His hands were warm where they rested against her back, then he reached for her shirt and began buttoning it together. "I'll dream about you for a long time, Carly. I won't forget how you tasted and how you felt." His hands grazed her breasts as he snapped her bra together, and she couldn't control the ripple of need that sliced through her. "And I won't forget that you wanted me."
He drew her closer for a moment, and the hard length of his erection burned into her. Then he slipped away and stood up. "I guess it's time we got back to town."
She stood up slowly and faced him. "That's it? You can just say, fun's over, it's time to go home?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know," she muttered. But she did. She wanted Devlin to say that he wanted her as much as she wanted him, that he would help her find the truth about her brother and they would all live happily ever after.
None of that was going to happen. So she straightened her spine and said, "I want to say that I apologize for letting things go too far. I should have stopped it long before I…" She cleared her throat and added, "It won't happen again."
"I think that would be best," he said gravely. But she saw a flash of regret and sadness in his eyes.
She hurried to the opening of the cave and slipped through the small fissure. Devlin stepped into the sunlight behind her, then said, "Let me go first. It's harder to go down than up, and that way I can give you a hand."
"I can do it myself," she retorted, her words too sharp.
"I'm sure you can. But I still want to go first."
He edged around her on the slippery rock, and even the accidental brushing of his body against hers made her heart pound.
"Get a grip," she muttered to herself as she started down the side of the cliff. Rocks slithered down in front of her, and pieces of the soft stone broke away as she stepped carefully from one rock to another. Finally she was at the bottom of the cliff.
She looked up at where they'd come from. "I can't see a thing. It's like that cave isn't even there."
"That's why it made such a good hiding place." The tourist-guide Devlin was firmly back in place, and Carly told herself it was probably for the best. The physical attraction between them was unexpected and too volatile. It would only hinder her from her objective in Cameron, she reminded herself harshly. From now on, she needed to remember to maintain a safe distance from Devlin.
Devlin watched as Carly stared back up the cliff at the cave, then turned and walked to the car. He wished like hell he knew what she was thinking. What had happened between them in the cave had stunned and shocked him. He'd thought he was in control. He'd figured he could handle it. He'd only wanted to kiss her, but he'd come too damn close to making love with her.
And what scared him the most, and made him want to run the fastest, was that it had taken all of his strength to pull back, to let her go, even after he realized that he didn't have any condoms with him. Even without protection, he'd wanted her so badly that he'd been willing to risk everything to make love with her.
It was definitely time to put some distance between himself and Carly Fitzpatrick.
The sun was fading from the sky as he headed the Blazer back down the rutted road toward the house. Carly was silent, but the air inside the truck was heavy with tension. Memories of the passion they'd shared back in the cave swirled around the truck. Desperately he searched for a topic of conversation. He didn't want to think about the way she'd felt, or the way she'd tasted, or the way she'd come apart when he'd touched her. He was too afraid that he wouldn't be able to stop himself from repeating it.
"Did you go back to the newspaper office today?" He grabbed at the first thing he thought of.
"I did, as a matter of fact. And I found out some interesting things."
He wasn't sure he wanted to hear what they were, but whatever she'd found would be a bell of a lot safer than the lingering memories of the cave. "What did you find?"
"I was looking at copies of the papers from six months or so before that boy died. And I saw that your father and Phil Hilbert had been in a fight over water rights for your ranches."
His tension eased a little. "Yeah, they were."
"Do you remember anything about it?"
He shrugged. "A little. It was a major topic of conversation around the house. But I was a kid, and kids see things from a different perspective. I remember I couldn't figure out how someone could own water."
"Apparently your father and Phil Hilbert didn't have the same problem." Her voice was dry.
"They wouldn't. Water is important around here, because there isn't much of it. So the fight over rights to that river was crucial."
"Who won?"
He shot her a quick look. "You mean you don't know?"
She shook her head. "I didn't get that far in the papers. I had to leave to, ah, get ready to…"
"To have dinner with me." A quick spurt of pleasure filled him. "I'm glad to know that dinner with me was more important than getting the rest of the story."
"Melba would have nagged me forever if I hadn't been ready to go when you got to her house," she said primly. "She's very old-fashioned."
"So Melba knows we had dinner together."
He thought a faint pink stain crept up her neck. "I had to give her a reason I wouldn't be at her house for dinner."
"Melba's okay," he said. "She won't run down to Heaven to spread the word."
"Would you care if she did?" Carly had half-turned in her seat, and he could feel her eyes on his face.
"Hell, no. What I do in my time off is no one's business but mine. I just thought you'd want to know that the whole town wasn't talking about you."
"I'm sure they already are," she said, and her voice was dry again. "So having dinner with their sheriff isn't going to make things a lot worse."
"I'm just another one of your sources, is that it?" He glanced over at her, and she looked away.
"I don't generally kiss my sources, Sheriff." Her voice was strained. "But as long as we're on the subject of sources, you never answered my question."
"Which one?"
"Who won the water rights fight, your father or Phil Hilbert?"
"My father won," he said, slowing down as they passed the house, then speeding up when they turned onto the road that led to Cameron. "It was clear that the river was on Red Rock property. My father offered to sell some of the water to Phil, but he wasn't interested. Phil always was a damned contrary, stubborn fool."
"So what happened to Phil? Where did he get the water for his ranch?"
He shrugged. "You saw the stream that ran through his property. He managed with that, I guess. For a while it was running real well, but several months after the court fight, it seemed to dry up to almost a trickle. He had a hard time for a while, but I think he finally got someone to come in and drill some wells for him. They helped, but he's never really had a good supply of water."
"You said he tried to buy your ranch after your father died. Was he after the water?"
"I'm sure that was part of it. But mostly he just wanted to win. He wanted to wipe the McAllisters off the map of Cameron. I know enough about Phil now to know he holds a grudge. And he has a long memory."
"It must be unpleasant, living so close to him."
He shrugged again. "I don't worry about it, one way or the other. Our cowboys work together, just like the rest of the ranches in the area, when we have a big project to do. The rest of the time I don't see much of Phil. I think he stays out of my way." He slanted her a glance. "Are you going to read the rest of the newspapers tomorrow? About the big water fight?"
"Of course. It's clear that was a big story around here." Her voice was light. "It sounds just like the Old West."
"What about the Whitmore boy who was shot?"
"What about him?"
"Are you going to include him in your story?"
"Why do you ask?"
Her voice had sharpened, and he pulled over to the side of the road. "I'm just
curious, that's all."
"Because your family was involved?"
"My family wasn't involved. He just happened to be shot on our property."
"With a gun your father might have owned," she pointed out. "I think that makes you involved."
"The sheriff investigated that shooting thoroughly. If there had been any evidence that my father was involved, it would have come out. The sheriff decided that it was a drifter, and when a drifter was found dead, that was the end of it."
"That was convenient, wasn't it?" she murmured.
The guilt he thought he'd buried rose from his memory, overwhelming him again. It wasn't his fault that Edmund Whitmore was killed, even though it had been his fault that the gun was stolen. Both his father and the sheriff had reassured him of that. But it didn't make any difference. Some childhood memories were more lasting than others.
As they barreled down the asphalt toward Cameron, he felt the tension swirling in the air again.
"You're not going to find any more information on Edmund Whitmore's death than you already have, because there is no more to know. End of story. But if you want to waste your time asking questions, be my guest."
"Thank you. Although I wasn't aware that I needed your permission to ask questions."
"Damn it, Carly, write your story about Cameron, and forget about ancient history. No one wants to rehash a murder from twenty years ago."
"I'm sure that whoever murdered that boy doesn't want me rehashing the story," she said coolly. "Isn't that a good reason for doing just that?"
He was angry with her, he told himself. She was stirring things up in his town—hell, she was stirring things up inside of him. Things he wanted no part of. But he had to admire her guts. Someone had left her a pointed message on her mirror yesterday, and it hadn't even slowed her down.
"Just be careful," he finally said. "Don't forget about that warning you had last night."
"I wouldn't dream of forgetting about it. Obviously, I've stepped on someone's toes. I intend to find out whose foot they belong to."
He rolled to a stop in front of Melba Corboy's house, and turned to face her in the darkness of the truck. "You are a piece of work," he said, shaking his head."
Before she could answer, he slid out of the truck and opened her door. He was careful not to touch her as he walked her up the sidewalk to the porch. Remembering what had happened the last time he'd seen her home, he kept a good two feet between them.
Carly fumbled in her purse for a key, then slid it into the lock. Before she opened the door, she turned around.
"Thank you for the picnic," she said softly. "Your ranch is a beautiful place. You're very lucky to have it for your home."
"I know."
And because a look of wistfulness passed over her face, he disobeyed his orders to himself and leaned forward to brush her mouth with his. "I had a wonderful time," he murmured. "I wouldn't have changed a thing."
For just a moment, her mouth clung to his, then she backed away. "Good night, Devlin. I'll see you around."
"Good night."
The door closed behind her with a quiet, final whoosh, and he stood in front of it for a long moment. Then, with a silent oath, he turned around and strode back to his truck. "What were you waiting for, fool?" he asked himself. "Were you waiting for her to throw herself into your arms, tell you that all she wants from you is hot sex until she leaves town?"
That was all he was willing to give, he reminded himself. Getting into his trick, he stared out at the dark street for a moment. A treacherous need crept up on him, a need for love, for a family, for someone to be there for him, forever. He was just getting maudlin, he told himself as he turned the key in the Blazer. Watching Becca and Grady find each other, then seeing Abby and Damien do the same, had made him sentimental. He'd be fine in the morning. His job as sheriff gave him plenty of doses of reality.
But as he drove away from Melba's boarding house, he couldn't stop himself from looking up at the window to Carly's room. Light gleamed yellow in the darkness, beckoning him closer. Suddenly he wanted, more than anything, to stand in that light.
* * *
When he walked into Heaven on Seventh the next morning, he knew immediately that Carly was in the restaurant. Uneasily, he told himself he must have heard her voice. He couldn't possibly have known any other way. He damned himself for looking, but it only took a moment to spot her. She sat in one of the booths with Bert Pickens, smiling at him and scribbling in the little notebook she carried with her.
He could just imagine the kinds of questions she was asking the ex-sheriff. Scowling, he headed for the corner booth where his deputies waited, avoiding Carly and Bert.
"Morning, Dev." Ben Jackson watched him. "You look like you had an ugly night. Everything all right?"
"Fine," he snapped, then he sighed. "Sony, Ben. I didn't get much sleep last night."
"Was there a call?" Ben sat up straighter. "I didn't see anything on the log."
"No, it was trouble at the ranch." It wasn't much of a lie, Dev thought sourly. The memories that had kept him awake and restless most of the night had happened on his ranch.
"Do you need to deal with it today? We can probably handle anything that comes up." Ben looked at the other deputies, who all nodded.
"Thanks, Ben. But it's under control." He wished. "Let's just get to work. What happened last night?"
While the deputy who was on call gave a summary of the calls he'd received, Devlin watched Carly and Bert Pickens out of the corner of his eye. Bert leaned forward in the booth, a charming smile on his face, and smoothed his thinning gray hair back from his face. Dev recognized the look in his eyes, and felt anger curl inside him.
"Hey, Dev, don't mind old Bert. He puts on the dog for all the women." Ben's voice was quiet, and the deputy laid a hand on his arm. "Your Carly is smart enough to see that."
"She's not my Carly," he snarled, then turned around to watch the pair behind him.
"Is that so?" Ben's voice was quiet, barely audible above the drone of the deputy who was speaking. "You can't tell that from where I'm sitting."
Dev finally turned around, shot Ben a killing glance, and tried to focus on what the young deputy was saying. When the meeting was over and all the deputies filed out of the booth, Ben stayed behind.
Dev folded his arms across his chest. "All right, I wasn't paying attention to Matt. So throw me out of office."
Ben shook his head and a ghost of a smile flitted across his face. "When Ms. Fitzpatrick first came to town, I thought she would prove entertaining. Not even in my wildest dreams could I have imagined so many interesting scenes."
Dev narrowed his eyes at his friend. "If you want to talk about interesting scenes, I understand there was one here at this very diner the other day. Between you and Janie."
The smile disappeared from Ben's face. "There was no scene. She merely said asked me how I wanted my eggs cooked."
"Yeah, but she talked to you. And you answered. That's front-page news in Cameron."
"I've spoken to Janie before."
"Name one time."
Ben looked toward the kitchen, then back at him. "We weren't talking about me. We were talking about you." He laid his hand on Dev's arm again. "Is there anything I can do?"
Dev had to admire the way Ben had changed the subject. And he knew there would be no turning him back to the subject of his obsession with Janie Murphy, and his refusal to act on it. "Get her to finish her story and leave," he muttered.
Before Ben could answer, someone slapped Dev on the back. A moment later Bert Perkins slid into the booth with him.
"Mornin', Dev."
"Hello, Bert. Good to see you in town," Dev answered politely.
"Glad I came in to breakfast this morning. That was the best-looking breakfast partner I've had in a long time." He winked, and Dev wanted to smash his fist in the other man's face.
"That girl is determined," Bert continued, shaking his head. "She's got her teeth into
this story about Edmund Whitmore, and she won't let go. She's going to shake it until something new falls out, if you want my opinion."
"What did you tell her?" Dev asked.
"Everything I remembered, which wasn't much." The older man grinned again. "But I told her she could take a look at the old reports I filed about the case. She'll be by the office this afternoon."
"Who's supposed to take the time to help her find what she's looking for?" Dev demanded.
Bert winked at him again and leaned forward. "Hell, Dev, you're a red-blooded boy. I figured you'd find plenty of time to help that little gal with her research. She sure is a looker."
"My deputies and I have enough to do, taking care of the problems Cameron has today. We don't need to get involved in a twenty-year-old case you've already solved."
The former sheriff shrugged. "Why would you have to get involved? I didn't say she'd find anything. We found the drifter dead, and that was that. Everyone seemed to be happy about the outcome of that case."
"Everyone except the Whitmores." Dev slid toward the edge of the booth. "I'll help her find your old reports. And I hope to God you don't regret reopening this can of worms."
He didn't look over at Carly as she sat alone in a booth, drinking coffee and scribbling in her damned notebook. The door slammed behind him as he hurried outside. He'd hoped to avoid Carly today, and for the rest of the time she was in Cameron. He'd decided last night that it was the only smart thing to do. And now she'd be spending God knew how much time with him.
Swearing under his breath, he jammed his hands into his pockets and strode to the sheriff's office. He didn't even look at his deputies as he stormed into the cramped room at the back of the building that served as his office. File cabinets lined the walls, leaving scant room for his desk and the battered couch that leaned against one wall.
He eased the door shut and looked around. Hell, he'd bump into her every time one of them moved in here, he thought with disgust. There was barely room for him, let alone Carly. Throwing himself into his chair, he stared out the window at the red dirt and scrubby bush that stood outside it. And the worst part, he thought grimly, was that he was looking forward to it.
COWBOY WITH A BADGE Page 10
