The Troubled Texan

by Phyliss Miranda

  He switched on a lamp and light illuminated the gargantuan room. Unbuckling his holster, Deuce removed his weapon. He went into what appeared to be his study and locked it in the gun cabinet.

  A massive Bev Doolittle lithograph depicting an American Indian surrounded by an interesting array of wildlife hung above the stone fireplace. Stone and cedar-lined walls on either side of a bookcase brimming with hardbacks, all without dust covers, added to the rustic allure of the room.

  The appointments were masculine, all male, all consuming . . . all Deuce. Nothing soft or feminine but bold like its owner. Nowhere did she see football memorabilia. Not a single item to indicate that a talented player lived there.

  “Make yourself at home.” He hunkered before the fireplace, and soon an infant blaze took hold shooting gilded tangerine and crimson flames upward. “There’s drinks in the fridge, but no Diet DP. Still drink it?”

  She nodded.

  “How about a glass of wine?”

  “No, thanks. It’d probably knock me on my keister.”

  “When did you eat last?” He rested his elbow on the mantel, exposing wisps of curly black hair beneath his gaping white shirt.

  “I’m not hungry.” She set her purse on the mammoth oaken roll-top desk in one corner of the living room. Above, a deer head with a handsome ten-point rack and stony stare guarded the room.

  She glanced up at Deuce and saw skepticism etched in his frown. “I have eaten,” she retorted.

  “What? Crackers and water?”

  “No. Cheez-Its and AriZona tea.”

  “Real solid food, huh? How about I fix you something?”

  “Honestly, Deuce, I’m just not hungry.” She halted and gazed at him with a half smile. “But thanks, that’s very sweet of you.”

  It had been a long time since anyone had asked if she had eaten or cared enough to even bother to ask.

  Growing up, her mother had been too busy protecting her position as a trophy wife to do little more than make certain her only child had the best of everything. Best clothing. Best education. Best country club. Not to mention hiring a “Rent a Mommy,” as Rainey called her au pair. And she wasn’t sure her mother would have done that if it hadn’t been for Rainey’s unbendable father. Regardless, she still loved her mother.

  Rainey willed away thoughts of her childhood. Right now she didn’t have the luxury to wallow in her dysfunctional family’s atrocities. She had to worry about today—not yesterday. Survival depended on staying alert, and mulligrubbing about her past could only get in the way and could get her killed.

  The long hours driving from New York, coupled with the challenges of dealing with Deuce and constantly watching her backside, had stressed Rainey beyond her limits. Every muscle ached from exhaustion. She needed a hot shower and some sleep. Food could wait.

  She turned to Deuce, who watched her from across the room. His cognac-colored eyes scrutinized her every move, searching her face as though delving into her thoughts.

  “I’d like to take a shower and then I want to know about your mom.” She picked up her purse and clutched it to her chest.

  “I’ll show you the way.” He strolled down the hall, stopped to grab an oversized bath towel and washcloth, before entering the stark, immaculate bathroom. “Everything you need should be here.”

  Deuce turned on the bathtub faucet and adjusted the temperature.

  Rainey looked down at her wrinkled slacks and remembered the gym bag at the depot. “I don’t have a change of clothes.”

  “There are T-shirts in the top drawer. They’ll swallow you, but at least they’ll be comfy.” He pulled the door shut, only to reopen it. “You’ll find a brand-spanking new toothbrush and a small bottle of liquid soap in the medicine cabinet. Have to watch my delicate skin, you know.” He offered her a sensual, arresting smile before pulling the door closed.

  Rainey sat on the side of the tub and watched the steam billow up from the rushing liquid; she felt too drained to care whether the water was hot or cold.

  She jumped at the sound of a knock. “Deuce?”

  “No, it’s the maid. Here.” The door eased open only far enough for his hand to appear and set a goblet of wine on the sink counter. “Drink this. It’ll get rid of some of your weariness,” he called from the hallway.

  “Thanks,” she answered, in spite of her racing heart.

  Rainey shot to the door, clicked the lock, and plastered her body against the wood.

  Nausea attacked.

  Inhaling deeply, she fought the foul tasting bile. She closed her eyes and allowed a final wave of nausea to pass, unable to believe she had been so careless as to not have locked the door.

  Anyone could have come in . . . anyone!

  Somewhat composed, she dragged herself to the cabinet, where she found a nice supply of “girlie stuff.” Essence of vanilla shampoo, powder fresh Secret, English lavender gel, and bubble bath. Apparently, her knight-in-shining-armor wanted to be prepared for a sleepover, but she doubted he expected his guest to be a flash from his past.

  A bubble bath sounded inviting.

  Between brushing her hair and washing her face, she downed the wine. After stripping off her clothes, she eased into the lavender scented tub.

  Wine mingled with the steamy water and flushed her skin to a rich burgundy. She closed her eyes and let tranquility engulf her.

  Her mind wandered back to the rugged, infernally handsome sheriff with a restless energy that showed in his every move. Glossy like volcanic rock, his eyes were full of life and exuded unquenchable warmth. Yet, amongst the twinkle there was a flicker of pain. She’d seen him in emotional turmoil before, but nothing like what she had seen earlier. She noticed sadness, like he searched for something. The problems she shouldered could only add to what troubled him.

  As sheriff, Deuce had a duty to protect her once he knew she was in danger. But, she wouldn’t bring him into her problems without a new threat. Maybe she should have identified herself right away and told him why she was on the run. But in the middle of a traffic stop, parked on the shoulder of the highway just didn’t seem the right place and she was too angry at him at the depot to do anything but exchange barbs with him.

  How could something so simple have turned so complicated so quickly? She had planned to unceremoniously ease into town, blend in like a chameleon in the rain forest, and quietly go about her business setting up shop. Although the building wasn’t exactly what she expected, with more work required than she had anticipated, it could provide a comfy place to call home. A much-needed safe harbor. Now she had to get a replacement insurance card and appear before the justice of the peace to pay her fine, which would definitely draw attention to her.

  Taking a deep breath, she exhaled to clear her mind. Her plans had gone awry, to say the least, when she ran into Deuce. Now she relaxed in his bathtub soaking up bubbles not intended for her. Probably intended for the person he expected to share his bed with.

  Perplexity knotted deep in her stomach at the thought of another woman in Deuce’s arms.

  Absentmindedly, she lathered up the washcloth. What the hunkster did was none of her business. She had bigger problems than tracking how many women Deuce Cowan had bedded. The sheriff would have plenty of questions of his own, and she needed to come up with answers. Dern, if she hadn’t complicated things by allowing the sweet-talking rascal to back her into a corner where she had to improvise a story about her past. And a pretty damn stupid story to boot. Not to mention she was an experienced lawyer accustomed to countering any challenge with quick thinking and self-assurance in the courtroom.

  Now she had to deal with questions about a dead husband that never existed in the first place.

  Damn it! Deuce had the tools available to unravel the truth, as though the facts were loosely woven into an afghan. Rainey needed to prepare her defense much in the same manner as she would if she faced him in the courtroom.

  Flashes of the faces of her last jury surfaced. One by one, each ju
ror turned his or her eyes from the gruesome photos of the nine murdered victims stacked on top of one another like skin pelts.

  Why couldn’t the memories of the defendant’s taunting face go away, instead of appearing every time Rainey closed her eyes?

  After hearing the jury foreperson slowly and deliberately state, “On Count One, the jury finds the defendant, Alonzo F. Hunter, guilty of first degree murder,” Hunter became enraged like the animal she had proven him to be. As each verdict was read, he became more incensed. After hearing guilty for the ninth time and knowing he’d spend the rest of his life in prison without parole or be executed . . . he mouthed a flood of obscenities before bolting from his chair.

  Rushing the prosecutor’s table, he captured her wrist in a steel-trap grip and spat in her face, before hissing, “Bitch, you’re a dead woman.” Three deputies subdued and dragged the deranged mass murderer away. Being pulled from the courtroom he continued to yell, “I’ve got people out there waiting to kill you. Hear me, you’re a dead woman!”

  The heavy doors to the courtroom slammed shut masking the rest of his threats.

  The terror had never let up. Never went away. Always, his smirk. The beady, black snake eyes.

  Rainey fought back the need to dash from the bathroom and escape the horrid visions.

  Run and never stop.

  Run until she could no longer breathe.

  Run until she was free from fear.

  The gurgle of the last ounce of water swirling down the drain drew her back to her bath. Pain throbbed in her hand. She stared at the stopper chain that was twisted around her finger so tightly that it had cut off her circulation.

  Gripping the plug, Rainey sat with a thin layer of bubbles covering her and they were dissipating at rapid intervals.

  After rinsing and toweling off, she snatched up the first shirt she found in the drawer and pulled the soft black-and-gold jersey over her head. She eased out the door.

  A knot formed in Deuce’s throat and his heart did a somersault when Rainey entered the room. Damn, he’d never seen his old football jersey look so tantalizing, although the shirt hung on her like it would on a stick figure. The numeral on the front hid in the folds as the neck dipped low, giving him a nice view of ivory breasts. The hem draped well below her knees.

  Her freshly shampooed tresses had lightened several shades. Reflections from the fireplace gleamed shadows of deep gold and rich red against her auburn hair. Eyes the color of green ice behind heavy black lashes peered up.

  Barefoot, she padded across the room, tugging at the neck of his shirt. “Thanks. It’s a little big but works.” She collapsed onto the russet leather sofa facing the fireplace and pulled a corduroy pillow to her chest. “And for the wine, too. It helped.”

  Oh, yeah, it helped okay! His day had been interesting to say the least, and the two Lone Star beers he consumed while he waited had mellowed him. Now, he couldn’t pry his gaze off the feisty wildcat if he tried. But he had to.

  “You’re welcome,” he choked out. “I fixed a snack. Don’t want anyone to accuse me of sending a prisoner to bed without supper.” He slid a tray of sliced cheddar cheese, salami, saltines, and a glass of wine on the coffee table. “Eat.”

  Rainey tentatively selected a cracker and washed it down with wine. “That tastes good.”

  Although flames crackled in the hearth, a late spring chill filled the air. She shivered.

  “Cold?” Deuce pulled one of his mother’s Texas Star quilts from a wingback chair. “Here.” Testing the waters, not wanting to frighten her, he eased down on the couch and wrapped the coverlet around her shoulders. Adjusting the fabric, he allowed his fingers to linger on her arms longer than was necessary.

  Rainey’s skin felt smooth, silky and delectable, making him more aroused than ever. He chided himself for responding to her nearness. God only knew what a bad idea it was to get too attached to her, both emotionally and physically. His problems could only add heartache to her fragility and the porcelain-thin emotions she was unsuccessfully trying to hide.

  He’d never seen Rainey weak or scared. The girl he knew was high spirited, never boring, and certainly not easily intimidated. What had happened to change the woman?

  “Thanks.” She set the glass on the end table.

  Embers turned to ashes as they sat immersed in their own musings.

  Deuce broke the silence. “Hey, I’ve been thinking. With a good paint job, some serious elbow grease, and a bit of caulking, the old depot can be habitable in no time.”

  She stirred uneasily next to him, causing the edge of the quilt to fall from her shoulder. “You think I’m the caulkable type?”

  “No, but I am.” As though his nearness caused her harm, he moved away and leaned forward, watching her intensely. “If you want my help—”

  “I need help, Deuce.” She touched his shoulder. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

  For one dreadful moment, fear in her eyes bridged the differences between them. Deuce saw traces of alarm . . . paralyzing terror. Settling back into the leather cushion, he slipped his arms around her shoulders. Protectively, he skimmed his fingertips over her arm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Thanks. I feel safe here and it’s been a long time.” Her eyes closed as her voice trailed off. Within only moments, she slipped off into slumber.

  Deuce pushed away a strand of stray hair from her temple and rested his chin on her head.

  Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply. She smelled of yesterday; like a woman he loved more than life and had lost. Of lavender and vanilla. His own eyes drifted shut.

  Twelve strikes of the mantel clock woke Deuce. He didn’t remember nodding off.

  Rainey slumbered soundly in the crook of his arm.

  How in the hell did the bookworm and the lawman end up in one another’s arms? The last thing Deuce needed was another vulnerable female to look after, and he’d never get any rest with her in his arms. His traitorous body had already told him as much.

  With limited choices he scooped up the sleeping angel. Taking two stairs at a time, he reached his bedroom. He laid her on the bed and tucked her in.

  A sliver of moonlight shimmered across her face, making it impossible for him to resist placing a light kiss to her cheek.

  Pulling the door closed, he leaned against the wall. Frustrated, he ran his hands through his hair.

  Rainey Michaels sure as hell hadn’t come back to Texas by accident. It didn’t take an experienced lawman to see that she was on the run and scared to death.

  Deuce swore into the darkness, “Lady, I’ll uncover the truth . . . with or without your help.”

  Chapter Six

  White cottage curtains flapped lazily in the open window where Rainey slept. Cloaked in country freshness almost forgotten, she half opened her eyes and enjoyed incredible serenity.

  Inhaling, she took in the aroma of fresh coffee and the forceful smell of a masculine bedroom. Rolling over, she nuzzled deep into the pillow. Lingering lavender fused with an outdoorsy scent clung to the linens, making it impossible for her to force herself out of bed.

  Dawn peeked through the windowpane and sent cattywampus patterns across the room.

  Sunrise!

  Bolting upright, she turned the clock on the bedside table so she could read the time. Six-ten and all’s well—no nightmares! Just wonderfully satisfying dreams of . . . of what? Deuce?

  “Holy bejeezus!” She threw back the covers, realizing that the silver-tongued ruffian had made things way too easy for her to get comfortable with her surroundings. It would not happen again. But allowing the unassuming man to reach into her heart and massage her soul had given her the best night of sleep she had had in months, maybe years, with not even one horrific nightmare. No waves of nausea which normally kept her rushing to the bathroom for relief. No pounding temples. No headache.

  Deuce Cowan succeeded in doing what she had not. The mesmerizing man had changed everything—even the air around her, breat
hing life into her ailing spirit.

  Quickly, she shucked his jersey and slipped on wrinkled khaki slacks. After rubbing at a tiny soiled spot on her apricot sweater, she took a whiff. Her first project must be to launder her meager belongings, followed by a much-needed shopping trip to the town’s only ladies’ shop. She pulled the sweater over her head.

  Finger brushing her short auburn locks, she stared in the mirror above the massive oaken dresser. Even without makeup and only a light coat of lipstick, she already looked much better. As a matter of fact, after a fleeting glance, she realized she wasn’t even the same person who fled from Los Angeles a short three months earlier.

  She touched her cranberry-tinged cheek, moving her fingertips to her lips. Had she dreamed being kissed? Yep, she definitely remembered a kiss. His nearness. So close that she had smelled his breath, a sweet mixture of salty beer and sensuality laden with the realization that she’d always be safe with him.

  Sliding on her watch, she added gold hoop earrings before looking around.

  The room was so Deuce. Rustic and bigger than life, just like the rest of the house. He had called it a little house. Certainly not her idea of a “little place on the ranch.” But then there was nothing half-pint in that man’s life.

  Atop a chest of drawers, family pictures caught her eye. A smile escaped, as she picked up a photograph of Deuce in his cap and gown, surrounded by his parents. Her stare lingered on the take-control, stately woman with long curly hair standing so proudly next to her son.

  What a happy family.

  Suddenly, Rainey felt anxious. But for months anxiety had become her middle name, enduring uneasiness about everything from the man in brown delivering a package to a friendly service station attendant in Oklahoma who smiled at her. However, this time she felt eagerness, not dread. She wanted to see Deuce’s mother.

  A warning voice whispered, reminding her that regardless of how secure she felt at the moment she remained in danger, and thus putting anyone near her in harm’s way. She must be careful not to jeopardize the elderly Mrs. Cowan’s welfare.