He stopped thinking and gave himself over to instinct. Evidently his instincts were good, because he had her moaning and bucking in a heartbeat then clenching and crying out as she tossed in the throes of orgasm. It was all he could do to resist taking her then, wet and trembling, but he stroked her and held her until the aftershocks passed in long, rippling shudders that stretched her taut and made her moan all over again.
But as she recovered her senses, she opened her eyes and looked at him like she was seeing him for the first time. He could see the reality of the situation dawning in her eyes, and she stiffened slightly and drew away.
“It’s all right,” he said. “We’re all right.” He stroked her hair and cupped her cheek, doing his damndest to kiss her doubts away and cussing his own scruples as he wondered if he’d missed his chance. Resisting the urge to rush, he smoothed away her resistance with gentle hands and felt her skin warming, her passion reviving. Stroking, caressing, he brought it back to life until she closed her eyes and surrendered again.
It was a risk to stop, to reach for the nightstand drawer for the condom and take time to slip it on, but she waited, watching with sleepy, hooded eyes. When he turned back to her, she slid beneath him, her legs parting. He wasn’t taking any chances this time; he entered her in a smooth, long stroke and let out an animal growl of satisfaction.
They moved together in perfect counterpoint, slowly at first. He felt her relaxing bit by bit, and then the wild woman was back, clutching his back while he rocked them both back to sweet oblivion. The world flew away as he closed his eyes and rushed down a tunnel of flickering lights to a pounding, rocking, out-of-control climax that shook him so deeply he thought he’d never recover.
He collapsed beside her and must have slept. When he woke, she’d curled into him. Her head was nestled in the crook of his neck, and one delicate arm was draped over his body. She’d thrown a leg over him too, and he lay perfectly still, staring up at the ceiling and wondering if he’d ever feel this perfect again.
Chapter 22
Sierra blinked awake and stared at the ceiling. In the dim light of dawn, something looked different. This wasn’t her ceiling. She wasn’t at Phoenix House. She was…
A stuttering slideshow of memories flashed through her mind. Naked muscular limbs. Gray eyes fixed on hers. The world spinning then stopping. The feeling of flying off into space, launched by the inner combustion of ecstasy meeting passion—igniting, exploding, and finally fading into a warm glow that was with her still.
One hell of a dream. Tugging the sheet to her chest, she idly rubbed the fabric between her fingers. It was crisp, a little coarse. Coarse?
This wasn’t her sheet, and that wasn’t a dream.
Those naked limbs? Ridge’s. Those eyes? Ridge’s. That ecstasy?
Hers, all hers. The inevitable result of having screaming, flailing sex with Ridge Cooper.
Ridge. Her boss’s friend. She wondered if he’d tell Mike, if they’d trade jokes about her.
Worse yet, he was a volunteer, working with the kids. Maybe they could pretend it didn’t happen. Maybe if she left quickly, stole out of the house, he’d think it was a dream too.
She gathered her clothes, which had somehow been flung to the far corners of the room: her jeans on the rocker in the corner, her panties draped over the headboard, her bra—well, she didn’t know where her bra was.
She was tugging on her still-damp T-shirt and hunting for her boots when Ridge stirred. She stood still as a deer scenting a hunter, praying he’d turn over and fall back asleep, but he blinked and sat up, stretching and yawning. He opened his eyes and started like he’d seen a ghost. Apparently he wasn’t happy about what he’d woken up to, either.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
“You okay?” His eyes were wary.
“Fine.” She held herself stiffly erect, trying to telegraph the message that she wasn’t that kind of girl. She might have been, for a minute there, or maybe a few hours, but she wasn’t normally—not in real life.
Because what had just happened definitely wasn’t real life. It was some kind of fairy tale, where the prince awakened the sleeping princess in the forest. Or, more accurately, where the prince awakened the princess’s sleeping sexuality in the bedroom. Or the cowboy—she didn’t even want to think about who they really were.
He grabbed his jeans and slipped them on. “I’ll come down and help you with that car.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” He pulled open a drawer and got out some socks. White athletic socks, with red stripes around the tops and—hey, did all cowboys wear tube socks? She thought those went out with Gloria Gaynor and Knight Rider.
He grabbed the T-shirt he’d shed the night before, his eyes avoiding hers. He was probably worried she’d want to stay for breakfast, want to stay the day, or, heaven forbid, want to stay forever.
“Look, Ridge, you don’t have to worry.”
“I just want to make sure you make it to the highway.”
“No, I’m not talking about the car. I’m talking about us. I mean, not us. There is no us. That’s what I’m trying to say.” She shook her head, irritated by her own awkwardness. Why couldn’t she just say, “Thanks, see ya, that was fun but it won’t be happening again”? Lots of women had sex for fun, no strings attached. For all Ridge knew, she was that kind of woman. For all he knew, she wasn’t freaking out inside, feeling impossibly compromised and vulnerable and screwed up.
Screwed up, screwed down, screwed sideways.
She sucked in a deep breath, hoping the cool autumn air carried some courage along with the scent of sage and fresh-cut grass. This might be okay if Ridge was just some random guy. But his connection to her work made it essential that she wipe this problem out of existence. She had to address it now, before it got any bigger and flared up beyond her control.
Actually, it wasn’t the problem that was out of control. It was her libido. Maybe she needed Ridge to help protect her from herself. Her stupid, impulsive, sex-starved self.
“I just want to make sure we’re on the same page,” she began.
He’d just shoved his arms into the T-shirt and was about to pull it over his head, but now he froze.
“I’m not looking for a man. I doubt I ever will be.”
He ducked his head and yanked the T-shirt on, so his face was hidden from her. “Somebody break your heart?”
“Not really,” she said. “I’m not sure I have one.”
He pulled the T-shirt over his head. For half a second, he looked startled, but then he shook his head as if he needed to rid his brain of something unpleasant. “I’ve seen you with those boys. You’ve got plenty of heart.”
“Yeah.” She couldn’t help smiling, just a little. “Maybe that’s where it went. Along with my desire to get involved with anyone who’s not…”
She swallowed the word stable, but he filled in the blank. “Perfect?”
Bingo. “It’s just that I’ve seen a lot of bad relationships and the collateral damage. I’m not going to get involved with anyone until I’m ready to settle down and do it right. And I’m not going to be ready for that for a long time.” She laughed self-consciously. “I gave up on love a while ago.”
“Wow, the perfect woman. You mean you’re not looking for a little white house with a picket fence?”
She shook her head. “Nope. The boys are all the family I need. Sometimes I think I’ll never get married. I mean, why bring more kids into the world when there are so many out there who need you?”
Turning, she gave him a smile. “So thanks, it was great, but let’s forget it happened, okay? It was just momentary madness.”
“Hey, it took more than a moment.”
She laughed, swinging out the bedroom door with what she hoped was a carefree wave.
“Look, just give me a minute. I’ll drive you down to your car, and we’ll see if it’s okay.”
“It probably is. And if it isn’t
, I’ll call.”
“It’s a long walk.”
“Which will be a pleasure.” She nodded toward the window, opened just a crack. The sun was just coming up, and birds were tossing out tentative notes that sounded like an orchestra tuning up.
Something in her tone must have been strong enough to get through that hard head of his, because he stopped trying to talk her into anything and sat back down.
Passing through the house, she smothered a faint stab of regret as she entered the pretty kitchen waiting in the dim light of dawn for a family to bring it to life. Sometimes she envied her friends who had married and had babies, but then she’d remember the casualties of the fractured families she’d worked with and felt her good sense return. That kind of commitment was too much of a risk to take unless you were sure—really sure. And she’d never had good judgment when it came to men. They seemed to grow horns and a tail the minute she started to trust them.
As she stepped onto the porch, she faced a world painted in shades of blue and gray, hushed by a morning mist. She knew the sun would chase off the shadows to reveal an endless blue September sky, and hoped last night’s mistake would clear up just as easily.
Behind her, the screen door squeaked open.
“Hey,” he said.
She turned to see him slouched in the doorway, holding something behind his back.
Please don’t let it be flowers. A cup of coffee might be okay, or a doughnut. But she’d rather just go.
He held up a pair of battered Converse sneakers.
“Jeff’s,” he said.
“Oh.” She took the shoes and bounced them in her hands, wondering why he had the boy’s shoes. Finally, it dawned on her.
“The pink boots,” she said. “He wore them home.”
Ridge nodded, grinning. “Guess they weren’t so bad after all.”
“I’ll bring them back,” Sierra said.
He shrugged, splaying his hands. “Let him keep ’em.”
“Okay. Thank you.” She paused. She really should go, but she was curious.
“Why do you call him Jeff? It’s always been Jeffrey.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked out at the corrals. “Sometimes an abused animal connects its name with the abuse. If you change the name, they’re not so scared to trust you.”
“That’s good,” she said. “Thanks. I never thought of that.”
She started down the steps. Halfway across the yard, she dared to take one last look back. He was still standing in the doorway, and she felt that lightness rising in her chest again, that soft warmth flowing through her veins.
This time she knew enough to turn away before any stray urges overwhelmed her.
Picking her way down the rutted driveway, she waved off the Tweedles, who were following like she was a Fourth of July parade and might start throwing candy at any moment.
“Go home, guys.”
When she reached the car, it was clear there would be no turning around. The front wheels were poised at the edge of a deep washout, and moving so much as an inch forward would make the Jeep bottom out. It was supposed to be a four-wheeler, but it didn’t have the clearance to tackle the Decker Ranch road.
Climbing in, she started the engine then shifted into reverse. Craning her head over her shoulder, she backed up as quickly as she dared, bouncing over ruts and slamming into potholes.
The engine made a high, keening noise as the miles unwound. If only she could throw her life in reverse this easily, unwind the past couple of hours, and start again at the bottom of the driveway.
Chapter 23
A week later, Sierra was still jangling with nerves—partly about Ridge, but mostly about Riley. She’d left her friend several messages and still hadn’t gotten a call. She’d tried to calm her mind with some deliberate drudgery, like cleaning the supply closet and reorganizing the kitchen cupboards. She’d also caught up on the reams of paperwork that were required to chart the progress of each of the boys. At least she had progress to chart, thanks to Ridge.
Ridge. Every time she thought of him, her brain shut down and smoked like an overheated engine. What had happened between them that night? Why had she lost control? And most important, why hadn’t it felt like losing control? It had all felt so right, so natural. With other men, she’d never been able to truly let go. But with Ridge, she’d been able to ride that crazy rocket ship of ecstasy straight into space. It had been countdown, launch, and straight into orbit, for the first time in her life. And through the whole trip, she’d never doubted for one moment that she’d have a safe landing.
When the boys got home from school, she helped them with homework, then played video games a while before mandatory reading time and bed. After lights out, the house grew quiet. She sipped a cup of tea as night air carried the sounds of the small-town night through the open window of her third-floor room.
She was used to the cacophony of downtown Denver—the hum of traffic, the bleating of car horns. Here, passing cars were rare, so each traveler seemed more enigmatic. Who was the stranger behind the wheel? What business carried them through this remote place?
When the peace was interrupted by the roar of an especially loud engine, she glanced down to see a battered old delivery truck parking at the curb out front. The lettering on the cab was obscured by peeling paint, and the metal box on the back was streaked with rust. A spider web of cracks marred the passenger side of the windshield.
The truck looked like trouble, and so did the man who stepped out of the cab. Bald-headed and muscle-bound, he had heavy brows and a grim set to his mouth. Sierra hoped he wasn’t one of the boys’ fathers. Nobody needed a scene—not the neighbors, not Sierra herself, and certainly not the boys.
She could sympathize with the desperate parents who occasionally stormed the system to try and claim their kids, but cutting off parental rights was nearly impossible in the state of Wyoming, so the abuse had to be heinous before the state would step in. And only the worst cases—with the most dangerous parents—ended up at Phoenix House.
Every one of her boys had been through hell. And it was her job to make sure no one put them through it again.
Walking quickly and quietly, staying back from the windows, she made her way through the darkened house to the office. Opening the safe hidden in the floor under her desk, she pulled out a hard plastic case and twirled in another combination to reveal a compact nine-millimeter Glock. Another case yielded two loaded magazines. She considered them a moment then shoved one into her pocket, leaving the gun unloaded. She could load fast enough, and she wasn’t about to risk an accidental shooting. The gun itself she slipped under her belt, at the small of her back.
She’d never gloried in the power guns gave her, but right now being armed felt right. Nobody was going to hurt her boys if she could stop it. And she was more than capable of stopping it.
Returning to the lounge, she moved slowly but purposefully along the wall until she was next to the window. A tilt of her head allowed her to peep out at the driver, who was still surveying the sleeping town. She tapped her back pocket, making sure she had her cell phone. She really couldn’t see Sheriff Swaggard taking on Delivery Truck Man, but she needed to keep all her options open.
She leaned out from the wall again to watch the stranger. As she watched, the passenger door of the truck opened and revealed a familiar form—a slim, pale figure with wispy blond hair so light it looked silver in the dark.
Riley.
Sierra’s first impulse was to run out and hug her friend. But then she looked back at Delivery Truck Man and frowned. Who was he? And why had he brought Riley here now? Wynott was more than three hours from the city. And it was the middle of the night.
Something was wrong. Really wrong.
***
Riley Sue James had been born with the beauty of an angel, but she’d done her best to erase the gifts heaven had given her. Her hair, so light blond it was nearly silver, was dull with the effects of constant dyin
g and had recently suffered a homegrown haircut that did nothing to complement the delicate beauty of her face. A dozen silver hoops, placed so close together they looked like a zipper, decorated her eyebrow. Fortunately, these were the only remnants of the piercings that had decorated her nose, lips, and even her tongue back in the bad old days.
But the tattoos remained. Right now, all that showed were the flowers twining around her right arm. The tattoo was beautifully done, but disturbing once you noticed the lurking spiders and leering elfin faces hidden in the foliage. Riley said it showed how pretty things could hide evil deep within, and Sierra had always wondered if that was how Riley saw herself.
Riley had tried every fashion fad from Goth to punk, but she couldn’t stop her inborn beauty from glowing through every disguise. Her eyes were a clear, Caribbean blue, and her skin was China-doll white. No one would ever guess she was twenty-one years old; she still looked fifteen.
Sierra couldn’t help thinking of her as a kid. Maybe that’s why she was so relieved to have her safe inside Phoenix House—even though her über macho chauffeur strolled in behind her.
Don’t let him in, don’t let him in, Sierra’s instincts screamed. But she couldn’t keep him out without a confrontation. Maybe, if she played nice, he’d just go.
“I didn’t expect this to happen, Sierra, I swear.” Riley dropped a duffel bag in the hallway. It had clearly been packed hastily; the zipper wouldn’t close over the jumble of clothes and toiletries that had been tossed inside. “Mitch took me to see this band—they were so good, you should have been there, you would have loved them—and when I got home, all my stuff was out on the lawn. I know I was late with my share of the rent, but only by a couple of days. Well, maybe five days. But Mom knew I’d lost my job, and I was trying to find something new. I’ve been going to school, and I wanted to find something that used my skills.”
Sierra was listening to Riley, but her eyes were on Delivery Truck Man. So far, his behavior hadn’t set off any alarms, although she was surprised that he didn’t ogle Riley or even seem that interested in her. Instead, he gazed around the front foyer like a connoisseur of Victorian architecture.
How to Handle a Cowboy Page 14
