Close To The Edge (Westen #2) Read online

  Close To The Edge

  By Suzanne Ferrell

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  For Lyndsey Michelle:

  You once asked me why we spelled your name so differently. Your name means gently flowing gift from God and it couldn’t be any truer. Daily I am amazed by your talent. Your joy in life, your family, your faith—all encourage me and anyone who knows you. It has been awe inspiring and a blessing to be your mother—to watch you grow and mature into the beautiful wife, mother and woman you are despite the trials you’ve had to endure. You are truly an inspiration!

  P.S. Thank you for all my fantastic covers!

  Chapter One

  Her ass was by far the finest he'd ever seen in this town.

  Westen Township Sheriff, Gage Justice, pulled his cruiser in behind the brown sedan parked in the alley between the town’s only bank and Gold’s Foodmart. His deputy Cleetus was right. Someone was definitely digging around in the trash dumpster.

  A satisfied smile of pure male appreciation split Gage’s lips and a warmth spread over his body as he sat back and admired the view. This didn’t look to be your typical dumpster diver. The woman stood tiptoe on the hood of her car, the top half of her body bent over and into the container’s edge. The way the perp’s jeans clung and stretched around her thighs and nice round bottom warmed more than his smile.

  Oh, yeah. A man could spend all day holding those round cheeks in his hands. Wonder if the top half of her was as nice as the bottom?

  He gave himself a mental shake. The more important question was why was she rifling through the trash?

  Without making a sound, he eased himself out of the cruiser, leaving the door open. Careful not to step on anything to alert her of his presence, he moved past her car to stand just below her and off to the side. He looked at her feet.

  Awful small, even for a woman.

  The jeans clung to her legs, which weren’t supermodel thin, but nicely shaped. He resisted the urge to reach up and squeeze her calves.

  “Exactly what do you think you’re doing?” he asked in his best bad-cop voice.

  Startled, she jumped and lifted her top half out of the bin. For a brief second he caught sight of her face. It wasn’t the kind that stopped men dead in their tracks, but the curious brown eyes, the arched dark eyebrows, and the soft lips rounded in an O of surprise caught his attention.

  At that moment her foot slipped.

  In almost slow motion her balance shifted. Dark hair flying about her, she waved her arms around in big helicopter circles, papers drifting down like confetti. She twisted to one side as if she meant to catch herself on the edge of the dumpster, only to slip again. This time that lovely butt came directly at him. Despite something wet dribbling down on his shirt, Gage shifted sideways and did the only gentlemanly thing he could do. He held out both arms to catch her.

  Just as her bottom and thighs filled his arms, she threw her arm around his neck, emptying the contents of a brown paper bag on top of him. “Oh, crap! Thank you…” her voice trailed off as she looked at him.

  He couldn’t help but smile. Her voice reminded him of a soft summer night, warm and whispery. “Gage Justice, Westen’s Sheriff. You’re welcome, Miss?”

  “Sheriff Justice? That name’s just too perfect.” She laughed softly as she lifted the half-eaten chicken salad sandwich off his shoulder and tossed it back to the trash bin. Then she smiled—a genuine hundred-watt stunner from the heart. “I’m Roberta Roberts, but my friends call me Bobby.”

  Gage turned to set the shapely woman on the ground then glanced over her shoulder through the driver’s window and froze.

  The contents of her purse were scattered on the car’s passenger seat. Peeking out of the bag was the butt-end of a gun.

  “So, Bobby,” he quickly set her on the ground and moved so he stood between her and the door handle, “want to tell me why you have a gun in the front seat of your car?”

  “I’m a private investigator and I have a permit for my gun, Sheriff.” She gave him another smile.

  The words private investigator chilled whatever response he’d have for her. “Don’t suppose you have some identification and a permit on you, do you?”

  “They’re in my bag.”

  She started to reach for the door handle, but he caught her arm to stop her. “I have to get them out to show you.”

  “How about I get your bag for you?”

  “Sure. Help yourself.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  He released her and she stepped back, giving him a mutinous stare, those deep-brown eyes narrowed like a mad cat. Opening the door, he forced her to move away farther. Careful not to turn his back completely on her he retrieved her things, handing her the bag, but keeping her weapon in his hand.

  Still casting him a rebellious look, she snatched her bag and dropped it onto the car hood, fishing around inside.

  “I know it’s in here. I put the permit in before leaving home.”

  “And where is home?” he asked, watching her rummage.

  “Cincinnati,” she said, starting to pull items out—wallet, bottle of water, notebook, granola bar, collapsible umbrella, reading book, sunglasses, lipstick case—laying them on the hood of her car one at a time. Every time he thought she reached the bottom she’d pull something else out. She rifled through each set of folded papers. “I know it’s in here.”

  “How big is that bag?”

  She slanted her head toward him a moment, disgust in her eyes, before turning back to her mission. He fought hard to swallow the grin that itched to pop out at her schoolmarm expression, the gun in his hand reminding him of the seriousness of the situation.

  Finally, she turned her bag upside down and shook. The only thing that fell out was a gum wrapper.

  “I can’t find it.” Her shoulders slumped a little, she reached for her wallet. “I can show you my PI license.”

  “How about we take a little trip over to the jail and I’ll run a check.” He gripped her arm and stopped her, turning her to face the car.

  In all her life, Bobby Roberts had never seen a man turn from a knight-in-shining-armor into an-ice-cold-robotic-cop in a matter of seconds.

  “Excuse me?” He couldn’t be serious.

  “You heard me, hands on the hood, lady.” His voice, which had been warm and teasing a minute earlier, had turned as cold as a Midwestern snowstorm. She didn’t doubt for one second that he meant business.

  Not wishing to anger him any further, she placed her hands on the hood of her car and spread her legs. “This really isn’t necessary.”

  “You have the right to remain silent, which I highly suggest you take advantage of.”

  He was really going to arrest her. Oh crap! She’d never even had so much as a parking ticket in her life. “This trash is in the alley, which makes it public domain. You can’t arrest me.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. His jaw was as hard as granite, his lips pressed into an angry line, and those stupid reflective aviator glasses kept her from seeing his eyes. The metal badge, pinned to the blue denim shirt stretched over his wide shoulders, reflected what little sunlight filtered into the alley.

  Oh, yeah. He was the town sheriff and he meant to let her know he was in charge. She recognized the silent intimidation. It was one of her favorite tactics to use on any number of her students over the years.

  He ran his hands down her back all the way to her feet. If she didn’t know better she’d swear he went a little too slow over her bottom. Next he brought those big hands up her legs and the outside of her torso. Despite the situation, she found herself wishing h
e’d do it again.

  She gave herself a mental shake. Stupid woman, he’s arresting you, not starting foreplay. Get your mind out of your pants and his. This is reality at its worst.

  He leaned in, his body’s heat warming her and she closed her eyes. It took all her willpower not to moan. Suddenly, he grasped one arm from the hood and brought it around her back. When she felt the metal of the cuffs encircle her wrist, her eyes snapped open.

  “Officer, won’t you just listen to me? I told you, I’m a private investigator. I know my rights. I was simply looking for a letter my client sent to this bank.”

  “Private investigator?” He looked from her head to her toes again. “Yeah, right.”

  “But I haven’t done anything wrong.” She tried to turn and wiggle free of his grasp.

  “Keep it up and I’ll charge you with resisting an officer. For the moment, I’m taking you into my office. We’ll talk about your suspicious activity and this unlicensed handgun.”

  “Suspicious? You can’t arrest me for searching public trash.”

  “Keep talking and I’ll add a noise complaint, too.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “How about public nuisance?”

  “Because I dumped trash on you?”

  “You don’t know how to remain silent, do you?” He pushed her against the car and cuffed her other arm behind her, then hauled her backward.

  Abruptly, the internet warning about women being stopped and raped by fake cops along the interstate popped into her mind. He wasn’t dressed in an official uniform—just a blue denim shirt, jeans, cowboy boots and that stupid badge. Panic spread over her like a whirlwind. Her heart jumped into hyper-drive. All she could think of was she shouldn’t let him put her in that car. She started to wiggle as he led her toward his cruiser.

  “Stop wiggling.” He opened the back of the car.

  “How do I know you’re really a police officer? You haven’t shown me any identification.”

  “Let’s see, cruiser, badge, gun.” He pointed at each item as he named it. “Don’t I look like the sheriff?”

  “No. You look like a farmer with an Indians baseball cap and badge.”

  He growled, opened the front door, leaned in and picked up the radio. “Cleetus?”

  “Yes, Sheriff? What’s your 20?”

  “I’m out back of the bank with the suspect in custody. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “Roger, Sheriff.”

  The big man looked down at her, still no smile. “Satisfied?”

  “Okay, I believe you’re who you say you are, but I don’t see why you’ve handcuffed me. I haven’t done anything wrong. I can sue you for false arrest.”

  He closed the door on her threat and went back to her car, shoved her things back into her purse, closed her door, then returned, climbing into the driver’s side. He set the bag and her gun on the passenger’s seat then started his car.

  “Wait. You can’t just leave my car out here. What if it gets stolen?”

  He huffed—the same masculine sound she remembered her father giving her mother when she was a child—and took off his sunglasses, rubbing his fingers over the bridge of his nose. “Your car will be fine. And to be sure, I locked all the doors. Happy?”

  “I’d be happier if you’d take off these ridiculous cuffs.”

  “Lady, that’s not happening until you’re back at the jail.” The stony look he gave her in the mirror told her any further discussion was a waste of her breath.

  “Fine. But when you find out I really am a private investigator, you’re going to feel really stupid.”

  As he pulled the cruiser out of the alley, the radio sounded.

  “Sheriff?”

  He palmed the mic. “Yeah, Cleetus?”

  “We’ve got a situation out on the state highway.”

  The sheriff stopped the cruiser. “What kind of situation?”

  “Ralph Fenway’s herd is loose and blocking the traffic in both directions.”

  “I’m bringing in the perp, after that you can go out and handle it.”

  “Sheriff, Doc Clint called from his car, he’s one of the people stuck behind three semi trucks. Says one of the truck drivers just got out of his rig and Ralph’s standing in the middle of the road holding a shotgun to protect his cows.”

  “Oh, hell. I’m heading there right now.” He put the car in drive and headed out of town.

  “Hey, you can’t take me with you. I’m—” Bobby said from the backseat.

  “Not another word.” He pointed at her in the rearview mirror, the intensity in his narrowed eyes silencing her reply. He opened the glove compartment and removed a handgun.

  Bobby closed her mouth, her protest dying on her lips. She glanced at the cruiser’s windows. She hoped they were bulletproof—especially if a farmer with a shotgun started shooting.

  A few minutes later they pulled up to where several trucks sat blaring their horns at the small herd of cows mulling over the road and the creek running nearby. The sheriff maneuvered the cruiser past the angry drivers and into the grass right near where the cows had obviously knocked the thin wire fencing to the ground.

  Bobby watched in fascination as the sheriff climbed out of the cruiser, slipping his gun into the back waistband of his jeans. Hands in front of him, he slowly approached the farmer—who was indeed holding a shotgun, albeit he had it pointed at the ground—like he was out for a Sunday stroll. She leaned forward to hear through the open driver’s window.

  “Tell the old guy to get out of the way!” a burly trucker yelled from his truck cab. Two other truckers sounded their horns.

  “Just hold your breath, sir.” He held a palm up as if commanding a dog to sit and stay. Once the man complied, the sheriff turned back toward the farmer, his tone low and respectful. “Ralph, seems we have a problem here.”

  “Ain’t no problem, Sheriff. My girls wanted a drink over in the creek. Seems like these fellers here would just run ‘em over if they had a chance.”

  “How about we give the girls a nudge back to your property so these people can get on down the road?”

  “I suppose I could get ‘em moving that direction, but who’s gonna keep these fellers from hittin’ the gas before they’re back home?”

  The Sheriff held out his hand. “How about you give me the shotgun and I’ll make sure no one moves until the girls are back safe and sound.”

  The old farmer eyed the truckers on both sides of the road. Bobby thought he might refuse. After a tense moment, he nodded and handed the weapon to the sheriff. “Guess you’ll do.”

  As the farmer started shooing his herd back across the highway, Bobby exhaled with relief. Where she came from people didn’t carry weapons unless they meant to use them, and unfortunately they did.

  What impressed her most was how the same man who’d unreasonably handcuffed her, had just very quietly disarmed a dangerous situation. Maybe she could work with him after all?

  “Ralph, you have to get this fence repaired,” Gage said as he held the gate while the old farmer shooed the last of several errant cows back into the pasture.

  “Well now, Sheriff, I could get some of that new fencing I saw at the county farming fair, but neither your daddy nor I could see the sense of putting up something these ladies are just going to knock down first chance they get.”

  Ignoring the reference to his dad, Gage closed the gate and signaled the line of cars and trucks to pass. He resisted the urge to arrest a few drivers who kept hitting their horns. If he didn’t already have one questionable detainee in the cruiser, he might’ve done it anyway. “This is the third time since the spring thaw that your cows have blocked the highway.”

  Ralph pulled off his hat and wiped at his brow. “Ain’t my fault the county put the road smack between my pasture and the creek over there.”

  Gage took a slow breath and counted to ten. “I’d sure hate to lock you up if one of your cows causes an accident or someone gets hurt.”
<
br />   “I’d sure hate for you to do that, too. I’ll see if I can’t get that lower section mended a might stronger.”

  Gage doubted that the threat of jail would make much difference to the farmer.

  God save him. His life had gone from the dark and seedy world of undercover narcotics investigation to herding cows from the highway.

  As he walked to the cruiser his cell phone rang. He stopped and pulled it from his pocket, glancing at the caller ID.

  Moira Dudson. The Franklin County Assistant District Attorney, herself.

  Just reading the woman’s name made his teeth grind. He hadn’t exchanged two words with her since before his shooting, and hadn’t laid eyes on her since the divorce proceedings. But for some reason, for the past two weeks she’d been calling him almost daily.

  He clicked answer immediately followed by end call.

  Message sent. She could wait until hell froze over.

  For a moment he took off his cap and ran his hands through his hair, studying the woman in the back of his cruiser.

  Private Investigator.

  Next to politicians, private dicks were second on his list of people he wouldn’t save from a burning building. Didn’t trust them as far as he could spit. In his life he’d come in personal contact with two PI’s. One had been hired to take out a hit on his cousin Emma, and the other had helped to nearly get him killed. In his opinion, they were nothing but trouble. Yet the memory of watching Ms. Roberts’ bottom wiggle as she’d searched the dumpster sent heat directly back to his groin.

  Oh yeah, this one would be trouble for sure.

  “Done saving the world from runaway cows?” Bobby asked as soon as he climbed back into the cruiser.

  Without commenting on her sarcasm he started the engine and headed back to Westen.

  They fell into silence as he drove through the few streets of the small town. Finally, he pulled into an alley and for a moment her fear that he wasn’t on the up-and-up crossed her mind again, until he parked behind a door that had an official sign stating Westen City Jail above it.