Hideaway

by Roberts, Nora

  “You know anybody else who would?”

  “Damn if I do, Mic.” He closed his eyes a moment. The adrenaline was long gone. He felt shaky and a little sick. “They had to see me leave Horizon.”

  “You already said that. I’ve got men checking on them now.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re a little shocky, Mr. Buckman.”

  Red studied the medic, remembered him as a teenager, skateboarder, a little bit of a troublemaker.

  God, he was old.

  “Getting shot at will do that. Sure could use a beer.”

  “Do you want to take him in?” Mic asked the medic.

  “I’m not going to the hospital for a graze on the shoulder and some normal reaction for not getting a bullet in the head.”

  “He’s okay, Sheriff. He shouldn’t drive though.”

  “What am I going to drive?” Seriously aggrieved, Red pointed at his truck. “Look what they did to my baby. I only bought that bastard last fall.”

  “You know we have to take it in.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Hollis,” he said to the medic. “Good work.”

  When Mic’s radio squawked, she stepped away while the once troublemaking skateboarder lectured Red about seeing his own doctor, changing the bandage, looking out for infection.

  “I got it. I got it.” Red pushed up, walked to Mic. “What’s going on?”

  “They’ve got a live one. He must’ve been thrown clear. He’s unconscious, busted up, but he’s breathing. Found the weapon, too. AR-15.”

  “I still got the eye.” He sighed when the tow truck pulled up.

  “Is there anything you want to get out of the truck before we take it in?”

  “Yeah, I got a cooler in there, spare clothes. Fucking fuck, Mic.”

  “Get your stuff. I’ll have someone drive you back to Horizon.”

  Maybe a little sick, maybe a little shaky, he thought, but goddamn. “Hey, I’m in this. I am this.”

  “Your family’s going to be worried about you, Red. They’re going to worry until they see you.”

  Family. She had it right.

  “I need to—”

  “You don’t have to ask,” she interrupted. “What I know, you’ll know.”

  She insisted on structure, on procedure and discipline. But she reached out, hugged him hard. “I’m glad you didn’t get shot in the head.”

  “Me, too.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  By the time Dillon drove that stretch of road a couple hours later, only some barricade lights, some police tape, a single cruiser remained.

  “There must’ve been an accident.”

  He nodded, and since cops remained, figured it for a bad one, one they needed to wait until first light to fully investigate.

  “Red’ll know. He’s probably staying at his place tonight. My ladies had their monthly book club, political activist, feminist celebration tonight.”

  “All that?”

  “And more. Red either hangs at my place or heads to his own.”

  “I may have to join. Gram mentioned it before, but . . . I’m usually not a joiner. Meeting your friends makes me think I could crack that window a little more.”

  “They liked you. I’d know if they didn’t.”

  Curious, she studied his profile. “Would you tell me if they didn’t?”

  “No. I just wouldn’t mention it.”

  Just lightly, just perfectly buzzed off cheap wine, she snuggled back in the seat. “I liked them, too.”

  “Would you tell me if you didn’t?”

  “No. I just wouldn’t mention it. Seriously, it’s just really lovely to have friends that go back so far with you, who’ve shared so much with you. And are still willing to open the door to new people.”

  When he paused at the gates, Cate used her remote to open them.

  “You earned major points—like super points—for teaching Dave to move like an actual person instead of one without any working joints suffering an electric shock.”

  She had to laugh, as he’d slam-dunked the description—before her lessons. “He’s got a sweetness. It’s what draws the esoteric and freewheeling Tricia to him.”

  When he parked, she got out—deliberately, so he’d have to follow suit. “I’m sure your ladies taught you to walk a woman to her door.”

  “They did.”

  “It’s so nice at night, isn’t it? The sounds, the air. I never spent much time here during the spring. Just quick visits. I’m loving being here through the change of seasons, really seeing it.”

  Moonlight bathing the water, starlight sprinkled over the shadows of the mountains, the steady whoosh and slap of the sea.

  They passed the pool, its little dollhouse, the charm of tangled bougainvillea.

  “Your mother’s going to show me how to plant some herbs, in pots, that I can play with. I’ve never actually planted anything.”

  “Watch yourself or she’ll make a rancher out of you.”

  “No danger of that, but maybe I can keep a pot of basil alive.”

  The path lights gleamed low, as did the patio light she’d left on to show the way.

  “Every time I see a light in the dark, I think of you and your family. That memory has been a light for me for a long time.”

  The truth of that had her taking his hand, his good, strong hand.

  “And now you’ve added another. Dancing at a roadhouse, questionable wine, excellent nachos, really good friends.”

  She turned to him at the door. “I’m going to have to find a way to reciprocate.”

  “You could sleep with me and we’d call it even.”

  “Hmm.” She opened the door she hadn’t bothered to lock. “That’s quite a bartering technique you have there. Does it ever work?”

  “It’s a trial run.”

  “Well then.” With the door open behind her, she gave him a long study. “Let’s test it out.”

  “I didn’t actually—”

  “Talk later.” She took a fistful of his shirt, pulled him in.

  Before he found his balance, she hooked an arm around his neck, shoved the door closed with the other. And latched her mouth onto his.

  It was there, all there, everything he’d imagined too many times and for far too long. The give of her, the strength of her. The taste of her, too potent for sweet, and warm, already so warm it bordered on hot.

  Nothing coy here, and everything that left a man aching for the rest.

  He had to have the rest.

  He swept her up, and for one terrible instant he feared he’d gone too far, too fast, because she stared at him with shock widening her eyes.

  “Oh my God.” Then her hands fisted in his hair; her mouth covered his like a fever. “Every man should be raised by women. Upstairs. First room on the right.”

  She slid her mouth down to his neck, used her teeth.

  “You smell so damn good,” he managed as he climbed the stairs. “Don’t change your mind or I’ll have to hang myself.”

  “But no pressure,” she murmured, and moved up to his ear.

  He turned to the right, to the view of the sea through the glass. He hit the light with his elbow, noted the dimmer, eased it down to a glow.

  “Jesus, you’re good.” Already half-desperate, she scraped her teeth over his jaw. “We’ve barely started and you’re really good.”

  “But no pressure.”

  He stood her on her feet at the side of the bed with its thick, towering, turned posts. A moment, he thought, he needed just a moment to breathe, to etch this new picture of her in his head.

  Cate in her pretty dress with the night sky, the dark sea behind her.

  He wanted to remember her, in this light, wanted to undress her and feel her skin under his hands.

  He reached around for the zipper of her dress, forced himself to lower it slowly.

  Her hands flew to his shirt, dragging buttons open. “Can we save slow for the second round?”

  Possibly,
just possibly, he fell the rest of the way in love with her at that moment. “I’m a hundred percent behind that.”

  They pulled at clothes, grappled with them, hands everywhere while mouths met, urgent and avid, parted with quickened breaths.

  When the pretty dress dropped to the floor, she kicked it aside.

  Hard, his body so hard, so roped with muscle. And his hands, hard, fast, deliberate. Those hands made her blood sing under her skin, reminded her what it was to crave another’s touch. The way they closed over her breasts, the way his calluses slid rough over her nipples.

  When she lay under him, the moonlight streaming, the sea whispering, she found his mouth again, poured that need into him.

  “Now, just now. Don’t wait.”

  “I want—” Everything, he thought. “Look at me. Look at me.”

  When she did, with those deep, deep blue eyes, he drove into her.

  Heard her cry, the catch of her breath on the end of it. Saw her eyes go deeper yet as her arms, her legs locked around him.

  Fast, driving her, driving himself as the years of pent-up fantasies ripped through him, then tattered in the wonder of reality. She raged with him, beat for frenzied beat even when her eyes glazed over with an orgasm.

  She shuddered with it, but didn’t stop.

  Her hands clutched at his hair, dragged his mouth down to hers again. “More. More. More.”

  He gave her more, and more, still more until she cried out again, until her hands slid away and her body went limp. Then he buried his face against her throat, drew her scent in, and let himself break.

  She lay sweaty, soft, and oh-so-wonderfully sated. She felt his heart pounding against hers, yet another wonderful sensation.

  When he rolled over, bringing her with him, she realized she could breathe again. And her breath came out in a long, satisfied sigh.

  “I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he told her.

  “You’re good at keeping things to yourself. I wasn’t all the way sure until you were showing me how to milk—what’s the cow’s name I started on?”

  “Bossie.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “There has to be a Bossie in a milk cow herd. It’s the law.”

  “If you say so.” Trailing a hand over his chest, she thought of the boy he’d been, the skinny build.

  He’d filled out just fine.

  “Until then.”

  “I didn’t want to mess things up.”

  “Me either. We’ll have to talk about that.”

  “Right now?”

  “Maybe not right now, because I need about a gallon of water.”

  “I’ll get it.” He sat up, looked down at her. Another image for his collection, he thought. Caitlyn, naked in starlight. “I’ve got a lot of pictures of you in my head.”

  Her eyes, her lips gave him a sleepy, satisfied smile. “Do you?”

  “This might be my favorite one. I’ll be right back.”

  She lay as she was when he went downstairs, and realized she had a number of pictures of him in her head, too. Starting with the one of the skinny kid coming down the back steps to raid the refrigerator.

  Something to think about, she decided. Later. She didn’t want to think tonight.

  She sat up when she heard him coming back up the steps, realized every inch of her felt soothed and smoothed.

  He paused at the doorway, bottles of water in his hands. “You really are so beautiful.”

  She followed her heart, opened her arms.

  His internal clock woke him before sunrise with Cate sleeping warm beside him. She had an arm flung over him, and he could smell her hair, feel the long length of her leg pressed to his.

  There were moments, rare ones for him, when ranching had real disadvantages.

  This ranked as number one.

  But he slid out of bed to dress quietly in the dark. Because he couldn’t quite remember furniture placement—he’d been a little preoccupied—he sat on the floor to put on his shoes.

  She stirred.

  “It has to be the middle of the night.”

  “No, just really early in the morning. Go back to sleep.”

  “Count on it. Travel cups in the, uh, cabinet to the left of the coffee maker.”

  “Thanks.” He got to his feet, leaned over the bed. Brushed at her hair, kissed her. “I want to see you again. Like this.”

  Shifting, she drew him down for another kiss. “Is tonight too soon?”

  “Not for me.”

  “Good. You can experience my reasonably amazing pasta from my limited culinary repertoire.”

  “Really? You want to cook?”

  “Tonight I do, because I want to see you again. Like this. And going out takes too much time.”

  “You’re going to have to seriously think about marrying me. How about seven?”

  “That works. Good night,” she added and rolled over.

  He went downstairs, made coffee. He drank it, thinking of her, on the drive home.

  Maybe he’d toss out that marriage thing, all casual, now and then. That way she might not be shocked when he actually asked her.

  She really needed to marry him. Not only because he was crazy in love with her, but because they just worked. If she needed time to fall for him, well, he had time.

  He drove up the ranch road, caught the gleam of the downstairs light through the window. He’d never given a lot of thought to fate, but he decided fate had guided Cate toward that light so many years before.

  To the light, and to him.

  He parked, went into his house. As he showered, changed, grabbed something to eat, he went over the work for the day. Feed and water, move any stabled horses out to pasture. And it was time to herd the beef cattle from Marvel Field to Hawkeye Field, let them graze on fresh grass and get busy fertilizing.

  He’d ride Beamer for that job, take the dogs. A good day for all.

  He’d tap Red for washing out water tanks, mucking out the stalls, hauling some hay.

  Then he had to supervise the seasonals with the plantings.

  His mother would handle the pigs and chickens. And between her and Gram, they’d deal with the morning and afternoon milkings.

  He’d take the evening.

  Needed to put in some time working with a couple of yearlings, but he had it since his ladies handled the co-op deliveries most Saturdays.

  He grabbed a light denim jacket, went out to start the day.

  By the time the sun bloomed over the hills, he had the horses fed, watered, and out grazing. Since the dogs came running, he knew his ladies—who’d kept them for him the night before—were up and about.

  When he opened the gate between pastures, the dogs knew just what it meant. They raced back, barking, scrambling to help herd the cattle.

  Just as happy as the dogs, Dillon rode back at an easy trot to join the roundup.

  It took a solid hour—there were always some who didn’t think the grass was greener. He ditched the jacket in a saddlebag as the day warmed and his body heated.

  The air filled with the mutter of equipment, the scent of manure as a couple of hands spread fertilizer over a field.

  He heard the chickens humming and scratching at feed, the pigs snorting over their own. Over the rumbling roll of the sea, a gull cried before winging away.

  From the saddle, he watched a falcon circle on a hunt.

  His dogs wrestled in the grass while in the near pasture a couple of foals frolicked like any kid on a Saturday morning.

  As far as he could see, his world was as perfect as perfect got.

  He didn’t see Red’s truck, so figured his unofficial ranch hand either slept in or found a wave to ride. Which meant he’d start cleaning stalls on his own.

  Beamer drank while he unsaddled him, toweled him down, checked his hooves. He led him to the paddock, as he’d ride him out to check the fields later, then he headed into the stables.

  He found his mother mucking out.

 
; “I’ve got this,” he began, only to feel a quick clutch in his guts when she turned to him.

  For a woman of seemingly limitless endurance, she looked exhausted. Her eyes, bruised with fatigue, were sunken against a face pale from lack of sleep.

  “What’s wrong? Are you sick?” He took her arm with one hand, laid his other on her brow. “Is it Gram?”

  “No, and no. It’s Red. He’s all right,” she added quickly. “I need to work, honey, I need to work and keep my hands busy while I tell you.”

  She forked soiled hay into the barrow, the brim of her hat tipped low so he couldn’t see her face.

  “When he was driving home last night, two men in a stolen car . . . they shot his truck up.”

  She might have said aliens beamed Red up to Mars for the sense it made to him. “They—what? Is he hurt? Where is he?”

  “They grazed his arm. He keeps saying it’s just a graze, but we’ll see for ourselves when we change the bandage. The police brought him back here because he wouldn’t go to the hospital.”

  “He’s here.” Okay, that settled the worst fears. “Mom, you should’ve called me.”

  “Nothing you could do, Dillon. Really nothing we could do except look after him as much as he’d let us. He’s more upset about the damn truck.”

  She stopped, leaned on the pitchfork. “He said they were shooting with one of those semiautomatic rifles, and trying to run him off the cliff.”

  “Jesus Christ. Does he know them? Does he know why?”

  Her exhausted eyes on Dillon’s, Julia shook her head. “They’re the ones who ended up going over. One of them’s dead, and the other’s in a coma the last we heard. The police identified the one in a coma, and Red doesn’t know him. It’ll take longer to identify the other because he . . . the car exploded. His body’s burned.

  “It could’ve been Red down there, burned beyond recognition at the bottom of the cliff.”

  She cried without shame when happy, or deeply touched. But when immeasurably sad, she kept her tears private. Hearing them now, Dillon took the pitchfork from her, set it aside.

  Gathered her in.

  “He’s like a father to me.”