He was laughing so hard that he was almost doubled over.
“That’s right, laugh,” she muttered. “Santa’s going to stop by here on his way to your house to get enough coal to fill up your stocking, Darriell Blake!”
He laughed even harder.
Her father came back into the room with a file folder in one hand, stopped, did a double take, and stared at his daughter, sitting on the floor in a pile of coal.
“What the hell happened to you?” he burst out.
“He happened to me!” she cried, pointing at Dal Blake. “He said I looked like a streetwalker!”
“You’re the one in the tight red dress, honey.” Dal chuckled. “I just made an observation.”
“Your mother would have a fit if she saw you in that dress,” her father said heavily. “I should never have let you talk me into buying it.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter anymore, it’s ruined!” She got to her feet, swiping at tears in her eyes. “I’m going to bed!”
“Might as well,” Dal remarked, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets and looking at her with an arrogant smile. “Go flirt with men your own age, kid.”
She looked to her father for aid, but he just stared at her and sighed.
She scrambled to her feet, displacing more coal. “I’ll get this swept up before I go to bed,” she said.
“I’ll do that. Get yourself cleaned up, Meda,” her father said gently, using his pet name for her. “Go on.”
She left the room muttering. She didn’t even look at Dal Blake.
* * *
That had been several years ago, before she worked in law enforcement in Missouri and finally hooked up with the FBI. Now she was without a job, running a ranch about which she knew absolutely nothing, and whole families who depended on the ranch for a living were depending on her. The responsibility was tremendous.
She honestly didn’t know what she was going to do. She did watch a couple of YouTube videos, but they were less than helpful. Most of them were self-portraits of small ranchers and their methods of dealing with livestock. It was interesting, but they assumed that their audience knew something about ranching. Meadow didn’t.
She started to call the local cattlemen’s association for help, until someone told her who the president of the chapter was. Dal Blake. Why hadn’t she guessed?
While she was drowning in self-doubt, there was a knock on the front door. She opened it to find a handsome man, dark-eyed, with thick blond hair, standing on her porch. He was wearing a sheriff’s uniform, complete with badge.
“Miss Dawson?” he said politely.
She smiled. “Yes?”
“I’m Sheriff Jeff Ralston.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said. She shook hands with him. She liked his handshake. It was firm without being aggressive.
“Nice to meet you, too,” he replied. He shifted his weight.
She realized that it was snowing again and he must be freezing. “Won’t you come in?” she said as an afterthought, moving back.
“Thanks,” he replied. He smiled. “Getting colder out here.”
She laughed. “I don’t mind snow.”
“You will when you’re losing cattle to it,” he said with a sigh as he followed her into the small kitchen, where she motioned him into a chair.
“I don’t know much about cattle,” she confessed. “Coffee?”
“I’d love a cup,” he said heavily. “I had to get out of bed before daylight and check out a robbery at a local home. Someone came in through the window and took off with a valuable antique lamp.”