by Abby Gaines
“That was warm,” he said.
She tugged her bandanna away from her throat, sucked in a breath. “You must be drunk.”
“You think?” He was looking at her lips.
“Of course.” She wiped her fingers across her mouth, but she could still feel the kiss. “How drunk are you?”
He put one hand against the wall, as if he wasn’t quite steady. “How drunk do you want me to be?”
Blotto. Pie-eyed. Unable to remember this in the morning. “I don’t care how much you drink,” she said. “Why don’t you get back to your card game? With luck, someone will fleece you.”
“There are some things I do as well drunk as sober, Cindy.” His eyes hadn’t budged from her lips.
“Just sober up by Sunday,” she said. “And my name’s Cynthia. Judge Merritt to you.”
She marched down the hallway, and hoped he wouldn’t see her clutch at the newel post as she started down the stairs. It didn’t matter that he’d mocked her with that kiss. They’d made a deal, and she would make sure he stuck to it.
THE SENSATION OF ETHAN’S mouth on hers still lingered the next morning as Cynthia drank her coffee. When she caught herself tracing her bottom lip with her tongue, she groaned.
“It was a tiny kiss,” she muttered into her cup. What was the bet Ethan hadn’t even remembered it when he woke up this morning? Hopefully with a filthy hangover. Not that he’d actually seemed that drunk. He’d been steady on his feet, articulate, quick-thinking enough to insist she reconsider Sam’s community service.
Maybe he hadn’t been drunk at all. She turned the thought over.
In which case, why had he kissed her?
Cynthia analyzed the kiss from every angle, so hard that her head hurt as if she was the one who’d been drinking.
Was it a power play? He’d wanted to show her she didn’t get to call all the shots? Message received, though she was damned if she’d let him see that.
Maybe he’d kissed her because, like her, he’d felt that inescapable sensual tension in the air. But although Ethan was a man of the land, she doubted he gave in to his elemental instincts on a whim. Besides, he probably had every woman in town after him. She was the one with the sad-sack social life. Which was the only reason she was still thinking about that brief but highly inappropriate kiss.
Impatient with her circling thoughts, she pulled on shorts and a T-shirt to go for a run.
Stonewall Hollow sat on the edge of a plain, the west side of town butting up against wooded hills. In any other direction you saw nothing but sky. Cynthia took a trail she’d tried before through the tree-filled lower slopes. Though she liked running, she did it infrequently enough that it was as much punishment as relaxation. By the time she emerged at the other end of the trail, she was puffing like a chain-smoker. But at least she wasn’t thinking about Ethan.
At least, not until she ran past Al’s Gas and Food Mart, and saw Sam sweeping the forecourt with a wire broom. His lawyer had mentioned Sam had a vacation job here—he juggled his community service hours around his commitments to Al. The lawyer had tabled a positive character reference from Al in court.
She stopped for a breather. “Hi, Sam.” She massaged a stitch in her right side.
He grunted.
“You working today?”
He gave her a pitying look. “I don’t sweep this dump for free.”
No, she guessed he didn’t. “How’s your service going over at the park?” He’d been reassigned to work with the town’s parks department.
“’Kay.”
What would it take to get a decent answer out of him? “I could have you transferred to your dad’s place if you’d prefer,” she said, in a burst of unjudgeworthy malice.
He blanched. “No way. The park’s good.”
Cynthia raised her right arm over her head and stretched to her left, in an attempt to get rid of that stitch. “Your dad’s trying hard to convince me you should work on the ranch with him. He really wants you around.” She realized she sounded wistful, and straightened up. Her situation with her father was nothing like Sam’s with Ethan.
Sam eyed her suspiciously. Had he heard that wistfulness?
“I’d better keep moving,” she said briskly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Uh,” he grunted. Then, blurted in alarm, “Why?”
“I’m visiting the ranch, to learn how your dad’s program works.”
“Is that all?”
Could he somehow know his dad had kissed her? “What other reason could there be?”
“You wouldn’t make me work with him, would you?” Sam’s hostility toward Ethan seemed extreme.
“Your father seems to care a lot about you.”
“You’re just like everyone else,” the boy said. “He’s got you thinking he’s wonderful, too.”
“I do not.” This was a bad idea, arguing with Sam about his dad. Cynthia jogged on the spot. “Gotta go, see you later.”
She ran on, her breathing strained, from exertion and from an unpalatable realization. That kiss…had it been a ploy by Ethan to get her on his side, make her think he was “wonderful”? To, as her dad would say, exert undue influence?
She picked up her pace. If Ethan thought she’d be a pushover when she got to the Double T, he’d soon learn he was wrong.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ETHAN FLIPPED THE HASH browns in the frying pan. “Make sure your room’s tidy, too. She’ll be here at three.”
“No way, the judge is not going into my room.” Sam banged the carton he was holding on the counter. Orange juice slopped out the spout. He reached for the washcloth to wipe it up…then Ethan saw the moment he deliberately pulled his hand back, ignoring the mess.
Ethan counted to ten. He picked up the cloth, tossed it so it landed on the spilled juice. “There you go.”
After a silent, furious moment, Sam made a halfhearted effort to clean up. Did every damn thing have to be a battle?
“I don’t think Cyn—the judge will go into your room,” he said. “But it’s been a pigsty all week and it wouldn’t hurt to at least clear a path to the bed.” He had a feeling Cynthia would look closely at how he and Sam lived, even if she didn’t actually do a room inspection.
“Mainly I’ll show her what the guys are doing outside,” he said, only half to Sam.
Sam made a gagging sound. He poured Crispy Flakes—how could an eighteen-year-old do a day’s work on that sugar-laden stuff?—into a bowl, and added a generous splash of orange juice.
“You want some milk with that?” Ethan asked.
“Nope.” Sam rattled the cutlery in the drawer more than he needed to find a spoon. He sat at the counter and began to eat. Noisily.
“Did your mom forget to teach you manners?”
“She taught me. I just decided not to use them.”
Briefly, Ethan fantasized about dunking Sam’s face into his cereal. “You’d better remember those manners for Judge Merritt.”
“I’m not here to impress her.”
“No need to antagonize her, either.”
“You better not be going to ask her to make me work here.”
“I’m aware of your views on the subject.” Too bad.
Sam shoved his bowl across the counter. “Are you going to take an interest in what I have planned for the day?”
“You need to be here,” Ethan said. “We have company.”
“You have company.” Sam slid off his stool. “All you can talk about is the friggin’ judge. Like you think she’s hot, or something.”
Ethan flipped a couple of hash browns that didn’t need flipping. “She’s here on business, that’s all.”
“Then I don’t need to play the dutiful son.”
“I didn’t think you know that game.” Ethan meant it as a joke, but it didn’t come out that way.
Sam’s face darkened. “I’m out of here.” He grabbed his keys from the hook by the door.
Ethan wanted to yell. He forced reasonableness
into his voice. “Where are you going?”
“To see Gram.”
He might have known. Sam was going somewhere no one would argue with him. Ethan’s mother wouldn’t dream of telling him his behavior was unacceptable. It would be nice to have someone other than the sheriff backing Ethan up, but his mom had always been the last person he could count on.
He broke two eggs into the pan. “You want some of this?”
Sometimes food worked when nothing else did. Sam looked momentarily torn. “Nah, I’ll get something at Gram’s.”
“Be back in time to see Judge Merritt,” Ethan ordered.
“Whatever.” Sam let the door slam behind him.
Ethan gripped the edge of the stove, his head bowed. He’d started the day with such optimism, having convinced Cynthia to review Sam’s sentence and knowing just how to swing that review in his favor. The way he’d envisaged it, Cynthia would be dazzled by his program, impressed by his calm handling of Sam. And she’d send more kids out to the ranch and transfer Sam home for the rest of his current sentence.
Simple.
If Sam cooperated.
If Ethan hadn’t blown it by kissing Cynthia.
Dammit, what had possessed him? One minute he’d been astounded at her brazenness, insisting he act warmly toward her after the hostility between them. Next minute, his mind had sprinted miles ahead to what warm might conceivably mean…and her mouth had been right there in front of him, and it had been the most logical thing in the world to—
Logic had nothing to do with it. The judge might be sexy and smart, not to mention strong-willed, but she was off-limits. He’d told her conflict of interest was inevitable in a small town, but Ethan didn’t need to complicate his situation with Sam any further.
And even without the Sam factor…while Ethan was an upright citizen these days, a stickler for the law like Cynthia wouldn’t give him the time of day if she knew the truth about his past.
Keep it simple. No more kissing the judge.
Ethan sighed. With the judge off-limits and his son being difficult, the day stretched before him, flat and unappetizing as—
“Dammit.” He pulled the pan off the stove, the eggs a blackened mess. He tipped them onto a plate anyway and sat down to eat. At least the silence didn’t throb with antagonism. Halfway through, he shoved the plate away. The charred food wasn’t the problem. He’d just realized how he felt about his son not being here.
Relieved.
CYNTHIA ARRIVED AT THE Double T fifteen minutes early, not really expecting to find Ethan burying the bodies of exploited workers…but if he was, she might as well turn up in time to catch him red-handed.
She pulled up outside the two-story white clapboard ranch house and switched off the engine. To her right was a dark-stained board and batten barn; Ethan came around the side, a hand raised in greeting.
Wearing jeans with holes in the knees and a T-shirt that molded to his shoulders and chest, a battered straw cowboy hat wedged on his head against the glaring sun, he looked half rancher, half outlaw. She’d convinced herself she’d neutralized the threat he represented. But today he seemed doubly dangerous.
I am a judge. I am not swayed by too-sexy men who steal drunken kisses during poker games. She climbed out of the Volvo and tugged her mint-green tank top down to meet her sky-blue capris.
“Welcome to the Double T, Judge Merritt,” he said formally. No reason for her to think of his lips on hers, of that fleeting firmness, overlaid with sensual softness….
Cynthia fanned her face. “It’s a scorcher this afternoon.”
“You need any sunscreen for those shoulders?”
“I already put some on.” She dived back into the car, busied herself spreading the folding shade across her windscreen. Keep it simple. She was here to fulfill her part of the odd bargain they’d struck on Friday night. And sealed with a kiss.
“Let’s go.” Ethan strode toward the barn. “Sooner we get started, the sooner I get my son back where he belongs.”
She ignored the dig. “Is Sam here?” she asked as she caught up with him.
“He had an errand in town. Should be back any minute.” Barely breaking his stride, he bent down to pull a weed from between two of the half logs that edged the driveway.
“So, you mostly run cattle here?” Cynthia said, remembering the triplet calves.
“Angus beef,” he confirmed, “the best beef you’ll find. We grow a few onions, too.”
“Onions?” She laughed at the incongruity, and some of her tension eased.
“Award-winning onions,” he elaborated. “You’re in Vidalia country here, and ours are some of the best.”
They rounded the barn. On this side, double doors stood open. Inside, two young men, one of whom she recognized from court, tinkered with a green-and-yellow tractor.
“You make them work on a Sunday?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Some of them ask to work Sundays to get through their service faster. Others have jobs during the week, so weekends are their community service time.”
She cleared her throat. “Right.”
“And you promised to take an objective look,” Ethan said smoothly.
“I will.”
A twist of his mouth conveyed his doubt. “Summer is our slowest time of year. We’ve finished calving, the cows are in summer pasture. The next couple of months are all about mending fences, maintaining machinery and putting up hay. Today, the guys are servicing the tractor.”
“You know how to do that?” Cynthia asked the youths, who’d taken this excuse to lay down their tools.
“Getting there,” one of them said.
“The good thing about a job like this,” Ethan said, “is the guys who know something about cars get to practice their skills. Those who don’t, pick up something new they can use immediately at home.”
“This funnel is useless.” Connor King, the nineteen-year-old she’d sentenced a couple of days ago, held up the offending piece of equipment. “It’s taking forever to top up this stuff.” He kicked at a pail labeled Transmission Oil.
“Careful,” Ethan said. “You’ll spill—”
The pail tipped over and viscous brown liquid glugged onto the concrete floor. The boy swore; Ethan jumped forward and righted the container.
He said slowly, “That’s a five-gallon pail, Connor. A hundred and fifty dollars’ worth. I reckon you just threw half of it away.”
“Sorry,” the kid muttered.
“No problem,” Ethan said. “You can clean up the mess, then either you pay me back, or you work an extra six hours to cover the cost.”
“No way, man.” Connor’s face turned scarlet. “You can’t make me.”
“I don’t need to make you. You know the right thing to do.” Ethan stared him down, arms folded.
For a tense twenty seconds—to Cynthia it felt like twenty minutes—no one spoke. Then Connor broke away from Ethan. “Fine, I’ll do the extra time. It’s not as if there’s anything else to do around here.” He let out a string of curses, each cruder than the last.
Ethan’s jaw locked. Cynthia watched him consciously relax his facial muscles before he said very quietly, “Apologize for your language.”
Again, it seemed to take forever. Then Connor muttered, “Sorry, ma’am.”
Cynthia exhaled noisily as Ethan moved on to show the boys how to change the brake fluid amid much kidding and bantering, which the kids evidently appreciated. When he judged the boys could be left to get on with the job, he steered her out of the barn.
They strolled to a paddock with a white rail fence that suggested it held horses rather than cows. Cynthia leaned against the rail. “Do you get many incidents like that?”
His eyebrows drew together. “That was nothing. These guys usually start here with a grudge against the world. Being willing to accept some accountability by the time they leave is the minimum I expect them to get out of the program. Though of course some get a lot further along.”
“You handled Connor well.”
“That’s gracious of you.” Ethan sounded as if he didn’t believe she meant it. He whistled to a horse she hadn’t seen grazing over the far side. The chestnut animal abandoned its meal, trotted over.
“It’s my objective opinion,” she said, reminding him she was playing her part. “How did you manage not to lose your temper? I was ready to slug him.”
“It’s tempting, but of course it’s not the answer.” He fondled the horse’s ears. The animal nickered and nudged closer. “I like Connor. I like all the kids who come here.”
“Really? Because I struggle to like a lot of the people who come through my courtroom.”
His mouth quirked. “By the time they get to me, you’ve knocked the fight out of them.”
Connor had looked as though he still had plenty of fight.
“You asked me on Friday night—” Ethan’s gaze drifted to her lips and she found herself pressing them together, minimizing them “—to give you a second chance. That’s what these guys need, and a lot of them come into their own out here. Not so surprising I like them and they end up liking me.”
A second chance. The reason she was in Stonewall Hollow. Because she’d messed up. Though she hadn’t broken any rules, other than her father’s cardinal commandment: Thou shalt not let me down. “That’s admirable,” she said.
He scratched the horse’s neck. “Does that mean Sam can serve out the rest of his sentence on the ranch?”
She should have seen that coming. “I haven’t finished my assessment.”
“Sam rides Stargirl.” He patted the mare’s neck. “He’d never been on horseback before, but he has a natural seat.” A father’s pride behind the throwaway comment. “Do you ride?”
“No. I don’t wrangle cows, either,” she admitted in a moment of…what? Wanting him to know the real her, limitations and all? The Cynthia her father couldn’t accept? Ethan had made it clear he was well aware of her faults.
“And yet you think you can fit in around here?” But he didn’t sound as if he was dismissing her.
“What do you think?” she challenged him.
