicolored symbols would emblazon just about everything that wiggled on the ranch.

Danger snatched a ladder-back chair and flipped it around. Straddling it, and armed with his coffee, he watched his grandparents and treasured the moments. He raised the thick-rimmed cup to his mouth, blew on the coffee and took a satisfying sip. Strong and black as the devil's soul, just the way he liked it. He closed his eyes and sighed with content.

Pure bliss.

"Ayeeeee."

His eyes popped open.

Maybe not.

Grandma Shalene left Papa Joe's side and headed toward him. Uh-oh. No telling what she was up to. He kept a wary eye on her as she danced around the kitchen table. Her movements were slow and awkward. The long, colorful skirt she wore swished across the worn linoleum. Once upon a time, she'd danced with the graceful steps of a young woman, but now, she moved in a weird combination of a hop, skip, and jump. Her joints too stiff for agility.

She reminded him of a one-legged bird hopping around, as though a little uncertain as to exactly which leg was missing.

It took her some time to complete the journey around the long, rectangle table that could seat ten people at a single meal.

"Ayeeeee."

Danger took another sip of coffee and watched. And waited.

"Ayeeeee."

Why did she have to wait until she was right on top of him to yell? Apparently, she wanted to make certain he heard her because every time she reached him, she paused to sing out at the top of her voice. Then, around the table she went.

With each movement, she swayed like a broken reed in the wind.

Skirt swished.

Hop.

Skip.

Jump.

Stumble.

"Ayeeeee."

He got dizzy, just watching her make the loop around the table. With every circle his grandma completed, Papa Joe started pounding the drums faster, as if celebrating her victory of making it around the table one more time without falling on her face.

"Heya.Heya.Heya.Heya."

Danger thanked God for small mercies. At least, his grandpa was across the kitchen and not yelling right into his ears.

Abruptly, Papa Joe stopped chanting. He sucked in a lungful of air, reminding Danger of a pump sucking at the last drops of water in a pond. Papa Joe gasped, wheezed and fell into a major fit of coughing and gagging. The old man's face turned tomato paste red. He gagged again, then finally resumed his chanting and drumming.

"Heya.Heya.Heya.Heya."

Once again, the drumming abruptly ended.

Grandma Shalene froze in her tracks. One moccasin clad foot hovered in the air. She swayed and waited patiently for Papa Joe to untangle his hair from the headdress, speak, cough, gag, or return to drumming.

But Papa Joe did neither. Instead, he turned his face upward, lifted his arms over his head and chanted. He made odd gestures in the air above his head with the drumsticks. It looked as if he spoke with some unseen deity. The garbled words he spoke sounded like he had a mouthful of mush.

Danger blinked. Uh-oh. Papa Joe was in one of his non-English speaking modes. Dang it!

"Grandpa's been watching one of those discovery channels on television again, Grandma," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

His grandmother gave him a blank look.

"Which one?"

Danger steadied her as she reeled off-balance. "You know the ones where those isolated Pygmy tribes in the Amazon can't speak a word of English?"

She shrugged. "Your papa had a great vision this morning, right after breakfast. You know what a powerful medicine man he is. When he sees things, it messes up his English."

Danger choked on a swallow of coffee. How a vision affected his grandfather's ability to speak English was a mystery he'd never quite unraveled.

"No telling when he'll be able to speak the white man's forked tongue again. Maybe--never, so I dance to help ward off the evil spirits that tangle your grandfather's tongue."

Danger sighed at the sly look on his grandmother's face. "Uh-huh. What did he say, Grandma?"

He knew he wasn't going to get anywhere with his grandfather. His grandmother would be the one to interpret.

Shalene shrugged and gave him a toothless grin, her pink gums wet and shiny as baby Gidget's. "Beware of the white tiger. It's coming to kill you."

Danger spewed coffee across the room. His grandmother pounded his back with the flat of her hand as he choked, hacked and coughed. Jesus! He sounded just like Papa Joe coughing up his lungs.

"Okay, Grandma, I'm fine. No need to keep hitting me. I think I'll live."

Shalene frowned. "This is no time for joking. You must watch for the white tiger."

"White tiger?"

Beware of the white tiger? Coming to kill him?

Well, that was a strange one, even for his senile grandparents. White tiger? His grandfather had always seen wolves or something equally more Native American in his visions. He might have even seen a white buffalo a time or two, but a white tiger?

What the hell did it mean?

His grandmother nodded and eased her foot to the floor. The thick, double ropes of salt and pepper colored braids that hung to her waist swung back and forth like pendulums as she wobbled unsteadily on her feet. "Beware of the white tiger with yellow eyes."

She held up two white feathers and shuffled closer.

Danger jerked his head out of her reach. "Grandma, what are you doing?"

She gave a deep huff, her way of expressing her impatience, and boxed his ears. "Sit still! I am tying turkey feathers in your hair. They will ward off evil spirits. Stop the white tiger from coming to get you."

"Those are chicken feathers." Danger knew before he said it, he was wasting his breath.

"Turkey feathers." She narrowed her raisin dark eyes at him, daring him to argue with her. With unsteady hands, she tied the feathers in his long hair with a leather thong and flashed her toothless grin at him when she finished.

Papa Joe nodded his head in approval and went back to his drumming.

"Heya.Heya.Heya.Heya."

His grandmother resumed her dance routine around the table. He stroked the two feathers dangling over his right ear and rubbed a hand down his face.

Beware of the white tiger.

What was he supposed to do, tickle it to death with the chicken feathers? Hell, as far as he knew, the closest white tigers were in Las Vegas, several hundred miles away, living the good life at the White Tiger Habitat at the Mirage Hotel and Casino. Somehow, he couldn't see Siegfried and Roy turning the rare animals loose on the citizens of Rimrock, Montana.

As soon as his grandmother drew near him again, he stood up, grabbed her by the shoulders to steady her, leaned down, and pressed a kiss against her aged cheek. "Thank you, Grandma," he said humbly.

She gave him that toothless grin he loved, nodded, and went back to dancing.

He knew his grandparents meant well and were only trying to protect him from harm. As he headed to his bedroom, he gave a two-fingered salute to his grandpa, who was busy shoving the buffalo horns back in place and untangling the drumsticks from his hair.

Danger closed the door behind him, shutting out some of the racket his grandparents made. If it helped them feel better, then he would wear the 'turkey' feathers.

What did it hurt to give them some peace of mind?

He just hoped Papa Joe finished his drumming soon so he could get some sleep. He wasn't used to working nights. His body hadn't adjusted to the change yet, and he found it difficult to get enough sleep during the daylight hours.

Danger kicked off his moccasins, stripped to his black boxers, and tossed his clothes in the laundry basket standing in the corner. A deep yawn surprised him. Fatigue melted into his bones, weighed him down, and lured him to the bed.

He jerked back the top sheet and crawled onto the lumpy mattress. Stretching full length, Danger piled two pillows beneath his head and tugged the sheet to his waist.

White tiger.

Jesus, where did his grandparents come up with this crap?

He closed his eyes. Closed his mind. Yawned. And drifted to sleep.

An hour later, Papa Joe peeped around the door to check on his grandson. He took one step inside the dimmed room, then backed out and closed the door quietly behind him. He drew his wife into his arms and patted her broad shoulders.

"She is coming for him. The pale tiger with yellow eyes will take him from us. We must do all we can to stop her."

Shalene nodded her understanding of her husband's perfect English. "I'll get more feathers from the chicken house."

Papa Joe sighed. "I think it's going to take more than feathers. I saw the tiger point a gun at him. She means him harm. Her eyes glowed like pools of yellow flames. Her face burned with anger. Her words were shouted in a strange tongue, English, yet it was foreign English." He grinned. "Like those Amazon Pygmies off the Discovery Channel." His eyes glinted with determination. "We must stop this woman from harming our grandson."

Shalene nodded her gray head. "How are two old crows like us going to stop the white tiger from devouring our grandson?"

"We'll think of something. Maybe stake her on an anthill. Pour honey on her."

"When is she coming?"

"I don't know. But soon, I think. Very soon."

A reputed acting tip from John Wayne

to fellow actor Michael Caine.

Rimrock, Montana

Sat.1:00 a.m.

"Sheriff's Department. Halt. Make another move and you're dead."

It wasn't just the fact the man's voice sounded low, hard, and full of authority that halted Lacey Weston's long and purposeful strides, but that quicker than a rattler, he struck from the shadows of a dark, narrow doorway.

There'd been no chance to escape the steel-hewed arm he closed tightly around her waist. No time to react or to even draw a breath before he started to drag her deeper into the opaque blackness of the alley.

The unreliable glow from the sliver of moon that floated across the night sky had worked entirely to his advantage. The fact he claimed to be from the Sheriff's Department didn't comfort her, but increased the need to be cautious.

Dear God, he would murder her there in the shadows.

Terror trickled down her spine and chilled her blood. Her heart hammered a rapid ditty. The inside wall of her chest felt as if it was being pulverized by the paddles of a ceiling fan whirling at top speed, whumpwhumpwhump. Fear, a bone-dry powder, coated the back of her throat. It filled her lungs like chalk dust from an eraser, gray, gritty and flavored with the stench of death.

It had taken him hours to catch up with her, but now that he had, it was all over. He would kill her now. She'd die simply because she'd seen and heard too much.

Why did she always seem to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time?

Dammit. She didn't want to die. Not because she'd witnessed a brutal murder and now been captured by the murderer. Dark mist crept over her vision. If she didn't do something, if she gave up, folded like an accordion, then yes, she'd die.

Suck it up, girl. You have two choices. Fight and live. Or fight and die, but whatever you choose, do it now.

Lord, she was such a coward.

She looked around, searching the night for someone, anyone to help her. There was no one. She dug her nails into his forearm and dragged them through his skin. Her hot pink, carefully manicured nails broke. He'd pay for that. When this was over, she promised herself a mint julep on her front porch.

A scream rose to the back of her dry throat like a thirty-foot tidal wave in a hurricane. It was abruptly cut off by a callused palm snaking around from the other side and clamping her mouth shut.

"Eeeek."

"Don't. I'm warning you. Don't make a sound. And stop struggling."

The sneaky dog, she'd barely let out a squeak.

Her one shot at rescue and he foiled it.

He tightened his grip around her waist.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't break free of his powerful hold. Why, it was pitiful how weak and faint-hearted she felt. No use denying it. She was a meek, mild-mannered woman--like that Superman person, Clark Kent--only female, without the superhuman alter ego.

A delicate flower of the South--that was Lacey Weston all right--a genteel lady who shouldn't have to hear the raspy sounds of her own labored breaths leak between his fingers. She shouldn't have to hear those ragged little wheezes burst free, faster and faster, until her chest burned as if a blowtorch seared a blistering path across it.

Abruptly, the man flattened his palm tighter across her mouth and nostrils, cutting off the meager amount of air she managed to drag into her starving lungs.

"Be still," he ordered in an icy voice.

The sheer terror of her situation literally left her limp. The muscles in her calves quivered like Jell-O. If he wasn't holding her so tight, she thought her legs would just melt away like butter in a hot skillet.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die.

The refrain played in her panicked mind like a reel in a silent movie rewinding itself over and over and a voice repeated I'm going to die.

After a long night spent avoiding captivity, it was hard to swallow the bitter metallic taste of defeat.

How many hours had passed since she witnessed the woman's demise?

How many miles had she traveled on foot? Lost? Alone? Scared half to death?

She didn't know. She couldn't remember.

In her desperation to avoid captivity, time and distance lost its meaning. The only thing she knew with any degree of certainty was, even if this man relaxed his hold long enough to allow her to attempt an escape, at this point, she simply couldn't do it. She was too exhausted to run any further.

It was plain ludicrous to wonder how the bastard had managed to get ahead of her, when he'd been behind her all night--stalking her.

The red and blue Atlanta Braves ball cap wedged tightly on her head struck just beneath the man's chin. It enforced the fact she was smaller and frailer than the man who gripped her. She was at his mercy--and from the way he'd murdered the young woman, she knew mercy was the one quality he lacked.

Lacey stiffened as he suddenly removed his arm from her waist and locked it around her neck in a painful hold. He drew her closer and held her against his lower body. If he was trying to intimidate her with his sheer size and strength, then he'd succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.

She was scared, all right. Terrified even.

Acutely aware of the solid tautness of his powerful thighs pressed intimately against her bottom, cold, sticky sweat popped out all over her body. She closed her eyes and fought the sudden lethargy that floated over her like a shroud.

Don't faint. Don't faint.

If she fainted, she knew she was history.

Okay. So he was bigger. Stronger. He was damned sure stealthier and worse than a blind snake, but the hot blood of the South flowed through her veins. Rebel born and bred right down to her painted toenails, she'd be damned if she would make this easy for him. Lacey Weston, freelance photographer from Atlanta, G.A. might be a delicate flower of the South--she might not be brave, but she was a survivor.

Rage whipped through her, the emotion powerful and strong enough to fill her with the will to fight. She refused to surrender, not without a struggle, not this little Southern belle. She might go down, well, yeah, most likely she'd go down, but she'd bet her mama's prized Georgian silver she'd take a piece of him with her.

With little effort, he quickly choked off the shallow breath she managed to draw. It left her lightheaded and feeling giddy again.

"Don't fight me, boy. I have no desire to hurt you, but if it comes down to you or me, I'll do exactly that. You understand me?"

Boy?

She didn't know if he really called her that or if her oxygen depleted brain imagined it. Had he sounded just a little like Clint Eastwood in his 'Dirty Harry' roles?

Go ahead, boy. Make my day.

Splat.

You're just a memory, boy. Mission accomplished.

Enough! She had to calm down. Becoming hysterical wouldn't do her a bit of good. But hell, she was calm. If she got any calmer, she'd be dead.

No. This was not the time for calm. This was the time for blood-curdling screams, only she couldn't--

"Do-you-understand-me?" he reiterated harshly.

Lacey groaned, barely able to nod her understanding. He forced her around and flattened one side of her face against the rough surface of a building. Raw pain lanced her right cheek as it scraped against the cool brick wall.

But he loosened his hold enough so the sweet, sweet air rushed into her starving lungs. It filled them and obliterated the black and yellow spots that danced across her vision. A strangled cry escaped her dry throat and she tried to wriggle clear of his grip.

"By God, I said don't fight me," he snapped.

One strong hand closed around the back of her neck. It smashed her cheek against the abrasive surface of the brick building. Tears rose. Her nose and eyes watered. He jammed a knee to the small of her back and kept her pinned against the wall like an insect in a display case.

There was nothing gentle about this man. Nothing soft. He was all honed muscle and steel power. She couldn't so much as wiggle while he patted her buttocks and thighs with brisk efficiency, then skimmed his fingers across her stomach and ribs.

A large hand closed firmly around one breast.

"Get your filthy paws off me, you--you--perverted molester."

"What the hell?" He dropped his hand abruptly as if he'd latched onto a hot potato. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he jerked her around to face him.

Lacey narrowed her eyes, but the darkness in the alley was thick as black smoke and almost totally concealed his features. She caught only a brief glimpse of piercing eyes and a wedge of tense jaw.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked.

Suddenly she realized he had no better advantage than she did. If she couldn't see him, then he sure as sweet hell couldn't see her. If she somehow managed to escape, he couldn't describe her. Yes, indeed, that suited her just fine.

The man manacled both her wrists in one big paw and tugged. Whoa. This she did not like. He practically dragged her down the obscured alleyway. Escape no longer appeared to be a viable option. She dug her heels into the pavement, hampering his progress as much as possible.

"Let go of me." She clawed frantically at the fingers bracketing her wrists. "You worm! Let go--or--or--I'll have to hurt you. I'm warning you. I know Judo, Karate, and--and--FooManChu."

He whirled around but didn't let go of her wrist. In fact, he did just the opposite and tightened his grip. His fingers bit into her flesh like steel. "Quit clawing me. You keep this up and I'll handcuff--"

"Whoo hoo," Lacey belted out the whoop when the toe of her heavy hiking boot connected sharply with his shin.

"Ouch! Jee-sus Christ, you little hellion."

"That'll teach you to attack a helpless lady in the dark."

"Lady, you're about as helpless as a wounded bear."

With neither finesse nor consideration for her delicate sensibilities, he hauled her off her feet, swung her over his shoulder, then proceeded down the alley limping with his burden, namely--her.

Her head drooped to his lean waist like a wilted flower. Her booted feet dangled several inches above the ground--useless, humiliatingly useless.

Lacey bellowed out a scream. She slapped wildly at his legs, but it was hard to do much damage to his kneecaps. If she could just get her face a little closer. There. She clamped her teeth onto his inner thigh and latched on like a newborn babe suckling for the first time.

"Let go! For crying out loud, turn loose." He slapped the back of her neck over and over, as if he was beating ants off his leg. "Turn loose or I'll smack you a good one."

Her face slammed hard against the solid ridge of his thighs and it broke her hold on him. She figured she resembled a crippled insect with her arms flailing about and her legs churning and kicking in all directions, as though trying to get in gear. It was impossible to claim a smidgen of dignity with her butt hiked in the air like it was too. Damn him. It was more than any woman should have to endure.

He gave a grunt and moved forward, half-carrying, half-dragging her through the stygian gloom. "Lady, you're worse than a rabid skunk."

"Wha--" Lacey's objection was cut short when he slapped her on the rear.

"Be still or I'll drop you on your head."

His ragged breaths filled the air. Good. Maybe she'd get lucky and he'd topple over dead from lugging her around like a bale of cotton. It would serve him right.

He suddenly halted and kicked a door. The door crashed inward, the resounding pow loud enough to wake one from eternal slumber.

Lacey shrieked, terror grabbing her by the throat.

"Stop that damned caterwauling. Christ, lady, you sound worse than a bawling heifer in a hailstorm."

"Wounded bear, bawling heifer and rabid skunks?" Lacey huffed indignantly. "You loathsome perverted--stop comparing me to insane animals!"

He lowered her to her feet and shoved her forward through the doorway. She supposed she should be grateful he didn't drop her on her head.

Yeah, okay, she was grateful, the rabid whatever-was-worse-than-a-skunk-and-heifer-rat-bastard.

Lacey whirled to face the man who was probably going to take her life in the next few minutes and swore she heard the theme from the 'Twilight Zone' accompanied by Rod Serling's voice announcing, "You have entered another dimension."

How she managed to keep her mouth from dropping open and her teeth from falling out in pure fright amazed her. She gaped at him like a fish out of water, round-eyed and a little dazed. Her entire body froze as the urge to fight ebbed away. A sense of the bizarre and unreal struck her with the force of a semi-truck.

"Oh--my--Lord!" The words escaped her as she stared at him, dumbstruck.

The man not only resembled the murderer she'd seen earlier tonight but he also looked like a refugee from 'Buffalo Bill Cody's Wild West Show.'

He didn't say a word. He didn't move. He remained in the open doorway. And waited. He stared back at her, calm, cool, his expression inscrutable, though he was breathing a little hard.

She stared back.

Fascinated.

Speechless.

Unblinking as the fish she'd compared herself to.

Her stomach knotted. Heat pooled between her thighs. Although she didn't like it, and she doubted her sanity, the attraction was instantaneous.

Standing at least six foot two, he was big, handsome, rugged and intimidating as hell. He looked like a wild, untamed savage, as unfettered as the wind and just as unconquerable. Streaks of red and yellow paint slashed his forehead.

War paint?

Nah, surely not.

Then again, two--was that chicken feathers? dangled by his right ear. Gypsy black hair flowed long and unrestrained across his wide shoulders. The stubborn wedge of jaw looked as hard and firm as a granite mountain. Beneath slashing dark brows, eyes the color of a battleship glittered with feral alertness. A turquoise amulet rested against his brown throat.

Lacey decided he looked like an ancient warrior.

Proud.

Noble.

He feared nothing, especially not her.

"Lord-a-mercy," she muttered beneath her breath.

He seemed to tower over the entire room, dominating her and everything else in his path. His lips tightened. The man was so not happy with her. Duh. She wasn't exactly thrilled to run into him either.

His face, shadowed by a day's growth of scruffy whiskers, gave him a rough and dangerous look. Sheer animal magnetism radiated from him. She'd never met a male more intensely masculine. It was clear he wasn't a man one wanted to tangle with or one easily caught off-guard.

Behind his lazy perusal, sharp, gray eyes stared back at her. Studied her.

She gulped down a desperate breath.

He was civilized, dammit!

She knew he was civilized. Her common sense prevailed and told her this. Her eyes and her mind told her something else entirely different.

And he resembled the murderer. She must never forget that important detail.

"All right, KemoSabe, if you plan to kill me, I'm warning you, I won't go down without a fight. Who are you and why did you kidnap me?"

A dark brow lifted. His scowl darkened. There was little doubt he wanted to throttle her. He quickly banked the flare of impatience that lit his gray eyes. "Actually," he said smoothly, "KemoSabe isn't a person."

His voice washed over her, deep and masculine, dark and sinful.

"He's not?" She knew darn well her jaw went slack again. She was back to looking like a gaping fish. "What about the Lone Ranger and his trusty Indian friend on the pinto?"

He shook his head. "It's a word. No one is sure of the exact meaning, but it, supposedly means, 'Trusted friend' or 'Long lost friend.' I've read that the Navajo claim it means 'soggy bush' or 'soggy shrub.'" He gave a half-hearted shrug. "For my part, I don't want anyone calling me a 'Soggy Bush', if you get my meaning."

He stared at her, his face stern, not a glimmer of humor revealed.

Lacey choked back a laugh. She got his meaning very well.

Soggy bush. So the man has a warped sense of humor, even if it's delivered with deadpan stoicism. Go figure.

But this wasn't a laughing matter.

Not from her point of view.

Still, she had her own brand of wicked humor. Or maybe she was just feeling a little hysterical and didn't have any better sense at the moment than to poke a sleeping rattler.

"So-o, what's with the costume?"

Pushy. Why did she always have to be so pushy? It had to be the journalist in her, because she simply couldn't leave things alone. So let him take offense. Did she give a rat's ass? "I know it's not Halloween. Must be a big pow-wow or meeting of the big, bad warriors?"

"Yes."

"A man of many words." She cocked her head and waited for a response.

A sable brow lifted, but he remained stubbornly silent. He slid his gaze up and down her in a long, slow thorough inspection.

Lacey huffed and folded her arms beneath her breasts. His silence made her nerves jitter. She felt as twitchy as a bug on a hot rock. He stood there, tall and solemn as a giant oak tree, staring down his nose at her. There was something about him, something that was sinfully wild and untamed. Something lethal. This was one badass man. Tangling with him in a fight or even allowing him to touch her heart was bound to get her hurt.

Suddenly all she wanted was to flee, and he blocked her avenue of escape.

How could she feel the slightest spark of interest in this man? But she did. Damn. Why did he have to be the most attractive male specimen she'd ever seen? Disturbed by the knowledge she could go for him in a big way, Lacey lowered her gaze. Big mistake. Tight denim, softened by numerous washings, clung to his splendid thighs like bark on a tree. The button-fly shamelessly cupped an impressive bulge that left a woman in little doubt the man had a whopper.

Heat warmed her face. She forced her eyes up to his chest and struggled valiantly to keep from lowering her gaze once again.

Ah, hell, fuck it! She wasn't stupid.

She dropped her gaze, and allowed it to linger with lip-smacking appreciation on the masculine package behind the row of steel buttons, until she heard him clear his throat. Her gaze shot to his face where she detected a hint of amusement glittering in his smoke-colored eyes.

She coughed. "Well--er, I always say, if you got it, flaunt it."

"I'm sure I haven't a clue as to what you're talking about."

"And I'm Mother Theresa."

His lips twitched. "I doubt that. I doubt there's one thing saintly about you."

Lacey slid her gaze over him once again. One thing was certain--the man could tempt a saint into sinning. The smug sonofabitch knew he was hung like a mule and was damn proud of it. He knew those soft jeans lovingly cupped his sex. Yeah, baby!

Undaunted, she continued her blatant examination of him. She told herself she ought to feel ashamed. She sighed. She mentally shrugged. A lady had to do what a lady had to do. Sure, it was a dirty job, but she felt she really needed to complete her inspection of him, just to be on the safe side. In case--oh yeah--in case she had to describe him to the FBI or something.

Lacey eyed the five-pointed star pinned to his short-sleeved khaki shirt. Above it rested a narrow brass nameplate engraved with the faded letters, Sheriff D. Blackstone, below that, Rimrock County, Montana.

Cinched at his lean waist, a worn leather gun belt hugged his middle. A .38 caliber pistol rested snugly in the black holster draped at his hip. She cocked a brow and filled her voice with Mae West speculation. "You ever allow a lady to play with your ... gun?"

"Only when it's primed and ready to fire," he shot back.

She felt heat sweep up her cheeks and into her scalp. Well, she'd certainly asked for that. The sneaky culprit was quick with his sharp answers. He had a sense of the risqué she couldn't help but appreciate; in spite of the odds he was probably going to kill her.

So she had to ask herself if she was totally insane, figured she was, or she wouldn't be flirting with the demon killer from hell. She returned her gaze to his crotch and knew she was totally insane for staring.

"Who are you?" he asked and shifted his weight to the other hip.

His face hadn't lost any of its severity. If anything, he looked sterner. More distant.

Inside, Lacey cringed. A lawman.

Of course, he's a lawman. Duh. He said he was already and the badge only reinforced his word. Girl, you gotta get your head screwed on straight or you're dead.

Even without his having said it, the star pinned on his broad chest clearly declared his profession to all and sundry. The gun snuggled on his hip backed up his silent authority.

Hadn't the woman been shot?

Yes. She'd definitely heard a gunshot.

And this man packed a gun. She'd give her eyeteeth to know if it had recently been fired.

"Done any target practicing lately, Sheriff?"

Lacey stifled a moan. What the hell was she doing? She wasn't an investigative reporter. She certainly didn't need to poke at a hornet's nest. But wasn't it damned convenient for him to have a revolver so close and handy?

"I took a few potshots at a nosy critter earlier this evening. Why?"

Lacey swallowed hard. "Potshots?"

"Yeah, something that was where it had no business being and moved when it shouldn't have."

Now she knew how a mouse felt trapped in a corner by a rattler. Her heart pounded. Morbid fascination filled her until she felt as though she bubbled over with it. It was just her rotten luck she'd ran straight into the very last person she desired to run into--someone from the local Sheriff's Office. She should have been more careful, more observant. That would cost her and was a bigger mistake than sneaking peeks at his crotch.

No doubt about it, she was in trouble here, big trouble. There was no one she could turn to or trust. How to escape was something she would have to figure out on her own, preferably when he didn't have a loaded gun within reach.

She took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and forced herself to remain calm. Later. Later, she would figure out a way to escape. Her attention drifted to the softly fringed, knee-high moccasins that hugged the calves of his powerful legs. She licked her dry lips.

"Hell, deny it all you want--you look like a KemoSabe to me."

She sure as hell didn't mean a 'soggy bush' either. It sounded, even to her own ears, as if she'd just discovered the national treasure. Maybe she had. The man was mouth-watering gorgeous.

He shook his head and stepped toward her.

Lacey backed up. Gorgeous or not, she didn't trust him. He'd manhandled her. She wouldn't put up with that from anyone.

He hesitated, stepped back, and planted himself solidly right back between her and the door.

Lawman? Huh.

The faint shadow of whiskers that blackened his obstinate jaw made this man look more like an outlaw on a wanted poster. Tingles raced down her spine. Whether from excitement or fear, she wasn't certain. Perhaps a little bit of both. How did one define tingles? There was just something about a bad ass...

"You're a County Sheriff."

"Yeah, but it's a small county, sweetheart." His lips curved, whether with a smile or displeasure, she wasn't sure. He dragged his gaze over her and frowned. "You're trembling. What are you so frightened about?"

What was she so frightened about?

Lacey barely stopped herself from snorting. Was the man as crazy as the insane critters he'd called her?

He seemed to read her mind. He rubbed a hand down his jaw and across his mouth.

"If you'd have just stopped fighting me in the alley like a maddened steer high on loco weed, there wouldn't have been a problem. I don't make a habit of going easy on someone I suspect of criminal activity." He shrugged. "But now that we've established what I am, let's discuss who you are. What's your name?"

Panic whipped through her. He wanted to know her name. The thought of giving him the information he wanted left her feeling raw, exposed and in immediate peril. Obviously he knew how she felt because he watched her with the feral eyes of a rogue wolf.

Oh yeah, definitely a bad ass.

She damned the terror two-stepping across her stomach. Cursed the attraction she felt for this man she suspected of murder. Yep. She was a sick individual.

Don't tell him anything. The silent warning flashed in her mind like streaks of greased lightning.

Oh, but she would have to tell him her name. What choice did she have? There was no logical way around it. She couldn't lie. Anyway, telling lies wasn't something she did very well. She had an innate sense of honesty that forced her to blurt out whatever was on her mind and damn the consequences. If she started telling lies, she'd end up confused.

Rule number one: Don't get caught in your own sticky web.

A genteel lady should never be confused or trapped in a web of her own making. That was important. Besides, it was possible he already knew her name and for some perverted reason played a nasty little game with her, a deadly, dangerous game.

The sick fiend.

Lacey glanced about the tiny office. She had to give herself time to calm down, get her thoughts in order, and rein in this feeling of being overwhelmed and out of control. She blinked and focused her attention on the countless wanted posters thumb-tacked to a cork bulletin board on the wall.

Hanging beneath the wanted posters were at least five black and white snaps of missing women. Kimberly Smith, eighteen, Jackie Hart, twenty-two, Mona Martin, twenty-eight, Debbie White, thirty, and Rachel Karr, twenty-one, all missing for different periods of time and from different cities across the western half of the United States, but all within the past two years. A newspaper clipping tacked to the board caught her attention: Local Woman Missing.

Below it, another clipping: Vandalism in the area on the rise.

Hmm. It would seem the sheriff had a problem or two going on in his town.

She wished there was a picture of the local missing woman, but a quick check of the date revealed the woman had gone astray two weeks earlier. Lacey doubted if she was in anyway connected to the woman she saw die tonight. She wondered vaguely what had become of all those women. Maybe like her, they'd been kidnapped by a mean-eyed sheriff. Poor women. No telling what had became of them.

She shifted her gaze from the posters. A massive desk stood near the right side of the wall. It sagged beneath a mountain of papers piled on top of it. Jammed together on one end of the desk--and competing for equal space--stood a phone, fax machine, and a single, gooseneck lamp. An outdated computer rested on another table to the left of the desk.

In a corner a four-drawer filing cabinet tilted to one side, apparently as overburdened as the desk. A thirsty plant drooped lifelessly in a bright red flowerpot on top of it. Crammed behind the big desk, a had-seen-better-days, black leather chair waited on rollers. In front of the desk, a ladder-back chair stood like a sentinel on guard duty, waited for women like her to be seated and interrogated by Mr. Sexy.

Clearly, the sheriff did not waste the taxpayer's dollar on decorating his office.

Her eyes zeroed in on a neat row of rifles sealed behind the glass doors of a locked gun cabinet. It stared back at her from the opposite side of the room.

An opportunity to escape? Surely. Because locked doors wouldn't keep her from breaking the glass and taking a rifle if she needed it.

And she would definitely need it if she managed to escape.

She switched her gaze at the sound of his soft snort.

"Go ahead, break the glass. The rifles are all chained together and in turn, locked to an iron link in the wall behind the gun cabinet. You couldn't get one out no matter how hard you tried."

She flipped him the bird.

He arched a silken brow. "Anytime you're ready, little cat."

"That'll be the day."

"I'll just wait right here."

Lacey smothered a snicker. She'd never met a man who could stay one step ahead of her mind. Yet, here stood a man who barely knew her, who could do exactly that. He was rock steady and as solid as Stone Mountain.

Lacey steamed. The beast. How could he read her so easily? She shrugged and returned her attention to the cluttered office.

"You work in a pig sty."

"I like it, so don't even think about touching anything," he said quietly. "I know where everything is. I have my own method of filing things."

"You think."

He flashed a warning look from eyes aged the color of pewter.

"All right! I won't touch."

Beside the gun cabinet, a long, narrow table rose on spindly legs and was burdened with an ancient Mr. Coffee Maker and a small bowl with an assortment of packaged creamers and sweeteners poking up from it.

A foul stench from the over-done coffee rose from the glass carafe. Lacey barely stifled a shudder, doubtful anyone was daring enough to sample the witch's brew.

To her left and farther back in the room a single cell with dull metal bars lay in graveyard shadows, lying in wait like a gaping, black hole. Past that, and to the right, she could see a half-opened door and the ambiguous porcelain of a commode. A little further down the hall a smaller desk was pressed into service and weighed down with dispatch equipment. It appeared no one was home at the unit.

"I'm not in the habit of repeating myself." The lawman's voice rang sharply drawing her out of her inventory of the office.

"I didn't touch anything!"

"I asked you who you are."

Annoyance spread across his face. He wasn't happy she was taking so long to answer him. Tough. That was the first word that came to mind, quickly followed by her stammering reply, "Lacey Weston. I--I'm Lacey Weston."

Lacey clenched her fists, frustrated. Dammit! She didn't want this man knowing even the basic information about her, but she couldn't figure out a way to avoid it.

He gave the barest of nods. "Sheriff Danger Blackstone. Where are you from, Miss Weston?"

"Danger? Ha!" she snorted. "Pull the other one, why don't you?"

Not a flicker of humor on his stone face. He just stood there staring at her with those wintry gray eyes that sent her goose bumps dive-bombing into overdrive. Hmm. Maybe the man didn't have a sense of appreciation for the absurd after all.

Lacey blinked, attempting to pick up the threads of his interrogation.

"From?" she managed to ask.

His steady gaze flared with impatience. "Yes. Where are you from?"

"Uhh." She stalled, but nothing came to mind except the truth. "You want to know where I'm from."

She licked her lips nervously. Inwardly, she cringed. She had to stop acting like a babbling idiot. But she was babbling, and she knew it. She couldn't seem to drag her thoughts into any kind of coherent order.

"Dammit, don't act blonde."

"I am blonde. Sort of. Kind of blonde. More like honey, if you want to get technical. Reddish--honey--blonde. Strawberry, really."

She stifled a moan. God, she had diarrhea of the mouth. Surely, as a journalist, she could act and sound professional.

"Danger?"

Oh, well, that was much better. Very professional.

Why couldn't she just get past his name?

She clapped a hand over her mouth, but in spite of it, laughter bubbled to the surface and spilled out of her. Maybe it was the entire night, the surreal, bizarreness of the whole thing or simply the need to relieve the stress like when people laughed at funerals, but she couldn't help herself. A bad ass named Danger. There had to be a movie somewhere in that, like in the movie, 'A Man Named Horse'.

Wasn't it just her luck after witnessing a murder, she ended up kidnapped by a man named Danger? How much weirder could the night get?

She cleared her throat, gained control of her laughter and wiped the tears from her eyes. "I'm sorry. It's just so--so--well it's your name ... unbelievable."

Apparently, Hiawatha had lost what sense of humor he possessed, because his face now looked dark as a rain cloud and he sure didn't look like a man interested in making peace.

"Now that you've had a good laugh, Miss Weston, perhaps you could answer the question. Yes, I'd like to know where you're from. You are going to tell me. And yes, my name is Danger. A family joke. Not as funny as you seem to find it, but still, it's my name. Now, may we proceed?"