by Jill Gregory
“I’ll make a deal with you—no strings, no promises, and I won’t tell the rest of your family if you don’t,” Clint added with a husky chuckle that made her tingle.
“Why would I possibly want to kiss you again?” Somehow she managed to sound composed, even disdainful, even though a heated excitement was pulsing through her. “I… I only did it once because John Armstrong was about to recognize me—”
“You did it more than once. I have a hunch you liked it.”
“You arrogant, egotistical—”
“Come here, Emily.”
“Miss—”
“Spoon. I know,” he finished for her, smiling amusedly into her eyes. He edged closer to her, and she suddenly found herself at the top end of the cot, wedged between him and the wall. He was leaning across her, giving her that heart-stoppingly masculine grin, stroking his hand through her hair. “I don’t usually have to beg for kisses.”
“I don’t usually kiss men I don’t even like.”
“That’s just the point,” he said, the gleam in his eyes intensifying. He angled in closer and lowered his head close to hers. Once more their lips were only inches apart. Once more Emily felt her breath catching in her throat.
“I think you do like me. And the hell of it is, I like you. It doesn’t make any sense, but not much does in this world sometimes.”
No, it didn’t make sense. But it was true, Emily thought in wonder. She did like him. How? Why? She wanted to hate him, but instead she found herself being drawn into the charm of a lazy smile, of those keenly beautiful eyes, of a gentleness and a decency she sensed beneath the brawn and the bravery.
“Well.” She took a deep breath, stunned by her own thoughts, by the wild urges spinning through her. “You did rescue me from the storm, so … I’ll grant you one kiss and only one,” she said in a rush. How prim she sounded. Then she just couldn’t stand it any longer. She grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him toward her, placing her lips upon his.
She’d meant it to be a quick kiss, over and done with in a hurry because it made her feel guilty to be doing it at all, but something changed as her mouth touched his and she found herself lost in the kiss, hopelessly, dizzily lost. Her lips clung to his, and the sweetest sensations burst through her, layered by darker, more intriguing ones. And when she at last summoned the will to pull back, Clint Barclay had other ideas and before she knew it, his arms were around her and he was kissing her with a single-minded possessiveness that stirred a primal response deep in her very core. He kissed her as if he couldn’t get enough and never wanted to stop, and Emily knew nothing else but that she didn’t want him to …
A moan escaped her lips as a dazzling fire surged through her. She felt dizzy and warm. Maybe she had a fever, Emily thought dazedly. Or maybe she just liked kissing Clint Barclay more than she’d ever liked anything in her entire life …
He shifted position suddenly and the next thing she knew she was yanked down onto the cot and he was sliding his body over hers, and somehow or other he managed not to lift his mouth from hers for an instant.
She didn’t know why but an absurd rush of pleasure swept through her and she actually slid her arms around his neck. Dimly she wondered why she had done that, but then she forgot all about it as Clint’s firm mouth began to search hers even more hungrily and his tongue slipped inside her mouth, igniting a musky fire. Heat, need, desire exploded within her and Emily forgot the storm, forgot the night, forgot everything but the exquisite sensations gliding through her as Clint Barclay’s muscled frame lay upon her, as his hands stroked her face, her throat, and his mouth laid possessive claim to hers. Time fell away, there was only the moment, the bliss, the passion jolting between them, and Emily held him to her with a ferocity she had not known she possessed, her hands sliding down his shoulders, drawing him closer, breathing him in, wanting to somehow absorb all of this dark, gentle lawman into her very soul.
When she thought she would faint from lack of air, he suddenly lifted his head and she stared dazedly into his eyes. “That was … much more … than just one kiss,” she gasped. “You cheated.”
“You liked it.”
Breathlessly she felt herself studying those firm, warm lips as if hypnotized. “Oh,” she murmured, “how could you tell?”
He laughed and she did too. She’d never felt so warm, so close to anyone, so happy, she thought in shock. So kissed.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I can tell,” he said and then he was kissing her again. She lost herself in the sweet dark musk of his tongue encircling hers. When Emily felt his hand sliding to the buttons of her shirt she knew that she should stop him, but she couldn’t bring herself to. Just a little more … see what happens, she thought, and then wonderful sensations filled her as he slipped his hand inside her shirt and found her breast.
This definitely went far beyond one small kiss, but it felt so good Emily gasped. No, it felt better than good. It felt delicious and exciting, and a throbbing heat swept through her every place his hands touched, every place his magnificent body touched hers.
Emily forgot then to think how it felt because she couldn’t think—not at all. Because Clint Barclay was stealing her breath, scorching her lips, and stroking her nipple back and forth with his thumb until the world became a warm blurred place, a place of achingly sweet pleasure teetering on the brink of torment.
She heard thunder—or was that her heart? She saw his lean, handsome face close to hers and touched it with wondering hands even as their lips caught fire. His body shifted over hers on the cot, and every single one of his muscles seemed to engulf her soft flesh—then she was lost once more in aching need and a tight, hungry ache settled in her very core. Moaning, she dragged her fingers through the thick silk of his hair, then they found the buttons of his shirt. But as he shifted to make it easier for her to unfasten them, his leg brushed against hers and she cried out in pain.
“What’s wrong?” He lifted his mouth from those petal-sweet lips of hers with an effort and saw that her glorious eyes were wide upon his.
“It’s my ankle,” she gasped. “It’s hurting …”
Clint swore silently to himself—damn, he’d forgotten about her ankle. He should have gotten that boot off right from the start.
He rolled away from her and leaned back, aware of the hot desire still pumping through him, the urges searing his blood. Hell, she tasted good. And she felt good, soft and curvy and giving in all the right places. Her lush body was just as hot and passionate as her temper, and the sensuous tumble of midnight hair around that delicate face was driving him wild.
He took a deep breath and raked a hand through his hair as Emily, her shirt tantalizingly unbuttoned, struggled to a sitting position.
“Sorry.” Clint moved off the cot and took careful hold of his self-control, then focused his attention on her damned boot.
“I’ll try to do this fast and gentle,” he warned, “but if your ankle’s swelled up, we might have to cut the boot off.”
“Go … ahead.” Emily’s shoulders were trembling. But not only from the fresh pain shooting through her foot. From everything she’d just felt lying on that cot with Clint Barclay, his kisses drawing her into him in a way she’d never experienced before, his hands roaming all over her body, exploring places no man had ever touched.
Her heart was still racing in her chest. Her lips still tingled from his kiss. If she’d thought Clint Barclay was a dangerous man that first night he’d sprung out at her at the ranch, she now knew just how dangerous he really was.
Thank heavens for the pain, thank heavens he’d bumped his foot against hers. Thank heavens something had broken the crazy spell he’d cast over her before things went any further.
Clint was holding firmly to her boot. His hair was mussed, his shirt partly opened where her fingers had torn at the buttons. She found herself forgetting about the pain in her ankle, staring at his powerful, dark-furred chest.
Now she knew what those muscles felt like
beneath her fingertips. She was shocked by how much she wanted to stroke them again.
“Ready?” Clint began to slide her boot off, but as Emily flinched and let out a smothered cry of pain, he froze, frowning.
Her previously flushed face had gone white. Clint reached into his pocket, yanked his knife from its sheath.
“I’ll have to cut the boot.”
“Go ahead… but please, do it quickly,” she managed to mutter as circles of pain emanated up from her ankle. But the pain was good, it was distracting her from staring at this impossibly handsome sheriff who had convinced her to lie on a cot with him in a line shack miles from anyone and play with fire.
“Just… get the boot off,” she whispered, her voice thin with pain.
He worked quickly and efficiently at the leather, but even so, by the time he was finished Emily was clenching her hands and biting her lip and she was whiter than a lily.
“Th-thank you. I think,” she gasped.
Next Clint gingerly removed her stocking and frowned down at her swollen ankle.
“You need some whiskey.”
“Trying to get me drunk now?” Emily struggled for a light tone. “No wonder my uncle taught me never to trust a lawman.”
He shot her the briefest flash of a smile.
“Just like I don’t usually have to beg for kisses, Miss Spoon, I don’t usually have to get women drunk.” He tugged off the other boot and the stocking, and she settled both legs carefully onto the cot once more.
Clint tried not to stare at the glimpse of shapely legs visible beneath the folds of her riding skirt. He forced himself to head to his saddle pack and dig out his whiskey flask.
“This ought to take care of the pain.”
Emily didn’t argue, for now that her ankle was free of the boot’s tight confines it was throbbing even more. The whiskey burned her throat going down, but she drank deeply before handing him back the flask.
Clint lifted it and took a good hearty gulp himself. Being around her would turn any man to drink, he thought. Why in hell do I care so much that she’s in pain? And why in hell does she have to be so damn beautiful? Not to mention sexier than any woman he’d ever seen. Even her slender little toes were sexy, he decided in irritation. But it wasn’t her toes that captured his attention just now. She’d forgotten to fasten up her shirt, and it draped open still, revealing the white lace of a chemise that barely covered the creamy mounds of her breasts. He resisted the urge to reach out and remove that damned shirt—and the chemise too. Their little kissing interlude was definitely over, he reminded himself tautly. The trouble was, he’d enjoyed it even more than he’d thought he would.
Maybe you enjoyed it too much, he told himself, alarm suddenly surging through him. If her ankle hadn’t started to hurt, they both might have ended up in far deeper trouble than either of them had bargained for.
Staring into her lovely face, meeting those vivid silver eyes as they regarded him warily, he reminded himself sternly that she was Jed Spoon’s niece.
Yet confusion twisted through his gut.
Wasn’t that the point? She was Spoon’s niece—a woman he’d never marry—a woman who’d never in a hundred years want to marry him. An ineligible woman, maybe the only unmarried female in town who wasn’t trying to figure out how to throw a rope around him. It had seemed so easy, so natural—the idea of exploring that intangible something between them—without her getting the wrong idea.
That’s all he’d had in mind. A pleasurable romp, a night of plain old-fashioned roll-in-the-hay passion with the most gorgeous woman he’d ever met—and no strings attached.
But kissing her had stirred something in him, something deeper than he’d expected. Something that scared him.
Scared him? Why the hell should a woman, any woman, scare him?
Maybe because of the quiet way she’d listened to his story about Nick, his parents. Maybe because of the simple compassion he’d seen in her eyes. She touched something in him, something that went beyond physical attraction. Beyond lust. There was much more to Emily Spoon than a magnificent figure and a beautiful face. There was a spirit, a soul, a courage he’d sensed from the very start.
Clint didn’t like feeling this way—uncertain, out of control. He always knew what he wanted, how to get it. He always knew. Especially where women were concerned.
But not this time.
It’s time to back off, he decided warily. She’s no damned good for you.
He had to step back, put some distance between them.
“You should try to get some shut-eye,” he told her curtly, shoving the flask into his pocket. “The whiskey ought to help.”
Emily watched the frown settle across his face, and she saw the exact moment when the coldness entered his eyes. Dismay and an odd loneliness filled her. All the warmth and humor of the man who had poured her coffee and stroked her hair and kissed the daylights out of her on the cot were gone. The cool and in-control lawman was back.
A different kind of pain shot through her. “Good. When I wake up, we can get out of here.” She tried to sound as matter-of-fact as he. “In the meantime, you can put your bedroll there.”
She pointed to the far corner, near the hearth.
He gave her a long look. “Fine. That’ll be just fine.”
Suddenly she realized that her shirt was still unbuttoned. Her cheeks burned and her eyes flew to his face. “Do you mind?” she demanded as she fumbled awkwardly with the buttons.
He shrugged, turned away. “Just thought you might need help.”
“The last thing I need is any more help from you.” The words came out more sharply than she’d intended. But tension still simmered between them, despite his frown, his shuttered eyes.
As lightning crackled and the rain continued, she watched him spread his bedroll and take one more quick tip of the flask. She lay down on the cot, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and tried not to think about anything—about the pain throbbing through her ankle, the storm thrashing outside, or the man settling himself down for the night not ten feet away from her.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about Clint Barclay. About the way he made her feel or the things he made her want.
Spending any more time alone with him, Emily decided, hugging the blanket to her, was not a good idea.
And sunrise couldn’t come soon enough.
UNRISE BROUGHT A RADIANT NEW day, a glowing lilac sky, a breeze scented with earth and flowers—and Pete and Lester Spoon descending on the tiny line shack like two bats out of hell.
“Barclay!” Pete shouted as he crashed through the door. “Where the hell is—Emily!”
Relief flooded his face as he saw Emily sitting up on the cot against the wall, her legs stretched out before her, her hair mussed but a wan smile of welcome on her face.
Behind him Lester gave a whoop. “There you are—well, thank the good Lord. Em, we’ve been searching high and low since dawn. Nugget showed up and—”
“She did? Oh, that’s wonderful!” Emily searched their faces. “But what about Joey—how is he? And where’s Uncle Jake?”
“They’re both fine,” Pete assured her, glancing around the shack. “Uncle Jake made it back this morning just before we headed out. He said he spent the night in a cave near Beaver Rock—the storm came in so fast he couldn’t get to the shack. But what about you—looks like Barclay found you, after all.”
His relieved expression had turned into a scowl, and an almost identical frown darkened Lester’s face. “Were you stuck in here all night with that bastard?” her cousin demanded.
“Yes, but—”
“I’ll blow his damned head off,” Pete exploded. His hands fisted at his sides. “Where the hell is he, Emily, just tell me and I’ll—”
“Shut up, Spoon, and get out of my way.”
The voice from the cabin doorway sent both Pete and Lester spinning around. Clint Barclay stood on the threshold, his dark hair glinting in the sunlight, his shoulders filling t
he doorway. He was holding a rifle and the rabbit he’d shot for breakfast, but before he could even step inside, Pete Spoon rushed at him in a flying lunge that sent them both catapulting out of the shack, with Lester leaping after, shouting something indecipherable as he flew into the heap that was Pete and Clint Barclay.
With a shriek of dismay, Emily hurled herself off the cot. Her ankle burned like fire as she hobbled barefoot across the floor and stumbled out into dazzling sunshine. But the sight of her brother and her cousin rolling in the mud and weeds with Clint Barclay, three sets of fists flying, horrible grunts and yells filling the air, sent a sick nausea into her throat.
“Stop! Stop it! Pete—Lester! Clint! Stop it at once!”
No one paid the least attention to her. Two against one, the Spoons were hammering at Clint and with amazement she saw that he was holding his own, those powerful arms swinging out with rapid-fire punches, his muscular frame holding them off as they sought to pin him down.
But there was already a bruise on his cheek and as she watched in horror Pete kicked him in the stomach.
“Stop!” she shouted, and unable to bear it any longer, she dove into the fray. Still pleading for them to stop, she grabbed Lester’s arm, trying to pull him back, even as he shook her off like a gnat.
“Stay out of this, Em—get back!” he yelled.
“No! Stop this right now—you’re both being totally ridiculous!” she cried as Pete slammed a hard right into Clint’s jaw. Emily flinched as it connected and grabbed at her brother’s arm.
“Listen to me,” she cried desperately, “there’s no reason—”
Clint Barclay threw a brutal retaliatory punch and Pete groaned, stumbling back in a daze.
Emily tried to get between them, but it was at that unfortunate moment that Lester jumped at the sheriff and his elbow struck Emily’s jaw.
She gave a cry and floundered backward, then sank to the ground, tears stinging her eyes.
“Emily!” Pete and Lester both shouted in unison, their faces frozen in twin expressions of horror.