Cowboy Justice

by Melissa Cutler

  Weakness was something he knew all about. He worked a hand under her shirt, stroking the soft skin of her back. “I hate who I am around you too. You cloud my judgment, and I lose sight of everything I stand for. But I can’t help it. . . .”

  She pulled back and looked at him with eyes reflecting the same desperate longing that coursed through his veins. She trailed a finger along his temple. “I can’t let you go.”

  There was nothing left to say. Dizzy with adrenaline, he wound her ponytail around his fist and dropped his lips onto hers, taking her mouth hard and deep like he knew she liked it. She surrendered to him, her hand gripping his shoulders, her breasts pushing against his chest.

  The world apart from them disappeared, and all that was left in Vaughn’s universe was Rachel’s mouth, and her lean, lithe body pressing against him, and the way she made him feel.

  He could have kissed her forever, but she tore her mouth from his and rested her forehead on his chest. Vaughn released her hair and wrapped his arms around her waist in an unmovable grip. He tipped his face toward the heavens, his eyes closed, praying for the strength not to beg her for more.

  Of the two of them, Rachel was always the first to pull away, the first to remember the guilt and regret. The first to point out that their relationship would never amount to anything but a torrid affair. She was right, of course, but it damn near killed him every time she pushed away from his touch before he was ready to let her go.

  She stroked the hair at the nape of his neck, which got him wondering how something as screwed-up as their relationship could feel so good. And, when she spoke, her voice was thick with agony. “Sometimes I think it would be easier if we were together. That maybe I could finally find peace. But you don’t bring me any peace.”

  He pressed his lips to the top of her head. “There’s too much past between us, too much damage done for it to work. And now, it’s pointless to think about, because I don’t trust anyone to look out for your interests the way I can in this case. Wallace Meyer wants your head on a platter. I won’t let that happen, no matter what.”

  “We can’t ever allow ourselves to be alone together again.”

  “No.”

  She pressed her palms against his chest until he released his hold on her. “I should go.”

  “Yeah.” After adjusting his tie, he stuffed his hands in his pockets, trying to get his body and mind to work together again. “I’m going to need those photographs of the other graffiti incidents before too long, and we have a few more questions for you. I’ll send a deputy to your place tonight to pick you up and bring you to the station house.”

  She scooped her hat from the ground and adjusted it on her head, then walked toward her horse. “No need for that. I’ll drop by your office this afternoon.”

  Vaughn kept pace behind her. “I won’t be returning to the station house until at least five o’clock. Maybe it would be best if you came by before I got there.”

  She unwound the lead rope. “Why?”

  “You took a picture of me.”

  That stopped her cold. “What?”

  “On your camera. There was a picture of me.”

  She wrenched her head down and away, her lips pulled tight.

  Shit. He hated for her to feel awkward, but couldn’t see a way around it. “I’m only bringing it up because my deputies saw it. I’m afraid they’re going to start to wonder what they don’t know about you and me. I don’t want to give them any more clues.”

  She blinked as though deep in thought, then gave a resolute nod. “I can’t explain why I took that shot. I’m sorry if it embarrassed you in front of your employees. From now on, you have to do your job by the book, whatever that means. Pretend I’m someone else if you have to. You’re facing reelection this year and you can’t risk your career because of this crazy, uncontrollable thing between us that won’t go away. It’s not worth it.”

  He stood back as she lifted into the saddle. He didn’t have the heart to tell her there was no easy way to salvage his career in Quay County from the mess she and Wallace Jr. had created. All he could do was to keep Rachel safe from Meyer’s reach and bring a reckoning down on Wallace Meyer for his sins.

  Before she could race away, he took hold of the reins. “Rachel, I need you to understand that despite everything, being with you was worth it for me. There’s a lot I regret about my past, but nothing more so than ruining my chance to prove that to you.”

  “You don’t have anything to prove to me, Vaughn. Never did. It’s better this way, for both of us.” With a nudge to Growly Bear’s flank, she lit off across the valley.

  A pang of longing hit him. He wanted to ride with her. He wanted to change out of uniform, saddle a horse, and for a few hours forget about Wallace Meyer and reelection worries and all the reasons he and Rachel couldn’t be happy together.

  He watched the swish of her ponytail against her straight, proud spine, and knew—as certain as the passing of time—that even if he lived to be a hundred, he’d never feel more alive than in the stolen moments he’d spent with Rachel in his arms.

  * * *

  Rachel raced home, exhausted and defeated from the confrontation with Vaughn, cutting through the barren wasteland of weedy fields that had once been the dream she’d had for her life—still did, despite the shame she carried for being incapable of salvaging their alfalfa business from the mess her father had made of it.

  Dollar signs in his eyes, he’d gambled away every penny of his savings and leveraged the value of the ranch to the limit on one get-rich scheme after another, allowing one field after another to go to weeds while Rachel had watched helplessly as her future went down the toilet. She knew he loved his family, but he’d never given her a straight answer any of the dozens of times she’d confronted him about why he’d done that to them.

  To her.

  Why he’d taught Rachel how to be a top-notch alfalfa farmer, and got her believing it was her future—the legacy she’d leave to her children and nieces and nephews—only to let it all go to waste. It was one of the many things she wanted to ask him, but she knew if he came down from the heavens today to stroll with her in the fields, she wouldn’t dare waste time confronting him about his mistakes. Love didn’t work that way, especially with those who’d passed on.

  The discovery of oil under their southwest fields a few months back, when she and her sisters were on the verge of losing their property to foreclosure, provided her with the means to rebuild. Just about every property in Quay County had at least a couple derricks. Hell, royalties earned from oil leases was the only way most folks made ends meet on their ranches and farms, but, for decades, Rachel’s family had thought their property was dry—a Catcher Creek anomaly—but it turned out the existence of the oil was one more truth her father had tried to take to his grave. The four derricks had been erected in January and were the new heart of the ranch, pumping petroleum that was the lifeblood for the farm.

  Jenna and Amy took the oil discovery as a sign from above. Rachel reserved judgment about that, but she did seize on it as the opportunity it was for her to rebuild her dream one field at a time, as soon as they’d finished paying off the last of Dad’s debts. They were so close to settling the last of the bills that she could almost smell the fresh alfalfa scent she grew up loving.

  Inside the stable, she groomed Growly and tried her best not to look at Lincoln’s empty stall. An inspection of his hooves revealed that one of his shoes had come loose, so she pried it the rest of the way off and fitted him with a soft boot to keep his weight balanced. Chuck, their farrier, usually came around on Fridays, and he’d reshoe Growly then.

  Once she’d settled Growly in she was fresh out of excuses to postpone going indoors. The sooner she went inside, the sooner she could get on with her interview at the sheriff’s department. If all went well, she’d be home in time to supervise the evening chores. She might even photograph the rising moon behind Sidewinder Mesa.

  With a sigh of resignation,
she washed her hands and headed out. She paused on the threshold and reached her uninjured arm above the door frame, running her fingers over her lucky horseshoe. The smooth iron fortified her, reminded her of what was important in her life—her sisters and nephew, the land that’d been in her family for sixty years.

  The lesson she learned that fateful day she walked out of John Justin’s wasn’t one of self-preservation. It wasn’t about the feeling of freedom from turning her back on her mom and sisters. The liberation she gained was the bond she’d forged with her dad, and her discovery of her true path in life as a farmer, as the keeper of her family’s home and history. She learned that she could be the spine of the Sorentino clan without the paralyzing anxiety of standing in the thick of their drama. She could provide without the constant wounding to her spirit.

  She pressed the pad of her finger into a nail hole of the horseshoe, fortifying her resolve. She had a way of life to salvage, along with a family to support—responsibilities that superseded her selfish desire to run from her problems or to seek comfort in a man’s arms. She knew with unflagging certainty with whom her loyalties lay and what her core values were. The first and only time she had lost sight of those fundamentals had been catastrophic. Never again would she so egregiously disregard her responsibilities—no matter how tempting the vice.

  No matter how heavily that choice weighed on her heart.

  Stepping from the stable, she popped an antacid and watched Jenna direct one of the two families staying at the inn into corny poses for a picture with Tulip, Amy’s flower-adorned pet cow. Dang. She nearly gagged, thinking the words. Who in their right mind domesticated a heifer? Only Amy would come up with such a ridiculous idea.

  Of course, the farm’s guests ate it up. Jenna had posted Tulip’s photos on the Heritage Farm Web site, and she and Amy had changed the farm’s logo to include the cow’s silhouette.

  Most of the time, Rachel was fine with this new path their family home had taken, but it felt like a scam, advertising their farm as a place for families to get a taste of authentic farm life when each day’s guest activities included playing dress-up with the livestock, sleeping in until ten, and lazing around all day.

  “There you are,” Jenna said as soon as she saw Rachel. “Billy and April, this is our farm’s number one cowgirl, my sister Rachel.”

  Oh, joy. Time for the cowgirl act. She tipped the brim of her hat at them and kept moving toward the house, hoping to avoid getting sucked in to a conversation.

  “Wow,” said a boy who looked a year or so older than Tommy. “You’re a real cowgirl.”

  No dice. She stopped walking and turned around, smiling like she meant it. Wasn’t the kid’s fault she was having a rough week. “Sure am. And you look like a cowboy with that bandana and those shiny red boots.”

  He puffed out his chest. “I am.”

  Jenna crowded close to her and whispered, “You should be resting.”

  Rachel shrugged. “Yeah, so?”

  Jenna rolled her eyes. “So, Amy had Kellan running all over the place in his truck looking for you.”

  “He didn’t need to do that. It’s not like I’m in danger of getting lost on my own ranch.” Jenna got that mothering look in her eye, like she was winding up for a lecture. Time for a topic change. She gestured to catch the visiting kids’ attention. “Did Jenna here tell y’all about Tulip’s favorite treat?”

  The two children vigorously shook their heads. “What’s her favorite treat?” asked the youngest, a little blond girl of maybe three or four.

  Rachel knelt next to the girl. “What do you think it is?”

  “Cookies? That’s my favorite.”

  Rachel nodded. “Good guess. Tulip doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but she loves carrots. Jenna, why don’t you help these cowpokes feed Tulip some carrots?”

  Judging by the raise of Jenna’s eyebrows, she knew she was getting played. Rachel smiled sweetly and inched away from the scene.

  Pushing through the kitchen door, she was greeted by the aroma of baking sweets.

  Amy’s head shot up. She slammed her knife onto the cutting board. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”

  Rachel surveyed the telltale mound of diced celery on the counter, Amy’s favorite form of stress relief. “Yep. Pretty good idea. Sorry about that.”

  “Where have you been?”

  She sat on the bench near the door and took off her boots. “I tried to leave flowers where Lincoln died.”

  That stopped her “Oh. You tried? Does that mean you didn’t?”

  Rachel buzzed by the table, where two trays of scones sat cooling, and snagged one. “Couldn’t. It’s a crime scene. The sheriff turned me away.”

  “It’s just as well. You shouldn’t have been out riding in the first place.”

  She bit into the scone. “I told you, I needed fresh air.”

  Amy dumped the celery in a bowl with a bit more zeal than necessary. “We’ve got fresh air right outside this door. There’s no need for you to saddle a horse and go riding over the countryside to find it.”

  Quarreling was her and Amy’s natural state of communication, but Rachel didn’t have it in her at the moment. She edged toward the door to the dining room. “I promised the sheriff I’d bring in some photos of the ranch, so I’d better get on that so I can get to the evening chores.”

  “Rachel, you were shot. You need to rest. Let us handle the workload today. Kellan can take the photographs to Vaughn.”

  Tempting. Then there’d be no chance of her running into him inadvertently, no inquisitive looks by Vaughn’s deputies or rumors to dance around. Problem was, she couldn’t take a chance of her sisters or Kellan discovering the content of the photographs. She hadn’t managed to keep the vandalism under wraps for four months only for them to find out by a careless slip-up on her part. “Nah, I’ll take care of it. I think he’s got more questions for me. Anyhow, I rested enough in the hospital. You know I don’t have the temperament to sit around twiddling my thumbs.”

  Amy clucked in protest, but didn’t press the issue, thank goodness. “Stop by the kitchen on your way out. I’ll send scones with you for Vaughn. Cinnamon raisin is his favorite.”

  Rachel stopped midstride with her hand pushing on the kitchen’s swinging door. “It is?”

  “’Bout the closest thing to a fruit or vegetable he’ll eat, in fact. Makes him impossible to cook for.”

  Rachel chewed the inside of her cheek as a pulse of ridiculous, misplaced jealousy rippled through her. This was her sister, not some romantic rival. Still, it hurt to think Amy knew something about Vaughn that she didn’t. Hard not to wonder what else she didn’t know—what she’d never know since she’d never let herself get that close to him again.

  “Are you feeling okay, Rachel? You look pale. Maybe you should sit down.”

  “I’m fine.” She flashed Amy a smile to prove it. “When have you ever cooked for the sheriff? At Kellan’s house?”

  Amy leaned her butt against the sink, her brow creased with concern as she looked Rachel up and down. “Yes. Every Sunday he and Vaughn and the Bindermans get together to barbecue and watch sports on TV. I thought you knew that. And by the way, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you calling him Vaughn. He’s practically family, as close as he and Kellan are.”

  If Amy only knew. She kept the reassuring smile on her face and shrugged the shoulder of her good arm. “Guess his title stuck in my head from all those years he hauled Jenna home in his cruiser after she’d been out whooping it up. Hard to think of him as family.” Which was God’s honest truth, even if it was technically a lie of omission.

  “Oh, that reminds me! With everything that’s happened, I didn’t tell you we’re moving the barbecue here this Sunday so I can try a new barbecue ribs recipe I’m experimenting with for the restaurant. Kellan and I debated about canceling it, with what happened to you, but we both agreed that in times like this, it’s even more important to surround ourselves with family and
friends. To celebrate all the things we’re grateful for and show those trespassers that nothing slows the Sorentinos and Reeds down.”

  Vaughn. In her house—for an entire afternoon. The room started spinning. Rachel braced her other hand on the doorframe, squeezing the wood so hard it made her wound throb with renewed fury. “The inn’s guests leave Friday morning, so I figured it was a good time to host. Matt Roenick, Jenna, and Tommy will be here too. It’ll be fun.”

  She heard Amy’s footsteps approaching, but she couldn’t make her body work.

  Amy slipped an arm around her waist. “You’re not okay. I’m taking you to the sofa.”

  She twisted out of Amy’s grip and started toward the stairs. “I’m fine. Never better. I’ll stop by the kitchen for the scones before I leave.”

  The stairs left her winded, her muscles achy. Closing the door to her room, she spied the double bed in the corner and exhaustion, sudden and swift, made her whole body feel heavy. Maybe a short rest was in order after all so she’d be at the top of her game when she delivered the flash drive to Vaughn’s office.

  She dropped her jeans and shirt to the floor, pulled the band from her hair, and crawled into bed in her underwear. Her room’s window faced the afternoon sun. It speared through the cracks of the blinds, glowing yellow. She studied the pattern of light until the warm quiet dragged her into slumber.

  Chapter Six

  Vaughn’s younger sister Gwen was a riot. A brazen loudmouth with a wisecracking sense of humor like the rest of their mother’s side of the family, the Italian side.

  Of the three Cooper kids, Gwen had received the highest concentration of Finocchiaro blood, complete with olive skin, curly black hair, and a fiery temper. Vaughn and his youngest sister, Stephanie, shared the black hair, skin tone, and loud mouths, but they’d missed out on the temper, thank goodness.

  The way he and Stephanie figured it, the temper trait must be a hit-or-miss phenomenon because Mom was as mild-mannered an Italian as ever existed, while Vaughn’s nonna was as much of a surly spitfire as one might expect from a four-foot-nothing grandma who, as a child, had immigrated from the Mediterranean climate of Sicily to the Texas desert. Then again, by some relatives’ account, her temper hadn’t truly triggered until her only daughter married Gregory Cooper, a local, poor-as-dirt Irishman.