Tempting The Sheriff

The hardest person to serve and protect is herself

She didn’t ask for a new deputy. Well, technically, she did ask. But Lily Tate didn’t expect city cop Vaughn Fulton to come swaggering into her sheriff’s office, making her feel things she has no right to feel. Not since she lost what she loved most in a tragedy she should have seen coming. Lily can see exactly where she and Vaughn are headed. As hard as he is to resist—and as much as he seems to want her—Vaughn plans to ditch the small-town life when his stint at the Sheriff’s Department is over. Lily’s already handled enough heartbreak. What kind of fool would make the same mistake twice?

A deep, unfamiliar voice rumbled along Lily’s spine.

She curbed her irritation. Time to make nice. She had no choice. If she didn’t honor the mayor’s request to hire Vaughn Fulton as her deputy, he’d only saddle her with a seventy-year-old retiree. Or he’d veto every candidate she put forth. When Mayor Whitby was coming off a sugar high, that was just the way he rolled.

So suck it up, Lily Anne.

She swiveled toward the counter that separated the office space from the reception area.

A man wearing jeans and a short-sleeved navy T-shirt that barely concealed a hip holster stood in the doorway, shoulder propped against the jamb, posture as cocky as his voice. Midtwenties, six-one or so, trimmed dark hair and troublemaker eyes. One look and she was as clear about who he was as the muscles stretching his shirt. If the man were in motion, he’d be swaggering.

Beside her, Clarissa hummed her approval. Lily could practically hear the drool hitting the floor.

Yeah. Swagger. He planted his palms on the countertop, locked his arms and leaned in.

“Vaughn Fulton reporting for duty, ma’am.”

Dear Reader,

It’s wonderful to have you back in Castle Creek! You caught a glimpse of the prickly Sheriff Lily Tate in Staying at Joe’s, and learned of her tragic history in A Family After All. In Tempting the Sheriff, Lily continues her fight to keep everyone at arm’s length—especially city cop Vaughn Fulton, a temporary deputy with a hefty chip on his shoulder. Eventually these two crazy kids fall head over heels, but Vaughn isn’t interested in staying in Castle Creek, and Lily herself won’t consider moving to the city. So now what?

When I started writing Lily’s story, I had already decided which character would risk their entire way of life to make couplehood happen. Imagine my surprise when the other character insisted on being the one to make the sacrifice! I hope you find Lily and Vaughn’s journey as gratifying as I did.

I always enjoy hearing from readers! You can email me at kathy@kathyaltman.com, or visit me at www.kathyaltman.com, where you can find the recipe for gobs, those Devil Dogs–type treats Vaughn reminisces about. Depending on where you’re from, you may know them as whoopie pies, but they’ll always be gobs to me, and one of my sweetest memories of Johnstown, PA, where my dad grew up.

All my best,

Kathy Altman

Tempting the Sheriff

Kathy Altman

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KATHY ALTMAN writes contemporary romance, romantic suspense and the occasional ode to chocolate. She’s also a regular contributor to USATODAY.com’s Happy Ever After blog. Kathy prefers her chocolate with nuts, her Friday afternoons with wine and her love stories with happy-ever-afters. Find Kathy online at www.kathyaltman.com. She’d enjoy hearing from you!

To Toni Anderson, outstanding writer, critique partner and friend. Here’s to the next dozen years of buddy-ship (and all those bug hugs that keep me going)!

Acknowledgments

I owe a great, big, humongous THANK YOU to editor Claire Caldwell, who is unfailingly gracious, encouraging and all kinds of savvy. Claire, I’m a better writer thanks to you, and I’ll miss working with you!

As always, I’m grateful for my entire family, who are even more supportive than they are screwy. (Seriously, folks, that’s a lot of support.)

And many, many thanks to the readers who appreciate happy endings as much as I do. I cherish every one of you!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Acknowledgments

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

VAUGHN FULTON TOSSED his shades onto a box marked Kitchen Crap and turned in a slow circle. He’d been played. Suckered, by an eighty-four-year-old man. If Emerson Fulton were still alive, he’d be smirking his ass off because he was about to make good on his promise to see that his nephew stayed in Castle Creek longer than it took to eat a rib eye at the diner and watch a ball game for dessert.

He pushed a breath through his nose. Yeah, he should have visited more often. No doubt about it. He’d let down the old man.

And his uncle had plotted one hell of a payback.

“Bits and pieces, my ass,” Vaughn said aloud. The echo he should have heard failed to bounce back at him. No surprise, considering the ceiling-high jumble of boxes and furniture crowding the room. A jumble that hadn’t been there two months ago, when he’d stopped in to check on the old man. A week later, Uncle Em was gone.

Vaughn pinched the bridge of his nose.

Near the end, he’d promised to handle the property side of things. Stay at the house as soon as he could manage it. Clear it out and see it sold. Two days max to empty the place, Uncle Em had sworn.

Two days, like hell. It would take two weeks to go through everything on the first floor, and that was just the sorting—he’d have to make arrangements for transportation to the landfill and find a charity to take the rest. No way could he take more than one or two items for himself. His apartment in Erie wasn’t much bigger than a square of toilet paper.

So much for cranking this out over the weekend.

Vaughn linked his fingers behind his neck and exhaled. He missed his uncle. He missed him bad. His aunt, too. He’d spent a lot of uncomplicated summers in this house. But as grateful as he was that the old man had remembered him in his will, he didn’t have time for this. Well, technically he did, since his jackass partner had earned him a thirty-day suspension, but he’d wanted to spend it clearing his name, not clearing a dozen rooms crammed with someone else’s crap.

Don’t be a dick.

He dropped his arms and carefully wound his way back to the foyer. The afternoon light spilling in through the strip of stained glass in the front door scattered jewel tones across the floor and over the toes of his boots. Along with the faint smell of almond pound cake that was baked into the very walls, it made him nostalgic for a childhood he usually did his damnedest to forget.

Sudden exhaustion tugged at his shoulders. He would have leaned against a wall if it weren’t for the piles of junk. Instead he leaned back against the front door and surveyed the hardwood floor, barely visible beneath stacks of old magazines and newspapers, towers of rust-rimmed paint cans and heap after heap of wrinkled clothing.

How had his uncle found the energy to collect all this? What had he done, put up a notice at Cal’s Diner? Help me show my nephew what a jackass he is. Bring your unwanted items, large or small, to 16511 Paisley Place and make him deal with it.

Vaughn huffed a reluctant chuckle. He’d bet his service weapon that was exactly what Uncle Em had done. He could see the old man now, fixing his invite to the corkboard just inside the diner’s door, tongue between his teeth and that tickled-with-himself gleam in his eyes...

Abruptly, Vaughn swung toward the kitchen. He could use a drink. The dust was making his throat scratchy.

The kitchen was the only room in the house that didn’t harbor a maze of boxes. Vaughn grabbed a glass and filled it with water from the tap. After downing it he poured another, butted a hip against the sink and took stock. The room—hell, the whole house—was way overdue for a face-lift. Battered white cabinet doors and a scuffed linoleum floor needed to give way to solid maple and Mexican tile, but Uncle Em hadn’t wanted to change anything with Aunt Brenda’s stamp on it. Vaughn couldn’t blame him. Even the thought made Vaughn want to check the wide-eyed ceramic owl cookie jar, see if it held any of the ginger crisps his aunt used to make.

He was stretching toward the jar when his ringtone jolted him upright. Just as well. Considering his aunt had died four years earlier, he doubted he’d enjoy whatever the owl guarded.

He dug his phone out of the front pocket of his jeans. “Fulton here.”

“Vaughn? This is Rick Whitby.”

“Mayor.” Vaughn braced a hand on the edge of the counter. He gazed through the window, studying the generous stretch of brown-tipped grass desperate for a mowing and the intersecting rows of hornbeams that screened the yard from the neighbors. The trees were in serious need of pruning.

For the hundredth time, Vaughn wondered what had drawn his uncle to Whitby, a fifty-year-old player with too much time on his hands, considering he had a county to run. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Son, let me say again how sorry I am about your uncle’s passing.”

“I appreciate that.”

“It’s been a lot of years since he retired as clerk of the court, but folks at the courthouse still talk about him.”

The funeral had been well attended. Vaughn had been touched. “What can I do for you, Mayor?” he asked again.

“In a hurry, are you, son?”

Whitby’s chuckle had Vaughn jonesing for a cup of coffee. Hell, even a soda would do. Anything to wash away the taste of ulterior motive. He pushed off the counter and opened the fridge. Nothing but baking soda and a sheet of paper. Vaughn picked up the paper, hip-bumped the door shut and took a closer look.

An estimate, for replacing the roof. It wasn’t the fact that his uncle had left it in the fridge that sent Vaughn’s oh-shit factor sky-high. It was the total on the dotted line. Five figures.

Vaughn dropped into a chair and double-checked the math.

“Son? You still there?”

“I’m here.”

Whitby cleared his throat. “Listen, give me a call when you get into town, will you? I’d like to set up a meeting. Discuss a proposition.”

Vaughn fought the urge to admit he’d already arrived. “What’s on your mind?”

The mayor hesitated. “What I have to say deserves a face-to-face.”

Vaughn’s Spidey senses started to tingle. “I’d appreciate a heads-up.”

“All righty, then. Our sheriff’s department is understaffed. I’m hoping you’ll help us out while you’re in town.”

He had to be kidding. “You want me to be a deputy?”

“I’d make you sheriff if I could.”

Vaughn wasn’t surprised. He’d never met Sheriff Tate, but he knew she was a hard-ass. From what he’d heard, a man could drop dead in the street and she’d write him a ticket for jaywalking.

Thanks, but no thanks.

“I’ll only be around long enough to clean out the house,” Vaughn said. “Unless I decide to sell it as is.”

“But that’s against the terms of your inheritance.”

Vaughn shifted his weight, and the chair groaned a threat to break into pieces and dump his ass on the floor. “How do you know that?”

“I helped Emerson draft it. Listen, your uncle wanted the house to stay in the family. More than that, he wanted you to stay in Castle Creek. I promised I’d do my best to talk you into both.”

Tension threaded its way through Vaughn’s muscles. “He knew better.” Besides, the old man had left only half the house to Vaughn—the rest of the estate went to charity. Even if he wanted to, there was no way Vaughn could raise the money to buy the house outright. If Uncle Em had been so gung ho about Vaughn staying, the old man should have left him the whole house.

Not that Vaughn deserved it.

When Whitby spoke again, his voice carried a pout. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

“I’m sorry you’re understaffed, but I don’t have time to help, and I have no interest in relocating.” Even if he did, it would be to another city, not to a geriatric community that was about as dangerous as a stuffed animal. Yeah, Uncle Em had made noises about Vaughn holding on to the house, but he’d been well aware his nephew could only take so much quiet. By the end of every summer visit, Vaughn had been twitchier than a teenage girl caught speeding in her daddy’s brand-new Beemer.

Vaughn liked crowds. Traffic. Noise. Action.

“Emerson said you were going to take a leave of absence.” The mayor’s tone bordered on accusatory.

“I did.” Sort of.

“At least let me set up a tour. Show you the facilities, introduce you around.”

“Maybe another time.”

Vaughn ended the conversation and tossed his phone on the table then zigzagged his way back to the living room. After snagging a box cutter off the tattered seat of a bar stool, he sliced open the Kitchen Crap box. Might as well locate the coffeemaker, because no way was he going to check out the second floor without a hefty dose of caffeine. And maybe a shot of whiskey, if he could find it.

In the dining room behind him, something heavy tumbled to the floor. Vaughn whipped around, automatically slapping a hand to his empty hip. Easy. He squinted across the hall and saw that a box had fallen off a stack. Obviously the contents had shifted and gravity had taken over.

Guilt niggled. Had his uncle really counted on his settling here?

He shook his head. Way to let the mayor work you.

Ten minutes later, he was rifling through dish towels and pot holders when he heard another thud. Next came a series of scraping sounds, like something being dragged across a sandy floor. What the hell?

He grabbed the box cutter and strode into the dining room. “Who’s in here?” he demanded.

More thumping, muted this time. He looked to his right. Another box had landed on its side, spilling half-empty bottles of lotion and shampoo. A third carton had fallen behind it. Whatever was in here had to have been inside for a while—the place had been closed up for weeks.

A vision of a rabid raccoon latching onto his jugular while blood sprayed everywhere had him thinking about calling 911. But only for a split second. He couldn’t let the overzealous sheriff lock up another Fulton for no good reason.

With a tight grip on the box cutter, Vaughn carefully skirted the mess on the floor, bent down and peered into the upended box.

A black cat stared up at him while kneading the lace tablecloth Aunt Brenda had saved for holidays. Sheepishly, Vaughn retracted the blade on the box cutter and slid the tool into his back pocket.

“Uncle Em might be smirking down on me, but Aunt Brenda’s trying to swat you with a broom,” he told the cat. The animal yawned and tugged a paw loose from a clinging thread. Vaughn squatted. “How the hell did you get in here?”

The cat hissed and backed farther into the box. Vaughn held up his hands. “Sorry, buddy. Didn’t mean to make you nervous.”

Jesus. He was talking to a stray cat.

He headed back to the kitchen. As soon as he made this call, the entire county would know he was in town. But someone was missing a pet, and he didn’t have time to go knocking on doors.

“Hello, Miss Catlett? This is Vaughn Fulton, next door.”

“How are you, Vaughn?”

“Good. Thanks. You?”

“Better if you call me Hazel, sweet cheeks.”

While Hazel shared the details of her plantar fasciitis, the cheese ball recipe she’d recently tried and something about a new boyfriend and old lube—wait, what?—Vaughn returned to the dining room and checked on his intruder. The cat remained crouched in the corner of the box.

Hazel took a breath and Vaughn took advantage.

“Did my uncle have a cat?”

“No, hon, not that I know of. You have one hanging around outside?”

“Inside, and I have no idea how long he’s been in here.”

“Oh. Well, if I were you, I’d avoid going barefoot.”

“Thanks,” Vaughn said dryly. “Any clue where he might have come from?”

“What’s he look like?”

“Black, with a white diamond on his chest.”

“That could be Franklin. He belongs to the Hockadays, two doors down. But how on earth would he have managed to get in?”

“Probably through one of the big-ass holes in the roof,” Vaughn muttered.

“Beg pardon?”

“Just thinking out loud.”

“Like my Pete.”

“Pete?”

“My sweetie. Pete Lowry. Remember him? Runs Lowry’s Garage?”

“Sure do.” With a silent huff of relief, Vaughn perched on the windowsill. That explained the lube comment.

“And yes, we do enjoy wild grease monkey sex.”

Or not.

“Hazel. I have an idea.” Please stop talking about your sex life. “Mind coming over and taking a look at this cat? See if you recognize him?”

She gave a knowing chuckle. “Sure thing, hon. I’ll be right over.”

Vaughn returned the cat’s wary stare. “Franklin. That your name?” When the cat started working his paws into the tablecloth again, Vaughn nodded. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He went back across the hall and resumed his quest for the coffeepot.

It took him a few seconds, but he finally recognized that half-buzzing, half-wheezing sound as the doorbell. He set aside the coffee filters he’d discovered in a box marked Cleaning Crap and maneuvered his way back to the front door.

The Catlett sisters stood on the porch, each holding a foil-covered plate, their grins as wide as their makeup was bright. He smiled back, careful not to peer directly into their eye shadow.

The seventysomething Hazel and June, or Hazel and Nut, as some called them, couldn’t have been kinder to him when he was a kid. They’d made numerous trips across his uncle’s yard during Vaughn’s summer visits, toting cakes and casseroles and platters piled high with those round Devil Dog things they called gobs. It wasn’t until after Aunt Brenda died that Vaughn realized the sisters had probably used his growing-boy stage as an excuse to help out his aunt and uncle while they struggled with his aunt’s cancer.

Aunt Brenda’s death had hit Vaughn almost as hard as it had hit Uncle Em. He hadn’t handled it as well as his uncle, though. He’d thrown himself into his job as a patrol officer with the Erie PD, with his sights set on becoming a detective. His visits to Castle Creek had been irregular at best. He wasn’t proud of the distance he’d kept, but it had helped him manage his grief.

“You just going to stand there, Vaughn Fulton, or are you going to give us some love?”

Vaughn started. “My apologies, ladies. Please come in, but watch your step.”

They followed him down the hall and into the kitchen, tut-tutting as they passed the leaning tower of pizza boxes and five buckets of rags that were at the top of his list to go to the dump. The last thing he needed was a fire.

His visitors set their plates on the kitchen table and exchanged nods of approval.

Hazel beamed at him. “Looks like Emerson achieved what he set out to do.”

“It’ll take you weeks to sort this mess.” June lifted her arms. “Hug time.”

Vaughn’s narrowed gaze traveled from Hazel to June and back again. Their sweetly familiar, brightly painted faces made him want to smile, but he suppressed the urge. Coconspirators, both of them.

“You were in on it,” he said sternly.

Hazel blinked her carrot-colored eyelids and pursed her turquoise lips. Vaughn couldn’t help wondering if she’d confused her lipstick for her eye shadow and vice versa. June had avoided that problem by painting both the same color—light purple. Vaughn had to admit it went well with her pink pantsuit.

Hazel patted her short, white hair. “Maybe we were and maybe we weren’t,” she said cagily.

“Oh, we absolutely were,” June said. She wore her silver hair in the same pixie cut as her sister’s. “And we loved every minute of it. Emerson let us take a peek at what people were bringing in and I scored two plastic tubs of summer clothes. I’m going to do a reverse Julie Andrews and patch together a set of curtains out of gym shorts.” Vaughn let loose his laugh and stepped into her hug. She smelled like peppermint, just as he remembered. Nostalgia backed up in his throat as he bent toward Hazel. She pinched his ass.

“You haven’t changed,” he said, stepping out of reach.

“You have. You’ve been working out. That’s one fine caboose you have there, Officer.”

He gestured at the chaos in the hallway behind them. “You can help yourself to anything here, except my caboose.” He saw her expression and rushed to add, “Or any other body part.”

“Fine,” Hazel sniffed. “Then I suppose we should go find Franklin.”

Vaughn led them to the dining room, where he crouched down to see inside the overturned box. When Hazel and June crowded in behind him, the cat erupted from the box. Front paws scrabbled on dust-covered hardwood as he made for the doorway. The back paws weren’t as efficient, and as the cat shuffled past him, Vaughn discovered why. The animal’s rear left leg hung at an odd angle, slowing his progress up the stairs.

“I wonder if he hurt himself getting in.” He pulled out his cell. “Do you know the Hockadays’ number? They’ll have better luck getting hold of him.”

“I do have their number, but I’m afraid that’s not going to do any good.” June’s hand fluttered to her neck. “Sorry, dear, but that’s not Franklin. Your he is a she. And she’s about to have kittens.”

Vaughn staggered back a step. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Hazel eyed her sister with pride. “Wilmer Fish always said a vet could never ask for a better assistant than June.”

While June preened, Hazel started rummaging through one of the boxes toppled by the cat.

Vaughn pushed a hand through his hair. “Neither of you has any idea who that cat might belong to?”

Hazel looked over her shoulder. “I’m thinking it’s you.”

“The cat seems to be thinking the same thing.” June sidled around Vaughn to select her own box to pick through. “Ooh.” She held up several pads of paper and a stack of multicolored Post-its. “Would you mind?”

Vaughn shook his head. “Anything else catches your eye, please take it. That includes the cat.”

“Nice try, hon. Our Baby Blue would foam at the mouth if we tried to expand our little family. Schnauzers aren’t usually superpossessive of their owners, but ours certainly is.” Hazel patted him on the cheek. “We need to go. We have a fund-raiser to finalize. Good luck with the house. I’m sure you’ll get a fine price for it after all the repairs are made.”

Vaughn frowned down at her. “I know about the roof. Don’t tell me there’s more.”