CLINT'S WILD RIDE

by Linda Winstead Jones

  And then he'd gone and let a drunk driver run him down on the street.

  Mary covered her face with her hands. "Stop it," she muttered against her palm. She wouldn't feel sorry for herself, wouldn't sit here and daydream about what might have been. There was no might have been, only reality. And in reality, she was a woman who had nothing but her job and liked it that way.

  She shut down her laptop and went to the closet. Maybe she needed to get out of this depressing hotel room! If she did seek out Dexler's Roadhouse, what would she wear? Her jeans didn't leave room for her ankle holster. They were too tight. Though if she wore a baggy shirt, she could wear her revolver at her waist. One weapon would probably be enough, if she did decide to go anywhere. Probably. The clothes she wore every day for training with Clint were much too casual even for a roadhouse. The conservative suits she wore so often wouldn't do. She'd stick out like a sore thumb.

  It didn't matter. She wouldn't actually go. An early evening, that's what she needed. She'd never complain to Sinclair, but she ached all over. She had been in good physical shape when she got here, but she had never been pushed so hard. Sinclair was a tough coach.

  She'd had a shower earlier, but a good hot soak would surely do her good. A soak, her pajamas and then to bed.

  * * *

  It was a normal Saturday night at Dexler's. People came from all around to dance, drink and visit. Clint recognized almost every face.

  Strangers rarely wandered into this particular roadhouse. From the highway it looked like a ramshackle, weathered barn decorated with a couple of neon beer signs. Only the bravest of souls would dare to walk in not knowing what they might find.

  But in truth Dexler's was pretty tame, as roadhouses went. It was the same crowd most weekends, neighbors and friends. Tim Dexler had hired himself a bruiser of a bouncer a couple years back, and Joe could handle any kind of trouble that came this way. There was rarely trouble.

  Clint glanced at the door on occasion, sometimes when it opened for a new customer, sometimes while it was solidly closed. Had he really expected that Special Agent Mary would lower herself to come to such a place? That a beer and a few laughs might appeal to her?

  Yeah, he had.

  There was a lull at the moment. The band was taking a break and the only noise came from the roar of laughter and conversation that stretched across the long room. Katie laid her hand on his arm and leaned close.

  "When the band starts up again, you should ask Tracy to dance." She nodded at her friend, who sat at the bar on the opposite side of the room bracketed by two girlfriends. "She likes you," Katie added in a lowered voice.

  "Maybe later." He didn't want to hurt Katie's feelings, but her friend gave him the willies. Of course Tracy liked him; she was a groupie. A rodeo ho. There were lots of people who followed the rodeo with genuine interest. They appreciated the sport, they loved the thrill of it the same way Clint did. But there were a few, just a few, who looked at the whole thing in a cockeyed way. When he was cornered by Tracy, the rodeo was all she wanted to talk about. Bright-eyed and tongue-tied when she looked at him, all she really saw was a few silver buckles. Been there, done that … and he had no desire to go back.

  Just as the band began to take the stage, the front door opened. Out of habit—even though he had given up on watching Mary walk through that door—Clint turned his head to see who had arrived.

  And grinned when she walked into the room, letting the heavy door swing closed behind her.

  Mary hadn't seen them yet, but she was searching, her eyes scanning the room. Clint didn't stand and wave her over. Not yet. For a moment he just watched.

  Her hair was down tonight, as it had been when he'd met her at Shea's house. Pale, sleek and soft, it touched her chin and swung gently when she turned her head. Her jeans were too new for ranch work and fit like a glove, showing off the shapely legs her normal baggy trousers disguised. The jacket she wore couldn't hide the fact that she had an hourglass figure that might make any man's mouth water. His weren't the only eyes on Mary at the moment, he was quite sure.

  Her gaze finally scanned this section of the room and Clint lifted his hand to wave her over. Was that a half simile on her face? A touch of relief? If so, those telling signs came and went quickly.

  She crossed the room, weaving around tables. A goodly number of eyes followed her progress, the eyes of men who liked what they saw. Mary ignored them. She didn't even seem to be aware of the men who watched her. No one spoke to her. She had an air about her, a regal bearing that very clearly said, "Don't touch."

  "You made it," he said when she neared the table. He and Wes both stood and Clint grabbed a chair and held it out for Mary. She looked at it for a moment before sitting down. Did she find it offensive that he occasionally acted like a gentleman? Was she so damned tough she didn't want a man to open the door for her, hold out her chair? After a very short hesitation, Mary sat without comment. When she was seated, Clint and Wes sat, too.

  "I hope it's okay if I join you," she said. "I changed my mind."

  "A woman's privilege, or so I hear," Clint said. He was afraid if he asked too many questions, if he teased Mary about her change of heart, she'd bolt.

  "I'm so glad you decided to come!" Katie said enthusiastically.

  "Yeah," Wes said with a wide grin of his own. "You worked hard this week. You deserve a night off."

  Clint signaled the waitress and asked Mary what she wanted to drink. After a moment's hesitation she passed on the beer and ordered a diet soda. Because she was on duty twenty-four hours a day? Or because she was deathly afraid of losing control?

  Mary studied the long room and the people in it. "This place is not exactly like I thought it would be," she said. "I expected more smoke and misbehaving cowboys."

  "We have a few misbehaving cowboys now and then," Clint said.

  "You're sitting next to one," Katie teased.

  "And we would never take Katie anywhere where she'd have to breathe secondhand smoke," Wes added. "It's not good for her or the baby."

  "Nobody smokes anymore anyway," Clint added. "And if they do, there's a smoking area out back."

  "It's a great place," she said, sounding almost surprised.

  Over Mary's shoulder, Clint saw that Tracy was headed this way, her too-curious eyes on Mary's back.

  "Dance," he said, standing and offering Mary his hand as the country-western band on the stage began to play a slow number.

  "Maybe la—"

  Clint interrupted Mary's polite refusal by taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. She was not a woman accustomed to taking orders, not like this. His eyes met hers, he begged her silently … and apparently she saw something there that made her hang on to his hand and say okay, because that's just what she did.

  He nodded to Tracy as they passed her, he and Mary arm in arm on their way to the dance floor. Tracy's smile faded a little, but she continued on. She and Katie could visit for a few minutes, and then, with any luck, Tracy would return to her friends at the bar.

  "Okay," Mary said as he took her in his arms to begin the dance. He didn't hold her too close. He didn't dare. "What's up?"

  "Nothing," he said.

  She smiled. "You are such a bad liar, Sinclair."

  Mary Paris was not an accomplished dancer. Her movements weren't exactly awkward, but it was clear that she didn't dance like this often. Of course she didn't. Dancing meant getting close. He had a gut-deep feeling Mary Paris was very cautious about close.

  "You're wearing a gun," he said. "A shoulder holster." His fingers traced the gentle curve of leather beneath her jacket. Beneath that jacket she was warm. Warm and soft and curved in all the right places. He ignored his initial reaction to the woman in his arms, shook his head and tsked. "Don't you ever go out unarmed?"

  "No," she answered seriously. "Who's the woman?"

  "What woman?"

  "The one you ran onto the dance floor to escape. The pretty lady with the big brown hair and too much
makeup who's sitting in your chair talking to Katie at the moment."

  "You don't miss much, do you?"

  She shook her bead, sending those soft, golden strands dancing.

  "Tracy is a friend of Katie's. They went to high school together, stayed in touch over the years."

  "She spooks you, Sinclair. It this Tracy an old girlfriend of yours?" she asked.

  "No," Clint said succinctly.

  "You don't like her."

  "She's … not my type."

  The dance floor was crowded, their motion was restricted, but as the song continued Mary's movements gradually seemed a little more confident. Maybe she was getting comfortable here. Maybe he was just getting used to the way she felt and moved in his arms.

  "What is your type?" she asked.

  It was a personal question, too personal for their current situation. But he had a feeling if he backed off she'd never dare to ask him a personal question again. "I guess when the time comes I'll settle down with a sweet country girl. Somebody who's a good cook and wants a bunch of kids and enjoys simple things, like I do."

  She didn't make fun of him, like he'd thought she might. "What kinds of simple things?"

  "This is coming dangerously close to a meaningful conversation, Special Agent Paris," he teased. "Are you certain we should continue?"

  "Why not? I do live dangerously, on occasion."

  Yes, this was definitely living dangerously.

  "Simple things," he said. "Riding a horse so fast you feel like you're flying. Watching the sunrise. Taking off on a moment's notice to see something new, to do something new. White-water rafting. Hearing a child laugh. Coming home."

  She watched him, her eyes unflinching, her mouth inviting. "Sounds like a roller coaster."

  "Life is a roller coaster."

  She gave him a soft smile. "So, your life is just one wild ride."

  "Yeah." Something in her eyes, a spark of interest, a lively fire, gave him the courage to continue. "Life is full of simple pleasures, like dancing with an armed woman or making love under the stars."

  Mary wrinkled her nose and her smile faded. "Satellite technology," she said softly.

  "What?"

  "Where have you been, Sinclair? Under the stars? Have you never heard of our advanced satellite technology?"

  He grinned. "Why would any government be interested in focusing in on my little horse ranch?"

  "It's not that they would," she said. "But that they could."

  "You worry too much."

  "You don't worry at all."

  As he spun Mary around, she looked at the table where Kate leaned close to Tracy so they could talk, and Wes watched his wife with loving eyes.

  "Will they continue to live with you after the baby is born?"

  Was she neatly changing the subject? Probably. Talking about making love under the stars made him itch. Did Mary itch? Ever?

  "Just for a while. In the fall I'm building them a house up on that hill at the north end of the property."

  "It's pretty there," she said.

  "Kate likes it. She picked the spot and the house plans just a few weeks ago."

  She probably didn't mean to, but Mary was beginning to relax. Her breathing was slower and deeper. The body against his yielded, slightly. Clint was aware that Mary fit in his arms very nicely, at ease and drifting closer into him with every step.

  "Won't it be expensive to build Wes and Kate their own house?" she asked. "Is your horse ranch really all that successful?"

  "It's just money," he said with a shrug.

  She smiled. "Just money."

  Yes, she did have a nice smile. "I can always make more if I need to." He'd probably never need to, unless the ranch really started sucking in the cash. He'd won enough money bull riding to get himself started, and a few good investments had made him financially secure, if not rich.

  Again, Mary looked at Wes and Kate. "They're such a lovely couple," she said. "He adores her, she loves him. I don't think I've ever met two sweeter people. They're so ideal together."

  "You have no idea," Clint said softly.

  She listened too closely. Something in his voice made her push for more. "What does that mean?"

  "Nothing."

  "Something. Tell, Sinclair." She wasn't giving up. He had a feeling she never did.

  He glanced at his ranch foreman and friend, and at Wes's pregnant wife. "When Wes was hurt a couple of years ago, Katie was right there. We thought he would die that night, and for days after they said he might lose his leg." His heart thudded. "She never left his side. His rodeo days were over, his life was in danger. He was, at best, maimed for life."

  "She loves him. Of course she never left his side."

  Memories from four years ago—flashbacks to his own accident—shouldn't hurt still, but they did.

  "Kate never cried," he said. "She's not a strong person, but she found strength for Wes because he needed it. She sat there in his hospital room, day and night, and demanded that he live. And he did."

  "And since he couldn't rodeo anymore, you asked him to be foreman at your ranch?"

  "The ranch was just in the planning stages at that tine," he said. "But as soon as I had things up and running, Wes and Katie were there. They were married at the house a little more than a year ago."

  For a moment Mary said nothing, and then she glanced sharply up at him, blue eyes piercing and searching. Something about that glance grabbed him down deep, made him forget that she was a fed, that she was Shea's friend. She was relaxed, but he was not. He fought the urge to pull her head to his shoulder.

  "Sinclair," she whispered, "did you build that ranch so Wes and Kate would have a place to go?"

  "Don't be silly," he said quickly. "I've been dreaming about my own horse ranch all my life."

  "But you didn't build it until Wes was hurt."

  "Coincidence."

  "I don't believe in coincidence."

  The music came to an end, and a quick glance showed him that Tracy was leaving the table on the arm of a friend who'd asked her to dance. Good. He really didn't want to have to deal with making chitchat with her tonight. And she was sure to ask questions about Mary. She probably already had, but since Wes and Kate didn't know much, they couldn't tell much.

  "You're hiding something," Mary said softly as they walked back to their table.

  "Me? You're the one with the gun under your jacket," he said in a low voice.

  "You know what I mean, Sinclair. There's a skeleton in your closet somewhere. No one is as nice as you appear to be."

  "You make that sound like such a bad thing."

  "Not bad," she said as they reached the table. "Unlikely."

  "Most people are nice."

  She snorted as she took her seat. "No," she said, her smile fading. "They're not."

  Life in general, being in the FBI and seeing too much, some heartbreak in her past … something had made Mary bitter. She searched for the worst in everyone; she was always on the lookout for those skeletons.

  Cynical, distant and complicated, Special Agent Mary Paris was about as far removed from his type as any woman could be.

  And Clint wanted her so bad he could practically taste her.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  Mary felt almost guilty showing up on Clint's front porch with bag in had. There had been a mix-up at the hotel, and when it came right down to it, the horde of bass fishermen who had taken over the place were much more important to the hotel than a woman who had already been there more than a week. She could have made a scene, she supposed, planted her feet firmly and kept her room, but the truth of the matter was she had never expected that she'd actually be here the entire two weeks Clint had insisted on. She'd been so sure she would learn everything necessary quickly.

  She'd reserved her room for a week and had been lucky to keep her bed the past couple of days. It was her own fault she'd lost her room.

  When she'd explained the situ
ation to Clint and asked for a recommendation for a hotel that wasn't an hour's drive from his ranch, he had insisted that she stay here. And she hadn't argued. Not once. That was so unlike her.

  Clint opened the door, looking unnaturally wide awake, considering that it wasn't yet eight o'clock on a Tuesday morning. "Come on in," he said, stepping back and opening the door wide. "Are your other bags in the car?" he asked, glancing down at her single piece of luggage.

  "I have a few things in the trunk," she said. A couple of suits, high-heeled shoes, one nice black dress. "But everything I need is here." She hefted the bag and Clint closed the door on a too-warm morning.

  Mutt, who no longer treated Mary like a stranger, padded up to say hello and Mary stroked the dog's head with her free hand. "Such a good boy," she murmured.

  Clint took her bag and headed down the hallway. Mary started to protest that she was perfectly capable of handling her own luggage, but the protest died on her lips. She simply followed Clint—walking cautiously down the main hallway, then taking a turn that led to a wing she had steered clear of since her arrival.

  The bedrooms, four of them, were along this long hallway. Katie and Wes shared one of the bedrooms and would be here until their house was completed. Clint no doubt had the largest room. A master suite, she imagined, but nothing fancy. He simply wasn't a fancy kind of guy. Everything about him was solid and down to earth. And still, there was definitely more to Clint than met the eye.

  "Here you go," he said, throwing open the door of a room situated in the middle of the hallway. "Bathroom's across the hall. Towels are in the linen closet." He pointed to the hallway closet before heading into the bedroom. "If you need anything you can't find, just ask Katie. She knows where everything is."

  "Wow," she said as Clint tossed her bag onto the bed.

  "I hope this will suit you," he replied.

  The room was unexpectedly pretty, with a pastel quilt on the queen-size bed, a vase of flowers on the antique dresser and lace curtains in the wide window. The view beyond that window was breathtaking. "It's beautiful."