Clay: Armed and Dangerous

by Cheyenne McCray

  Rylie was just about to tell the slick bastard exactly what he could do with his showroom trucks when the glass door opened and she found herself facing Guerrero and the tall, handsome sheriff, Clay Wayland.

  The sight of him took her breath away all over again. He seemed to tower over Guerrero, but his gaze was fixed firmly on her—and he looked worried.

  She guessed she should give the man a few points for figuring out she planned to have a word with Guerrero, and extra points for worrying about that enough to show up and make sure she hadn’t done any real damage.

  For some reason, she couldn’t hold the sheriff’s gaze.

  Like, maybe you just made a total fool of yourself and him, too?

  What had she been thinking? That a major player in organized crime would just roll right over and confess because she challenged him?

  Driving the wreck had given her heat stroke, or something. Or maybe it was the gorgeous new sheriff that had addled her mind so completely.

  “Sheriff Wayland.” Guerrero nodded at his new guest. “I haven’t seen you since the Christmas party at Navaeh’s Bed-and-Breakfast in Bisbee.”

  Rylie winced. Every rancher in Douglas was supposed to attend that charity dinner, but she’d blown it off this last year. She had to. Not enough money to buy a ticket, much less afford any of the drinks. Everybody in town knew it, too, and Guerrero probably knew his little jab had struck home. He didn’t so much as glance at her to gloat over it.

  “Mr. Guerrero.” Clay Wayland’s deep voice boomed through the big showroom, sending chills up and down Rylie’s spine. “Is, ah, everything okay here?”

  Guerrero’s expression turned patient, even long-suffering, and Rylie had to work not to clench her fists. “Ms. Thorn and I were just discussing a loan of a vehicle for her until her insurance settles. I hope you’ll find the people responsible for robbing our local ranchers. Times are hard enough without them losing property they’ll have difficulty replacing.”

  Clay said nothing. The lines of his face stayed tight, and his green eyes seemed way too intense as he glanced from Rylie to Guerrero.

  Rylie had no words. This level of blow-up-in-her-face hadn’t been in the plans when she motored onto the car lot. All she could do was stand there and look at the fancy showroom trucks, the ceiling, the adobe floor tiles—anything but either man in the room.

  “You’re right, of course, Ms. Thorn. I should do more than I have to help with this local crisis.” Guerrero relaxed completely again, falling back into his affable posture and firing up his smile. “Sheriff, please inform the theft victims that Arizona Motors South is happy to arrange rental vehicles, new or used, for any Douglas rancher hit by these thefts. Five dollars per day, and we’ll cover the first tank of gas.”

  Clay Wayland’s eyebrows shot up.

  Rylie’s did, too.

  Before she could recover, Guerrero gazed at her like a saint waiting for approval from God. He looked so innocent she wanted to throw up on his pricey hat and his shiny black boots, too. “Does that help your trust level, Ms. Thorn, me taking a loss like that on a daily basis?”

  No. Rylie wanted to tell Guerrero off all over again, but she was afraid he’d take back the offer, and her friends and neighbors would suffer.

  “Yes,” she made herself say. Damn, but that felt like pulling a tooth with no anesthetic, never mind the sweet smile she felt obligated to tack on to the end of the lie.

  The worst part was, Guerrero wasn’t quite finished yet. “Leave it to Ms. Thorn to remind me of my civic duties, but to refuse my charity herself. Are you certain you won’t let me send you out of here in something other than that?”

  He pointed to the wreck still taking center stage outside his showroom window.

  “Thanks, but no.” Rylie kept her sweet smile pasted on her face, hoping he could pick up the hefty dose of fuck-you behind all the teeth she showed. “Just help out the other ranchers who have taken hits. That’s good for now.”

  “Fine.” He gave her a little bow. “Come back any time. Lovely women are always welcome in my showroom, Ms. Thorn.”

  Clay Wayland’s expression darkened, but Rylie could tell he didn’t know what to say any more than she did.

  Holding her head up and keeping her chin forward, she managed to make it to the door without ever looking at Guerrero or Clay Wayland in the face again. When she got outside, she realized she’d been sweating in the showroom. So much for bold investigative techniques.

  At least the heap had the good graces to let her in and start on the third or fourth try. Somehow, she managed not to hit any of the bright, shiny trucks as she hiccuped and bucked out of the lot, heading for the safer ground of home.

  Chapter 3

  Rylie checked the grandfather clock in the hallway. Nearing sunset. She needed to change into her jeans, grab a sweater, and do a quick walk of her inner boundary. Damned if the truck-stealing assholes would get the wreck, or the few cars the hands kept stored in the back of the barn.

  As for the Guerrero debacle earlier today—never mind. Just never mind. She wouldn’t be thinking about that, or how incredibly sexy the sheriff’s green eyes had been, or what he probably thought of her right about now. The good thing about honest hard work was, it got your mind off all kinds of troubles.

  Wood floorboards creaked under her bare feet as she hurried to her bedroom. The old ranch house smelled of dust, lemon oil, and the single-serving lasagna she’d nuked in the microwave earlier. Unlike the modern MacKenna ranch house down the road, Rylie’s home was well over a century old and looked every bit of it. But it was home and people had to stand up for home. Her mother should have, and as for her father ... Well, that bastard wouldn’t have known home if it had bit his ass cheek and given him a great, big friendly shake.

  When she reached her room, she closed the door in case her older brother Levi happened to come home early. The two had been running the ranch together since Levi got back from his stint in the army, and their father and his wife—number six—had been killed in a car accident, some ten years ago.

  And of course they hadn’t seen their “real” mother since they were in elementary school. The woman had run off with a muscle-bound Mr. Arizona. Apparently that fling hadn’t lasted, but good old Mom had enjoyed her freedom too much to get around to coming back home.

  Rylie pulled her pocketknife out and tossed it on her chest of drawers. She shimmied out of her jeans, her thoughts turning to the only person who’d even been close to being like a mom to her. Mrs. Karchner, who’d given Rylie that pocketknife, used to own the ranch down the road from the Thorns. Mrs. Karchner had been the one stable person in Rylie’s wild youth. But the woman passed away a few years ago, breaking Rylie’s heart.

  She sighed as she yanked her T-shirt over her head and tossed it onto the bed. She sure missed that woman.

  After growing up in a broken family and witnessing too many failed marriages, Rylie didn’t believe in commitment. But she sure as hell believed in having as much fun as possible with the opposite sex.

  Maybe she was too much like her mother.

  Forcing the thoughts from her mind, Rylie removed her bra and hot pink panties and then pulled on her softest pair of work jeans. Stupid things had holes just about everywhere, but she couldn’t give them up. She didn’t bother with panties, enjoying the soft scrub of cotton against her bare skin. She loved the feeling of being naked in these jeans, and what the hell? It would make the walk more exciting.

  Not that she needed exciting. Since she set eyes on Clay Wayland this morning, she’d had a hard time getting away from the whole excitement thing. Too bad she’d been pissed about the stolen trucks when she met that sex god of a cowboy, and too bad she’d made an ass of herself flying off half-cocked over Guerrero. Or she’d have been tempted to jump the man. Well, for now she was putting aside any thought of truck theft, money woes, and lack of a man with a physique as pleasing as the sheriff’s.

  She had a ranch to protect. It wasn’
t like anybody would do it for her.

  Once she had put on her leather moccasins, white T-shirt, and favorite blue sweater, Rylie slipped into the moonlit night that smelled crisp and clean from the rains of the past couple of days. Her heart beat a little faster as she picked her way through the tumbleweeds and mesquite bushes, walking the fence row, and squinting at any lump or bump that looked out of place.

  The thieves could have come in from the east. That was her weakest flank. Or maybe they came from the south, straight up from the border, or from the west. Guerrero’s men—and she still thought it had to be Guerrero—they’d have some preplanned route to get the trucks over the border as quickly and quietly as possible.

  “Guerrero’s a snake no matter how he acts in public,” she grumbled to herself. “A scum with a Cornell degree, fancy manners, and a front business of auto dealerships all over Cochise County. Why the hell did he have to take my trucks? It’s not like he hasn’t got thousands.”

  But Rylie knew Guerrero was all about money and building power, and putting on a good public face with all of his charity work. He’d shown up in the Douglas-Bisbee area three or four years ago, when his old man died. Problem was, Guerrero’s old man was the worst drug lord to ever cross the border, and he had three mean, soulless sons to carry on his empire. Guerrero was taking over all the criminal activity in the area, and bringing his own brand of poison, too. Like the truck thefts. So why wasn’t the sheriff putting a stop to it?

  Rylie crammed her hand in her pocket and gripped her knife. “Yeah, like I’ll be all heroic and stop Guerrero’s ass wipes with this little thing.” She should have brought a better weapon. If she actually did find a band of thieves skulking toward her barn, what was she going to do—offer to cut twine for them?

  She peeled off the main boundary path and headed toward the cabin at the back of the ranch. Her new foreman, Brad Taylor, technically wasn’t allowed to carry weapons since he was on probation from some nasty business last year that really wasn’t his fault. The cabin was hers, though, along with the decorations: three rifles hung above the fireplace. They were meant to control coyotes, but they’d work just as well on truck thieves.

  Her moccasins made no sound as she stole along the slightly muddy path to the cabin, moving as fast as she could without running. She had loved to play in the old cabin when she was a kid, and had kept the place in decent shape over the years as a kind of getaway when she wanted some time alone. When Brad had asked to use the cabin after she hired him, she’d thought it was a good call.

  Tumbleweeds scraped her ankles just above her moccasins.

  Yeah, she’d heard a few rumors about Brad and his... tastes, but she didn’t put much stock in rumors. So what if he liked sex, and lots of it? She did, too.

  Just not with twins.

  Even as Rylie skirted the cabin to the back, she saw Brad’s truck parked outside. Good. She had her keys, but she didn’t want to barge into his space without him there, even if she did own the cabin.

  As she reached the cabin’s corner, she heard feminine laughter from inside.

  Rylie slowed. Then stopped.

  “Definitely more than one female on deck,” she whispered to herself as cool evening breeze found its way through the holes in her jeans. The sensation made her shiver, along with the realization of what she might see if she let herself into Brad’s cabin.

  Bad. Bad, bad. I’d never...

  Her cheeks flushed. She’d never even had the slightest urge to spy on people having sex before.

  Her face got hotter.

  Okay, okay, that wasn’t totally true.

  He’s probably in there with twins. Two women at the same time.

  Rylie’s entire body reacted to the thought. She couldn’t even let herself imagine the three of them going at it—until that laughter came again. Damn, but those girls sounded like they were having a fine time.

  Just a look. One look. What could that hurt? She’d check to see if Brad was, um, busy. And if he was, she’d go back to the house to get a rifle. If he hadn’t started... entertaining his guests, she could take one of the rifles hanging over his mantel.

  The wind kicked up again, cool and erotic and exciting. Her heart beat faster, then faster again.

  She eased up to the back wall of the cabin, to a knothole that was just low enough that she had to bend over. Her jeans clung to her ass, and the chilly air brushed through the dozen or so holes like tickling fingers.

  Just one look, Rylie told herself.

  She felt the breeze tickle her again, then bent over and peeked through the hole.

  And got an eyeful.

  Voices floated through the night air and Spirit’s ears pricked toward the sound. Clay Wayland brought the mare to a halt, and after looking around for a moment, he swung down and let the reins drop to the ground. The mare was well trained and intelligent, and wouldn’t move unless Clay whistled to her.

  He’d come to find Rylie Thorn, to apologize for not getting out to take her report in person sooner, and to try to get her to agree to stay far, far away from Francisco Guerrero. He’d tried to get away earlier from the sheriff’s office, then gotten himself tangled in all manner of mess and let it get late—but he knew he needed to have a talk with the little spitfire before she got herself into some serious trouble.

  The lights in the main house were off except for a few, and he was worried Rylie had already turned in for the night. He sure as hell wanted to see her again, but he didn’t want to wake her if she was resting. One of her ranch hands could help him out with the report just the same, and he could come back in the morning to make his point about Guerrero.

  Looking for excuses to come back again already, Wayland? That’s kind of pathetic.

  Once Clay checked his utility belt and his firearm, he holstered the gun and quietly headed toward the only lights he saw blazing, from a small cabin he could just make out in the moonlight.

  The mare grunted as he left her, and she blew out breath before lowering her nose to the ground. Clay knew she was just about as tired as he was. For the past few weeks, despite what one Miss Rylie Thorn might think, he’d been investigating the rash of truck thefts that had escalated in this part of the state. As the fairly new county sheriff, Clay’s reputation was riding on getting these cases solved, and getting them solved now.

  He’d ridden just about every local ranch looking for anything he could use, any clue to who the bastards would target next. He had to get ahead of them.

  He made his way through the dry grass and tumbleweeds, trying to remember what he’d read about the old cabin on the Thorn Ranch. Brad Taylor. Yeah, that was it. Taylor had listed the cabin as his address on his probation paperwork. The boy had gotten himself into a scrape trying to protect his former boss, old Bull Fenning. Not a criminal by nature, though. Taylor was out of custody and doing well. More than well, if all the legends Clay’s deputies told about his partying hard and heavy with twins were true.

  Clay’s hand rested on his weapon’s grip, his senses on high alert even though he had no reason to suspect any thieves would show up a second night in a row. Still, he couldn’t help but be on the lookout for the slightest indication of danger.

  The flash of white caught Clay’s eye and he froze. His eyes narrowed as he watched the small figure at the back of the cabin. When she stood, light from inside the cabin shown on her face. She shook her head. Rubbed a palm across her forehead. Shook her head again.

  A woman. A damn beautiful... and a familiar woman at that.

  Clay grinned. Definitely that little spitfire of a rancher who’d come storming into his office this morning. Rylie Thorn had more than piqued his interest.

  And as she bent over to peek into a hole in the wall of the cabin, Rylie’s short blond hair swung forward. Her jeans outlined each of her curves, and the T-shirt and sweater she was wearing looked so soft he wanted to touch them.

  Despite years of law-enforcement training and plenty of practice in keeping emotiona
lly and physically detached from his work, Clay couldn’t help but feel a stirring. He swallowed hard, as Rylie licked her lips and wrapped her arms around herself as she stared through what had to be a knothole opening into the cabin.

  A wave of feminine laughter rolled out of the cabin. Then a woman’s voice said, “Do that again, Brad.”

  Clay’s grin got a whole lot bigger. The perky little blonde was a dang Peeping Tom. Or rather, a Peeping Tomasina.

  His body got more tense as he watched her standing there, seemingly frozen in place by whatever she was watching.

  He could just imagine.

  Damn, but he had to get his mind back on his job. He had a reason to come see the hot woman in front of him, right? At the moment he didn’t have a single clue what it was.

  Rylie’s breath caught as she watched Brad, who stood in the center of the cabin, licking Sabrina Wilson’s huge nipples. Her twin sister Sasha was on her knees giving Brad all he could handle. “You’re so good at giving head, sugar,” Brad said, in between mouthfuls of Sabrina’s breasts.

  Sabrina and Sasha were identical twins with long black hair and almond-shaped brown eyes. They both had large breasts that Rylie would’ve killed for, along with generous curves that Rylie envied—so unlike her own petite, compact, and athletic figure. The only difference between the twins was the small mole on Sabrina’s left cheek—otherwise Rylie would never be able to tell them apart.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  But it was hot. Way past hot. The fact she didn’t have anybody to share it with, to relieve her tension later... She tried not to think about that.

  Rylie moved her hands to her own breasts as she watched Brad suckle Sabrina’s nipples. The woman slipped her hands into Brad’s hair and cried out as he nipped her.

  “More, Brad,” Sabrina demanded.

  Brad rumbled something low that Rylie couldn’t hear.

  He’d probably love it if he knew she was watching. Rylie didn’t play with her ranch hands, but Brad was almost enough to tempt a girl.