by Sam Crescent
Anger doubled inside him as he leaned against the wall beside her door. He knew who’d broken in. Knew why Clark had done it, too. The bastard thought Sarah would turn to him for protection.
Christ, I hope she doesn’t.
He knocked on her door. “It’s safe, Sarah. Come on out.”
She unlocked then opened her door. She’d tied her hair into a loose knot, her obviously rushed moves ensuring stray tendrils of black hung down around her face.
Damn, but she was beautiful.
“I’ll take you home now,” she said, shoving past him and taking the stairs.
“What? Just like that?” He followed. “You have a break-in, and you expect me to just go home and leave you here?”
“I can take care of myself,” she snapped, rounding the newel post and striding into the kitchen.
He jogged to keep up. “No. No fucking way! You’re not staying here alone after this.”
She spun to face him, eyes flashing. “Who the hell says I’m not?”
“Me!” he said, clenching his hands.
She glanced down at them. “And you doing that is supposed to make me feel safe, is that it?”
He unclenched then held his hands up in surrender. “I’m angry, all right? Nothing to be afraid of. I wouldn’t hurt you.”
She turned away and walked to the fridge, curling her fingers around the handle, then froze. She stared at the fridge door.
“What? What’s wrong?” Travis took two strides and he was beside her. He stared at a note, held to the door with electrician’s tape. “What the fuck?”
You’re mine.
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Travis said. “Of all the things a guy could say, he chose that?”
He snatched the note and looked at Sarah. She’d paled, but steely resolution filled her eyes.
“I know who this is,” she said.
“So do I.”
“I can deal with him.”
“No, you fucking can’t.”
“Yes, I fucking can! Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Travis Williams. He’s been a creep for months. I just need to tell him I’m not interested and he’ll back off. Tell him that if he doesn’t he’s out of a damn job.”
Travis let out a snort. “Oh, come on, Sarah! You think doing that will stop a man who thinks nothing of getting inside your home and wrecking it? Leaving sick notes? He’ll keep on until he gets what he wants, you must see that.”
“Whatever!” She waved a hand as though dismissing him.
It danced on his last nerve. “Why the hell can’t you see anything other than black and white?”
“Why the hell do you have to see every colour under the fucking sun?”
She glared at him, cheeks flushed, and Travis glared right back, refusing to be the first one to look away. It took more than a minute before Sarah’s gaze faltered, and she spun away, growling in frustration, her hands bunched. She walked to the sink and stared out of the window, knuckles white from her grip on the ledge.
“I left the coffee pot upstairs,” she mumbled.
Travis walked up behind her, mindful not to touch. “Forget the fucking pot. When you approach him, Sarah, I want to be with you.”
“No. No, I can do this on my own.”
He wasn’t going to be able to talk her out of it, he knew that, and short of following her around all day, he risked Clark catching her alone.
Fuck!
“Well,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Just know that if I hear news of that motherfucker touching you, I’ll rip his throat out.”
Chapter Four
Who the fuck did this man think he was?
So, yeah…she was scared. Someone had come into her domain and ruined the kitchen, but that did not give Travis the right to order her about like that.
Clark James needed a kick in the bollocks and a few choice words, which she was so going to give him when she went to the local bar tonight. If Clark wanted to cause her shit then she would be more than happy to reciprocate. Under no circumstances was she having a man tell her what to do, and Clark James would be the last man to do it.
Sarah couldn’t deny how much she’d like to see Travis put those muscles to good use in ripping Clark’s throat out, but then she wouldn’t see him again because of the whole getting-caught-murder-sentence thing. Not many people had a bad thing to say about Clark—she didn’t know why but the whole town seemed to think he was great—or, if they did dislike him, they kept on the tough man’s good side. He did, after all, have his cronies surrounding him at every turn.
“Arguing like this will get us nowhere,” she said. “Now—it’s clear Clark isn’t here, so I’m going to go and get my coffee pot, otherwise nothing will be happening but me scratching your eyes out, got it?” She pushed past him, making her way upstairs.
He shot his hand through the slats of the open banister and grabbed her foot.
“Do you mind?” she growled.
“You keep yourself safe, understood?”
If looks could kill, Travis Williams would be flat on the floor.
“Get your hand off me,” she ordered, leaning over the banister to glare at him.
For several seconds he didn’t move, and anger curled inside her, ready to explode. Sarah wasn’t about to admit how much she liked him touching her. It was all too much. She’d had a shot man on her door step, sexual frustration alongside her home being violated, Travis’ domineering presence and Clark throwing his threats around. She was ready to swipe at the first person to walk past.
Didn’t anyone respect a woman’s kitchen anymore? The one domain she’d even refused her father when he was alive was all hers. No one else had the right.
He removed his hand from her foot, freeing her to move on.
“Thank you,” she ground out before running up the stairs and slamming her bedroom door.
Her anger was short-lived. Her house wouldn’t last long if she gave in to all of her frustrations. She checked her door to make sure it wasn’t damaged. Another idiot-proof carpentry book would have to be purchased if it was. The house was practically falling apart, and there was no spare cash to bring in a plumber, builders, electricians, and environmental specialists. She was sure her house would annoy those green people who were shouting out about global warming and whatnot, but, unless she remortgaged, it’d have to stay as it was.
Did she even have insulation?
Sarah decided the door would last a little longer and changed into her jeans—she would need some new ones soon as they were loose—followed by a simple, plain black T-shirt. After making the bed, she picked up her washing and the coffee pot—having to restrain herself from drinking its cold contents—then made her way downstairs in time to see Travis had cleaned up the eggs and was now picking things up and tidying her kitchen.
Sarah saw red.
“Don’t touch a fucking thing.” With the coffee pot in hand, she stormed over to him, taking the broom out of his hands.
“I’m trying to help,” he explained.
“I don’t need your help at all.” Fuming, she stormed over to the worktop, put the pot in its place on the machine, and set it to reheat the dark liquid. “Do me a favour and go and do something outside. Check the horses or whatever it is you do.” She shook one hand at him, then swept up the bits of broken china and bent cutlery that were repairable, placing each item on the table.
The door closed, letting her know he’d finally done as he was told. This would teach her to have sexual fantasies at night about a man she could never have. After today she would become a nun. Sell this ranch and say ‘fuck you’ to everyone and go join a convent. Between her father and the men in town and now Travis all treating her as though she was a simpering woman who couldn’t cope by herself, she was ready to call it quits.
After half an hour or so, she had all the pots and other undamaged stuff on the table and was finishing the sweep-up of the kitchen floor. Years of toiling with her father had made h
er fast when at work, and she also couldn’t stand a mess for long.
By the time Travis made it back to the house, Sarah was sitting at the table on her third cup of coffee. She couldn’t believe her luck. That Clark jerk hadn’t wiped out her entire refrigerator when he’d strewn food about. She may need her coffee, but she loved full-fat milk in with it, and if he’d emptied the milk cartons there would have been more hell to pay.
Travis came through the door with another man following him. Sheriff Stephen Laurie entered her now-spotless kitchen. The older man was taller than her but not as tall as Travis, with blond hair and a boy-next-door look to him. Kind blue eyes completed the picture and showed why everyone loved Stephen. He wasn’t filled out by muscles like Travis, but he could hold his own in a fight.
“Morning, Stephen.” She couldn’t help but show her annoyance at Travis for bringing the other man here and frowned at him—hard.
“Hiya, Sarah. Travis here said you’d been broken into last night but you didn’t hear anything.” Stephen glanced around him, obviously looking for the damage.
Sarah got up from her seat and offered Stephen a coffee. She’d gone to school with the man’s younger sister and so she’d always had a bit of a soft spot for him—even if his sister no longer spoke to her.
“As you can see, nothing that a bit of elbow grease and hard work couldn’t fix. Some dishes broken, a few eggs smashed on the floor, but they can be replaced.” She was prepared to handle this problem herself. No one but her was going to show Clark a thing or two.
Travis had gone to the sheriff’s department without her permission while she’d been cleaning. How had he got there so fast anyway?
“Could I have sugar?” Stephen asked.
Smiling, Sarah handed him a coffee with sugar and slammed another cup of black into Travis’ chest, not caring if the liquid spilt over him. The cheeky shit could live with a little hot water.
“Sorry, Stephen. Travis brought you out here for no reason. I’m sure he’ll compensate you with the cost of gas.” She turned to the man in question and shot him a beaming smile.
He ignored her, took a sip of his coffee, then began talking to Stephen. “I’m sure Sarah would like to tell you who broke in?”
“Do you know who would do this to you, Sarah?” Stephen asked.
She cursed every man living, got up, went to her fridge and took out some eggs that had survived the break-in. “I know who did it, and I’m not saying who it is, so you can leave my house as I won’t be pressing any charges. I’ll handle this the good old French way.”
She put the eggs on the counter near her cooker, got a bowl and started cracking them into it. She found it soothed her, pressing the egg on the side and splitting it open, letting the contents drop inside. It made her think of Clark’s head doing the same thing.
“Sarah, you need to be sensible—”
She didn’t give Stephen time to finish his sentence. Whirling round, she pointed her finger at both men in turn.
“I may be a woman but I know how to handle myself. Now, unless you want me to go and get my pistol, I suggest, Stephen—you go back to work where people need you…and Travis—get out of my house!” She went back to her eggs. She was hungry today so she’d have four. Who cared about diets, calories and cholesterol anyway?
The door shut behind the two men, and she didn’t catch any of their conversation.
Fucking idiot men.
She whisked the eggs until they formed a golden yellow gloop. Pulling a pan off a wall hook, she placed it on the high heat and melted the butter before pouring in her well-whisked mixture. She didn’t like them when they were runny puke and guessed that chefs would call her version overcooked with the texture of rubber. She retrieved a wooden spoon and began cooking.
What could she do to make Clark leave her alone? It was Friday, so tonight would be the best time to warn him away from her—in public so she had witnesses. It would probably help that Stephen now knew Travis had stayed with her. The town would really be rife with gossip and speculation about her situation once the sheriff opened his mouth. All the nosy bastards wanting to know her business. Again she wondered if it would be easier to just sell and leave this shithole.
Several minutes later, she plated up her scrambled eggs and was eating them with bread and butter when Travis returned. She had her back to the door but would recognise his footsteps and scent anywhere.
“Thought I told you to get out of my house,” she said, not bothering to turn around, her awareness of him so acute it was frightening.
Travis was different, and it was like her body knew him. Whenever he was in a room her body came to life, even in a crowded one. What was so special about this man with the intense blue eyes?
Instead of answering her or walking out the door, he came and sat in front of her, using his big blues to all their worth.
Sarah lifted her cup and drank in an attempt to avoid eye contact.
He covered her hand with his as she laid it on the table, still holding her fork.
“Sarah, look at me.”
He sounded so earnest she was immediately drawn to him. Her heart ached to hear the concern in his voice. She’d do anything to take the worry away, yet she’d been behaving like a brat. Who would blame him if he didn’t want to stick around? She gave him mixed signals all the damn time. She licked her lips and watched his gaze drop to the simple movement.
“I’m looking at you, Travis,” she whispered. His name rolled off her tongue like smooth butter.
Her throat went dry. He moved his hand to touch her face, his fingers running over her skin. She held her breath, not wanting to ruin the moment she’d created.
“I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you,” he said, his sincerity cutting her to the core.
No one, besides her father, had ever cared about her. She had no friends—none to speak of these days, anyway. So much for keeping the spare room made up for visitors. The women in town thought she was competition for the attention of their husbands. Not that she would ever be a home-wrecker, and there was also the moral dilemma of sleeping with a married man. She didn’t have the inclination to make her life so difficult, with the sneaking around and lying to people.
It suddenly hit her how alone she was in this world. Her mother had died in childbirth with the son her father had craved more than anything else in his life. Her sex had been the one thing she couldn’t change, and she’d lain awake many nights as a child, praying to be a boy.
Tears welled as the turmoil of the last twenty-plus years consumed her.
“Don’t cry, baby.” Travis went to the floor at her knees. He took her face between his hands and brushed the teardrops away.
She hadn’t cried in so long, she wasn’t sure she knew how to anymore.
And he’d called her baby. A slip of the tongue? Just a friendly endearment? God, she hoped he’d meant it in another way, a special name just for her, but she’d never get that lucky.
“Please don’t pity me,” she sobbed. The tears wouldn’t stop falling. She thought of her father and the reprimand he used to give for her crocodile tears, the laughter of the kids who used to tease her at school for her boyish ways.
The pain, the raw emotion, was uncontrollable as tears spilled down her cheeks and onto his hands.
“I’m…so…sorry…” She hiccupped between each word.
“You’re in shock, honey, from what’s happened. Let it all out.”
Travis took her in his arms and Sarah didn’t pull away. For once, she wanted to be hugged. She turned into his chest and released all the pain, heartache and nightmares, safe and secure in his arms as he took care of her—the first man who’d taken care of her in so long. She would always love her father but couldn’t deny he’d kept her at a distance, and once she’d become a teenager, hugs and kisses had been off the affection menu.
When was the last time a person had given her attention without sexual expectation attached to the comfort? Bei
ng held and cosseted was something she’d come to crave since her father died yet she’d been too proud to ask for it.
“Let it out,” he chanted in her ear.
And, for the first time, Sarah just allowed herself to be cared for, to give in to releasing years’ worth of repressed tears.
She would deal with the crazy later.
* * * *
The only problem with tears, they left a person with a huge headache and a sore throat, along with a face that felt rough and raw. Sarah awoke upstairs in her bedroom, frowned against the late morning light, and checked the time on the bedside clock. She groaned and sat up, testing out her rested muscles.
Jell-O could be the only way to describe her protesting body.
She opened her door and listened to see if anyone was in her home. Silence met her. With a shake of her head, she went to the bathroom to brush her teeth and freshen up her face. The mirror above the bathroom sink revealed the damage unleashing her emotions had created.
“Why couldn’t I just keep it all in?”
Now she would have to face Travis with the knowledge that he’d held her as she’d cracked under the pressure.
That was her worst fear—not being good enough or as good as her father…or the son he had so wanted had the child been born. The men who worked for her deserved a leader like her father, who was much better than her.
“That’s enough pity party, Sarah French. This is your life and you love it.”
Her reflection stared back, not giving her any answers.
Turning out the light—and surprised the damn thing didn’t blow up with the way her luck was at the moment—she went downstairs and found Travis, complete with toolkit and screwdriver, working on her door.
She tucked wayward strands of her hair behind her ears and watched him work. God, his muscles stood out beneath his T-shirt, and his suntanned biceps rippled with every movement he made. She wanted to run to him, to smooth her hands over his exposed skin and bury her face in his chest. To breathe in his scent and allow him, just for a minute, to make every bad thing disappear. A second after she thought it, she batted the prospect away, allowing her strong will to overpower any weaker emotions.
