She was looking at him like she knew what he was thinking, her eyes narrowed. Her sense of humor had evidently spilled out with the bale of hay.
"Or I could be the man," he said.
She flashed him a warning glare, and he winced.
"Just for now. Here." He jogged up and grabbed a hay bale, effortlessly pitching it her way. "I'll toss, you stack."
Libby laced her fingers through the wire circling the hay bale and pulled.
"Oof." She collapsed backward onto the bales again and rested her back against the wall.
"Sorry," she said. "Break time. I'm really out of shape."
Luke reached down and took her hands, pulling her to her feet with so much energy she stumbled against him. "You'll get there," he said, freeing one of her hands and twirling her around like a jitterbug champ. "Look at all you've accomplished already."
"I need help," she said, grabbing his other hand to steady herself. "Thanks for showing up."
"Why don't you just call the sheriff?" The words came out flat and sarcastic. He couldn't help it. "I bet he'd help, since you two are dating and all."
They stood toe-to-toe, so Libby had to look him in the eye. "We're not dating," she said. "It's a meeting. He came out because Mike was here and—well, Mike scared me, and then Cash and I got to talking, and we decided we should get together." She blushed. "I mean, not together together. Just, um, together. A meeting."
Luke narrowed his eyes. "What was that about Mike? About you being scared?"
Libby told him about Mike's unexpected visit—the pounding on her door, the threats.
"Wow." He pulled away so he could see her face. "That's—that's crazy."
"Guess that's why they call him—well, you know." She wrapped her fingers around the wire on another bale of hay. "How'd you hear about my meeting with the sheriff, anyway?"
"Ran into him downtown," Luke said. "He couldn't wait to tell me."
"That's probably because he was nervous about it," Libby said. "He apparently thought there was something going on between us."
"And there isn't?"
"I guess he misinterpreted our friendship." Libby hoisted the bale to chest height, then overbalanced and stumbled backward. She would have fallen if he hadn't caught her from behind.
He pulled her close and set his lips to the curve of her ear. "It's easy to get confused," he whispered. The fresh scent of hay wafted from her hair like fine perfume as she dropped the bale and closed her eyes, leaning back against him.
"I'm a little mixed up myself," he whispered. He brushed the nape of her neck with his lips, then executed another complicated dance move so she was facing him, wrapped in his arms, their bodies tight together, his lips on hers. It wasn't the hot, hard kiss of the day before; this was gentle, exploring, almost pleading, a last-chance kiss designed to wipe the sheriff from her mind, and he thrilled to feel her answering with unexpected passion.
While his lips distracted her, his hands took a long, leisurely tour of her body, stroking her shoulders and moving down in a long, caressing arc that traced the outline of her breasts before moving on to savor the tuck of her waist and the swell of her hips. The kiss deepened as his hands dipped low and pulled her body into his, and he felt a spark shoot up between his hips and spread like a slow, smoldering flame.
"You're the best friend I ever had," he murmured. His lips left her mouth and moved down her throat and across her jawline, pausing in the angle under her ear for a fluttering kiss that set her trembling. He licked his way across her collarbone, then flicked his tongue in the hollow at the base of her neck. His thumbs moved up her ribs as his fingertips brushed her sides, stroking and caressing until his hands rested just below her breasts.
She sighed and fell against him, lifting her lips to his to rekindle the kiss.
They stumbled across the barn in an impromptu waltz until the two of them collapsed into the hay bales as if one lucky shot had dropped them both. They landed face to face, but Luke miscalculated and left enough distance between them to weaken the force field that had pulled them together.
"Luke," she gasped, pulling away. "Luke." She brought one hand to her lips and stared at him. He gave her a dreamy smile, his eyes half-closed.
"Mmm?" He felt like he'd just been awakened from a sweet and very satisfying dream.
"We can't do this," she said.
"Yeah, we can." He was still smiling. "In fact, we're really good at it."
"We are." She sat up and rubbed her hand over her lips as if she could erase the whole incident. He should have been offended, but it only made him smile. There was no erasing that kiss. It had burned into both of them like a branding iron.
"That's the problem," she said. "We are good at it."
"Doesn't feel like a problem to me," he said. "It feels great." He reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair be hind her ear. He loved fixing her hair. It let him hit that hoodoo spot just under her jaw. Every time he touched it, she wound up falling into his arms as if he'd pushed her "on" button.
This time, he'd almost turned her up to high. But there was apparently some kind of automatic shut-off that kicked in when she got overheated.
She stood up, clasping her arms around her waist and hunching her shoulders as if guarding herself from a blow. "I'm single, Luke," she said. "Single and staying that way."
"Have you told Cash that?" he asked. "Because I think he's got other plans."
She turned away. "I told you," she said. "It's just a meeting. It's not like he and I could ever—I mean, we're not soul mates or anything."
He felt a surge of triumph. "But you and I are." It wasn't a question. He knew it was true, and evidently, she did too. She just wasn't ready to admit it.
"No," she said. "No. It's just—I like you. We're friends. Let's not ruin it."
"Ruin it?" He grinned. "That didn't ruin anything."
"Except my plans," she said. "My life." She dropped down beside him. "Luke, I have a vision of how I want my life to be. And this doesn't fit into the picture." She sighed. "I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have led you on."
"Oh, you didn't have to lead me," he said. "I would have found the way there all by myself." He leaned back, resting on his elbows. Considering she'd just told him he was ruining her life, he felt pretty good about this conversation. In fact, despite her words, he was pretty sure he'd get a chance to ruin it some more.
Hopefully soon.
"I'm sorry," she said again. "I'm just not ready for this." She picked up a scrap of baling wire and twisted it into a tight spiral. "I don't like being alone, but I can't trust anybody. I mean, my boyfriend ran off with my boss, Luke. He'd sit there after work with me and listen to me complain about her, and all the time he was sleep ing with her."
Luke reached over and rubbed her back gently, up and down. He kept it friendly, soothing, almost broth erly, with none of the heat of his earlier caresses.
She leaned into his touch and sighed. "There's nothing between me and the sheriff, Luke. Honestly. Nothing."
"It doesn't matter," he said. "Because you're right. You two aren't exactly meant for each other. He's just practice." He grinned. "Not that you need any. Anyway, I'll still be here when you figure out there's not much more to the guy than the badge and the uniform." He sat back down beside her. "I'll always be here."
"Don't waste your time," she said. "I'm damaged goods, Luke. I'm no good for anybody."
"You'll heal," he said. "I'll help."
Chapter 16
FRIDAY NIGHT CAME TOO FAST. LIBBY HAD BARELY recovered from her encounter with Luke, and besides, the chicken coop renovations had left her nose sun burned and her hands blistered, and the dry Wyoming wind had leached every ounce of moisture out of her hair and skin. She hadn't noticed her creeping trans formation into a rough-skinned, straw-haired frontier woman until she stood in front of the mirror and con fronted her new, countrified self.
Once she'd soaked up the entire inventory of the Clinique beauty bar, she pondered the
contents of her closet. It wasn't a date. She didn't have to look good. But she definitely wanted to erase the Care Bear image that was probably burned into the sheriff's brain from the other night.
A professional look would be best. She'd always had trouble with the Barbie-doll look anyway. When you're nearly six feet tall to start with, high heels and sophisti cated fashions lead to one question from the onlookers: lovely, statuesque woman—or drag queen?
After changing her clothes three times, she finally chose a navy pencil skirt and a fitted white shirt. She looked straight-laced and dull, like an FBI agent or an accoun tant. Maybe that would help Cash take her seriously.
She was slipping into a pair of low-heeled pumps when he tapped on the door.
The sheriff cleaned up nicely. Western etiquette ap parently viewed clean, pressed jeans as formal wear, and Cash had paired his with a white oxford shirt and a light straw Stetson. He looked like a country singing star— pure cowboy heartthrob with a touch of sophistication. The only problem was his boots. They were tan Tony Lamas, but they looked really beat up, like they'd been run through a wood chipper.
"What happened to your shoes?" she asked.
"I'm not sure," he said. "I got attacked by some kind of animal when I got out of the truck."
"One of the dogs?"
"No, something else." He brushed the front of his shirt and a white feather drifted to the ground. "I think it was a Chupacabra. Sharp beak, big claws—it's not another one of your pets, is it?"
"Oh, no." Libby stifled a smile. "That was Wild Thing. She was here when I moved in."
"What the hell is she?"
"A chicken."
"No way." He shuddered.
"I think she might be part pterodactyl," Libby said.
"Well, I managed to save these." He pulled a bou quet of daisies out from behind his back. A caution light flashed in Libby's mind.
"Oh, Cash," she said. "You shouldn't have."
She meant it. This was a meeting, not a date. No way should he have brought her flowers. Still, she couldn't exactly leave them to die on the doorstep. Reluctantly, she turned and pulled a vase out of the cupboard.
"You look great." Cash's voice was low and husky.
Maybe he had a cold.
"Thanks." She fumbled around with the flowers as if it required the soul of an artist to jam a bunch of daisies into a vase. Actually, it did require a fair amount of con centration, because her hands were shaking in fluttery counterpoint to the vibrations emanating from the sheriff. She missed the vase twice, then tried again, wondering if Cash was pumping out pheromones on purpose.
Taking a deep breath, she glanced up at him, and the intensity of his stare almost knocked her down. She returned her attention to the daisies, dodging a double dose of testosterone. She was starting to regret the way the fitted skirt clung to her hips.
She grabbed her purse and spun around, almost knocking the vase off the table. "Ready when you are," she said, then blushed. "I mean, ready to go. To go eat. I'm hungry. For—for food."
What was it about this guy that made her IQ drop fifty points every time he walked into the room? Maybe it was the way he was looking at her—like he was the big bad wolf and she was one of those tasty pink pigs.
"What about your dogs?" he asked.
"They're out in the barn. We still have little accidents now and then, so I don't let them stay in the house when I'm out."
Cash laughed. "Is that what those are called? Little accidents?"
"Hey, between Crazy Mike's yelling and your siren blaring, they were totally traumatized that night. Penny's really well housebroken, normally. She was just upset."
"Maybe later you can introduce us properly. I hate for them to be scared of me."
"They'll get over it." It sounded like Cash was angling for an invitation to come back to the house after dinner. No way, she resolved. Maybe she was overreacting, but she was pretty sure he wasn't really all that interested in making friends with her dogs. Or in discussing the Della McCarthy case.
No, Cash was interested in something else entirely.
***
The waitress at Joe's didn't strike Libby as your typical Wyoming teen. Perky and bright, she sported spiky black hair liberally streaked with hot pink. It was razored short except for a high crest down the center and a long hank of pink hanging asymmetrically over her forehead.
"Hi. Welcome to Joe's Place! I mean, Chez Joe. I'm Josie and I'll be your server!" the waitress chirped. She might have the hair of a rock star, but her personality was pure Betty Boop. "What are you drinkin' tonight, hon?"
"Coke, please," Libby said.
Cash opened his menu. "I'll have a Scotch and water."
"Oh. Wait." Libby knew she should stick to soda, but the mere mention of booze made her feel like a thirst crazed Bedouin sighting an oasis. Cash had slanted a dozen meaningful glances her way en route to the diner, most of them directed at her thighs, which were pos sibly a touch too exposed by her skirt. Her nerves were jangling, and her heart was dancing a funky two-step in her throat. Professionalism be damned. Some sedation was definitely in order.
"Make mine a vodka tonic, then, and scratch the Coke."
"Right-O, hon. Vodka tonic."
Libby smoothed her skirt over her thighs while Cash
glanced warily around the room. He stared hard at a well-dressed man in a corner booth, then returned his attention to her, evidently satisfied that the guy wasn't currently starring on any FBI wanted posters.
Libby wondered if he ever took a night off from being the sheriff. He probably kept his gun handy on the nightstand even when he slept.
She wondered what Luke had on his nightstand. Probably a cowboy lamp, or some other tacky boyhood memento. Living with his parents, he probably slept in his old room. Maybe he even had cowboy sheets, with bucking horses on them. The thought made her smile.
"Penny for your thoughts."
Libby blinked, searching her mind for something to say, but her throat went dry as she bent to study the menu, letting her hair fall across her face to hide her sudden shyness. She wasn't about to tell Cash she'd been thinking about Luke's bedroom.
Luke's bedroom. Did he sleep with boxers on? Or briefs?
Maybe he slept naked. She pictured his sleeping face, his lashes dark against his cheek, his lips slightly parted. Then she pictured the rest of him.
"Libby?"
"Nothing." She squinted at the menu. "Just trying to decide. It's… interesting."
Joe's might have been a small-town diner serving country food, but the chef obviously had higher aspi rations. The meatloaf she'd looked forward to all day was billed as "Loaf de Meat: ground beef succulently seasoned with a medley of herbs and spices, baked, sliced, and served with rich mushroom gravy." "Pureed Pommes" and "Bacon-Laced Beans Vert" were recom mended as "accompaniments."
Libby glanced over the top of her menu and caught Cash watching her so intently it was as if he'd reached across the table and stroked her skin. "I—I think I'll have the Loaf de Meat," she stammered. "Meatloaf. You know."
***
"I'm going for the Macarrroni et Frrromage myself," Cash announced. He rolled his r's like Maurice Chevalier, and was glad to see Libby laugh, letting her posture relax. She seemed tense, for some reason. Distracted. The woman was wound tight as a bedspring.
Keep it light, he told himself. He had a tendency to move too fast with women, and he wasn't blowing it this time. He'd keep up this meeting façade, pretend this out ing wasn't the prelude to a hot and heavy relationship, and she'd come around sooner or later.
Maybe if they talked about ordinary, everyday things, it would distract him from the overwhelming lust that punched him in the gut every time the woman moved a finger. It had been a long time since anyone affected him like that. And last time, it hadn't ended well. He shoved the memory out of his mind.
"So what are you working on these days?" he asked. "Any stories I can help you with?"
Libby nodded
and cleared her throat. "Like I said, I'm checking into the Della McCarthy thing. Wondering if there are any angles you haven't looked into yet, or any new evidence."
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