Searing Need

by Tracey Devlyn

  “What’s up? You have that look.”

  “What look?”

  “The one that means you’re thinking—or about to unleash hell.”

  Riley slanted him an aggrieved glance before sharing a sister’s fear. “Sometimes I worry that the burden of keeping this town and its residents in check will crush Maggie one day.”

  He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pressed a kiss to her head. “There may be times when your sister’s responsibilities will be too much for her to endure alone. But as you’ve said, she has Jayson now to help keep her grounded.” He squeezed her against him before returning to business. “If and when her duties become too much, she’s smart enough to recognize when it’s time to pass on the responsibility. No different than any other high-profile job.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Of course I am. I’m her dad.”

  She chuckled. Somehow he always found the right words to make her feel better.

  “Back to the boys,” she said. “I don’t need them hovering over me all the time. I just turned twenty-five. Time for them to cut the umbilical cord.”

  “I’ll talk to them,” he said. “But I suspect their instincts are driving them far more than any promise they’ve made to me. At least until you’re married.”

  She groaned.

  “Hello, Menace.”

  Speak of the damn devil.

  Riley glared at her brother Shep. “Don’t call me that, Harris.”

  Avid country music fans, her parents had honored their favorite musicians by giving their children crazy first names—Mandrell, Kristofferson, West, Harris, and Wynette—Riley’s personal cross to bear. Shep’s first name was Harris, after Emmy Lou Harris. If he wasn’t her brother, she would’ve felt sorry for him. At least she’d been named after a female singer, not a male.

  If she didn’t know better, she might have accused her parents of smoking weed during the naming process, but they hadn’t experienced a brain fart just once, they’d been afflicted five times.

  Peering over her shoulder, she murmured to her dad, “Love me, do they?”

  She stretched a hand out to scratch the broad, red-gold head of Shep’s service dog, Puck. His long, fanlike tail created a dust storm as it brushed back and forth across the ground.

  “Deep, deep down, they adore you.” Her dad grinned before infusing the same gentle sternness he always employed with Shep. “Son, you know Riley doesn’t like to be called that.”

  “Cash calls her Menace,” he replied without guile or guilt before he consulted his watch and shifted topics. “My shift starts in thirty seconds.”

  She smiled. It was impossible to stay upset with Shep. “Do either of you need anything before I leave?”

  “A cream puff from the Mad Batter,” Shep said.

  “Do you even eat sweets?”

  He shrugged. “I had a weird craving.”

  “I was thinking of something more practical.”

  “Be more specific next time.”

  “Can you stop by the house and get the power cord for the iPad register?” Dad asked, ever the mediator. “I forgot to charge it last night, and I’m not sure there’s enough juice to make it to the end of the day.”

  “Sure. I’ll be back in two shakes.”

  As she edged around her brother, he took the opportunity to flick her ear—as he’d seen Cash do a million times.

  She ducked at the last minute, his middle finger hitting air. “What’s the matter, Shep? Your inflatable girlfriend spring a leak again?”

  A sharp cough drew her attention. Her dad nodded to a group of gray-haired ladies who were staring at her and muttering to themselves. “Sorry, Mrs. Hester, Mrs. Landon, Mrs. Thomas.”

  The latter two ladies moved on to the next booth. Mrs. Hester winked before following her friends.

  As she strode away, Shep said in his matter-of-fact way, “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  12

  A scream tore from Coen’s throat, jolting him awake.

  His gut roiled, and he leaned over the side of his sleeping bag to heave the phantom contents from his stomach. Sweat—or tears—he didn’t know, dripped off his nose, and a headache split his skull in half.

  After several more bouts of organ-clenching misery, Coen fell back onto his makeshift bed. He rubbed his raw, scratchy eyes with the heels of his hands, trying hard to banish the images that wouldn’t allow him to close them for more than a few hours at a time. Exhaustion weighed down every cell in his body like an anchor plunging deep into the sea.

  Throwing off the damp sheet, he stabbed his legs into his rumpled shorts and threw on a pair of running shoes. He didn’t bother with a shirt. It would be one less thing to clean when he returned.

  He crawled into the cool, misty morning air. Shadows floated in the hollow like benevolent specters, roaming through a forgotten time. His chest expanded, drawing in cleansing, deep breaths. The rhythmic action did nothing to calm the war that raged in his mind, his heart, his damned soul.

  Run, his body demanded. Run, run, run.

  So he did.

  His long stride cut into the rich soil as he ascended the ridge, weaving between trees, shrubs, and jagged rock outcroppings. Once he reached the crest, he loosed himself into the forest, pushing his muscles to their limit, ignoring the shafts of purple and pink and molten red forcing their way through the dense canopy as the sun crept into an azure clear sky.

  All the while, his mental compass kept track of his location, mapping the distance and landmarks along his invisible, frantic path.

  He ran until he came upon an unfamiliar ridge, one he hadn’t found during his previous explorations. He ran until flames licked inside his chest, igniting his labored breaths. He ran until his leaden legs refused to take another ground-eating step. He ran until exhaustion smothered the pounding and the screaming and the awful silence consuming his head.

  He ran into her.

  Coen staggered to a halt, his body swaying and his exhausted mind clawing for clarity. Out of all the thousands of acres he could’ve run through, how had he managed to intersect the botanist’s space? Some might call it fate, but he considered it one more rock in an avalanche of bad luck.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  The botanist whipped around from her crouched position, eyes wide and wary.

  Slowly, as if she were afraid of spooking a wild animal, she eased into a standing position. How long they stood there, staring at each other, he didn’t know. But from one heartbeat to the next, her gaze unlocked with his and began a slow, thorough progression down his face, along his neck, over his bare chest.

  Her inspection lingered at the spot where his shorts rode low on his hips. Hunger pushed away the wariness in her eyes before they continued their meandering journey.

  Searing need arrowed through his gut, awakening a part of him that had been dormant for far too long.

  Nearly as tall as his six foot two inches, she had long limbs encased in khaki-colored protective clothing, and she wore thick-soled hiking boots. Her long-sleeved shirt hung open over a white, scoop-necked top that hugged her generous breasts and flat stomach.

  Coiled energy sparked along every ridge and hollow of her body. She was a sleek thoroughbred, bucking at the starting gate.

  He opened his fists he hadn’t realized he’d clenched and took one dangerous step forward.

  His movement snapped her gaze up to his. Whatever she saw there caused her to take a stilted step backward. He smelled her fear, and it sickened him.

  “Who are you?” he repeated.

  “Riley Kingston. My cousin owns this land.”

  Billionaire Jonah Steele was her cousin? Then that meant—

  “You’re related to Reid.”

  “Yes, God help me.”

  All thought of sleek thoroughbreds raced right out of his head.

  Rolling his shoulders, he demanded in a low, guttural voice he didn’t recognize, “What are you doing here? I warned you
not to return.”

  Annoyance flickered across her features like a fluorescent light bulb blinking to life.

  “I didn’t return,” she said. “You’re a long way from your campsite.”

  The bone-deep fatigue that rode his shoulders hit him hard, and he remembered his need to flee. Flee the memories that had become his living nightmare.

  Humiliation barreled through him, and he couldn’t bear to meet her penetrating eyes again. Swiveling toward the direction from which he’d come, he stalked off without another damning word.

  “Wait,” she called.

  He ignored her.

  “Please, wait.” Something in her voice pinched a nerve in his chest.

  Leaves rustled behind him. He didn’t pause.

  She slid to a one-footed halt in front of him, extending a staying hand.

  He veered around her.

  “Coen, stop, please. I need your help.”

  Help.

  His steps faltered.

  “Please, there’s an animal trapped in a hole.”

  He angled his head to look over his shoulder. Worry lines etched her brow.

  “You don’t want to tangle with a cornered animal.”

  His statement sat between them for several heartbeats.

  “I have gloves.”

  “What’s down there?”

  “A juvenile red fox.”

  He considered her long, lean body again. “If you can’t reach it, there’s little chance I’ll be able to get a grip on it.”

  “All I need to do is lower myself into the hole another foot or so. If you hold my feet, I should be able to grab the scruff of its neck.”

  “Before or after it scratches out your eyes?”

  “I can’t leave it to die. If you won’t help me, I’ll figure out something else.”

  Help me.

  Swiping the sweat gathering in his eyebrows, he released a sigh. “Fine, but I’m the one going in.”

  “With those shoulders? No way.”

  He frowned at her.

  While eyeing him, she made geometric shapes in the air with her hands. “You’re too broad for the opening. As it is, I’m going to have to wiggle a bit to fit.”

  “Show me,” he said.

  She led him to the place where she’d been crouching upon his arrival. Sure enough, a foot-and-a-half-wide opening yawned beneath the canopy of an ancient oak tree.

  Stepping to the edge, he peered inside. He saw nothing but bottomless black.

  “How do you know there’s anything down there?”

  She tossed him a penlight. “See for yourself.”

  Lowering to one knee, he clicked on the small flashlight, and an oddly bright beam illuminated the pit. A pair of glowing yellow eyes stared back. The fox huddled in a ball against a wall scored by dozens of claw marks.

  “Did you try angling a branch into the hole so it could climb out on its own?”

  “I couldn’t find anything sturdy enough.”

  He turned the light off and stared into the darkness.

  “He’ll turn on you the moment you touch him.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re not afraid?”

  “I’d prefer to avoid blood and pain.” Her eyes remained steady on him. “But I understand he’ll be reacting out of instinct, not a desire to hurt me. I’ll be prepared.”

  He took in his surroundings, searching for something he could use to widen the opening. The only thing within reach were a few rotting branches.

  “I recognize the calculation in your eyes,” she said. “Even if we could open up the hole more, there’s no way I could haul you out. I’m strong but not that strong.”

  She was right. He’d wind up toppling headfirst into a pit with a wild animal. And wouldn’t that be fun.

  Catching the resignation in his eyes, she smiled her victory.

  His eyes narrowed.

  Turning away, she wrenched off her outer shirt, revealing a tight-fitted tank top that showed off toned arms and a strong, finely muscled back.

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?” he asked. “The long sleeves would give you an added layer of protection against claws and teeth.”

  “I’m well aware. But I can’t afford my shirt getting snagged on the roots and dirt. My bare skin will help me breach the opening.”

  Lowering her into the hole, unprotected, raked against every nerve, every instinct he possessed. But with the tools they had at their disposal, he failed to devise a viable alternative.

  A familiar tingling sensation started at the base of his spine and wended its way up each vertebra, one by one, an odd combination of heat and cold misting in its wake.

  Someone or something watched them.

  His hand reached for the knife he kept sheathed at his calf, but his fingers latched onto nothing but bare skin. He almost groaned aloud when he recalled his mad flight from his campsite. All he’d wanted to do was escape into nothingness. He hadn’t stopped to consider his weapons or safety, only freedom from his memories.

  With a surreptitious tilt to his head, he scanned the openings between trees and shrubs, searching for a gun nozzle or a shadowed figure.

  Noticing his attention had shifted to their surroundings, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

  He held up a silencing hand and continued his search. Just when he began to wonder if his instincts had been testing him, he spotted their stalker.

  Low to the ground, half tucked behind a wide tree trunk, a narrow face with unblinking, greenish-yellow eyes stared back. The red fox’s long, fluffy tail did not twitch nor did its muscles bunch to leave at its discovery.

  Given its size—that of a medium-sized dog—and proximity to the juvenile fox, he guessed their observer had to be one of the kit’s parents.

  “How aggressive are foxes?” Coen asked.

  “They’re not.” Following his gaze, Riley paused in putting on her gloves. “Unless they’re protecting their young.”

  The fox continued to watch them with unnerving stillness.

  He swore. “Let’s make this quick.”

  She nodded, flexing her fingers inside her leather gloves. Kneeling at the pit’s edge, she crooned to the frightened, trapped kit. “It’s okay, little one. We’ll have you out of there in a blink.” Looking up at Coen, she asked, “Ready?”

  “I’m not the one going into a confined space with a rabid animal.”

  “Not every wild creature is rabid. Sometimes they’re just scared.”

  He studied her for the space of a breath before motioning to her to get into position. “What do you need?”

  “Hold my ankles until I signal that I’ve got the kit, then pull like hell.” She placed the butt of the penlight between her teeth, and without another word, the botanist lay on her stomach, arrowed her arms into the hole, and slid beneath the earth’s surface.

  Scrabbling to grasp her ankles, he couldn’t decide if she was one of the most fearless people he’d ever encountered or one of the most reckless.

  She lowered her entire torso into the pit, which left him with a perfect view of her firm, well-rounded ass. Heat speared into his gut.

  Reid’s cousin, Reid’s cousin, Reid’s cousin.

  He forced himself to look away.

  While he’d been preoccupied by the botanist’s assets, the adult fox had moved several feet closer. He tightened his grip around her ankles.

  “Hurry up,” he demanded.

  He received a garbled reply in return. Then the muscles in her calves tautened and her body jerked.

  “Do you have it?” he asked.

  More garbled words. She couldn’t speak with the damned penlight in her mouth.

  “Do you have it?” he pressed.

  She must have removed the flashlight long enough to bark out a loud whispered, “No.”

  His attention whipped back to the adult sentinel. The fox now sat no more than ten feet away. Way too close for his comfort.

  “Ten more seconds and then I’m pulli
ng you out.”

  He began the countdown in his head while he kept one eye of the fox. Once he hit ten, he said, “Time’s up.”

  Riley began to struggle in his grip, but he dragged her out of the pit, inch by inch, his muscles flexing and straining. When her head cleared the opening, he held his breath, hoping he’d given her enough time to secure the kit.

  She spit the penlight out of her mouth and used her free hand to raise herself into a kneeling position. Slowly her other hand cleared the pit and a small, red ball of fluff dangled above the ground.

  The adult fox stalked closer, its black-socked paws taking measured steps toward its offspring.

  “Set the kit down, Riley.”

  “I need to first make sure it’s okay.”

  “Set it down.”

  She must have picked up on the tension in his voice, for she did as instructed.

  They both watched as the kit shuffled away, panicking, before noticing the adult nearby. Body low, the kit beelined for the safety of its parent. The two touched noses before sprinting into the woods.

  Watching the two foxes reunite helped banish the remnants of his nightmare. He looked to where Riley sat on the ground. Wisps of dark hair framed her flushed face, and dirt streaked her white tank top. Her breasts rose high with each excited breath.

  Pushing her glasses up, she gave him a broad, joyful smile.

  Something in his chest cracked.

  13

  I’m here.

  Riley hit the Send button before dropping her phone into the console’s cupholder.

  After numerous text messages with Nick, each one more outrageous than the last, she’d finally agreed to meet him for dinner. Actually, pick him up, eat, and then drop him off at the airport.

  Not wanting any misunderstandings, she’d made it clear that this dinner was between colleagues—not soon-to-be lovers.

  Bahh-ling.

  She glanced at her phone’s display.