Lone Star Redemption

by Colleen Thompson

  “Who the hell said anything about sleeping, Jessie Layton?”

  Wrapping his arms around, he pulled her tight against the hard contours of his body. Including the impressive evidence that he was every bit as aroused as she was by their nearness.

  His voice turned rough as he added, “The question is, do you want company or not?”

  An instant later, his mouth slanted over hers, his kiss hungry and insistent. Demanding in a way that threw gasoline atop the fire she’d been trying so hard to dampen. With the parting of her lips, the kiss deepened, the heat of his thrusting tongue and the strength of his questing hands vaporizing the unbearable pressures weighing on her.

  Desperate to keep the world at bay, she pulled out his neatly tucked shirt, sliding her palms underneath it. Feeling the taut ripples of a set of abs that wouldn’t stop.

  He groaned, and followed suit, one hand finding and then cupping her breast. Squeezing and groaning, then breaking the kiss to growl, “I need more. Need all of you. If that’s not what you want, too, you’d better not set one foot on that staircase.”

  “This is what I want,” she murmured, standing on tiptoe to mouth his neck. “What I need,” she breathed, molding her body against his. “And probably even some of this, as well.”

  He gasped in surprise and excitement when she reached down to cup and squeeze him. A wanton move, and one that left no lingering doubts about where this was heading.

  “You better get me to your room,” he told her, “unless you want me to take you on my old teacher’s kitchen counter.”

  Taking his hand in hers, she said, “Sounds a lot less comfortable than the featherbed upstairs....”

  * * *

  Within minutes, Zach had her there, pieces of their clothing strewn all around the room’s floor. After blowing out one candle, he’d brought the other upstairs with them. Now its soft glow flickered in the dresser mirror, the reflected warmth a perfect counterbalance to the icy rain pelting the windows.

  “Anybody ever tell you you have a body made for candlelight?” he asked, his voice a low growl as he took in the blush of her fair skin, the play of shadows across her silky hair and the way it fell across the soft swell of her breasts.

  Her gaze raked over his shoulders, his chest...and lower. “Anybody ever tell you you talk way too much?” She grasped his wrist and pulled him to her.

  After that, there were no more words between them, nothing but the sound of rain and breath and quiet gasps, the heat and moisture of their kisses, the taste of her as he made his way down that slender body, pausing to run his hands, his lips, his tongue over every curve. As hot and hard as he was for her, he lost himself in bringing her pleasure, and it was not until he’d teased and touched and wrung a second and a third cry from her that he finally allowed her to pull him up over her.

  “Please,” she begged, the desire in her green eyes nearly making him forget caution—nearly, but not quite—before he reached for the condom he’d taken from his wallet when they first came upstairs.

  Ripping it open, he groaned when she insisted, “Let me,” and put it on him with a flurry of teasing touches.

  In moments, he was inside her, spearing her with a deep thrust that made her moan louder than the wind beyond the walls. Biting his lip to make himself last, his closed his eyes and focused on a steady rocking motion, not counting on her damp heat and her own thrusts breaking down whatever self-control remained.

  Giving way, he lost track of the guilt and worry he’d been feeling, of the grief and pain of his past—forgot everything except the smart and sensual woman moving just beneath him, and the hot fuse of pure pleasure burning toward completion. When she threw back her head, her body pulsing all around his, he finally exploded inside her, her name on his tongue as he came.

  Only when it was over, and he held her in his arms beneath the tangled sheets, did he allow himself to consider the relief washing over him. And to wonder if he was being honest with himself about the reasons he had seduced this woman...

  Or if he was, even subconsciously, trying to save his family the only way he might.

  * * *

  For the first time in days, Jessie slept well. Nestled against Zach’s powerful chest, she felt secure for once in this place, safe from all the hostility Rusted Spur had heaped upon her. Or perhaps exhaustion was only physical, heightened by the afterglow of a sexual encounter she knew she’d never forget.

  Hours later, she finally stirred, wondering if lovemaking had ever felt so good before, so right, so inevitable. Certainly, she’d never met a man like Zach, who made her feel as if her pleasure was more important than his own.

  Or maybe her attraction had more to do with her instinctive need for an ally to get her through this nightmare in one piece. Troubled by the thought, she rolled to her side, wondering if her subconscious could be so devious. So mercenary as to sleep with the prodigal Rayford heir in the hopes of staying safe—not to mention milking the connections that only someone born to Rusted Spur royalty could lay claim to.

  Maybe not, she thought, telling herself she’d be drawn to this loving, loyal man under any circumstances. Hadn’t she known that almost from the moment she had met him? But did that give her a right to further jeopardize his safety? Could she really risk costing another man his life?

  “You’re restless,” Zach said. “Regretting this already?”

  “No,” she answered honestly, “but maybe I should be.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Your barn didn’t burn by accident. It burned because we were both in there together. Someone meant for me to die.”

  “You think I didn’t know that?” he asked. “It’s not like that crowbar jammed into the door was exactly subtle. If I hadn’t found a sledgehammer and made myself another exit—”

  “I should’ve told you I was warned,” she admitted, before spilling the details about the text she had received only hours before the fire. The text that had threatened that she might soon have another death on her conscience if she didn’t leave immediately.

  “You were right earlier,” she added. “I should’ve listened. Should’ve taken the threats a lot more seriously. And now, you could’ve burned alive in that barn... I’m so sorry, Zach. And I’d understand completely if you don’t want to have anything more to do with me.”

  He pulled her back into his arms, spooning her from behind and speaking low into her ear. “I’ve served three tours in the war zone. You really think I’m going to let this keep me—let anything stop me—from ever having you again?”

  She hadn’t known a woman could shiver from heat as well as cold, but his words made her do it. Still, she fought for control, even when his fingers found and tweaked a nipple.

  “First, you lost your truck and then your barn and that poor mare,” she said. “You aren’t sorry you ever met me?”

  He stopped caressing her, his voice roughening. “It’s the killer who’s going to be sorry. As for me...” He mouthed the pale column of her neck, making her forget her guilt, forget everything but the need to turn around and mold herself to his hard body.

  By the time the two of them finally got up and dressed, the sounds of the storm had long since been replaced by the clinks and whirs of Margie working on dinner in the kitchen.

  “Let me go down first and talk to her alone,” Zach suggested.

  “She won’t be shocked that you were up here?”

  He smiled, shaking his head. “Margie Hunter’s not my mother. I’m thinking maybe she’ll be more willing to talk if there’s not an outsider listening—especially one with a penchant for jumping down folks’ throats and demanding answers.”

  “I would never—” Jessie protested.

  “You can take the girl out of the newsroom...” Zach kissed the top of her head. “But the way I figure it, nobody’s ever
gonna take the newsroom out of this girl.”

  “Woman,” she corrected, but as much as she hated to concede the point, she knew that Zach was right about having a far better chance of extracting information on his own. “How about I come join you in about twenty minutes? I need to call and check on Gretel, anyway, if you don’t mind giving me the number to the vet clinic.”

  He handed her his phone and said, “You’ll find it under B for Burton, or maybe V for vet. See you in a bit.”

  Out of habit, she checked her own phone first, scrolling through missed texts and emails in case one of the news directors or station HR departments she’d reached out to had responded to the résumés she’d sent. Many of the messages in her inbox were spam, but she found one sweet note from an old college friend who’d heard that Jessie had lost her mother. Once more, however, there was nothing from any of the colleagues she’d spent so many years with—colleagues who treated her as if her recent bad luck was contagious.

  Most likely, Jessie decided, they were frightened of running afoul of the vindictive Vivian. It might explain, as well, the lack of response from other Texas news directors, too. The industry was smaller and more incestuous than most people realized, so it was likely that they’d gotten word about Jessie’s attempt to “burn” her boss by taking a Metro Update work product—as the story she’d developed for the station was legally considered its intellectual property—to a rival news outlet.

  Jessie scowled, furious at how effectively her former boss had shut her down. And even more furious to think how no one would dare comment on, much less question, the impact of the woman’s engagement to the billionaire wildcatter she’d been seeing. An alliance that he probably figured would buy him a whole lot of leeway when it came to influencing—or tampering with—elections at virtually every level. But to what end, she couldn’t fathom, despite her attempts to sift through his connections.

  Apparently, however, not every facet of the media was susceptible to Vivian’s and H. Lee Simmons’s influence. One of those, the fiercely independent Lone Star Monthly, had responded to her query, and several subsequent conversations with an editor as concerned as she was about Simmons’s true agenda had resulted in an offer for her to write an extended feature story on the state’s biggest power broker.

  A thrill of pure excitement ran up her spine. A showcase piece like this would not only draw widespread attention to the issue but might well catapult her career in an entirely new direction, with a book deal and major national media interview requests. Knowing she’d go crazy simply living off her share of her parents’ estate, it was gratifying to realize she wouldn’t have to settle for a job reading farm reports in Outer Podunk, North Dakota. But what really revved her pulse was the idea of having a platform capable of bringing Henry’s murder the attention it deserved—and in doing so, help bringing her sister justice, as well.

  After sending a quick email accepting the basic terms of Lone Star Monthly’s offer, Jessie picked up Zach’s phone to check for the vet’s number. The moment the dark screen sprang to life, her eyes widened at the long list of missed calls, one after another, many labeled “Home,” followed by “Sheriff’s Dept.”

  There were voice mails waiting, too, at least a half dozen, and when she checked, she found that Zach had had the phone on vibrate only, with the sound turned off.

  Turned off while the two of them had been making love.

  Panic twisting through her, she headed for the door, knowing something had to be wrong. Eden’s face filled her vision: an active, curious child being cared for by Zach’s mother and an older cook, neither of whom could hope to keep up with her. What if there had been some accident, or she’d wandered off? In her reporting days, Jessie had covered enough drownings, household accidents, even abductions to understand how very vulnerable the young were and how quickly they could disappear.

  Just as Haley had vanished.

  Terror crowding into Jessie’s chest, she tried to tell herself that she was going to feel silly in a few minutes when this turned out to be nothing...or maybe just another minor health scare for his mother.

  Even as some bone-deep instinct argued otherwise.

  Chapter 16

  Try as he might, Zach was having no luck questioning his former teacher.

  “You can pour on the charm all you want,” Margie Hunter told him as she stirred a simmering pot of her famous bison-and-black-bean chili to go with the pan of jalapeño-and-cheese cornbread she had just pulled from the oven. “There’s nothing for me to tell you. Not a blessed thing.”

  “Who are you protecting, Margie?”

  She shook a spoon at him, too annoyed to care about the saucy spatters she was flinging. “You always did have one humdinger of an imagination, all those tall tales you were always comin’ up with to explain why you didn’t have your homework.”

  “I’m not imagining that there’s something rotten in Rusted Spur, a secret that at least one person’s willing to kill for to keep hidden. And since you’ve always seemed to know most everything that goes on around here, I’ve gotta figure you know something about Jessie’s sister. Something you’ve been ordered not to share—”

  “Is that really you talking, Zach Rayford, or that reporter you’ve been spending the afternoon upstairs with?” she asked. “Because you oughta know me well enough to figure that anybody ordering this cantankerous old woman to keep my mouth shut would guarantee I’d be spreading whatever this big secret was to every corner of this county.”

  “So tell me, Margie,” he said quietly, sensing some shift in her. “When was the last time you saw Haley Layton?”

  She jerked her gaze away from his, seeming to notice the mess she’d made of the stove and counter. After dropping the spoon back into the chili pot, she grabbed a sponge and turned her back to him to clean. “It was a while back. I’m not sure when, exactly. She stopped by to see if I had any work for her.”

  “When?” he asked. “Last summer? Back before she and Frankie took off?”

  Behind him, the floor creaked, and a flurry of dachshund tails pattered a greeting from the spot where they were piled by a heating vent. He looked to see Jessie hurrying toward him, his cell phone in her hand and her face ghostly pale. She opened her mouth to tell him something, but convinced that Margie was about to finally talk, he managed to stall Jessie with a raised palm and a quick shake of his head.

  “Maybe middle of September?” said Margie. “The local kids were back in school already.”

  “You’re sure?” he asked.

  She nodded in answer. “I may be retired, but I’m like an old warhorse that way. Notice the running of the school buses every year. And, of course, the start of football season. Gotta love our Scorpions.”

  So that was why she’d been so startled to hear Jessie say she feared her sister might have been dead since August.

  “So why did Haley come here in September?” he asked.

  Jessie froze, lowering the phone in her hand and listening intently to the woman at the stove.

  “She’d come and cleaned for me in the past,” Margie admitted as she scrubbed another stubborn spot. “Did a good job those days she managed to make it over in that rattletrap old car of hers. This time, though, she showed up all black-and-blue, her poor eye swelled nearly shut, wanting to know if there was any way that she could live here, even if she worked for only food and board. She said she had to get away from him before he ended up killing her.”

  Jessie flinched, hugging herself.

  “What happened?” Zach asked quietly. “Did you let her stay here?”

  “I wanted to help her. I truly did,” Margie said, “but she and that Frankie, they were always at it, breaking up and making up, the fur flying between them. There was even that one time she went off to some hotel in Marston, and he showed up there with a gun! Can you imagine? Instead of ha
ving him arrested, that fool girl decided that it proved he really loved her.”

  She looked back at Zach, her eyes begging for understanding. Seeing Jessie there behind him, Margie started, then shook her head, regret gleaming in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  “So you sent my sister away?” Jessie asked. “You sent her back to that monster?”

  “You have to understand. I couldn’t risk my guests’ safety, or my own, either, for that matter,” Margie told her. “I’d given her money before, helped her research domestic violence shelters. But she always took him back. Every single time.”

  Her face a mask of misery, Jessie nodded. “Believe me, I do get it. But what about—what about the little girl? Did Jessie have her with her?”

  The two women locked gazes, the silence between them loud with mounting tension. All too soon, though, it was interrupted by the muffled thump of the front door closing, followed by the scrabbling of toenails and the raucous barking of the dachshund brigade.

  Margie looked away first, turning down the burner. “That’ll be the other guest I was waiting for,” she said. “I’ll need to set the table.”

  “Please,” said Jessie, stepping closer. “Please just tell me, what happened to my sister’s daughter?”

  Margie’s gaze found theirs again, and in hers, Zach saw worry, but before she could respond, she turned her head toward the heavy tread of approaching boots.

  “Sheriff!” she said, startling as George Canter filled the doorway, his rain-spotted hat in hand.

  At the sight of him, Jessie grimaced, but Canter had no eyes for anyone but Zach.

  “Where is she?” the sheriff demanded. “Tell me you have her with you. Your mama’s goin’ clean out of her mind over there, and you aren’t answering your damned phone.”

  Zach’s heart stumbled and his breath caught, so he shook his head, unable to speak.

  “Where is who?” Jessie asked for him. “You don’t mean Eden?”

  Canter’s face fell. “So then she’s not here with you? I was hoping when we couldn’t find her—”