Too Hot To Handle

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Like that old saying about looking for love in all the wrong places…Mom gave sex and hoped for love. The guys took sex and walked away.

  I’m smarter than that.

  When Tory’s stepfather had been transferred to Wisconsin, she had jumped at the chance to stay in California and moved into an apartment with three other girls from the swim club. Within days she had a job working from 8:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m., five days a week, at a nearby fast-food restaurant. Three months later she was pro­moted to cook when the boss found her filling in for a man who was more interested in partying than in working.

  The hours were awful, the work was hard and the money was barely enough to survive on. Yet she wouldn’t have traded one minute of it for life with her stepfather. Her boss agreed to schedule her around her swim meets and school, and in return she worked even harder. When the doctor had told her to take a minimum of three months off from diving, it had been a great temptation for her to stay in Mission Viejo and work double shifts and save money.

  In the end Tory had reluctantly decided against it. The doctor had been determined that she remove herself from the “narrow, unnatural, short-lived hothouse atmosphere of Olympic athletics.” He had flatly told her that she was to get out, all the way out, to see something more of the world than an Olympic diving platform. Then she could decide if going back to diving was worth the high risk of a permanent, crippling injury.

  Hastily Tory bent and picked up her luggage again. She didn’t want to think about the doctor. He was wrong. He had to be wrong. Her knee would heal again and be stronger than ever. She was sure of it. It would be like everything else in her life had been: if she just worked hard enough, long enough, and depended only on herself, she could do any­thing. Anything at all.

  Including walk nineteen miles through a hot Arizona afternoon and find a place to stay in a town so small that it hand-lettered changes on the population sign. Then she had to earn enough to pay for the room and to buy a bus ticket back to California.

  “One thing at a time,” Tory said aloud, stilling the rush of her thoughts. “It’s like a competition. You can’t worry about any dive but the one in front of you or you’ll fall apart. So first you walk to town. Then you can worry about the rest, one thing at a time. Just like diving.”

  As she thought of standing on tiptoe on a plat­form more than thirty feet above the aquamarine perfection of an Olympic pool, she unconsciously licked her lips. At the moment, even pool water would have tasted good, chlorine and all. And to arc up and out, to turn over and over before entering the water’s stillness, to have her tired body em­braced and supported by the cool water...

  Head down, her duffel bag slung across her back and her blistered hand grasping the broken handle of her suitcase, she set off down the two-lane county road, limping slightly. As far as she could see, she was the only thing moving beneath the in­credible blue of the sky. She was relieved to be so alone. She had been in cities for too long to relish the idea of meeting a stranger on that desolate road.

  2

  Reever rode along the southeast boundary of the ranch, checking the range. It had been a good winter, a wet winter. Snow had been thick in the steep-sided mountain valleys and had melted slowly on the slopes, providing continuous natural irrigation for the meadows. Grass and wildflowers grew in profusion, brushing his stirrups. He hadn’t permitted this part of the ranch to be grazed for five years. He had wanted just one part of the Sundance to look as it had in his great-great-grandfather’s time.

  Sundance, Jawbone, and Wolf creeks were brim­ming with bright water, as were the sloughs where birds gathered in wheeling clouds to raise their young. Despite the raucous birds, it was Wolf Creek itself that drew Reever’s eye. It had been a long time since he had tasted fresh trout. Although the water was still cold with the runoff of barely melted snow, the fish should be shaking off their winter torpor and gliding through the green pools in search of the season’s first insect hatch. Cold, clean water and winter-hungry trout—a fisherman’s dream.

  Reever’s mouth turned down as he admitted that, even if he managed to tempt one of the wily trout on to a hook, it was unlikely that Cookie would turn the fish into an edible dinner. Cookie had been rest­less lately, which meant that one day soon the hands would show up for dinner only to find that there wasn’t any. Then the men would comb out the bunk­house or the barn and find Cookie, drunk beyond sobering. He would stay that way for two days, two weeks, whatever it took to temporarily appease the demons within.

  Lately it seemed like Cookie’s de­mons came more often and stayed longer.

  Swearing under his breath, Reever told himself that he really had to find another cook. He’d been telling himself that for two years. He would have done it, too, but finding a cook who didn’t mind the Sundance’s isolation wasn’t easy. With another mut­tered curse, Reever pulled the buckskin to a stop at the crest of a bank overlooking a series of pools joined by brilliant white ribbons of tumbling water.

  One of the pools was directly in the sun. The color of the water was a green so luminous that it seemed to quiver with life. He had seen nothing to compare with that green—until this morning when a girl as slender and supple as a streamside willow had watched him with sensual curiosity darkening her big eyes.

  Payton Sundance, you charming, blue-eyed son of a bitch, if you ever send me another of your cast­off playmates, I’ll peel your soft city hide and nail it to the barn.

  The horse twitched a black-tipped and stamped uneasily, registering its awareness of the sudden tension sweeping its rider.

  For God’s sake, she couldn’t have been more than sixteen, Reever thought in disgust. City nymph with hungry green eyes and a body like a cat’s. Sleek. Graceful. Made my hands itch just to look at her.

  And when she looked back at me...

  He shifted in the saddle as his body re­sponded to the memory of that delicate face tilted slightly to the side, eyes wide and luminous and as sensually curious as the lips that had parted with a tiny rush of sound. The temptation to go right over the desk and slide his tongue into that sweet mouth had been so strong that it had first surprised, then infuriated him. As he had told Tory, he didn’t need a pretty, useless female. He already had two of them, and he had been supporting them since he was six­teen. When he found a woman, she would be just that—a woman, not a girl. She would be calm, en­during, and she would love the Sundance as much as he did.

  He had been a long time looking for a woman like that.

  With a snort and another stamp of its hoof, the buckskin settled into a lazy, three-legged stance. The horse was accustomed to its rider’s peculiarities. One of them was to sit and look over the ranch while the wind curled around him, bringing the rich scents of a fertile land uncluttered by man.

  After a final curse Reever forced himself to look away from the stream’s radiant green pools. He con­gratulated himself for throwing Tory out on her tempting little butt. The last thing he needed was a paternity suit or an arrest for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Besides, once he had her, he would lose interest, she would pout and things around the ranch would go to hell in a hand basket.

  No matter how mature they thought they were, girls that young always believe that sex with a man means a gold ring. Pay­ton can damn well find another home for his for­mer toy.

  But God in heaven, what a walk she had. Smooth. Feline.

  Hot.

  Desire went through Reever like raw lightning, making every muscle in his body sud­denly tighten. Before he knew it, he was full, aching, ready.

  What the hell?

  The speed and the force of his arousal sur­prised him. At thirty-three he was too old to go off like a teenager. But there it was, hard against his jeans, silently demanding release.

  With a sound of disgust at his own unruly sex, Reever lifted the reins and urged the buckskin down the faint trail. Cold water cli
mbed almost up to the animal’s black hocks, and stones grumbled beneath steel-shod hooves as the horse plunged through the icy creek, sending up sheets of spray on either side. Drops of water more brilliant than diamonds flashed in the air, shattering sunlight into a thousand tiny rainbows.

  Reever laughed, a different laugh than he had used on Tory earlier. This sound was vital, rich, alive, a laugh of pure sensual plea­sure.

  “You do love crossing that creek, don’t you, Blackjack?” Reever asked, giving the horse’s neck an affectionate slap. “Your mammy must have been part beaver.”

  The horse snorted and pranced, tugging at the bit, plainly asking for the freedom to run.

  “Sorry, boy,” Reever dryly, shifting to ease the hard thrust of his cock. “At the mo­ment I’m in no shape to oblige you.”

  With a disgruntled swish of its black tail, the horse settled into a gliding, ground-eating single-foot that was part walk, part pace, as smooth as wa­ter, fast, and much easier on its rider than a gallop.

  Before long Reever reached the top of a fold of land that overlooked the southeastern part of Sundance Ranch. Without waiting for a command, Blackjack slowed and then stopped, for this was one of Reever’s favorite places. The country stretched away before him to the far blue horizon, a land unencumbered by man but for the dark ribbon of the county road winding between green meadows.

  A tiny movement at the corner of his vision caught Reever’s attention. The motion would have been overlooked by most people, but he was accus­tomed to the land. He knew the difference between the pale flash of a hawk stooping on its prey and the languid movement of a white-faced cow cropping grass. What had caught his attention was nei­ther hawk nor cow nor startled rabbit. It was some­one walking along the county road.

  The figure looked no bigger than Reever’s thumb at this dis­tance, but he had no doubt that it was two-legged rather than four.

  “Well, Blackjack, someone’s truck must have broken down. We’d better see if they need help.”

  Even as Reever reined the horse in the new di­rection, he saw a bright red car slowing. He ex­pected the car to stop, take on a passenger and pull out again. When the car stopped but no one got in or out, he was surprised. When the car speeded off, made a U-turn, then raced past the pedestrian, made another U-turn and stopped suddenly again, Reever reached into his saddlebags for the binocu­lars he always carried.

  “Looks like the Metlock car,” he muttered, fo­cusing the glasses. “Wonder who Billy’s hurrahing today. Damn that kid. Eighteen years old and more coyote than man. Somebody should have taught him manners by—”

  Reever’s words broke off. With a single vicious curse he spurred Blackjack into a dead run.

  * * *

  Tory heard the car screech to a stop for the second time and tried to still the frantic beating of her heart.

  Three of them are just kids, she told herself firmly. Not even old enough to drive. Then help­lessly, God, but they grow them big out here!

  “C’mon, baby,” called the redhead, hanging out the window of the dusty Ford. “We don’t bite. Well, not where it shows anyways, if you get what I mean.”

  That witticism brought a chorus of raucous cheers and whistles from the boys in the back seat.

  She ignored them. She’d heard a lot worse the first time they went by. The driver in particular had yelled the kind of filth that she had rarely heard, even during the overnight shift at the restaurant when drunks had come in to drink coffee and grab at the waitresses. She had learned to ignore the obscenities. Any other attitude only encouraged them.

  Acting like she was alone, Tory kept walk­ing. She had already refused the driver’s leering of­fer of a ride with a cheerful “Thanks, but I like walking.” There was nothing more she could do ex­cept look straight ahead and keep on walking.

  Or run.

  She wouldn’t do that yet, but she had decided that the instant a car door opened she was going to throw her luggage over the barbwire fence that ran alongside the road, and then go through the fence herself.

  She hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. Except for the driver, the carload of boys was more obnox­ious than really threatening. She hoped that they would be satisfied with baiting and insulting her and would tire of the sport quickly when she refused to answer.

  Above all she hoped that if she went through the fence they wouldn’t follow her.

  She had little doubt that she could outrun the rude, rawboned teenagers--as long as her knee held out. That was what really worried her.

  Her knee. It was already tender from the long walk.

  The bright red car stopped a few feet in front of Tory. The driver’s door popped open.

  Tory didn’t stop to argue or plead or find out how many boys were getting out. She threw her luggage over the fence and followed it, tearing her T-shirt and her skin on the wicked barbs. She didn’t even notice the pain. She began to run, sprinting for fifty yards before she risked a look over her shoulder. Only the driver was still following her. The rest of the boys were through the fence but were using their breath on catcalls and laughter rather than running.

  After that single quick look, Tory ran on at a headlong pace, breathing harshly, her heart beating so fast that it frightened her. Suddenly she heard the rolling thunder of a horse running flat out over the land. From the corner of her eye, she caught a blur of movement as Ethan Reever flashed past her, bent low over the neck of a huge, hard-running horse.

  The driver saw Reever, too. The big teenager turned and raced back toward the fence with more speed than he had shown in chasing Tory. She sank to the ground and tried to catch her breath. All at once she began crying and shaking. She held on to herself and fought for control, trying to force herself to breathe deeply, evenly, until the adrenaline-storm passed.

  Reever shook out a loop of the long rope that he always carried strapped to his saddle. Billy was close now and getting closer with each one of Black­jack’s long-legged strides. Reever coolly waited un­til Billy was almost to the fence, almost free. Then Reever’s arm shot out and a loop of rope settled sweetly around the teenager’s broad shoulders. The instant the rope tightened, Blackjack stopped running and sat right down on his hocks, bracing him­self as though Billy was a mean half-ton steer need­ing to be thrown.

  Billy’s feet flew up. He flew through the air and sat down so hard that his hat jumped off his head. As soon as he had caught his breath, he struggled to his feet. Blackjack surged backward, yanking Billy flat again. With a light touch on the reins, Reever spun Blackjack and trotted toward Tory.

  Billy bumped along behind like an oversize sack of potatoes.

  “You all right?” Reever asked, stopping near Tory.

  She looked up into the pale blaze of his eyes and felt almost sorry for the overgrown boy on the end of the rope. She nodded, knowing that her voice would shake if she tried to answer.

  The buckskin spun on its heels and backed sud­denly, yanking Billy flat once more. Reever dis­mounted in an easy, flowing motion and went to stand over the big teenager. He waited until Billy met his eyes.

  “Boy, it’s a good thing your daddy’s dead,” Reever said flatly. “He’d have peeled you clean as a wil­low switch for a stunt like this. I’ve got a mind to do it myself.”

  Billy couldn’t meet Reever’s eyes any longer. The boy’s glance fell on Tory. He saw her pale, dirt-streaked face and lines of blood where barbwire had ripped through her T-shirt.

  He looked away quickly.

  “What were you planning to do after you caught her?” Reever asked, his voice low, deadly.

  Billy shrugged.

  Reever bent, fastened his hand on the boy’s shirt, and hauled him to his feet—then beyond, dan­gling the raw-boned teenager from his fist and braced arm like a dirty, struggling fish.

  “What were you going to do?”

  Tory flin
ched at ice-tipped whip of Reever’s voice.

  “Not a damn thing! I swear it! I was just havin’ some fun with the snotty little bitch—ow! That hurts!”

  “Fun.” Reever’s lip curled in disdain beneath the black slash of his mustache. “Then you must have enjoyed being dumped on your ass and dragged behind Black­jack, huh? Wasn’t that fun?”

  Billy looked away from Reever’s pale, narrowed eyes.

  “Answer me.” Reever’s voice was like a lash.

  Billy shivered and said, “N-no.”

  With a single, vicious word Reever opened his hand and let Billy fall to the ground.

  “Listen up, boy,” Reever said, his tone conver­sational and his eyes glacial. “You’ve just hur­rahed your last little girl. I kept hoping you’d grow up before I lost my patience, but…” he smiled and Billy went as pale as Tory. Reever nodded his head as he saw real fear dawning on Billy. “You’re man-sized and snake mean,” Reever said matter-of-factly. “I’ve had a gutful of your dirty mouth and cruel games. If I hear about any more of it, I’ll give you the kind of lesson you’ll spend a lifetime trying to forget. Hear me, boy?”

  Billy nodded sullenly.

  “I sure as hell hope you’re smarter than you look,” Reever said. “That’s the only warning you’ll get. Stand up.”

  Awkwardly Billy scrambled to his feet. He was almost as tall as Reever but hadn’t nearly the hard muscle of the older man. Nor the hard experience.

  “I’d have you apologize to the lady,” Reever continued, his voice still casual and his eyes utterly savage, “but you wouldn’t mean it, and she doesn’t want to hear any more of your filth. Now get out of here before I forget how much I liked your daddy and drag you behind old Blackjack until there’s nothing left but rope.”

  With a flick of his wrist, Reever removed the lasso from Billy’s shoulders. Reever waited until the teenager was about ten feet away and said, “Pick up her luggage and take it to the Sunup Cafe. And Billy—”