by Rebecca York
After he’d taken a bite of tender chicken he said, “This tastes wonderful.”
“It’s just a simple meal.”
“You’re a great cook.”
She flushed, then changed the subject abruptly. “Tell me about yourself.”
“There’s not much to tell. I grew up on a small ranch in Texas. My mom was the ranch cook.”
“Then I’m bush league compared to her.”
“Hardly.”
“What about your dad?”
“He disappeared from the picture when I was just a kid.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Mom tells me we were better off without him. And instead of one dad, I had a whole ranch full of substitute fathers.”
“Was it a good boyhood?”
“Basically.”
“And that’s where you got your first ranch experience?”
“Yeah. I learned to ride and rope—and take care of the stock. I rode a bronco in my first rodeo when I was fifteen.” He laughed. “And I ended up on my butt in the dirt.”
“Did you work at that ranch? I mean…for pay. Then go on to other spreads?”
“Mmm-hmm.” He shifted in his seat, uncomfortble with being forced to lie to her face.
“So you like ranch life?”
“Yeah,” he answered, hoping she hadn’t caught the emotion in his voice. He liked it all right—especially here with her. “What about you?”
“I could have moved away. But this land is part of me. Five generations of my family have lived here.”
He envied that sense of belonging. To shift away from the personal discussion, he asked, “So, with regard to your books, you’re relying pretty heavily on the rent those survivalists are paying you.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “We signed a one-year contract, with an option for renewal.”
“That’s a long commitment.”
“The leader, Boone Fowler, said it wouldn’t be permanent.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Not much. But I know that I need the money!” she said, in a voice that warned him not to pursue the subject.
So was she upset because she didn’t want to consider cutting off an important source of income? Or because she was in sympathy with the militia?
When he put down his fork, she said, “I’ve got cookies for dessert.”
“I don’t need any.”
“But I can use you as an excuse to have some myself.”
“Sure.”
She gave him an apologetic grin. “To avoid temptation, I put them where I couldn’t reach them without going to considerable trouble.”
“I can get them for you.”
“No need. I’m accustomed to doing for myself,” she answered briskly. Getting up, she walked quickly to the pantry, coming back with an old step stool. Before he could stop her, she was climbing up on it and reaching into one of the upper cabinets.
Maybe she was nervous. Maybe she wasn’t used to the roundness of her body. Or maybe she was reaching too far to the side. But as she climbed to the top of the stool, it wobbled and slipped from under her. And she screamed in surprise and panic as she fell.
Chapter Eight
Riley sprang out of his chair so fast that it fell backward and crashed onto its back.
His heart was pounding as he leaped across the space separating him from Courtney and caught her as she was coming down.
She crashed against his body, but at least she stayed upright as he lowered her feet gently to the floor.
She clung to his shoulders, swaying on unsteady legs, and his arms automatically tightened around her as he thought how fragile she felt in his embrace.
“Lord, you scared me,” he breathed. “When I saw you tumbling through the air, my heart stopped.”
“I scared myself.” She pressed her face to his shoulder. “You move fast. I mean, it wouldn’t have been a big deal, except for the baby.”
“Yeah.”
“I guess putting the cookies up there wasn’t the brightest thing I ever did.”
“Are you all right?” he asked, the question coming out in a little wheeze.
“Yes. Thanks to you.”
Now was the time to set her away from him. But he didn’t want to let her go. And she seemed to have no inclination to move, either.
The last time he’d held her, they had both been wearing heavy coats. Now she was dressed in a clinging knit shift through which he could feel every sweet curve of her body—her breasts, the slightly rounded swell of her tummy, the sweet seduction of her hips. He had to stiffen his arm to keep from lowering his hand to her bottom, so he could press her more firmly against himself.
His breath turned ragged. “Courtney?”
She didn’t move, didn’t stir. When she raised her face to his, her skin was beautifully flushed.
His mouth hovered less than an inch over hers, and it felt as if time stood still. Silent messages seemed to pass between them.
Can I kiss you again?
You know you can.
She slid her hand up, clasping the back of his hair and tugging him gently toward her. He lowered his head, bringing his mouth to hers.
This time, he had vowed that he would be gentle. But the moment their mouths touched, something hot and frantic bloomed between them.
His lips moved over hers. And he heard a low sob well up in her throat.
Her hands roved restlessly across his back and shoulders, as though frantic for contact. And his hands stroked over her in the same restless rhythm.
They rocked together, clinging, as the kiss turned more hungry. It was hard to think with the blood pounding through his veins and pooling in the lower part of his body.
He had been without a woman for months. When he’d come out of that prison camp, he had thought of himself as unfit for female companionship. He wasn’t sure what he thought now. He just knew that touching Courtney, kissing her, was like a feast.
He needed more, so much more. Without thinking, he eased far enough away to slide one hand between them. He shouldn’t take liberties. But he couldn’t stop himself from gently stroking the side of her breast.
He was ready to pull his hand away if she objected. But the small sound she made in her throat was no objection.
The hand moved to cup her, then his index finger stole upward to find her nipple. It was erect, begging for his touch. And when he stroked the finger across the hardened nub, she moaned into his mouth.
“Oh, Courtney.”
She answered with his name. He was so tuned to her that the world had contracted to a small bubble—with space for only the two of them. The atmosphere inside the bubble was punctuated by breathy exclamations and small sighs.
He felt as though they were the only people in the world. He moved back against the kitchen counter, taking her with him, splaying his legs to equalize their heights. She leaned against him, her sex pressed to his erection. And he closed his eyes, drifting on a current of sensuality.
Suddenly, a sound penetrated his consciousness, and he was instantly alert.
“Riley?”
There was no way to ignore his training. He thrust Courtney away from him.
She blinked up at him, her eyes registering confusion—and hurt.
“The front door!”
The words were barely out of his mouth when an angry-looking man strode into the kitchen. A man with a gun drawn.
Courtney gasped.
Riley struggled with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.
It was Jake with a pistol in his hand. Again.
Hadn’t they been through this yesterday?
“What the hell is going on?” the ranch hand demanded.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Riley shot back. “How come every time I turn around, I trip over you?”
Courtney stared at the new arrival, then added her question to the tension in the room. “Jake? What are you doing? Put that gun away.”
He looked reluctant. Y
et he did as she asked. “I…I heard you scream,” he said.
“What…did you think that I was attacking her?”
The man’s face told Riley he did—or he was using it as an excuse.
Courtney stepped into the breach. “I fell off the step stool,” she said firmly, pointing to the stool lying on the floor. “And Riley kept me from landing on the floor.”
“Are you all right?” Jake asked immediately. Riley saw that Courtney’s eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed. He didn’t want to speculate on what he looked like. But he could feel the skin of his face stretched taut over his cheekbones.
He turned away and picked up the stool. When he set it on its feet, one of the legs wobbled, and he stooped down to examine it more closely.
“What’s wrong?” Courtney asked.
“This leg is loose.”
She looked perplexed. “It was fine the last time I used it.”
“Well, it’s not fine now,” Riley snapped, tension and embarrassment making his voice sharp. “Who’s been in here?”
He looked from her to Jake.
She shook her head. “Nobody!”
“Can you remember the last time you used the stool?”
“A few days ago. To get down some bathroom cleaner. I’ve put it up high—to get ready for the baby.”
“And the baby is the issue now,” he reminded her. “A seven months’ pregnant woman falling from that height could be in big trouble.”
She blanched and pressed her palm against her middle.
“Has anyone else been in here while you’ve been home?”
“Just you,” she murmured.
Which made it hard to pinpoint when it had been tampered with—if it had.
She hurried on. “But it’s old. Maybe it just gave out.”
“Maybe,” Riley muttered, wondering if it was true. What if one of her hands had loosened the leg? Or some guy had sneaked over from the militia camp? He wanted to say he’d spend the night in her living room—making sure nobody got into the house. But he was sure she wouldn’t go for that. Straightening he said, “I should be going.”
Jake made an identical observation.
Without waiting for further comment from Court ney, Riley strode down the hall, grabbed his coat and headed back to the bunkhouse.
The other men were watching a video in the living room. He saw that it was The Horse Whisperer. A story set on a horse ranch in Montana. Talk about a busman’s holiday, he thought.
So was one of these guys a traitor?
“How was dinner?” Billy Cramer asked.
“Good.”
“You look like something didn’t agree with you,” Kelly observed.
Once again Riley could imagine the look on his face, but he denied that anything was wrong. “No. I’m just tired. I had a big day.”
He listened for the sound of Jake’s footsteps. Either he was still over at the main house—or he’d gone for a walk. But he would be back at the bunkhouse sometime soon.
Riley hesitated. He could have joined the other men and pretended to be sociable. Instead he strode into his own room and closed the door.
It was obvious that Jake had been spying on him. And he’d heard Courtney scream. But he’d waited a couple of minutes before coming in with his weapon drawn.
So did that mean he’d been watching the romantic action through the window? Or was he waiting to catch Riley in the act of—what?
Was he anxious to save his boss from getting ravaged and make her grateful? Or did he have another motive?
The last time Riley had called into base, he should have asked Big Sky to investigate the man. Maybe he would have, if Jake hadn’t appeared with his gun that first time.
Well, one thing Riley knew for sure—he was going farther from the house the next time he called Big Sky.
He sighed. Making a decision about using the phone was easy. But he knew he sure as hell hadn’t been thinking a few minutes ago.
Courtney had ended up in his arms…again. And he recognized that his feelings for her were getting rapidly out of control. Hell, he was thinking about her more than Boone Fowler.
He’d had a sweetheart back in high school. He’d thought they’d get married and settle down—with him working as a horse trainer. But he’d wanted to save some money, so he’d joined the army. When he’d gone off to basic training, she’d started dating another guy. That had been a crushing blow. At first he’d been wary of getting hurt again. Then he’d decided that keeping his relationships with women casual freed him from obligations and allowed him to take jobs where he was on the move—and in danger. Ed Rogers had taken the same kind of jobs. Only, he’d had a wife waiting for him at home. How could the guy have done that? He knew how he felt about Courtney.
She brought out all the protective, tender instincts that he’d kept under wraps. Now he was sorry he’d rushed into his room, because he wasn’t exactly in the mood to be alone with his thoughts. On the other hand, he couldn’t picture himself sitting around with Jake and the other guys this evening.
So he took off his clothes and climbed into a cold bed—which helped cool him down.
RILEY WANTED TO STAY around the ranch yard, watching the men for signs of deviant behavior. But he needed to contact Big Sky. So he saddled Monty and rode out from the ranch, taking a more southerly direction than he had previously. This time he was going to ask them about Jake. And he was going to make sure he wasn’t interrupted.
His plans changed abruptly when he heard the sound of automatic weapons fire. He reined in the horse quickly, thankful that his mount took the unexpected noise in stride.
Tying the horse to a tree, he dismounted and started moving through the woods—figuring that he must have finally found Boone Fowler and his gang of thugs.
He’d come to the ranch to make contact with Fowler. And he knew damn well he looked nothing like the sorry bastard who’d been in custody at the militia man’s prison camp. Still, his pulse pounded in his ears as he moved cautiously through the woods, determined to make sure he didn’t end up at the wrong end of the firing range.
He reached the edge of the clearing and stopped. He could see a line of guys dressed in fatigue outfits—firing at man-shaped targets.
They stopped shooting, and Riley was considering his next move when he heard the sound of raised voices. To his astonishment, he saw Courtney Rogers talking to a tall man with scrabbly hair and a scarred face.
Riley felt his stomach do a flip. Boone Fowler.
The man had obviously figured it was a good idea to change his appearance. He’d cut off his ponytail and shaved his beard. But there was no mistaking him. After being Fowler’s captive, Riley would know him anywhere—even in a darkened room—because he would have recognized his stench.
Though he’d changed his appearance, the militia leader had obviously been too cocky to change his name. It was as if he felt untouchable and was thumbing his nose at the locals and the authorities, daring them to come after him…and live to tell about it.
The man wore sunglasses over his calculating dark eyes, but Riley could imagine the look he was giving Mrs. Rogers.
Fowler’s attention was focused on her. What the hell was she doing here? She’d stayed in the house for the past few days. Now she was deliberately disobeying orders.
Riley edged closer, determined to pick up on the conversation—if he could do it without getting shot.
COURTNEY STOOD HER GROUND, even when such close proximity to Boone Fowler made her almost physically sick.
She’d told Riley that she’d rented some of her property to the man because she desperately needed the money. She hadn’t wanted to admit that she’d come to question that decision.
This morning, when Billy Cramer had come to the house to tell her he’d heard gunfire out on the range, she’d figured she’d better investigate personally. Of course, she could have turned the job over to her new ranch manager. But he’d never dealt with Fowler, and she knew it wasn’t f
air to send him into a confrontation with a man he’d never met.
So here she was, wishing fervently that she was somewhere else.
Clearing her throat, she said, “I didn’t authorize you to use automatic weapons on my property. They are totally inappropriate on a ranch. Somebody could get hurt.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. That’s part of the drill. I can’t go over our practice schedule with you.”
“And do you have to practice blowing up cabins?” she shot back.
“Yes we do.”
“You told me you were opposed to the war—that you were a peaceful, survivalist organization.”
He gave her a smile as fake as a three-dollar bill. “That’s the Lord’s honest truth, ma’am. But like everybody in this country of ours, we got to be prepared to defend ourselves.” Giving her a direct look, he continued, “Folks have to take the initiative. Like, if public opinion had been against the war, then the U.S. would have been out of Lukinburg by now. And your husband never would have gotten hisself killed over there.”
Courtney answered with a brusque nod. The last thing she needed was this guy telling her that Edward might be alive if U.S. foreign policy had been different. She wanted to inform Fowler that if he didn’t quit shooting machine guns and blowing up cabins, he was out of here. But she knew she had no way to back that up. He had a signed lease. She couldn’t afford to hire a lawyer to break it. And sending her men up against these guys was out of the question—although she had the suspicion that Riley Watson was as tough as the militia leader.
She struggled to calm herself. She had her unborn child to think about, and getting into a fight with Boone Fowler might not be in Hannah’s best interests.
He confirmed that assessment in the next moment. He’d been acting semireasonable. Now, before her eyes, his scarred face turned hard.
“What you’d better think about is that you rented property to me, and I have the right to use it any way I want.”
“Not if somebody else could get hurt,” she countered.
“Nobody’s going to get hurt—if they stay clear of this area.” His gaze dropped to her middle. “That goes double for a lady with a bun in the oven.”
She wanted to ask if he was threatening her. But she saw that all of his men had turned to watch the conversation.
