the ability or inclination to take proper care of a baby. She signed over her parental rights to R.J. soon after Wyatt was born. Remarried now, she’d made it clear when Cimarron called to tell her about R.J.’s death that she had no intention of claiming her son. Hell, she hadn’t even told her new husband she had an illegitimate child. There was no denying Wyatt’s paternity, however, and that left Cimarron stuck with the total responsibility of a family member—again. He muttered under his breath and kicked the light pole as he passed. Stupid move. He hobbled the rest of the way to the truck, choking back curses. About his foot, his fate, his future. Just wasn’t right. He hadn’t fathered that kid, and he didn’t want any more responsibility for other people. He hadn’t done a good job before, and he had no reason to believe he’d fare any better with Wyatt.
Sitting down on the broad bumper of his truck, he leaned back against the camper and closed his eyes, trying to allay the coil of panic that squirmed in his gut every time the undeniable truth hit him. His life would never be the same again.
Cimarron opened his eyes at the sound of a vehicle turning into the parking lot. He squinted as a blinding spotlight flared to life, pointing directly at him. Red and blue lights reflected off the nearby buildings and his pickup.
“What the hell?” he muttered, throwing a hand up to shield his eyes.
“Don’t move. Keep your hands up where I can see them!”
A sheriff’s deputy eased toward Cimarron with one hand on his sidearm, the other moving a powerful flashlight around.
Cimarron raised his hands, turning his head to the side and grimacing at the bright lights. At least the deputy hadn’t drawn on him—yet. Cimarron glanced up at the window above the café and saw Sarah staring down. Damn it, did she call the cops on me? The deputy caught his attention again, moving enough to one side that Cimarron could turn away from the spotlight to face him.
“What are you doing here this time of night? The café’s been closed for hours,” he said. “Let me see some ID.”
“I’m sleeping in my truck. Sarah knows I’m here.”
“Yeah, sure she does. Now get behind the wheel of that truck and get moving, or I’ll give you a different option for a few nights.”
“Look, Deputy—” Cimarron eyed the deputy’s badge “—Whitman, I don’t want any trouble.” He slowly lowered his hands. “I’ve got a right to be here.”
“That ID?”
“It’s in my wallet.” Cimarron reached for his back pocket.
“Easy now, real slow,” Deputy Whitman said.
Cimarron withdrew his wallet and fished out his driver’s license.
“I bought that house. I have a right to be here.”
The deputy guffawed. “I know who owns this land, mister. And it ain’t you.”
“I’ve got the paperwork. Can I get it to show you?”
“Where is it?”
“Front seat of my truck.”
The deputy moved with Cimarron to the side of the truck. Cimarron opened the door and pointed to the folder lying on the console. He’d intended to show it to Sarah, but he’d never gotten the chance.
“Just have a look at the paperwork. I own the house and the property around it.” He pulled out the title and handed it over.
The deputy shined the light on the paper and checked the signature at the bottom. “Well, that sure looks like Bobby’s signature. Lord knows I’ve seen it enough on traffic tickets. But it might be forged.”
“It’s not forged.”
“Come around to the front of my car while I check this out.”
The deputy took the folder and Cimarron’s license with him and called in the information. Cimarron leaned against the fender of the patrol car, arms crossed, staring up at Sarah’s now-empty window, stewing over the possibility that she was responsible for him being on the brink of going to jail. A light came on downstairs a few moments later. If she’d reported him, there would be no more Mr. Nice Guy—and no more kitchen boy, for sure.
“Well, you checked out okay. But I’m not happy with you hanging around here. Find yourself somewhere else to stay.”
Cimarron rolled his eyes. “Give me a break. Sarah knows I’m here and I don’t see why I have to leave. Especially since—”
“Hey, Griff,” Sarah said, coming across the parking lot in silky long pajamas and a robe. Sexy as hell, with her hair down and brushed to a satin sheen. The pale green color of the pajamas complemented her freshly scrubbed face.
“Hey, Sarah. Sorry to disturb you,” Deputy Whitman said.
“No, that’s okay.” She eyed Cimarron. “I’m glad you’re looking out for me.”
Cimarron lifted an eyebrow and shot her a wry look. Probably everybody in this one-horse town was protective of her.
“He’s got some kinda paperwork here, says he bought out your brother Bobby.”
Sarah glanced at the paper and frowned. “Yes, I know. But I’m contacting my lawyer first thing Monday morning to see if it’s legal.”
“It’s legal,” Cimarron said.
Both of them ignored him.
“Do you want me to take him in?”
“Now, wait a minute…”
“No,” Sarah said quickly. “I told him he could stay here for the night. Bobby sort of tricked him into buying the property. I’m sure I’ll get it straightened out next week.”
Deputy Whitman looked dubious as he handed back the paperwork. “I don’t like it. And I’m going to see that you’re locked in before I leave.”
“Really, Griff, there’s no need for that. Like I said…”
“Either I make sure you’re safe for the night, or I lock him up.”
“On what charge?” Cimarron demanded.
“I’ll think of something,” Deputy Whitman growled.
This was more than professional concern for Sarah. Cimarron sensed a strong undercurrent of male competitiveness in the deputy. Did he have an eye for the lovely Miss James? Cimarron couldn’t blame him, but that wasn’t grounds for arrest.
She held up her hands in appeasement. “Stop this. See me to the door if it makes you feel better, Griff.”
The deputy handed Cimarron his license and paperwork. “You find a better place to camp after tonight. And trust me, I’ll be back by here a few times before morning.” He guided Sarah toward the café.
Cimarron returned to his truck but stopped short of getting in, curious to see what move Deputy Whitman might put on Sarah. She quickly disappeared inside, however, leaving the officer standing on the stoop. He waited a moment longer and Cimarron took that opportunity to climb into the camper and close the door.
THE NEXT MORNING, Cimarron rose early. Wanting to avoid another visit by the overzealous law officer, he moved his truck behind the mansion out of sight of the road. Since Sarah had made it clear she didn’t want any help in the café this morning, he pulled out fishing gear, packed a lunch for two, then got Wyatt up and moving. He’d wait until the café closed to clear out a spot to live in the old house. Maybe Sarah would go visiting this afternoon and he could work in peace.
Finding a map for the house and surrounding property among his paperwork, he located the trout stream that Bobby had mentioned. According to the surveyor’s markings, Cimarron’s two hundred acres adjoined Sarah’s much larger holding halfway between the house and café. The property narrowed to about seven hundred feet of road