Spotlight & Giveaway: Sheriff’s Honor by Jill Sorenson

Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Jill Sorenson’s new release: Sheriff’s Honor

She’s hiding from a past that could destroy her. He’s sworn to uncover the truth—no matter what the cost.

Meredith Rose never meant to point a shotgun at the new deputy sheriff. But when Wade Hendricks strides onto the Lost Lake ranch to visit his mother, all Texas heat and authority, her fight-or-flight instincts kick in. The honorable lawman makes her heart race for all the wrong reasons.

Wade came home to bury ghosts, not dig up new ones. Yet the wary beauty his mother hired as a caretaker unearths feelings he’d rather keep hidden. The air sizzles every time they meet, but Wade knows better than to fall for a woman who lies to his face. When a cold case hits too close to home, Meredith becomes an unlikely ally–and a temptation he can’t resist.

In a small Texas town where secrets won’t stay buried, the forbidden fire between them threatens to ignite a blaze of cowboy justice.

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from Sheriff’s Honor 

Chapter One

Wade Hendricks was coming home.

Thunderheads gathered at the edge of the sky like portents of doom as he drove down the deserted stretch of highway toward Lost Lake. It figured that a storm was brewing, because all of his worldly possessions were piled high in the back of his pickup. Tension settled into his shoulders as he prepared for a difficult day. He didn’t mind foul weather, but he wasn’t looking forward to the reunion with his mother. Their relationship got more strained every year. Now she needed help, though she refused to admit it, and Wade was the only one left to do the job. He hadn’t bothered to warn her about his visit. She would have told him to stay in Last Chance and mind his own business.

Wade was glad for his four-wheel drive as he navigated the lonely country road. Wynona Hendricks lived on a ranch she’d inherited from her grandparents out in the middle of nowhere. Although Wade had been born in Lost Lake, they’d moved to Last Chance when he was five. He’d spent very little time at the ranch since then. He had no happy memories of the land, no childhood nostalgia for rolling fields and wide-open spaces. As an adult, he’d come to check on his mother periodically, or to offer a hand with repairs. They didn’t spend holidays here.

Wade was still a stranger to these parts, and he didn’t expect a warm welcome.

Dust kicked up in a cloud behind his tires, and the rain he’d expected didn’t materialize. He arrived at his destination before he was ready to face it. A metal gate hung off-kilter next to a wooden sign with burned-in letters that proclaimed: NOLAN RANCH. Two bear statues, roughly carved by a local chainsaw artist, guarded the front entrance. He’d always likened the cubs to himself and his brother, standing on hind legs, squared up for battle.

Wade pushed the thoughts of Billy aside as he continued toward the main house. His mother’s green Subaru was parked out front. He slowed to a stop at the end of the driveway and surveyed the house’s exterior. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but the property looked tidier than usual.

As he exited the vehicle, three new additions came bounding around the corner, barking furiously at him.

Now this was typical. Every time he visited, Wynona had a different menagerie of pets. She called it fostering, because she tried to find acceptable homes for them. Wade studied the trio of dogs with trepidation. One was roughly the size of a horse, with a dignified, fur-tufted head and long, gangly legs. He couldn’t identify the breed. The next was an Australian shepherd mix with a speckled coat and two different-colored eyes. The littlest, a Chihuahua, raced around Wade’s boots in a tannish blur.

As a law officer, and a former ranch hand, he had plenty of experience with animals. He knew when to retreat and when to proceed with caution. Of these dogs, only the big one appeared capable of doing serious harm. Wade greeted the beast with a calm, friendly tone. The big dog circled him but didn’t approach. The Chihuahua had no such qualms. It snarled at Wade’s ankles, kicking up dust.

Annoyed by the commotion, Wade walked toward the dog run on the side of the house. It was a basic concrete slab, secured by chain-link, and still in good condition. Wade had built it himself a few years ago for another set of rowdy dogs his mother had owned. She hadn’t used it because animals needed to be free.

The Chihuahua tried to bite his boot heels with every step. Wade shuffled sideways and opened the gate.

“Get in,” he said, gesturing inside.

The wolfhound, or whatever it was, obeyed without a fuss. The Aussie mix retrieved an old tennis ball and dropped it at Wade’s feet. Then it sat with ears perked up and tongue lolled out, excited by the prospect of a new playmate. The Chihuahua finally found purchase on the hem of his jeans. It clamped down on the fabric with a miniature snarl.

Wade jerked his leg free and repeated the order. “Get in!”

The Aussie mix dashed inside, alarmed by Wade’s raised voice, or his size-twelve boots. There was a bowl of fresh water inside the run, along with a large doghouse Wade hadn’t seen before. He bent to pick up the Chihuahua, because it wasn’t following orders. As soon as his hands touched fur, the dog whipped its head around and attacked. Sharp teeth sank into the fleshy pad between his thumb and forefinger.

Wade yowled in pain and surprise, because the dog had a nasty bite to match its temperament. He wanted to throw the little bastard into the pen, but he didn’t. He deposited the pint-sized creature next to his friends and slammed the gate. Blood welled from two punctures on his hand. The Chihuahua snapped at the chain-link, ready to attack again. Its hackles were raised, teeth bared in menace.

Wade noted that the dog had very few teeth to display. His faded muzzle and hazy eyes hinted at an advanced age. Wade wondered how a half-blind dog with three crooked teeth had managed to get a piece of him.

Grumbling under his breath, he secured the gate to the dog run. Then he let himself in to the house through a side door to the kitchen. The last time he’d visited, he’d repaired the sink. He approached it now, pleased with his handiwork. The sink was spotless and free of clutter. He turned on the faucet and let cool water flow over his sore hand. Then he added a squirt of soap and scrubbed at the bite wound.

As he glanced around the kitchen, he noticed a few more anomalies. Like the sink, the floors and countertops were clean.

Weird. Very weird.

“Hello?” he called out, wiping his hands with a paper towel.

No answer.

A chill traveled down his spine. His mother was a fun-loving, free-wheeling type. She stayed out late and drank too much. She’d been indulging more than usual lately. What if she was sicker than he thought, and he’d come too late?

Wade’s chest tightened as a disturbing memory assailed him. Six months ago, in another kitchen, he’d found a body face down on the linoleum, blood spattered across the floor. Being a first responder to that particular death scene would always haunt him. It was one of the reasons he’d left Last Chance.

He glanced up at the ceiling and took a calming breath. His mother was probably sleeping off a hangover, right as rain. The woman was indestructible.

Instead of going in search of her, he opened the fridge. He found an array of food and beverages. There were healthy options, like fresh fruit. Frowning, he grabbed a cold soda and cracked it open. As he lifted the can to his lips, the sound of a creaking floorboard alerted him of another presence. Someone was approaching with stealth, and it probably wasn’t his mother. She didn’t creep around in her own house. She didn’t creep around anywhere. Wynona Hendricks entered every room like a rodeo queen making a grand entrance.

An unfamiliar voice broke the silence: “Back up slowly, and put your hands where I can see ’em.”

Wade glanced over his shoulder, the soda can still hovering near his mouth. A strange woman stood in the hallway, less than six feet away. She had his mother’s gun, a serviceable relic that she kept loaded with buckshot to run off coyotes or cougars. Wade had cleaned and emptied it after Christmas.

“Did you hear me?” the woman asked, pumping the action. “I said back up.”

Wade stepped away from the refrigerator with his palms raised. His heart rate launched into overdrive as he looked down the barrel of the gun. The woman brandishing it appeared nervous, which alarmed him further. She might pull the trigger on accident. He swallowed hard, weighing his options. He could hear the tick of an old-fashioned wall clock in the next room, and the light fizz of bubbles from his freshly opened soda can. He could smell gun oil and dish soap. His vision sharpened as he studied the young woman.

She had dark brown hair and wide-set eyes that reminded him of a fawn. A smattering of freckles across her nose accentuated the resemblance.

Bambi was going to shoot him. Wasn’t that ironic?

Wade could have introduced himself as a police officer, or said his mother lived here, but he wasn’t quite himself. He’d had a rough couple of months. He’d been bitten by a feral Chihuahua. Having a shotgun aimed at his face didn’t improve his mood. It sent him right over the edge, into a place where rational acts were beyond him.

“That gun isn’t loaded,” he said conversationally.

An emotion he didn’t recognize flashed in her eyes. They were light brown, maybe hazel. She was about his age, and quite lovely. He wanted her to check the cartridge, which would give him the opening he needed to disarm her. Instead, she moved the barrel a few inches to the left and pulled the trigger.

Buckshot sprayed through the screen door in a shocking boom.

Goddamn.

His mistake. The weapon was loaded, and this sweet young thing wasn’t afraid to use it. The can of soda fell from his slack hand and fizzed all over the floor.

Wade didn’t wait for her to reset. The shotgun had a considerable kick, and although it didn’t knock her off-balance, she was forced to take a step back. He strode forward and wrenched the weapon from her grasp. Anger suffused him as soon as the life-or-death threat passed. This complete stranger had pulled a gun on him in his mother’s house. She’d fired it, too. A few inches to the right, and she’d have taken his head off.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he roared.

She wasn’t as brave without the shotgun in her hands. He’d overpowered her easily, and now she was in a precarious position. Cringing away from him, she pressed her back to the wall and brought her arms over her head in a self-defensive posture. Her hands were trembling. Her entire body was trembling.

Wade regretted his outburst, even though it felt justified. He was still angry, his muscles tense, but he wasn’t a violent man. It was clear that she thought he was going to strike her. She slid down the wall, as if her legs would no longer support her.

He stifled a curse at the sight of her collapse. Turning away from her, he stashed the shotgun on top of the kitchen cabinets. Then he removed his Stetson and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. His nerves were frayed, like hers. When he glanced her way again, she was sitting on the floor, watching him. The dogs were barking up a storm. The wind had picked up, rattling against the single-pane windows. There was a strange pressure in the air. Rain was coming, and all of his belongings were in the back of his pickup truck, unprotected. He’d been planning to unload it as soon as he arrived.

She eyed the screen door, as if calculating her chances of escape. She was wearing a sleeveless top, faded jeans with grass stains on the knees, and work boots. Her ponytail was charmingly off-center. Dirt smudged one freckled cheek. She was beautiful, and afraid of him. He felt a tug of sensual awareness that unsettled him further.

“I’m Wade Hendricks,” he said finally. “My mother lives here.”

She moistened her lips. “Your mother?”

“Yes, my mother. She owns this place. Is she home?”

“No.”

“I’m assuming you’ve met her.”

“She didn’t say she had a son.”

“Well, she does. And I’m him.”

Wade could read the doubt in her expression. His mother looked young for her age, and Wade didn’t. It was one of life’s cosmic jokes. Wynona had been a teen bride, and decades of hard living hadn’t caught up with her. Meanwhile, Wade felt older than he was, and it showed. He’d probably go gray early from the stress of being a Hendricks.

The strange young woman recovered from her shock. She grasped the edge of the table and rose to her feet. She was about five feet six, with a delicate face and a slender figure. The dogs outside continued to bark and howl. She kept glancing toward the screen door. It appeared that she’d fired clean through the mesh.

“Are those your dogs?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Wade noted that she seemed disturbed by the ruckus they were making, or perhaps she was plotting to sic them on him at the first opportunity. He took out his wallet to show her his badge. “I just signed on with the Lost Lake Sheriff’s Department. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t try to kill me again.”

Her brow furrowed. “I didn’t try to kill you.”

“It was pretty close, for a warning shot.”

“I thought you were an intruder. I was standing my ground.”

“You don’t live here,” he said in a clipped tone.

She lifted her chin. A faint scar edged from the underside of her full lower lip. “Yes, I do. Your mother invited me to stay.”

He put his wallet away. “Of course she did.”

“You can call her if you don’t believe me.”

“Oh, I believe you,” he said. His mother collected people like she collected pets. Lost souls of all types were welcome here. With a tired sigh, he retrieved the half-empty soda can from the floor. Setting the can by the sink, he grabbed a few paper towels to clean up the mess. “Do you know where she is?”

“I don’t keep tabs on her.”

Wade tossed the wet towels in the trash can. “Do you keep tabs on your dogs?”

“Yes.”

“The little one bit me.”

Her eyes widened with concern. “He did? Why?”

“I picked him up to put him in the dog run, and he snapped.”

“You probably startled him,” she said. “He’s arthritic.”

Wade arched a skeptical brow. The dog had whirled around his ankles like a dervish and attacked with the speed of lightning.

She took a step forward. “I’ll bandage it for you.”

He flexed his fingers, considering. He wouldn’t have bothered with a bandage on his own, but he was tempted by her peace offering. Experience had taught him to become allies with his mother’s friends, not adversaries.

With a shrug, he sat down at the kitchen table. She washed her hands at the sink. Then she opened a nearby drawer and rifled through it. After selecting some first aid items, she took the chair next to him. He proffered his injured hand. She turned it over gently, her fingers cool against his skin. She frowned at the punctures in his palm, as if she didn’t believe her precious angel was capable of doing this much damage. She started by wiping the base of his thumb with a square of rubbing alcohol. The sensation tickled, but he held still. Then she opened a little brown tincture bottle. Wade hissed as she applied a fine layer of liquid adhesive to the wound. The mixture stung as it dried, creating a mild zing of discomfort. She bent closer to his hand and blew on it. This simple act struck him as both innocent and erotic.

Without meaning to, without even touching her lips to his skin, she’d enlivened all of his senses. The combination of pleasure and pain caught him off guard. Wade’s fingers twitched involuntarily, and his pulse quickened.

She lifted her gaze to his, curious. Her eyes were hazel, like a quiet forest, rimmed with thick, dark lashes.

An alarm rang out in the still air, punctuating the tension between them.

It took him a second to realize the sound was emanating from his phone. He removed the device from his pocket as the emergency broadcast signal continued to blare.

Tornado warning.

Excerpt. ©Jill Sorenson. Posted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
 

Giveaway: Winner will receieve one ebook copy of SHERIFF’S HONOR by Jill Sorenson plus one additional ebook of the winner’s choice from Tule Publishing.

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Meet the Author:

Jill Sorenson is a diehard romance fan and the dynamic author of more than twenty romance novels. She’s been featured twice in Cosmopolitan Magazine, and her books have received starred reviews from Booklist, Library Journal, and Publishers Weekly. Most recently, she’s written for Harlequin as Susan Cliff. Now she’s making her comeback as Jill with a fresh start in Western contemporary romance!

Born and raised in the Flint Hills of Kansas, Jill transported to a small town in California. She still lives in the Golden State with her family, where she dreams about happy endings in cowboy country.

Buy: https://tulepublishing.com/books/sheriffs-honor/#order