by Rebecca York
She felt her face heat.
“Or because I got into bed with you?”
“That part.”
“You were calling me honey. You were half out of it, and you asked me to hold you.”
“So you took advantage of me.”
“Took advantage?” he sputtered. “You’ve still got all your clothes on, haven’t you?”
She watched him consider how that must have sounded.
“And you needed me to help warm you up,” he added, then looked as if he wished he hadn’t stuck his foot further into his mouth.
She honestly hadn’t remembered the part about asking to be held, but when he said it, an embarrassing image filled her brain. How far had she gone in cozying up to this guy that she didn’t even know?
Well, as he said, she still had her clothing on. That was good. And Mr. Watson looked like he wished he could sink through the floor and into the center of the earth. That was good, too.
“You found me in my truck—after someone shot at me and I ran off the road?” she asked, struggling to change the subject.
“At you specifically? Is there someone using random motorists for target practice around here?”
It was an interesting question. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. Then she looked at her watch and puffed out a breath. “But I do know I’d better call the bunkhouse. My hands have to be worried about me.”
Glad of the chance to turn away from him, she climbed out from under the covers and sat on the side of the bed, then picked up the phone from the bedside table and dialed.
Jake, one of her ranch hands, answered immediately. “We were worried about you. Are you stuck in town?”
She hesitated for a moment, wavering between truthfulness and the need to make sure her ranch hand wasn’t worried. “No. I had some trouble on the road.”
“The storm?”
“Um,” she answered, thinking that she wasn’t going to tell him about the shooting now. Maybe not at all.
“My truck is stuck. But I have a ride. I’ll be home soon,” she said, then hung up before he could ask any more questions. Half turning, she saw that Watson was looking at her, tension stiffening his face.
“That’s one of your men?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t want to tell him that someone took a shot at you?”
“I prefer not to worry him.”
“Don’t you want him on his toes—looking for trouble?”
“I hope there won’t be any.”
He looked as if he was going to argue about that. Before he could make some kind of point, she said, “I need to go back to town. Right away.”
“If someone used you for target practice, you should go to the ranch where you’ll be safer.”
“What do you mean—if?” she demanded.
“You could be mistaken.”
“I’m not. I saw a man up on the bridge with a rifle.” She reached into her coat pocket and pulled something out, then flattened her hand, watching his eyes narrow as he saw a rifle slug lying in her palm.
“You thought I dreamed it up, didn’t you?”
“Where did you get that?” he asked.
“From the floor of the truck.”
“Who do you figure might have wanted to hurt you?”
“I have no idea.” She wanted to hear him say he believed her. But that wasn’t the important issue at the moment. “I have to get back to town. It’s urgent.”
Chapter Three
Riley struggled to hold his temper. This woman had fought with him, cuddled with him, argued with him. Now she was telling him she wasn’t going to her ranch where she’d be safe. Or relatively safe, given the inconvenient fact that Montana Militia leader Boone Fowler was out there doing Lord knew what.
Since his assignment was to get a job working for her, he stayed where he was and kept his voice low and even. “Do you mind explaining your thinking to me?”
Her expression turned fierce. Standing up, she turned to face him, hands on her hips. “I have to go back to town and see the doctor.”
His throat tightened. “Were you hurt when the car went off the road?”
“I don’t think so.” She stopped and swallowed hard. “But I have to make sure the baby is all right.”
He literally felt his jaw drop open, then managed to ask, “What baby?”
He saw color come into her cheeks. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m pregnant.” She kept her gaze steady. “I’m almost seven months along.”
“Seven months?” he wheezed. His gaze dropped to her middle, where he detected a small bulge under her man’s shirt.
She took in his question and his doubtful look. “I’m carrying small,” she said.
“Oh,” was the best he could dredge up.
“I have to make sure the baby is okay.”
“Yes, right,” he answered briskly. He wasn’t going to ask her how she’d happened to get pregnant. Instead, he started rushing around the room, collecting outerwear. He had been lying in bed with her, entertaining carnal thoughts, if he were honest about it. And now he found out that she was pregnant.
Damn. He felt like a prize fool. She’d seemed small and fragile in his arms. Well, except for that bulge he hadn’t noticed at her middle. And her breasts. They were large. Probably because they were full of milk. No wait, not milk. She wouldn’t have milk yet, would she?
He kept his lips pressed together so he wouldn’t say anything stupid, and his face turned down because he didn’t want her to see the red stain spreading across his cheeks.
She’d been separated from her husband for a year before he’d died. Had she had an affair with one of her cowhands?
When she disappeared into the bathroom, he breathed out a small sigh, then retrieved her gun from the drawer and put it with her coat.
“Jerk,” he muttered to himself. He’d been letting himself get turned on by a pregnant woman. That just showed how bad off he was.
Before she could emerge, he pulled on his coat, went out and started furiously clearing the snow from the windshield.
It was less than he’d expected. While he’d been holed up with the little mother, the weather had changed. The storm had abated, leaving the sky a dark blue. And much of the snow on the ground had blown away, the way it could in this part of the state.
Ms. Rogers came out while he was doing the side windows.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Almost done,” he mumbled, wondering if he’d blown his chances for getting the job. If he had, what the hell was he going to say to the colonel—that he’d screwed up before he ever got to the ranch? On the other hand, his commander hadn’t exactly given him sterling information.
The background papers hadn’t mentioned that Ms. Rogers was pregnant. What other surprises was he going to encounter?
When he’d cleared off the snow, they climbed into the SUV, and he started back toward town. Since most of the snow was gone, the road was fairly clear.
He split his attention between the driving and his own thoughts. Maybe because he didn’t know what the hell he was going to say to Ms. Rogers when they finally discussed the ranch manager situation.
She damn well needed him. But given her previous behavior, he could believe that she might not admit that. And he couldn’t tell her that this assignment was of vital importance to the national security of the United States. Big Sky wasn’t just on the trail of domestic terrorists. They needed to nail down the connection to King Aleksandr of Lukinburg—then arrest Fowler and his gang.
And he’d better keep reminding himself that no matter how sweet and vulnerable this woman looked, she was sheltering Fowler. And he didn’t have a clue about her motives.
He brought himself up short. Vulnerable? Oh, sure.
She would have drilled him if he hadn’t gotten the gun away from her. He stole a glance at her, seeing the set line of her mouth and the tightness of her jaw.
Probably his expression was
similar—to avoid giving anything away while he sorted through logic and emotion.
His job was to cozy up to her and get information about her relationship with Fowler. Her pregnancy had suddenly made the assignment more difficult. His own mother had been a single mom, and he knew how hard that would be for Courtney—especially on a horse ranch that was barely making it.
He slid her another look. She had said nothing since they’d started back toward town. Now he felt tension radiating from her.
He turned his head toward her, then followed her gaze. She was staring at the bridge ahead of them—and her vehicle, which was in the field where they’d left it.
Riley slowed, scanning the overpass. “This is where he shot at you?”
She nodded tightly.
While she was feeling off balance, he probed at her with a question. “If the attack was directed at you, who do you think would do it?” he asked.
Her face contorted. “I…don’t know.”
“Does one of your neighbors have a beef with you?” he probed.
She sighed. “People out here are big on conventional morality. Since I’m pregnant and unmarried, I’m the target of more than a few snide remarks.”
“Hmm.” He wasn’t going to ask her for any clarification. What she did in bed was her own damn business.
He cleared his throat and switched the topic back to attempted murder. “You think the righteous citizens of Spur City would shoot at a pregnant woman?”
“Well, the bullet didn’t hit me in the head. Maybe it was just meant to be a warning.”
He winced, thinking that if it was a warning shot, the rifleman had been playing fast and loose with her life.
“And the point of a warning would be?”
“Maybe they’re trying to get me to move away.”
“You mean, as in leave your ranch?”
“I’m not planning to do that!”
She looked beautifully defiant, and he had to remind himself he couldn’t trust her. Not until he found out why she’d let Boone Fowler and his gang of thugs onto her ranch.
They had hit the outskirts of the straggly little town that had the audacity to call itself a city. “Drive to the first cross street, then turn right. The clinic is the low building at the end of the block.
Riley knew he was well within the speed limit. When he saw a police car on his tail, he assumed the guy was going somewhere else. But as Riley pulled into the parking lot next to the women’s clinic, the cop followed.
He shot Ms. Rogers a quick glance. “You break any laws recently?”
She gave him a startled look. “What are you talking about?”
“There’s a cop car pulling in beside us.”
She groaned. “Just what I need. Good ol’ boy, Sheriff Bobby Pennington.”
Riley cut the engine, and she waited a beat before climbing out of the SUV.
Riley hung back, not wanting to step into the middle of anything until he understood the lay of the land.
A big man with a ruddy complexion, mirrored sunglasses and a gray trooper’s uniform strode toward her with a purposeful expression on his face. He looked like he owned the street. As he approached, he tipped back his wide-brimmed hat.
She stood with her arms at her sides, and Riley thought she was probably struggling not to fold them protectively across her middle.
“Something I can do for you?” she asked.
“Your truck was found out on the road. Just on the other side of the overpass.”
“Yes,” she answered, the one syllable coming out clipped, making it clear that she didn’t want to continue the discussion.
“What’s it doing there?”
“I ran off the road in the snowstorm.”
“From what I hear, there’s a hole in the front windshield that could have been made by a bullet.”
Her face contorted. “News gets around fast.”
“Yes it does,” he allowed.
“As it happens, the rumors are true. Somebody shot at me.”
Riley waited for her to turn over the slug she’d shown him. But she kept it in her pocket.
“You need to come to the office and report the incident.”
She hesitated for a moment. “I will. After I stop in at the doctor’s office.”
“For what? Were you hit?”
She raised her chin. “No, but I want to make sure the baby wasn’t hurt in any way, if that’s all right with you.”
The redness of his complexion deepened. “Yes. Of course. But I want you to file a report before you leave town.”
“I will,” she promised, and strode into the clinic. Riley hurried to catch up, wondering what had caused the bristly relationship between Ms. Rogers and the sheriff. Was he hostile to the militia—and hostile to her having them out at the ranch? Was it about her relationship with the town? Or was it something personal?
He tucked the questions into his growing mental file for later investigation.
When he stepped into a room decorated with cute little pictures of babies dressed up like flowers, he wanted to step right back out. But he forced himself to stand there and breathe normally. Ms. Rogers was already at the reception desk, talking to a woman in a white uniform. The rancher glanced back at him. “You might as well sit down.”
He nodded, then surveyed the audience looking him up and down as if he was a prize bull at a cattle auction. There were eight women giving him the once-over, ranging in age from teenagers to grandmas. They all sat on molded chairs. The younger ones were all visibly pregnant.
He felt his stomach muscles clench. Trying to keep his expression neutral, he sat down, holding his Western hat in his lap as he focused on a poster beside the desk advertising the opening of a shelter for battered women.
Ms. Rogers broke into his train of thought. “They’re going to fit me in, so it shouldn’t take too long.”
He suppressed the impulse to say thank God.
She hesitated for a moment, then sat in the only empty chair in the room—the one beside him. The seating was tight, and her shoulder brushed his. He knew everyone in the room was watching them, judging the level of intimacy between them.
Two of the women leaned their heads together and began whispering, and he was sure they were discussing him and Ms. Rogers.
To their right, he heard loud voices talking about the new battered-women’s shelter. The speakers sounded enthusiastic.
Courtney turned toward them, looking as though she wanted to join in, but she kept her mouth shut.
Luckily she was right about the speedy service. After only ten minutes, a nurse came out and called her name, and she disappeared into the back.
Her departure apparently freed the occupants of the room from restraint.
A gray-haired lady leaned toward him and asked, “So what’s your relationship to Mrs. Rogers?”
He blinked, thinking that nine sets of ears—the patients and the receptionist—were tuned in for his answer. And he had five seconds to account for his presence here. “I’m her new ranch manager,” he said, hoping that the fib wouldn’t matter. If Courtney decided to take him on, then it would be true. If she sent him packing, he’d be the talk of the town. But he wouldn’t be around to hear it.
“You know she’s not married,” the woman said.
“Mmm.”
“She was already divorced, but her former husband called her up. They were trying to see if they could get back together. I guess they did that all right. At least for one night.”
A teenager in the room giggled.
“He got himself killed in some foreign country after that, leaving her with the ranch and the baby.”
“How do you know so much about it?” he asked carefully.
“Everybody knows it. He asked her to meet him for some R&R, and she went rushing off to have a good time with him.”
“He was with the CIA or something like that, and he couldn’t adjust to the ranch,” another woman chipped in. “You look like you’re mo
re suited to life out here.”
Were they suggesting that he marry Ms. Rogers—to make an honest woman of her?
“She’s a handful,” someone else murmured, and he wasn’t sure exactly who had made the comment. He’d already discovered the truth of that statement.
He slouched down in his seat, hoping that his body language discouraged further conversation.
Courtney returned a few moments later looking vastly relieved.
He saw the peanut gallery eyeing her, then him, then both of them. He stood. “How’s the baby?”
“The doctor say’s she’s fine.”
“It’s a girl?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Your new ranch manager is a good man,” someone said. “You should rely on him.”
When Mrs. Rogers’s gaze shot to him, Riley wished he could sink through the floor.
She looked as though she wanted to set the speaker straight. Before she could bad-mouth him, he took her arm and steered her through the door.
As soon as they were on the street, she turned fierce eyes to him. “What did Sandra mean—my new ranch manager?”
He struggled to keep his voice even and reasonable. “As soon as you left, one of those busybodies asked me what I was to you. What did you want me to say—that I was your lover? Or maybe I picked you up along the road, and we got friendly real fast.”
She had opened her mouth to make another comment. But she shut it again. He watched her struggling to get control of her temper before saying, “You don’t have the job yet.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“We need to finish our job interview,” she murmured, stepping into a small courtyard where the walls of two buildings cut the wind.
He followed her into the small enclosure. “Okay.”
She gave him a narrow-eyed look. “You said you grew up on a ranch and that you’ve worked on several spreads in Texas and Wyoming.”
“Yes.”
“And you did a stint in the Special Forces.”
“Yes.”
“My husband was in the service, and he hated ranch life,” she said with a challenge in her voice.
“Well, I’m not him. I came home to ranch work after the service,” he said, the lie sticking in his throat.
