by Lisa Jackson
Her nerves were strung tight being so close to Sloan yet knowing that he was only staying at the Rocking M because it was his job. The walls seemed to be closing in on her, and at times she felt as if she were a prisoner in her own home. That wasn’t entirely true, of course, but she wasn’t used to having to account for every minute of her time—not even to Sloan.
He hung up the phone and settled back in the desk chair. His eyes narrowed as he stared through the window into the night. “Barry White’s being extradited. Should be in Rimrock in a couple of days.”
Casey stiffened at the mention of her captor. Images of the cabin flashed through her mind, and her skin crawled. She remembered the fear—the stark, naked terror—she’d felt being at his mercy. “I want to talk to him.”
“It won’t be that easy,” Sloan said.
“I don’t care.” A slow-burning rage crept through her blood. “I just want to talk to him, okay?” she snapped, then dropped the Christmas list and rubbed her arms. “Because now he’s not controlling me. I’m not his hostage anymore. I have a lot of questions I want to ask him.”
“He won’t talk to you,” Sloan said. He reached for a pencil and twirled it in his fingers as if deep in thought. From the hallway, the grandfather clock ticked off the seconds.
“Stay away from that White character,” Mavis warned.
“And for God’s sake, don’t do anything unless you talk to the lawyer.” Virginia set her pen and half-written cards aside. “You don’t want to jeopardize the case—”
“I don’t care about the case!” Casey stood quickly and walked to the window, gazing out at the snow-flocked barn. “I just want to find out who was working with that creep and lock them both away forever. It’s time to end this!” She didn’t realize it, but she was shaking inside. She was tired of being the victim. Tired of trying to remain calm. Tired of controlling the anger and tamping down the fury that scorched through her veins every time she thought about her abduction.
“We all want to get it over with.” Sloan’s voice didn’t calm her. Instead it reminded her how he wanted to collect his money and leave, end this chapter in his life—a chapter that had briefly and heart-wrenchingly included her.
“I can’t stand this anymore—this sitting around. Waiting for something to happen.” She stormed out of the den, down the hall and through the kitchen. At the back porch she grabbed her old suede jacket from its peg and rammed her arms into the sleeves. Searching quickly, she found gloves in the pocket and yanked them on as she headed to the barn. As a girl, every time she’d been upset, she’d gone riding, and right now she wanted to feel the wind streaming through her hair, breathe the winter-crisp air and fight back her tears as she rode through the winter night.
“Casey!” her mother yelled from the door. “Casey, what’re you doing?”
“Give me a break,” she muttered under her breath. Flinging open the door to the barn, she snapped on the lights, grabbed a bridle from the tack room and opened the stall of one of her favorite little mares. “Come on, Jezebel,” she said, buckling the chin strap. “Let’s stretch our legs.”
She sensed Sloan’s presence before she saw him. Taking in a deep breath, she turned and found him standing in the doorway, his huge frame silhouetted against the night. “Don’t try to talk me out of this,” she warned as she led the mare from her stall.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Sure.”
“You want to go riding. Ride.” Glancing up to see if he was teasing, she felt her heart skip a beat. He was staring at her intensely, his dark eyes unreadable, his chin seeming to be chiseled from stone. “I don’t blame you.”
“You’re not going to follow me?”
“Not unless you want me to.”
She felt suddenly contrite, as if she’d been acting like a wayward, spoiled child. All that her family and Sloan wanted was to keep her safe. “Look, I just need a little breathing space, all right? I feel like a horse trapped in a two-foot-square stall.”
“I’m just trying to keep you alive.”
“That’s all?” she asked, angling her chin upward, defying him to say more.
“That’s what I’m being paid to do.”
Her heart seemed to wither. “Right. I forgot. You’re in this for the money.”
He didn’t bother answering, just stared at her with eyes as black as coal. Clucking to the mare, she walked into the paddock, climbed onto the sorrel’s back and leaned forward. The snow was too deep to ride fast; she had to be content with a walk, but it was enough. A full moon cast silver light over the landscape and the snow seemed to sparkle as if spangled by a million sequins. The air was frigid against her face and the mare’s breath misted the air in two smoky plumes. She rode through the connecting fields and toward a stand of pine, passed the turnoff to Max’s house and continued even farther, up a winding trail past the old homestead. The mountains, huge dark hills topped with the outcropping of stone for which the town of Rimrock was named, loomed above her.
The mare stopped. Chestnut ears flicked nervously. Casey’s stomach knotted. She remembered the gunman taking shots at her. Don’t be silly! Casey’s heart hammered in fear. Urging Jezebel forward, she pulled on the reins. Here, in the open, she was an easy target, but if she rode into the thicket of pine trees, she’d be harder to spot.
Again the horse balked, stopping dead in her tracks and snorting. “It’s all right,” Casey whispered, barely able to hear her own voice over the pounding of her heart. “Come on, girl.”
Jezebel tossed her head, jangling her reins, and Casey’s throat went dry. The wind ripped through the hills with a sudden ferocity. Straining to see, Casey leaned forward and dug her heels into the horse’s side. “Let’s go,” she said, and the feisty mare moved forward into the trees, where long shadows of twisted, bare limbs stretched eerily on the snowy ground.
Casey told herself she was being foolish, that the mare was just skittish about being out at night, that she knew the ranch better than anyone. She’d ridden these ridges, canyons and trails all her life. Still her heart was thundering and sweat collected along her spine. Her breathing was shallow and she urged the mare into a trot.
When the horseman appeared, she nearly screamed. The mare fidgeted, then neighed, just as Casey recognized Sloan, tall and broad shouldered in the saddle, his black Stetson firmly in place. Relief flooded through her, and for a second she wanted to fling herself into his arms.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” she said, embarrassed by the breathless tone of her voice.
“Changed my mind.” He rode his horse close to hers.
Inwardly she warmed, hoping that he’d also had a change of heart. Then she noticed the rifle in the scabbard of the saddle and she reminded herself that he was just doing his job. “What changed it?”
“A call from Hammond Polk.” His eyes were mere slits in the darkness, his brows drawn low as he scanned the countryside.
Her heart sank. “What call?” she hardly dared ask.
“A call warning us that Barry White’s escaped.”
“What? Oh, God.” Her insides congealed and she steadied herself in the saddle. “But how—”
“During the transfer, somehow. I don’t have all the details, but I gathered he was handcuffed and left alone in a cruiser. The car was idling and someone forgot to lock him in. While the Feds and the locals were discussing how to move him, he hopped into the driver’s seat, grabbed the shotgun and started blasting. Injured a guard, got the key and undid his handcuffs, then took off in the car, lights flashing. They chased him, of course, and he eventually drove through a guardrail and into a river. They’re busy right now trying to pull the car out of the water. He’s probably dead, but we can’t be sure.”
Will this never end? “You think, if he survived, he might come here?”
Sloan’s lips were grim, his nostrils flared. “I’m sure of it,” he said, frowning into the surrounding darkness. “Dead sure.”
Chapter
Eleven
Sloan wasn’t taking any chances. As they rode back to the heart of the ranch, he kept his horse close to Casey’s little mare. With one hand on the reins, the other on the rifle, he scanned the night-darkened scenery, searching the low brush and scrub oaks, nervous that an unknown assassin was watching.
Surely Barry White was dead. No one could survive a crash like the one described by the sheriff, but until White’s body was found, Sloan couldn’t be certain. Nor did he have any idea where the lonesome cowboy posing as Rex Stone might be.
Casey’s life was in danger, and he was certain she was still the prime target. Before, it seemed, whoever was behind the mayhem at the ranch had been choosing randomly. Certainly the culprit had deliberately planned Jonah’s death, but the arson in the stables hadn’t been aimed at one individual. The blaze could have wounded or killed anyone, including the livestock. As for Beth’s car nearly being run off the road, Sloan suspected it could have happened to Skye or Virginia or Max or anyone connected with the McKees. But now, with Casey as a possible witness, Sloan believed Barry White’s partners would be after her. She—not just any member of the McKee family or any McKee property—was the mark. That thought chilled him to the bone.
The night closed in around them and he saw death behind every boulder, felt a killer’s gaze on their backs, sensed danger in the frigid air. The horses plodded through the snow, breaking a new trail down a hillside and across a frozen stream. When they were close enough to see the house, its windows bright in the night, Christmas lights strung in bold colors, he felt a sense of relief. They rode through a series of paddocks near the barn, then dismounted. He led his gelding into the barn first, flipping on the lights and making sure that no one was lying in wait.
A few soft nickers greeted them and hooves rustled in the straw. A black-and-white barn cat, on the prowl for mice, slinked past several barrels of grain.
“What? No boogeyman?” Casey quipped as she yanked off her gloves and stuffed them into her pocket. With a grin cast in his direction, she unbuckled the bridle and slid it from the mare’s head.
“Not yet.” He glanced up to the hayloft and his ears strained for any sound out of the ordinary—the scrape of a boot on the floor, the hiss of a match, the click of a rifle being cocked.
“I think we’re safe here,” she said, patting Jezebel’s nose.
“Maybe.” Leaning his rifle against the wall, he tugged off his gloves, uncinched the saddle and slung it over an old sawhorse. He spread the saddle blanket over the top of the stall and expertly removed the bridle, as he’d done thousands of times. The barn did seem safe and warm against the cold winter night. All too easily he could be lulled into a false sense of security. Just as easily he could let himself forget who he was, who Casey McKee was, and get lost in her again. He glanced up and found her in the empty stall next to Jezebel’s staring at him with eyes that seemed to see straight into his pitch-black soul.
He knew then that he had to kiss her. All the hours of being with her and denying himself had taken their toll. There was only so much temptation a man could resist. He snapped off the lights and walked through the open stall gate.
He heard her swift intake of breath, saw her face in the blue light reflecting off the snow and filtering through the window. Wrapping his arms around her, he drew her close, his mouth finding hers, his lips hard and demanding, a fire starting deep in his loins. She didn’t protest, but kissed him back hungrily, as if she, too, had been starved for his touch.
Don’t do this, his mind warned, but he couldn’t stop. She tasted so sweet, her lips were so yielding, and desire rolled through his blood in urgent, hot waves. He reached for the zipper of her jacket. It slid downward with an easy, sexy hiss. Reaching inside, he felt her breasts, full and firm beneath her sweater. Stop! Now. While you still can!
Still kissing her, he inched the sweater up slowly, feeling her flesh, warm and supple against his fingertips. She moaned deep in her throat as he scaled her ribs and cupped her breast in his palm. “Sloan,” she whispered, “oh, Sloan.” He drew down the strap of her bra, felt the hard button of her nipple between his fingers, pressed against her jeans with the bulge in his. His mind was on fire and images of making love to her burned behind his eyes.
He could think of nothing save loving her. Pressing her back against the wall, he buried his head in the crook of her neck and touched her, running his callused hands over her soft skin. Passion thundered through his brain. He shoved her jacket off and pulled the sweater over her head, then stared down at her, watching her chest rise and fall with her rapid breathing, seeing the cleft between her breasts, the soft mounds rising over a pale peach-colored bra, her nipples hard and dark beneath the lace, one strap falling over her shoulder.
With one trembling finger, he reached forward and traced the sculpted edge of her bra. “You’re too incredibly beautiful,” he murmured. “So beautiful.” With a groan he bent his head and began kissing and touching her, suckling through the gossamer fabric, tugging on straps, feeling her arms cradle his head even closer as together they slid to the floor and she was writhing beneath him. He couldn’t get enough of her and she arched forward, pressing more of that sweet, supple flesh into his mouth.
She moaned deep in her throat and the hardness between his legs burned hot and urgent. He reached for the waistband of her jeans, heard the series of pops as the buttons gave way and delved deep with his hand, exploring the soft curls and the hot moist cleft between her legs. She gave a sharp cry as he touched her, penetrated deep. “Make love to me,” she pleaded, her eyes glazed, her mouth parted in open invitation. “Oh, Sloan, make love to me and never stop.”
He intended to do just that. Quickly stripping off his jacket and shirt, he stretched out beside her. He’d take it slow, prolong this little bit of heaven while they still had time together. He couldn’t think about leaving her, would push that dark thought to the farthest corner of his mind. But he would love her tonight as he’d never loved another woman, as he would never love again.
He stripped her of her bra, gazed at the beauty of her breasts and kicked off his boots and jeans, then pulled hers from her. Somewhere, as if far in the distance, he heard the rumble of a truck’s engine and the quiet nicker of a horse. While staring deeply into her eyes, he slowly spread her legs with his knees and waited just a heartbeat, long enough for their gazes to connect and twine, for eternity to shine in her eyes, for him to realize that he would never feel like this with another woman.
His muscles strained and sweat slid down his spine. “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you,” he admitted, and she swallowed hard.
“Then take me, please,” she breathed. “Now.”
With an anxious thrust, he entered her, felt the liquid velvet of her body sheathing his and knew that his soul was forever fused to hers. Slowly he withdrew only to push forward again, and then he lost control, moving rapidly, thinking of nothing save loving her.
“I love you, Sloan,” he thought he heard her say, but it might have been the whisper of the wind in the rafters or the wild beating of his heart, he wasn’t sure. But the heat within him surged and built, and with a cry he poured himself into her, gathering her into his arms and holding her close, feeling the ecstasy of passion and the agony of despair. For this was the last time they would ever come together as man and woman. He knew it and she did, as well, because he felt her warm tears run down his chest.
“Shh,” he soothed, but her shoulders trembled as she struggled not to sob. “It’s all right,” he whispered, his breath ragged, his heart thundering as he lied to her. It wasn’t all right. And it never would be. Nothing was, because they could never be together. Still he cradled her, holding her close and gently rocking, waiting for her breathing to slow, hoping that she would someday remember him fondly. When at last she relaxed, he plucked a piece of straw from her hair and murmured against her ear, “I think we’d better go inside.”
“Not yet.” She held him tightly, ki
ssed his cheek. His heart ripped a little.
“Casey, just listen. Pretty soon someone will come looking for us.”
“So?”
“You don’t care if your mother or your grandmother or one of the hands finds us together?”
“No,” she said defiantly.
“Sure. Come on.” But he didn’t make a move for his clothes and only when he heard the front door of the house bang shut did he swear and grab his jeans.
“Casey? Sloan?” Jenner’s voice rang with concern. Casey, startled, reached for her clothes, struggled to find them in the dark, her fingers scraping through the straw to graze the concrete floor.
“Son of a bitch,” she heard Sloan growl as he zipped his jeans. “Where the hell’s my shirt?”
She found her jeans and wiggled into them. Her bra was on the ground; she stuffed it into her pocket and flung her sweater over her head. Now, her jacket. She searched frantically on the floor before Sloan tossed it to her.
“Where are they?” Jenner muttered, his uneven steps stopping near the door of the barn just as Casey slid her feet into her boots.
Jenner threw open the door and snapped on the lights. “What the hell?” he said, his gaze landing on Sloan and Casey, standing together in the stall. One of Sloan’s arms was flung protectively around her waist and Casey could feel the scratch of straw against her skin. She probably looked a sight. A dark scowl crossed Jenner’s features as he leaned on his cane. “What’s going on here?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing suspiciously on Sloan. “Oh, sh—”
“Stop it!” Casey cut in.
“The two of you? Sloan, you bastard!” His face turned an ugly shade of red.
