Save Me, Santa: A Chirstmas Anthology of Romance & Suspense (9 page)

The bastard broke my heart and months later it still sat like a cold, cracked piece of granite in my chest.

I dragged a bucket of sudsy, ammonia-smelling water around to the front of the bar, pulling the stools out on each side of Buffalo, only to realize there wasn’t anything to mop up, except peanut shells. Hadn’t something been spilled here? Weird.

“I’m closing the bar early tonight,” I told Buffalo. “You want to come back to my place and hang out for a while? Watch a movie? I think the Western channel is having a Clint Eastwood marathon.”

Buffalo wiped the beer foam moustache from his upper lip. “Sure, if you don’t mind me bringing Brunhilda. I hate to leave her alone on Christmas Eve.”

“Are you afraid she’ll actually wake up this year for Christmas?” His dog stirred only long enough to snarfle down food, I swore.

He grinned and reached down to scratch Brunhilda’s head between her fake reindeer antlers. “She’ll perk up. Santa brought her a special bone.”

Brunhilda’s ears twitched at the word
bone
, but that was the only sign of life.

“I’m not interfering with any plans with your girlfriend, am I?” I asked.

“Didn’t you hear? We split up. She’s knocking boots with my neighbor now.”

“Oh.” How had I missed that in this one-horse town? I really needed to get my head out of the sand and get back to living. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He waved me off. “He has pigs. Her constant squealing doesn’t faze him.”

That made me smile. “Do you think you’ll ever find a nice woman, settle down, raise a couple of baby buffalos? You’re not getting any younger, you know.” Buffalo had two years on my thirty-six.

“Nope. I’ve told you my thoughts about monogamy and matrimony too many times to count.”

“What happened with your parents isn’t genetic, you know. Marriages don’t have to involve flying cast iron skillets and burning pickups. Look at my parents. They were married for almost forty years.” And then Momma got sick and all of our lives went to hell in a handcart.

Buffalo slurped his beer. “Yeah, well you’re not setting the best example for happily ever after. First, you shacked up with a three-timin’ rodeo clown, then you married a killer, and
then
you hooked up with Joel Andersen, of all guys. You’re like the pin-up girl for
Fucked-Up Life
magazine.”

He had a point, but I didn’t need him needling me with it. “Kiss my pin-up ass.” I picked up the wet rag and whipped it at him.

He dodged it, chuckling.

“So marriage isn’t for me,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t make a go of it.”

“Monty, dear, you may not know a thing about picking the right guy, but you sure throw one hell of a Christmas party.”

He was changing the subject, as he so often did when I tried to bring up his future love life for anything other than his damned dog.

“I think this party was our best since Momma ran the bar,” I said, going along with him. Tonight’s drunken merriment replayed in my head as I kicked the mop bucket to the corner, including slurred caroling, random sloppy kisses, and a marriage proposal from a lonely widowed rancher who had a huge spread east of town. Too bad he was a leftover from the Paleozoic era.

I reached up to remove some tinsel hanging from the ceiling fan and the telephone hanging on the wall behind the bar rang. I jogged over to grab it then hesitated with my hand on the receiver. I’d gotten a rash of creepy calls lately, filled with heavy breathing and this skin-crawling, undecipherable whispering.

When I’d told Buffalo about the calls, he’d pushed me to tell the sheriff, but I’d resisted because the local law dog also happened to be Joel’s brother. While I liked to think my hesitation had more to do with not letting some heavy breather bully me into running with my tail between my legs, I had no doubt that my pride figured into the mix.

“I’m not sure if you know this,” Buffalo said, “but you need to actually pick up the receiver to make the phone stop ringing.”

I flipped him off and lifted the handset. “The Ugly Rooster,” I said, using my usual greeting.

A thick silence came through the line, sounding as if I’d tuned into some empty airspace out over one of the government’s testing ranges. I’d almost rather have the breathing. After the count of three, I hung up.

“Dead,” I answered Buffalo’s wrinkled brow. I double-checked to make sure the 12-gauge shotgun I’d brought from home earlier this week was still under the counter.

The bell over the front door jingled, making me jerk in surprise, raising the shotgun in reaction.

Buffalo hollered over his shoulder, “Bar’s closed.”

“I disagree.” The deep voice nearly made me choke on my tongue.

I gripped the shotgun, wishing I’d loaded it with rock salt instead of slugs.

“You brought out your big gun to welcome me home?” Joel Andersen asked, closing the door on the wailing groan of the Nevada winter wind. “I’m flattered.”

I put the shotgun down on the bar before I did something stupid like shoot Joel in the toe.

“Well, well, well,” Buffalo said, his tone low. “Would ya look at that—the old man’s back in town.” He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Am I leavin’?”

“Stay,” I said, my gaze focused on Joel as he crossed the bar floor, shucking his thick coat along the way. He must have thought he was staying, too. He was mistaken.

Joel was carrying, as usual, his Colt .45 riding in his shoulder holster.

Before I sent him back out into the cold winter night, I took a moment to drink in the sight of his wind-ruffled black hair, stubble-covered square jaw, and bright green eyes. My heartbeat ratcheted, my core cranked up the heat, and my mouth went dry.

Ah, damn. Hell was coming to Christmas. Save me, Santa.

Joel cozied up to the bar.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Like Buffalo said, the bar’s closed.”

“I heard him, Shooter.” My childhood nickname rolled off his tongue like he’d never deserted town and left me face down in a mud puddle.

He patted Buffalo on the back. “Hey Buff, I’m hanging around for a bit. Want some help with fixing up the ol’ Goldwash Grand?”

Hanging around for a bit? How long was a bit? More importantly, why was Joel here? No, even more worrisome, how was I going to keep from ending up in his bed when just the sight of him had me wanting to vault the bar, lay him out with my fists, and then have my merry naked way with him?

Criminy, I’d seen centipedes with more backbone than I had when it came to the green-eyed devil in front of me.

“Free labor? You’re hired.” Buffalo snuck a glance my way. “But aren’t you gonna miss the wild Vegas nightlife?”

“No,” Joel answered Buffalo, but his green eyes held mine captive, a fire burning in their depths that practically made my skin crackle from the heat. “The nightlife here is much wilder.”

I took a step back before I got seared. “What do you want, Joel?” I asked, not mincing words.

His gaze dropped to the front of my shirt. “I need to talk to you, Montana.”

My body felt the invisible pull that was always there between us, lassoing me, tugging me in.

I grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the shelf, needing something to scrub the taste of Joel off my mind. “Here’s the deal,” I said, pouring myself a shot. “I spent the last few months trying to work you out of my system.” I tossed back the amber liquid, which burned all of the way down, firing me up. “I’ll be damned if you get to just walk back into my life and fuck me over again.”

The phone rang. I yanked the receiver off the wall. “What?”

I heard heavy breathing.

“What the hell do you want, damn it?”

“Mon-taaan-na,” a voice whispered.

I felt my eyes widen in surprise. I looked at Buffalo, who watched me, his focus unwavering.

“What?” I whispered back, my voice hiding down in my throat.

“I see you when you’re sleeping.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. There was something about the voice I recognized, something in the way he’d said my name, all sing-songy like.

“I know when you’re awake,” he paused between each line, letting them sink in.

My hand started to tremble.

“Who is it?” Joel asked.

“I know when you’ve been bad, Mon-taaan-na.” There it was again. “And you’ve been a very bad girl.”

“Who is this?” I voiced, my words sounding far away.

“Give me the phone,” Joel said, coming around the bar.

“It’s time for you to be punished,” the creep whispered. “And when I’m done, you’ll wish you were—”

Joel ripped the receiver from my hand. “Who is this?” he spoke into the phone.

I took several steps back, the creep’s words replaying in my head, sparking that déjà vu again.

Joel hung up the phone and turned to me. “What did he say?”

Then it hit me, an echo from the past. I knew that voice!

The fear gripping my lungs tightened in rage. “No!” I shoved past Joel, yanking the phone off the wall and throwing it on the floor where I stomped on it with my boot heel.

“Montana!” Joel grabbed me by the shoulders. “Stop it.”

I broke his hold, snatching up my 12-gauge. “Damn you, Joel.”

“What did I do?”

I back-stepped toward the swinging doors, glaring at him. “You came here to stop me.”

“From what?” Buffalo asked, half off his bar stool.

“Montana, give me the shotgun,” Joel took a step toward me, holding out his hand palm up.

“From what?” Buffalo asked again.

I spared him a frown. “From killing that son of a bitch I married.”

Joel took another step toward me. “Hand over your weapon before you hurt someone.”

“Negative,
Detective
Andersen,” I said in his cop lingo. “You need to get out of my bar before I fill you full of holes, too.” I glanced at Buffalo. “Lock the door on your way out, would ya?”

Without another word, I grabbed the bottle of whiskey, leaned my shotgun over my shoulder, and shoved through the swinging half-doors that led back to my office.

New Christmas Eve plan—prepare for a showdown with that rotten bastard I’d divorced and put behind bars for killing his business partner. I was done cowering at his threats.

“Montana,” Joel called from behind me. “Come back to me.”

“Go to hell!” I stepped through my office doorway.

He didn’t listen, following on my boot heels, shutting the door behind him and locking it.

I slammed the bottle of whiskey down on my desk, spilling some on the get-well cards stacked on it. “Andersen, your inability to follow my directions has always pissed me off.”

“Put the shotgun down.” He grabbed the 12-gauge from me, using it to tug me toward him.

“I’m done running scared.”

“Good. Give me your gun.”

“You have your own. Why do you need mine?”

“Two reasons—first, because you make me sweaty when you are swinging this thing around.” I let him take it from me. He placed it gently on the desk, the muzzle facing away from us, and then laid his Colt .45 next to it. “Second, because I can’t concentrate on talking to you when you have that in your hands.”

“We said all there was to say months ago.”

“You’re right.” He grabbed me by the front of my T-shirt, yanked me into him, and planted a hard kiss on my mouth. “Take off your pants.”

I glared up at him. “You think you can come slamming into town and land right back between my legs?”

“A man can hope.”

“You have a big set of balls, Joel Andersen.”

He grinned and buried his fingers in my hair, backing me into the desk. “You can admire those later.”

I met his lips mid-way this time, thirsty for a drink of him, tearing his shirt out of his jeans to touch the flesh I’d only been able to think about for way too long. He groaned when I raked my nails over his stomach, his mouth savoring mine, exploring then ravaging again. I clutched his back and plastered myself against him, soaking him up like a dry lakebed.

He stepped back long enough to peel my T-shirt off and toss it on the floor. In between kisses, his flannel shirt followed, then his thermal undershirt.

“Joel,” I said when he fell back onto my silver couch and pulled me down so I straddled him. “You have to stop.”

“Why?” he asked, his hands spanning my hips.

His lips trailed down between my breasts, his touch electrifying, lighting chills along the way.

“Because… “ I started, and then moaned when his teeth nipped me through my bra cup.

My hands held him against me, as my body arched toward him and his tongue teased me through the cotton.

I closed my eyes, trying to focus on what I was trying to spit out. “Because… “

He shifted me on his lap, adjusting so that his rough edges dug into my soft spots. “Damn, I missed you, Shooter.”

I moaned under the gully wash of sensations I’d only dreamed about for months, my body coming to life like the desert after a spring gusher. The heat of his mouth left my breast then coolness followed when he blew on the damp cotton.

I shivered, closing my eyes, and finally found the end of my sentence. “Because you left me.”

He stilled under my body. “Montana, open those big blue eyes for a moment.”

I did, frowning down at him. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his face taut, his need shining bright in his green gaze.

“I came back here tonight to tell you that your ex-husband escaped from prison a week ago.”

I blinked. “That explains the strange calls I’ve been getting all week.”

“We’ve had an APB out for him since he disappeared.” He popped open the button of my jeans. “Yesterday, a convenience store owner down in Beatty recognized him and called the cops, but he slipped by them.”

“You sure it was him?”

“He bought unfiltered cigarettes, black licorice, and orange soda pop.”

That was him all right. “So you’re here on my couch on official police business?”

“Yes,” he said. His hand slipped inside of my jeans, his fingers dipping below the elastic waist of my panties.

“Well, I hope you have a warrant to get into my underwear.”

His grin lit his face with a wicked glow. “I sure do. It’s in my pants. Why don’t you reach down in my front left pocket and grab it.”