CLINT'S WILD RIDE

by Linda Winstead Jones

  "I would say thank you, but to be honest, Katie did most of the decorating. I can't take credit for anything but the den and my office. The rest of the house has Katie's touch."

  It didn't matter that her relationship with Clint Sinclair was strictly professional, that she was here on official business and that in the beginning she hadn't even liked him. There was something charged about having a good-looking man in the room where you slept, standing by the bed, rocking back on his heels as if he could take a tumble and land on the mattress at any moment. That charge was decidedly electric, as if lightning coursed through the room and her body.

  In the past week, she had seen firsthand that Clint had more stamina and grace than any other man she'd ever known. He was incredibly strong, unexpectedly agile, and limber. She couldn't help but wonder, as any red-blooded woman might, what kind of lover he would be.

  For the past two years, she hadn't so much as thought of a man in that way. There would be no more love for her, there would be no more passion. It hurt too much when that love was taken away.

  But since coming here, she felt as if she were slowly waking up from a long sleep. She liked being lost in her safe slumber, but Clint had been shaking her shoulder and telling her it was time to get up. Like it or not, she was aware of him in a way she had not expected.

  Janice had told her this would happen one day. That she would stop feeling numb. That she would realize that life went on no matter what we wanted or expected.

  "Need any help getting settled in?" Clint asked.

  That perfectly innocent question made Mary tingle. It was that lightning again. Oh, this was turning into an absolute disaster! She never let a man, any man, affect her this way. She wasn't a girl, she was a fully grown woman who knew better. "No, thanks. We can get to work and I'll unpack later."

  "Whatever you say." He turned and walked out of the room, and Mary followed.

  Okay, the man did have a nice set of buns. Any woman might realize that fact if she happened to be walking right behind him. And damned if he wasn't graceful! In a completely masculine way, of course. This man had surely never tripped over his own two feet or made an awkward move of any kind. A man like this, when he turned his full attentions to a woman… Mary shook off the unexpected thought. She'd been in Mayberry too long if she was actually thinking about…

  No, she was not thinking about. She absolutely, positively could not afford that. "What are we working on today?" Juggling, jogging, jumping fences or jumping rope, pivoting, leaping over hurdles, running Clint's homemade obstacle course. They usually worked on a combination of those things.

  "I think we'll do a little riding," he said. "You're due for an easy day."

  "Riding what?" she asked.

  Back in the main hallway, not far from the kitchen, Clint stopped and turned to face her. "Horses," he said softly. One eye narrowed slightly. "You do ride."

  "I watched some films," she said with a shrug. "It doesn't look particularly hard."

  Clint closed his eyes, muttered something completely obscene that took her by surprise and then shook his head. "What kind of a woman tries to worm her way into a rodeo when she's never even been on horseback?"

  Any momentary sexual attraction she might have felt vanished. "I watched several rodeo films. The clowns don't ride."

  "But you're going to be around horses and bulls all day long. You need to be comfortable with the animals. A skittish woman sticking her nose in where it doesn't belong can turn everything upside down."

  "I suppose I'm the skittish woman where I don't belong."

  "Yes!"

  Mary smiled at him. She could handle confrontation much better than feelings that came out of nowhere and ambushed her. "If you can ride a horse, I can ride a horse. Slappy," she added with just a touch of disdain.

  Clint took a long, deep breath. "Fine," he said. "You want to ride? We ride."

  * * *

  Special Agent Mary was an FBI agent, she was here of her own volition and she knew exactly what she was getting into. Maybe. It wasn't his job to protect her, to watch over her, to make sure she didn't do anything foolish.

  She couldn't ride a horse, it had taken her four days to be truly comfortable around Mutt—putting this woman in the rodeo was going to be a disaster.

  Apparently Mary was finally comfortable around him as well as Mutt. She was no longer armed at all times. Right now she wore snug jeans, a pale yellow button-up shirt and her hair was in one of those little ponytails. No gun. At least, not that he could see.

  They walked back toward the house, after a nice, long ride. Mary tried not to hobble, and she was almost successful. There was a little hitch in her getalong, though, a funny kind of limp that gave her away. He'd kept the horses at a job trot during the entire ride. It was the best pace for the animals … but brutal on the rider's backside.

  "So, how do you like riding?" he asked.

  "It was fine," she said noncommittally.

  If she was sore now, by tomorrow morning she wouldn't be able to get out of bed. He wondered how she would react if he called the whole deal off here and now. She wasn't ready. She would never be ready. Mary was going to make as good a rodeo clown as he'd make an FBI agent, on two weeks' training.

  "How about we go to the roadhouse tonight?" he asked, smiling at her back. "A little dancing might be a nice way to unwind."

  She groaned, then caught herself and became quiet. "I think I might have to pass. I have some paperwork to catch up on."

  "Can't you do your paperwork tomorrow?"

  "I'd rather get it done and out of the way."

  Clint imagined she'd spend the evening in bed with a hot pack and a bottle of aspirin. They'd ridden pretty hard this afternoon, going faster and longer than they had this morning.

  He hadn't pushed Mary because he'd wanted to hurt her. Like it or not, he needed to know how far she would go before saying uncle. Apparently Mary never gave up. No surrender. Take no prisoners.

  "All right," he said, not wanting to push her any more than he already had.

  Wes met them as they entered through the back door and stepped into the kitchen. Mary didn't stop but lifted her hand in a quick greeting as she kept on moving through to the hallway. When she was almost out of hearing, Clint heard her mutter something and groan.

  "What's her problem?" Wes asked as he poured two cups of coffee.

  "She's never ridden a horse before today," Clint said.

  Wes turned around with a huge grin on his face and handed Clint a heavy mug filled with strong, black coffee. "You're kidding, right? Y'all will be heading to Birmingham in a week. What are you going to do?"

  Clint shook his head. "I think I'm going to have to put her in the barrel."

  "Oliver's got a barrel man, or did last time I heard."

  "I know." Clint sipped at the coffee. He hated lying to Wes about Mary's reason for being here, but by telling the truth he'd put his friend and foreman into the same boat he was in. Wes would be forced to lie to his friends. "I might have to pull a few strings."

  Wes gave Clint a suspicious smile. "You sure are going to a lot of trouble for this girl."

  "She's Shea's friend. What am I supposed to do?"

  Wes nodded his head in that way he had, as if he were trying to appear wise. "You like her."

  "I do not!" Mary Paris was everything Clint didn't want in a woman. She was out to save the world, didn't trust anyone, carried her guns as if this were the Old West and she was the town marshal. She would never find any satisfaction in the things he wanted from life. If she hadn't been searching for her serial killer, being on the ranch for more than a week probably would have driven her bonkers.

  "You like her a little bit," Wes added in a lowered voice.

  Clint shrugged. "Maybe a little," he admitted.

  "Otherwise you would've told her a week ago that this is never going to work."

  "She's not so bad."

  "So I've noticed. Still…"

  "I'm not
going to let anyone get hurt," Clint promised.

  "You're going to do her job and your own?"

  Clint set down a half-empty coffee cup. "If I have to."

  * * *

  Katie and Wes had plans. Dinner with Katie's family; someone was having a birthday. It sounded as if Clint was going with them, which suited Mary just fine. As soon as everyone was gone, she was going to climb into bed and go to sleep. She didn't care that it wasn't even seven o'clock yet. She hurt all over and she needed a good night's sleep. Something like twelve hours. Maybe twenty-four.

  But when dinner was over and it was time to go, Clint shooed Wes and Katie on their way and promised to finish the dishes himself.

  "You're not going?" Mary asked as the back door closed on Wes and his pregnant wife.

  "Nah," Clint said, rinsing the last of the dishes and placing them in the dishwasher. "Katie's family gets a little wild at these birthday shindigs."

  "Too wild for a rodeo clown?" she asked with raised eyebrows.

  He grinned and shifted his body slightly. It was very charming, very attractive. Her heart did a strange and unexpected flip. So did her stomach.

  "Besides," he said, "I didn't like the idea of leaving you here all alone."

  "I don't need a baby-sitter."

  "I know." He closed the dishwasher and started it running, before turning to lean against the counter and face her dead-on. "You go right ahead and do your paperwork. I'll just watch a little TV and get to bed early."

  He flashed her another one of those charming smiles. Surely the man had a weakness. A flaw. A chink in his armor. Surely he did … but she hadn't found it.

  Well, she could count the fact that she ached all over and he didn't as a flaw. He must've known that riding all day would leave her in pain. So, he had a small spiteful edge that he tried to hide from the world.

  She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing how much she hurt. That was her flaw. Pride. She turned her back on Clint and headed for the hallway.

  "How about a glass of Miz Agatha's muscadine wine before you get to work?" he asked before she'd gotten far.

  She wasn't a drinker, to be honest. She didn't have much tolerance for alcohol of any kind. But oh, a glass of wine might be as good as any painkiller. She could have a glass and then retire to her room. She might even pretend to work while she crawled under the quilt and slept and dreamed wine-induced dreams.

  "Maybe one glass."

  Clint reached into the cabinet. What he grabbed was nothing fancy, just little juice glasses that had once contained jelly. She smiled as he handed her the glasses and then reached into a high cabinet for a bottle. One of three, she saw as he snagged a bottle and swung it down.

  She might be suspicious of his offer and wonder if he hadn't felt a moment of that inappropriate attraction this morning when he'd shown her to her bedroom, but jelly glasses with cartoon ducks on them and homemade wine hardly made for a well-planned seduction.

  "You want to take this to the den?" he asked. "We might be able to find something on TV."

  "Sure."

  He followed her into the den, and she was very careful not to walk as if she hurt all over. Somehow letting Clint know that she couldn't do everything he could rankled her. She didn't want to let him know that she ached.

  She placed the jelly glasses on the coffee table, and Clint snagged the remote and turned on the television. While he poured the dark red wine into the glasses, Mary channel surfed, looking for an interesting show to kill some time. A movie, maybe, or something funny. She could use something funny right about now. No clowns, though. She really wasn't in the mood for clowns.

  They sat at opposite ends of the couch and watched a few minutes of a really bad movie. Since Mary didn't handle her alcohol well, she steered clear of drinks with lunch or dinner, especially when the meeting concerned business. One beer was her limit. Goodness knows she didn't want to end up acting goofy around Clint Sinclair! Fortunately, the wine was sweet and didn't seem to be going to her head. And it did help her aches and pains.

  Clint seemed to be paying attention to the movie, so his sudden statement caught her by surprise. "I really think you should reconsider the Rodeo Queen bit."

  Mary didn't even glance his way. "No."

  "You're gonna get hurt," he added in a kind voice.

  "I hope not, but if I do I can handle it."

  He sighed and poured more wine into his jelly glass. When he hefted the bottle in her direction she held out her own glass. "I think we're going to have to try something new," he said.

  Something new. She could barely handle the old stuff! "Like what?"

  "I'm going to put you in the barrel."

  She didn't know what that meant, but she didn't like the sound of it. "You can try," she said in a voice colored with warning.

  Clint smiled. "You said you'd watched rodeo films."

  "Yep."

  "The clown in the big white thing in the center of the arena? That's the barrel man."

  "Oh," she said, taking a long swig of the sweet wine. It didn't taste at all like alcohol. "So I've trained for the past week for nothing."

  "No. It's still a dangerous job, and you need to know everything I taught you. But when things get hairy and the bull charges the barrel, you duck down and you're protected. You might get knocked around a bit, but it's better than being out in the open."

  "Barrel woman," she said, testing the sound of it on her tongue.

  "The problem is, Oliver's had the same barrel man for the past five years. He's not going to like the idea of replacing Eugene."

  "How are you going to convince him to do that?"

  Clint drained his glass before answering. "I don't know." He placed his heels on the coffee table and Mary did the same. Somehow her white tennis shoes looked tiny next to Clint's scuffed cowboy boots.

  Her aches didn't seem so bad at the moment, though the soreness in her butt was still there to remind her of the day on horseback. She squirmed on the couch, trying to get more comfortable.

  "Will we be riding tomorrow?" she asked.

  "Maybe in the afternoon, if you want to," he said. She glanced at him and caught a glimpse of his telling expression. How could a smile be innocent and wicked at the same time? Clint Sinclair managed.

  "We can go riding first thing in the morning," she said, already dreading getting into the saddle again. "Today's ride was quite invigorating."

  Clint shook his head. "Don't you ever say uncle?"

  "Nope," she said. "Never." Somewhere along the way he'd refilled her glass. It was full again.

  "I can't go in the morning," he said. "Too bad."

  "Why not?" she asked as she took another sip.

  "I promised Miz Emily I'd be in church next Sunday. There's this hymn she wants the choir to sing, and she wanted to make sure all the men would be there. Apparently it just doesn't sound right otherwise. She's dragging us all in for choir practice tomorrow. She wants to meet early, before Bob and Marty have to be at work."

  Mary rotated her head slowly to look squarely at Sinclair. "You sing," she said.

  "Not very well," he admitted. "And not often. But it's a small church and…"

  "And Miz Emily coerced you," she interrupted, trying to imitate Clint's Southern drawl. "What did she do? Bat her lashes and promise you a dance or two at the roadhouse so you'd sing in her choir?"

  "Actually, she promised me peach cobbler."

  "I'll bet she's just your type." Apparently the wine had loosened her tongue a bit. "What was it you said you wanted? Some simple country woman who likes simple things. I'm sure being able to cook a peach cobbler is high on your list of requirements."

  Clint grinned widely. "I never thought of that, but yeah … she's just my type. Sweet and sunny. Loves to cook. On a nice day you can find her outside tending her garden and taking great pleasure in it. She's not the type who would be interested in taking off with me on a moment's notice, though. She's more of a homebody. Still … what man woul
dn't consider himself lucky to have a woman like Miz Emily to come home to?"

  Mary snorted.

  "Unfortunately, she's eighty-two years old and stands about four foot seven. She's too short for me."

  Mary took a deep breath as she processed this information. She'd done it again. She'd made a fool out of herself by assuming the worst about Clint Sinclair. "All right," she said skeptically. "What is it?"

  "What's what?"

  "You have to have a flaw," she said, snapping at him. "I've been here for more than a week, and in all that time you've been sweet and helpful and you haven't made one crude, sexist remark." She stopped. "Except the girl and darlin' stuff, and damned if I haven't started to get used to that. You take care of your friends, you sing for old ladies, you're helping me because your sister asked you to and you'd do anything for your family." Her mind spun as she shook her head. "No one is perfect, Sinclair. No one. Not even you. So, why don't you just tell me straight out what your flaw is." Maybe then she wouldn't lie awake at night trying to imagine what it was.

  "My flaw," he said.

  "The blemish on your apparently impeccable character. What the hell is it?" Every man had one … no, every man had several. Some more than others.

  She'd practically told him she thought he was perfect. Any other man would have thrown that in her face with a smarmy grin. Not Sinclair. He was so unexpectedly real. There was no artifice in him, no massive ego she had to fight past to see who he really was.

  "I have plenty of flaws. I'm only human."

  "Prove it," she said in a challenging voice.

  He moved toward her, slowly sliding across the couch so that they were almost thigh to thigh. Mary's heart kicked. She'd been close to Clint before, she'd been close to him all week. Why did this closeness make her bones quiver? He placed his jelly glass on the coffee table and took hers from her hand to set it beside his.

  Surely he wasn't going to … he wouldn't even think of being so foolish…

  But he was so foolish. Clint Sinclair shifted his long body, tilted his head. He gazed at her face, his lips parted slightly. Mary could actually feel the sexual energy that danced between them. Like it or not, that energy was not all Clint's; it was hers and his, mingling, charging the air they breathed. She didn't want this, she didn't need it … all she had to do was tell Clint to back off, and he would.