Blackstone Ranger Chief

bear didn’t like anything or anyone. It hated almost everything in the world.
“You have pretty eyes.” She was looking straight up at him. “They’re so green.” Her hand reached up to cup his jaw, and his spine—and other parts of him—went stiff.
“Uh … miss, can I take you home? Or to your hotel? Should I call your husband?” That last part left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“I’m not … no husband.” She frowned, and her hands dropped to her sides. “I ran away. Jilted him at the altar, as they say.”
Relief poured through him. So, she wasn’t married. Of course, that didn’t mean she was free. “Where do you live, miss? Maybe I can call your family or something.”
“Nowhere. Not anymore,” she bawled, tears springing to her eyes. “I can’t go back now. Not after what I’ve done.”
Goddamn, he hated waterworks, but seeing her cry made him want to rip something apart. But he didn’t know how to comfort her. “How about a friend, maybe you can stay with a friend? Do you know someone in town? How did you get here?”
“I drove,” she stated.
“From?”
“From the church.”
“Which church?” He scrambled for names of nearby churches. “Saint Joseph’s in Greenville? Or the one in Verona Mills?”
“All Saints Episcopalian,” she said.
“I’ve never heard of that one. Is that the one on seventy-five?”
“It’s back home.”
“And where is home?”
She smiled dreamily. “Why, in Albuquerque, silly.”
“Albu—as in New Mexico?” he asked incredulously.
“Is there another Albuquerque?”
Christ. That was about an eight-hour drive from here. How in the world did she get all the way to Blackstone? And what was he going to do now? “I can’t leave you out here, miss. Is there somewhere I can take you to? A motel? Or the hospital?”
“You can take me home.”
The Demon thought that was a very good idea, but he pushed those thoughts away. “I don’t think—” He stopped as her head rolled back and her eyes closed. Then she started snoring softly, and her body turned into a dead weight in his arms.
Goddammit.

Chapter Two
What in all things good and holy happened last night?
Based on the pounding headache drilling into her brain, Anna Victoria Hall knew that whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
And it probably involved tequila.
Good Lord. Any time she had the stuff, bad things happened. Like now, for example, waking up in a strange place. In a strange bed.
“No, no, no.” The world spun as she sat up like a rocket. “Ooof.” Normally, this was about the time she told herself, I’m never drinking again. And maybe this time she really meant it.
I’ve really done it now.
Slowly, she opened her eyes. She was in some kind of … log cabin? It smelled like pine in here and something … very masculine. The dark furniture, the flannel sheets, and the distinct maleness in her surroundings told her this was definitely a man’s bedroom.
“What have you gotten yourself into, Anna Victoria Hall?” she whispered to herself.
This wasn’t how she wanted her day to end up. Hell’s bells, this wasn’t how she thought her life would end up—hungover on tequila, in a stranger’s bedroom, on the day after what was supposed to be her wedding.
The memories suddenly slammed into her befuddled brain and the pain in her head pounded even harder.
Maybe I should have gone through with it.
But the thought had barely formed in her head before her skin started crawling. Marrying Edward Jameson would have been a mistake. But it’s not like she had a choice in the first place.
She took a deep breath and frowned. Why was it hard to breathe? Glancing down, she realized she was still wearing the most hideous wedding gown ever created. I wouldn’t have chosen something so tacky, even if I wanted to get married. No, this crime against fashion had been the groom’s choice, along with other aspects of that farce of a wedding.
The moment she’d laid eyes on the gown, she’d hated it—not just because it was gaudy, but because of what it represented. But she’d never been happier to be wearing it than she was at this moment. The damned thing took two seamstresses to put on, and so that meant she’d kept it on all night. That meant she didn’t just have sex with some stranger on what was supposed to be her wedding night.
But the question still remained: Where the hell was she?
Burying her face in her hands, she dug into her brain for the last of her memories. Waiting in the back of the church. Realizing this was a mistake. And then sneaking out the front door and taking a taxi back to her apartment. There had been no time to do anything—not to pack, not to get dressed, and certainly not to plan. She took out the daily maximum of cash from her debit card during a quick stop at the drive-through ATM, then took off. Somewhere along the highway, she dumped her phone, debit and credit cards—even if her father hadn’t cut them off yet, it was too risky to use them.
Of course, she wasn’t completely destitute. In fact, sitting in the trunk of her car was a duffel bag full of cash. But she would starve and die before she touched that money.
“Oh Lord.”
More memories flooded back. The bar last night. And tequila. A lot of it. Too much. And then … she remembered big, strong arms around her. A masculine scent that seemed imprinted in her brain.
A throat clearing made her freeze. “You’re up.”
The rough, sleep-hewn quality of the voice made her shiver. In a good way. Slowly, she turned her head toward the source.
Oh no.
Despite the fact that her brain couldn’t piece together what happened after the fourth or fifth shot of tequila, what it did remember was this guy. And she recognized him immediately. How could she not, when he had stared at her so openly when he approached the bar? Not even her tequila-dulled senses could ignore the spark of desire in his bright green eyes—or the