Who's the Boss

by Linda Turner

  Watching him strip on a public road in plain view of anyone who came along was quite another. , With heat stealing into her cheeks until she was as pink as one of Margaret's muumuus, she shot him a scathing look and whirled away "You know, I bet Sydney would find it quite interesting that the sheriff makes a habit of stripping on the side of the road. Maybe I should call her."

  "Maybe you should," he said, chuckling as he checked to make sure the traffic was as nonexistent as he'd claimed.

  "We could sell tickets and raise money for the volunteer fire department. I bet there's a lot of women out there who would pay to see me in my shorts." Becca swore she wasn't going to laugh, but the darn man made that impossible.

  "You'd lose a lot of the little old ladies' votes," she warned.

  "But I'd win all the younger ones over from your side, and then where would you be, Mrs. Prescott? Hmm?"

  "Out sweet-talking all the men into voting for me since you stole their women," she countered.

  "Any more questions, Sheriff?"

  "Yeah," he said, stepping around her in his running shorts and battered Nikes.

  "How long are you going to stand here jawing? I thought you wanted to jog."

  Flashing him a grin, she was off like a shot, but there was never any question of her outrunning him. With his long legs, it took him only seconds to catch up and keep pace.

  With their shoes hitting the pavement in unison and even the soughing of their breath timed companionably, anyone seeing them would have thought they'd been running together for years.

  And Becca didn't want it to end. That should have worried her, but they seemed a million miles away from civilization, and the hurts from the past were too far behind her to touch her. They couldn't, however, run forever.

  Daylight turned to twilight without them being aware of it, and by the time they turned and headed back the way they had come, the first stars were slowly beginning to reveal themselves in the darkening sky. When they reached his car, there was never any question that he would offer her a ride home and she would accept.

  The ride to her house was made in a silence that neither was willing to break, and all too soon, Riley was pulling into her driveway and cutting the engine. In the sudden stillness, his eyes met hers.

  "I'll walk you to the door."

  She should have told him no. She was perfectly capable of seeing herself inside without his help. But his husky words wrapped around her like a caress, stealing her breath, making it impossible for her to protest. Without a word, she stepped from the car when he opened her door for her and let him escort her to her porch.

  The shadows were thick there, the security lights in the yard not quite reaching that far, so it took a second or two for Becca to notice the note taped to the front door. Frowning, she pulled it free and stepped to the edge of the porch, where the light was better.

  "What is it?"

  Scanning the note quickly, she glanced up, wry humor spreading a smile across her face.

  "A message from Margaret. Evidently, she's not too worried about me any more. She took Chloe into town for chili dogs at the Dairy Queen. She promises to have her home by nine."

  Which conveniently left them alone together. Again.

  Staring down at her, he should have made some quip that Margaret was definitely working overtime on setting them up, but he couldn't drag his eyes from her mouth. An hour, he thought bemusedly. They could have an hour together, maybe more.

  "Becca..."

  In the sudden throbbing silence that engulfed them, even he could hear the need that turned his voice hoarse, the need that he'd been so sure he could manage. He'd fought with it, suppressed it, tried to reason it away all without success.

  And he couldn't do it anymore. She was the most impossible woman he'd ever known, but she'd somehow stolen her way into his heart and she was his, dammit.

  Even if she wasn't ready to admit it. Staggered by the thought—how had she gotten past his guard and made him trust her? —he could see nothing but roadblocks in front of them. But for once, he didn't care.

  He needed to think, to talk to her, but now, more than he needed his next breath, he needed to kiss her.

  "Don't ask me to go," he murmured roughly, taking the single step that eliminated the distance between them.

  "I can't."

  He swept her into his arms and slanted his mouth across hers, and it was ages before he let her up for air. Lightheaded, she didn't have the strength to care. She remembered every time he'd touched her, every time he'd kissed her, and none of those moments had ever been anything like this. His mouth moved over hers with a possessiveness that should have terrified her but instead warmed her all the way to her toes. His. Every kiss, every touch of his hands on her back and hips and breasts claimed her as his—sweetly, tenderly, completely.

  Overwhelmed, her throat tight with emotion, she clung to him, while deep inside, barriers that she'd spent years building and would have sworn were unshakable crumbled one by one, leaving her unprotected and vulnerable, with nothing to hide behind. She loved him.

  The truth slipped out of the dark to grab her by the heart, bringing the sting of tears to her eyes. When? How?

  The questions whirled in her head, but he was kissing her as if he never intended to let her go, his hands dragging fire across her skin, melting her bones one by one. And she didn't want him to stop. Ever.

  "Inside," she breathed against his mouth.

  "Come inside with me." In answer, he took her keys from her and unlocked the door.

  Riley had seen her bedroom before, of course, when Margaret had slept there during the flu epidemic, but he hadn't had much more than a glimpse of it. Now, he could have spent an hour there just studying her things—the angel collection on the what-not shelf in the corner, the bodice-ripper romance novels piled on the table by the big, old-fashioned iron bed, the pictures, old and new, that covered all of one wall.

  But there wasn't time. Dammit, why was it that he never seemed to have enough time with her?

  "I want to spend the night with you," he said thickly as he brought his arms around her.

  "All night."

  With the admission, the need that always clawed at him whenever she was within touching distance slipped its leash. His hands rushing over her, he charted her every curve the way a blind man explores his surroundings-over and over again, leaving nothing to chance. The splay of her slender hips, the tempting fullness of her bottom, the sweet lift of her breasts against his palm. they were enough to drive a man slowly out of his mind. He wanted her naked. Hot and naked and as desperate for him as he was for her. Her running shorts were slick and damp under his hands, and he trailed his fingers down to the back of her thighs, catching her in his grip and making her gasp, lifting her against his hardness, rubbing her wantonly against him until they both groaned.

  "Riley..."

  Gritting his teeth against the unbearable pleasure, he growled, "I know, baby. I know. You can't imagine how good you feel against me.

  Hang on."

  "What" — Backing toward the bed, he felt the edge of the mattress behind his legs and simply dropped backward with a speed that had her crying out in surprise and the iron bed squeaking in protest. Chuckling against her mouth, he lifted his hands to her hair, snapping the rubber band that confined it. Instantly, the dark chestnut curls spilled forward around her face. Loving the feel of her weight against him, covering him, he fumbled for the hem of her shirt. Before either of them could catch their breath, he had them naked and between the sheets. Up until then, he liked to think he'd been in control. But then she was pulling him down to her, her smooth, warm skin gliding against his, her body all soft and yielding and inviting, and it was all he could do just to remember his name.

  The need raging in him turned sharply reckless and his hands became rough, tenderness, for the moment, beyond his- ' grasp. She was what he'd wanted, needed, all along. How could he not have known?

  They had time for him to ta
ke care with her, time for' him to seduce and drive her slowly out of her mind. But the urgency that was in his own blood burned in hers, and she didn't want a gentle loving. Not this time. Gasping, she gloried in the rush of his hands over her, the heated passion of his kiss, the wild thunder of his heartbeat against hers. Her own touch as impatient as his, she stroked him with mouth and fingers and tongue, driving him on just as he did her, unable to get enough of the lean hardness of his body, of him.

  With nothing more than the flick of her tongue and the glide of her fingers on his thigh, his hip, his stomach, she drew shudder after shudder from him. Her blood was rushing through her veins and dark passion clouded her mind, intoxicating her, as she moved lower. Her hair brushed against him with tantalizing softness, and she delighted in the sudden tension that had him stiffening beneath her as she kissed the hot skin of his belly.

  "Honey, I wouldn't do that if I were you."

  His rough growl told her he was on the edge, pushed to the limits, struggling to hang on to the last remnants of civilized behavior. A wise woman would have heeded the warning, but she'd never been wise where he was concerned.

  She glanced up the length of his body, and her eyes were bright with mischief as they met his.

  "You know I never could resist a dare," she murmured, and moved slowly, deliberately lower.

  The little witch did it. She kissed him where he burned for her hotter than the fires of hell, her mouth sweet and gentle and loving. His body drawn tighter than a bow, he groaned low in his throat, his hands diving through the dark cloud of her hair to capture her face between his palms and hold her still.

  "Don't move, honey," he said hoarsely.

  "If you don't want this to be over with before it's hardly started, please don't move."

  She didn't listen, of course. He knew she wouldn't. She was intent on driving him crazy and he couldn't seem to stop her. No one had ever pushed him to this, to the very threshold of madness. A strangled curse ripping from his throat, he cried, "Enough!"

  Lightning quick, he had her under him, opening for him as her arms wound around his neck to drag his mouth down to hers. He couldn't stop, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but give in to the demands of his own body and hers. Surging into her moist, welcoming heat, he felt her close around him, surround him, and he nearly died with the pleasure of it.

  In the glow of the lamplight, her passion-dazed eyes met his.

  "Love me," she murmured, and she lifted her hips to his, taking him impossibly deeper.

  The darkness took him then, the heat and fire of her dragging him under, consuming him with need, swallowing him whole. Reality faded to black, and he had time for only one last conscious thought. She didn't have to ask him to love her—God help him, he already did.

  He had to force himself to leave her. Sated, more content than he'd ever been in his life, he would have liked nothing better than to cuddle with her under the blankets and talk about the future that weeks ago he'd have sworn they couldn't possibly have. But there wasn't time, not with Chloe expected home in a few minutes. And not with the election still between them like a fight that couldn't be won.

  His mood soured at that, while tension clawed its way up his back.

  Nothing had changed, yet everything had, and he was still reeling from it. There had to be a way for them, he promised himself grimly as he drove away from her house. A way to set aside their differences.

  Dammit, somehow he'd find it. Because he wasn't losing her. Not now.

  Not ever. Not after he'd gone through hell to find her.

  "All units report to the Crossroads Bar at the intersection of Highway 22 and Old Foster Road." Myrtle's voice suddenly came on the radio with a burst of static.

  "Two drunk cowboys got in a fight and they're trashing the place. Young fools," she added in disgust.

  "They work hard all week busting cows, then bust up each other come payday."

  Wincing, Riley swore. How many times did he have to tell Myrtle not to air her opinion on the damn radio?

  Reaching for the mike, he said warningly, "Myrtle..."

  "Oh, hi, boss."

  Not the least concerned that he'd caught her editorializing again, she said, "I thought you were taking the rest of the night off."

  "I am, but I pass right by the Crossroads on my way home, so I might as well stop and lend a hand."

  "I'm sure Mark could use the help," she said.

  "He's already out there. And John's going to head over there just as soon as he's through with a speeder out on Sunset Road."

  "Good," he said, switching on his siren as he hit the gas.

  "Oh, and Myrtle? Try to limit the commentary, okay?"

  She chuckled.

  "Gee, Boss, I thought that was what I was doing."

  Shaking his head, Riley signed off and raced toward the Crossroads. A favorite watering hole for local cowboys, the bar was nothing fancy, just a wood-frame building with a long bar, plenty of whiskey and beer and a couple of pool tables in the back. Most of the cowboys who frequented the place were pretty well behaved, but every once in a while, someone got a bee in his Stetson about something and busted up the place.

  If the damages were minimal and the cowboy repentant enough to pay for them, the bar owner was content to let Riley cart the troublemaker off to jail for the night. If not—which was rare— the drunk found himself up to his neck in hot water and criminal charges.

  As expected, the poorly lit parking lot was full of pickups of every color, make and condition. Seeing Mark's patrol car parked haphazardly near the front door, Riley pulled up next to him and strode quickly inside, expecting to find his young deputy grappling with two soused young bucks who had more grit than brains.

  Instead, he saw in a single glance that the heated fist fight between two idiots had escalated into an all-out brawl. Every cowboy in the place was on his feet and throwing punches, chairs and beer bottles And Mark was right in the middle of it. And in trouble. His shirt was torn, his mouth bloody.

  As Riley watched, a giant of a cowhand buried his clenched fist right in Mark's gut, doubling him over. Swearing, Riley waded into the fray, pushing fools who were old enough to know better out of the way.

  Dammit, how the hell had this happened? When he got his hands on whoever had started it, he was going to string him up by his thumbs, then shut the damn place down for a month. Let these cowpunchers drive all the way to Tucson for a cold one for a couple of weeks, and he'd like to see the next one stupid enough to throw a punch.

  Recognizing a couple of faces in the crowd, he snapped, "Pete, Jackson, what the hell do you idiots think you're doing? Get your asses out of here before I haul you in and throw away the key."

  "You heard me," he growled, jerking a wooden chair. Out of the hands of a skinny rancher who was so polluted he couldn't have walked a straight line to save his life. Shooting the man a hard glare that should have scared him silly even in his drunken state, he warned silkily, "I don't think you want to use that thing on anybody's head, do you? In fact, if I were you, I'd get while the getting was good.

  Otherwise you just might have to call that wife of yours from jail.

  "That goes for all of you," he yelled, raising his voice until every man in the joint couldn't help but hear him.

  "I'm giving you two minutes to clear out. Anyone left standing is going to get the book thrown at him. And if you don't think I'll do it, just stick around and watch me." For a minute, he thought every one of them was going to call his bluff right then and there. The jail couldn't hold half of them, and if their brains hadn't been swimming in alcohol, they would have realized that. But they weren't thinking, thank God, and the fight began to break up. If he hadn't been so concerned about Mark, Riley would have seen the two host' de drunks still trading insults behind him. But the crowd had closed around his deputy several minutes before, and Riley was too worried about him to spare a glance behind him. Then one of the dolts pushed the other, who snarled an obscenity and jerke
d a gun from his pocket. Suddenly bullets were flying.

  Swearing, Riley whirled, reaching for his own gun as all around him men who only seconds before had been beating each other to a pulp dove for cover. The only one left standing except for the jackass with the gun, Riley found himself face-to-face with a wobbly .45. No one was more surprised than he when it went off.

  Chapter 12

  And God bless Granny Clara and Lucille and Margaret. And Riley,"

  Chloe added sleepily.

  "Amen."

  Surprised, Beeca gave her daughter a hug and helped her into bed.

  "I didn't know you'd added Riley to your prayers, honey. That's very sweet of you."

  Yawning, her eyes already starting to close, Chloe mumbled simply, " He needs a little girl to love him. He just doesn't know it.

  "Night, Mama."

  Touched, Becca blinked back the sudden sting of tears.

  "Night, honey. Sweet dreams. "

  For a long time after Chloe had fallen asleep, Becca just sat there by the side of her bed, wishing her life could be as simple and unconditional as her daughter's prayers. When Chloe loved someone, she added him to her prayers, and there was never any question again of how she felt about that person. It was so easy.

  For the longest time, Becca had convinced herself that that kind of acceptance was a gift bestowed only on children. But as she made her way downstairs and found her thoughts pulled back to the magical moments she'd spent in Riley's arms, she realized she hadn't given the seemingly insurmountable differences between them a second thought. All she'd felt was love, and nothing else mattered.

  He cared. She knew he cared for her—he never could have made love to her the way he had if his emotions weren't involved. Every touch, every kiss had spoken of his feelings for her. But he hadn't said the words.

  And neither had she.

  She was scared—she readily admitted it. She'd never expected to love anyone after Tom, never expected to put her heart on the line and chance getting it stomped on again. She wasn't ready for this. It was too soon; she was still too leery. Every instinct she possessed told her to run for the hills, but louder still was the voice that told her to forget everything but love and follow her heart.