LITMIR.BIZ

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to avoid it if you can.”

      What the hell was he doing, standing in the middle of nowhere, going one-on-one with some misguided red-headed harpy? He’d had enough of this. “Just tell me where I can find this Georgie Grady and I’ll forget this whole incident.”

      Emmie tugged on the bottom of her mother’s shirt to get her attention. “Is he simple, Mama?” she asked in what amounted to a stage whisper.

      Georgie stifled a laugh. “It would appear so, honey.”

      He was not here to entertain them, nor did he appreciate being the butt of someone’s joke, especially when he wasn’t in on it. “Look, call the damn sheriff so we can get this over with.”

      To his surprise, she took a step toward him, lifting her chin exactly the way he’d seen her daughter do. “I will thank you not to use profanity in front of my daughter.”

      Of all the hypocritical—“But you just cursed,” he pointed out.

      Georgie allowed a careless shrug to roll off her shoulders. “That’s different.”

      Of course it was. “God, but I hate small towns.”

      “And using the Lord’s name in vain’s pretty much frowned on around here as well,” Georgie told him, not bothering to hide her disdain.

      Well, it was obvious that no matter what she said, she wasn’t calling the sheriff and he wanted this thing brought to a conclusion. “Fine, tell me the sheriff’s number.” He began to reach into his suit jacket pocket. “I’ll call him and we can get this over with.”

      Alarmed that he might be reaching for a concealed weapon, Georgie raised the tire iron threateningly. “Put your hands up!” she ordered.

      Abandoning his cell phone, Nick did as she said. “I can’t dial and put my hands up,” he protested. He was miles beyond annoyed now.

      The woman seemed to relax, lowering the tire iron again. She raised her eyes to his and he could have sworn he saw a smirk. Her next words did nothing to dispel that impression.

      “Don’t do your research very well, do you, Mr. Secret Service agent?”

      No matter how he focused, he hadn’t a clue what she was driving at and he was very tired of these mind games. She was undoubtedly stalling for time. If he didn’t know better, he would have said she was trying to give her boyfriend time to escape—except that he already knew the man wasn’t in the ranch house.

      “What are you talking about?” he asked.

      She debated stringing him along for a bit, then decided that more than wanting to get to him, she wanted him gone. There was only one way that was going to happen. “Well, for one thing, Mr. phony Secret Service agent—” she’d seen more convincing IDs in Howard Beasley’s Toy Emporium “—I’m Georgie Grady.”

      “No, you’re not.” If ever he’d seen someone who didn’t look like a “Georgie” it was this woman in the tight, faded jeans and the checkered work shirt that seemed to be sticking to every inch of her upper torso like a second skin, thanks to the humidity.

      Georgie shook her head. Talk about a blockhead. Too bad he was so damn annoying, because, all things considered, he was kind of cute—as long as he lost the black suit and stopped using so much of that styling goop on his hair.

      “Then the people who put that name on the trophy I just won at the last rodeo competition are going to feel pretty stupid,” she told him.

      Nick had to consciously keep his jaw from dropping. He eyed her incredulously. This was just outlandish enough to be true. “You’re Georgie Grady.”

      “I’m Georgie Grady. I guess you’ve got a hearing problem as well as lacking any manners,” she surmised. She looked down at her daughter. “Gotta feel sorry for a man like that, Emmie. He doesn’t know any better.”

      He was hot, he was tired and his head was splitting. He was in no mood to be talked about as if he wasn’t standing right there. Especially by his quarry if this woman really was Georgie Grady.

      “Look,” he said waspishly, “this is all very entertaining, but I don’t have time for an episode of The Waltons—”

      The woman watched him blankly. It was obvious that the title of the popular classic TV show meant nothing to her. “Must’ve been before my time,” she commented. She nodded over his shoulder. “The road’s that way. I suggest you take it.”

      She still had him holding his hands up. “Can I put my hands down?”

      She pretended to think his question over. “Only after you start walking.”

      “Fair enough.”

      As if complying, Nick turned away from her, took two steps, dropped his hands and then turned around again. This time, instead of his ID, he had his service revolver in his hand.

      And he was pointing it at the woman.

      Startled, Georgie took a firmer grip on the tire iron. Seeing the gun, Emmie screamed and this time, the little girl allowed herself to be pushed behind her mother’s back.

      “Drop the tire iron,” Nick ordered. His tone brooked no nonsense. “Now!” he barked when she didn’t immediately comply.

      Letting the tire iron fall, Georgie bit off a curse that would have curled the hair of the most hardened bronco buster had it made it past her lips. She should have known this was all a ruse. Served her right for taking pity on him because he was cute. When was she going to learn that cute men meant nothing but trouble in the long and short run?

      “I don’t have anything worth stealing,” she told him between clenched teeth. She just wanted him gone. He was scaring Emmie and for that, she wanted to rip out his heart.

      Nick took a step closer. Although small, the gun felt heavy in his hand. He didn’t like pulling his weapon on a woman and even though he found the child annoying, he definitely didn’t care for having to train a weapon around the little girl, but the firebrand who claimed to be her mother had left him no choice.

      “As I was saying,” he went on as if nothing had happened, “I’m here to arrest Georgie Grady and take him—or her—into custody. Put your hands up,” he told her.

      Georgie raised her hands. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Emmie mimic her action.

      You’ll pay for this, mister, she silently promised. Her brain worked feverishly to figure a way out of this.

      “So,” Georgie began slowly, “you really are a Secret Service agent.”

      “That’s what I told you.”

      Georgie nodded her head, as if finally believing him. “And why would a Secret Service agent want to take me into custody?” she queried, doing her best to hang on to her temper. He had the gun, shouting at him wouldn’t be advisable.

      “Mama, is he going to shoot you?” Emmie cried, suddenly sounding like every one of her four years and no more.

      Georgie’s heart almost broke. Barely holding up her hands, she bent down to Emmie’s level.

      “No, honey, he’s not going to shoot me. He’s not that dumb,” she assured her daughter. Raising her eyes to his, she sought his back up. “Are you, Mr. Secret Service agent?”

      He’d only discharged his weapon three times, and never in his present position. But saying so might sound weak to the woman. Who knew how these backwoods people thought?

      “Not if you cooperate.”

      She rose to her feet again, but this time she wasn’t holding up her hands. She was holding Emmie in her arms, determined to calm the child’s fears despite the fact that beneath her own anger was a solid band of fear. She had no idea who this crazy person was, only that she doubted very

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