Cal was still stretched across the workbench hoisting the saddle into place when he followed her gaze and muttered an oath. Shoving the saddle into position, he moved back from the bench, rubbed his hands over his face and blew out a big frustrated sigh. “Damn.”
“So, do the Sullivans know?” she asked. Being a dumbass, she’d left her weapon in the cabin. Stupid.
Cal blew out a hard laugh and nodded. Ex-cons never admitted their crimes, but she wanted to hear what he’d say.
“What did you do, fiddle your tax returns?”
Concentrating on hanging up his bridle on the rack opposite, he said nothing for a long moment. Then he turned and looked her dead in the eye.
“Killed my step-daddy.” Cal shifted from foot to foot, watching her warily. He must have noticed her sudden tension because he reached out and touched her shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze. Flinching, she shrank from his touch and Cal withdrew. The guy looked down at his boots as if wondering where the shine had gone.
“I was fourteen years old...” He faded off like it was a story he didn’t want to tell, his voice flat, achingly, annoyingly flat. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I did my time.”
He turned and walked back into the main part of the horse-barn, Elizabeth sat absolutely still, absorbing what he’d said. During training, and before she’d gone undercover, she’d met her fair share of cons. She’d also seen her fill of tragedy and circumstance. She knew bad people when she met them, had smelled the taint of DeLattio long before she’d seen the man.
Fingers clenching so hard they hurt, she had a death-grip on the saddle she’d been cleaning. She let the saddle go, leaned back in the wooden swivel chair for support and wondered what had turned a 14-year-old boy into a killer. Some people were born bad, others...
Empathy sliced her like a knife. Christ, she was no saint. Maybe she was a sucker, but the Sullivans trusted Cal Landon and they seemed to be pretty sane people. She got to her feet and followed Cal out into the barn. Horses stood in small groups in the wide pens that lined either side of the aisle. A palomino mare tried to nose her arm for a treat, but Elizabeth didn’t stop. She wanted to find the cowboy. Cal was rubbing down two horses in one of the empty pens near the front of the barn.
Warily he turned to face her. Probably figured she was gonna make trouble for him.
Elizabeth looked outside, through the small opening in the slide-door of the barn and realized the snow was falling faster than ever. All it ever seemed to do here was snow.
She hesitated one second before she asked, “You need any help getting the stock in from the fields?”
Cal’s flat-eyed stare turned surprised and then flickered to grateful.
“If you’re up to it.” He nodded.
“I’m up to it,” she said, putting her hands in her jeans pockets. Befriending a convicted murderer didn’t seem like such a dumb idea. In her mind’s eye, she’d put a gun to DeLattio’s head a thousand times. Pulling the trigger was as easy as swatting flies and that scared her a lot more than Cal Landon ever could. They weren’t so different after all.
***
They worked as quickly as the horses would allow. Despite the rattles of feed buckets and the ever-increasing chill of the wind, some of the fillies seemed reluctant to move from the freedom of the meadows into the warm confines of the horse-barn. Hair blowing in her eyes and ears feeling so cold she feared they might snap off, Elizabeth threw a rope halter on the last recalcitrant female. She led the squirrelly horse down to the barn, chiding it all the time for being mischievous. Cal followed with the Arab stallion, which danced on the tips of his shiny black hooves. Cal turned the stallion out into a large loose-box at the end of the aisle where the horse could hang his head over the split Dutch-doors and watch his harem.
Ryan Sullivan rode up out of nowhere and straight through the open door of the horse-barn. He was handsome like his brother, but he didn’t have the same effect on her that Nat Sullivan did. He jumped off his mount and immediately went to work saddling another while Cal took care of the first animal.
As Ryan worked, snow began to drip off his dark Stetson onto the muddy stone floor at his feet. Elizabeth studied him. He had the same killer blue eyes, but where Nat was blond, Ryan’s hair was black as coal.
“How’re you doing, Miss Reed?” Ryan asked, without looking up from tightening the cinch on the saddle. He finished the first horse and began saddling a second pony just as efficiently.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Elizabeth said. God, she sounded like some prim and proper schoolgirl. She watched him throw a saddle-pad followed by a plain western saddle onto the back of a roan. The cowpony stood placidly waiting to go to work, like a commuter on the subway.
She leaned back against the wooden rail and wished she could sink right back into it. She liked Ryan, despite his flirting ways, much the same way she liked Cal, but she still didn’t want to get too close. They were both polite and easygoing, respectful of her privacy, not overstepping the boundaries she set up, but she suspected Ryan had a dark side, whereas Nat seemed blindingly pure and bright.
“So what’d ya think of the Triple H so far, Miss Reed?” Ryan asked. He’d finished saddling the second horse and turned towards her, brushed some of the melting snow off his jacket.
“Call me Eliza.” One of the horses nudged her from behind and she laughed, turning slightly to stroke a soft brown nose. “It’s beautiful. Cold, but gorgeous.”
“Yeah, well cold we can do, though it usually isn’t this bad.” Ryan’s voice flowed like raw honey, an obvious sales-pitch, but one laced with pride. “But it’s pretty and if you’re around long enough to see the summer, well now, that’s one of the most beautiful experiences a human-being can have.”
She pinned him with a direct look, but kept her mouth shut. It wouldn’t take much to encourage Ryan Sullivan and he looked like a man who knew all about beautiful experiences.
The wind howled outside the sanctuary of the barn. Listening to the blizzard rage, Elizabeth realized she’d like to see a summer here. She’d like to watch the flowers burst forth, to enjoy the hot lazy days, to see the horses run wild and the cows bellow in the high meadows.
She might not live that long. She shrugged. “Maybe. Who knows?”
Ryan’s smile was full of satisfaction. He’d make a great salesman.
“I’d better get back to work before Nat comes in here and hauls my ass out into the snow. Wanna come?” He looked her over speculatively, like maybe she wasn’t up to it.
The wind howled like a banshee and it was as cold as the pits of Arctic hell. Her spine stiffened. Cal started to mutter something, but she ignored him.
“Sure,” she said, straightening up.
Ryan glanced at her critically. He looked around the side of the barn door and found a pair of sturdy leather work-gloves to protect her hands. Then he took a wide-brimmed hat that had been hanging on a peg just inside the door, gave it a quick whack to clean off the dust and stuck it on her head. Next he found a pair of suede chaps and showed her how to put them on.
“Keep the barn in sight and call it a day when you get cold.”
She was already cold.
Gritting her teeth, she squared her shoulders and headed off through the stable doors like they were the gates to purgatory.
Horizontal snow hit her in the face like baseballs; the soft flakes of before replaced by fierce little creatures that stung. Elizabeth followed Ryan who led the two horses to just outside the barn.
“This is Tiger,” he said, shouting against the howling wind. He patted the docile roan affectionately. “Stay on her back and you won’t get lost. Or hang on to me if you like.” His face was close to hers.
She snorted, making her choice obvious.
“Then what?” she said loudly enough to make her voice heard over the screaming wind. She gritted her teeth against the rush of cold air into her lungs, kept her head low behind the horse’s back to gain a momentary respite.
; “We’re herding loose cattle into the shed here.” He pointed to a big red Dutch barn the other side of the yard from the horse-barn. “Just make sure they don’t sneak past you, up onto the road.”
It sounded easy enough. She declined his offer of a leg-up and watched him jump onto the other horse. Sticking her foot into the stirrup, she hauled herself onto the back of the mare and followed Ryan.
The cowboy disappeared into the swirling snow almost immediately, but she kept the huge red barn close-by. The light was fading, turning the world into a whirling mass of monotonous white on gray.
It was an easy job for the most part, except for the cold that numbed her fingers and froze her nose. When a spooked cow did something stupid like dive past her, Tiger acted more or less of her own will to curb the beast and change its direction. When that failed, Blue, one of the ranch dogs, nipped at their heels and sent them lumbering back towards the security of the well-lit barn. All Elizabeth had to do was stay on.
Tiger dived left, cutting off a frisky heifer.
Taken by surprise and numbed by the cold, Elizabeth’s center of gravity shifted out of sync with the horse and she took a nosedive to the right. Her ankle twisted and caught in the stirrup. She tasted snow and grit as she landed face first. She was busy hanging from the saddle and spitting out dirt when two strong arms enfolded her.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” Nat Sullivan shouted directly into her ear.
She hadn’t seen him since yesterday afternoon, but he felt warm and solid and Elizabeth hated herself for being so relieved to see him.
“Helping out,” she shouted back, although hanging upside-down by an ankle that was being torn in two by pain might not look that way to him. Holding back a cry of agony was getting harder and harder.
Nat picked her up and hoisted her into his arms like she weighed nothing at all. The screaming pressure on her ankle eased and suddenly she found herself nose to nose with a furious male. She could feel every hard inch of his body pressed from her chest to the top of her thighs. She swallowed.
He glared at her, his mouth bracketed by hard lines. “Are you crazy?”
Elizabeth figured it was a rhetorical question.
Blue danced anxiously around them, his old legs skittering about in the snow. Nat told him to sit and the dog immediately sat, his tail churning up fresh snow like a windshield wiper.
She cried out when Nat tried to pull her foot from the leather stirrup. Her boot was stuck fast. He shifted her weight until she was almost all the way over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Elizabeth ignored the pain and the sensation of his hands moving across her body as he manhandled her. Tears threatened to overwhelm her, but she wouldn’t let them fall. She already felt like a fool.
***
Fury rose through Nat as he tugged at Eliza’s boot. He was going to kill Ryan when he got his hands on him. Despite the freezing wind that drove the snow down the mountains, a sweat broke out on his brow. Elizabeth Reed could have died out in this weather. An inexperienced pony could have dragged her off into the blizzard. He swore viscously. Ignoring the soft flesh beneath his fingers he shifted her weight higher.
Visibility was down to a hundred yards and once you were disoriented, without shelter, you were as good as dead. Or she could have been trampled, buried under a layer of white death not to be uncovered ‘til the thaw.
“Hold tight to me,” he said. His voice was clipped and angry, but he couldn’t tame it.
Upside-down, she hooked her arms around his back and held on tight.
He ground his teeth and tried to get her boot out of the stirrup once more. It was jammed tight. He pulled harder, but eased the pressure when he felt her flinch.
“Why couldn’t you just stay inside? I’ve got enough trouble dealing with the goddamn stock.” He was too tired, too cold, and too goddamned frustrated to be anything but spitting mad.
Finally, Nat worked her foot free and set her down on the soft snow. Her ankle gave way beneath her and she stumbled against him. He held her shoulders, but she reacted like he’d bitten her and jerked away. Her ankle must have been badly wrenched. She staggered and he heard her gasp even though she kept her head down, hiding her expression. She hung onto Tiger’s saddle as the horse stood patiently beside her, sheltering her from the worst of the blizzard.
Watching, Nat decided she was the most stubborn female he’d met in his entire life, and God knew, he’d met some damned contrary women. But when she glanced up through a mass of wavy brown hair, he saw tears tracking down her cheeks and guilt slammed into him like a sledgehammer.
Shit.
Without a word, he scooped her up, shouted to Cal to look out for the horses and strode up to the cottage.
Groping for the door handle, he stepped inside, relieved to find the fire blazing and the place cozy and warm. Nat intended to drop Eliza into the easy chair by the fire, fetch Sas and get the hell back to work. The only trouble was Eliza’s head was buried under his jacket and he couldn’t seem to remove her clenched fingers from his clothing.
Her breath tickled his neck, brushing warmth across his chilled skin, and sent a quiver down every male nerve ending he possessed.
Standing in the center of the room with its cheery yellow paint he nearly groaned with frustration. She was crying, trying not to make a sound—her shoulders shaking just a little.
Hell.
Dampness from her tears soaked through his chambray shirt and turned cold against his skin. That, and her silence, reached out and grabbed at everything within him, touched him where he was most vulnerable, making him want to comfort and protect her.
Easing down into the chair, he cradled her in his arms and let her weep. He didn’t have time for this, really he didn’t. This was the worst spring for fifty years. He had to get the cows into the barn before those with young froze to death, or before any more cows calved. He needed every single animal on the ranch to pull through this miserable weather if they were to have a chance of surviving the next year. Absently he slipped his hand beneath Eliza’s coat and rubbed the hollow of her back, gently squeezed her shoulders, trying to comfort her. His hands traveled her body the way he would soothe a frightened animal, trying to ease her trembling. He smoothed tangled hair away from her face, stirred up a hint of fragrant lavender that seemed to follow her wherever she went.
“Shush,” he murmured, “it’s all right.” He doubted it was.
Wanting to comfort, he placed light kisses on the top of her head, on her brow, lower, kissing the salty tears from her lashes. His gaze settled on her mouth, her lips half-parted and trembling, watching as her breath hitched and the cloudiness left her exotic green eyes.
Awareness flooded through him as the desire to comfort took on a deeper, more elemental nature. He pulled back and held her away from him with firm hands. “Sorry.”
Eliza stopped crying, her eyes watery and wide. Her gaze dropped to his lips and she grabbed his collar with both hands and kissed him full on the mouth. Taken by surprise, Nat hesitated for all of a second, until she slipped her tongue along the crease of his lips.
Sinking into her like a drowning man in need of oxygen, he kissed her back. The heat of her mouth burnt, in stark contrast to her cold skin, and Nat felt seared by the contact. He pressed against the soft curves of her body and realized they fit his like they’d been cast together. He laid her back over one arm, kissed her deeper and deeper, plunging into a mindless whirlwind that reared up and sucked him in. There was a desperation to her kiss, an urgency in the way she responded to him that catapulted his desire to full-throttle in ten seconds flat. He forgot the time, the blizzard and the stock. He forgot everything but the fire that burned his fingers wherever he touched her. Heat built between them, scorched flesh and erased thought. His lips never left hers as his hands raced over her body. Her lean curves begged for his attention. He felt her quiver as his hand slid across her flat belly, down firm thighs and between her legs, cupping her through the denim of her je
ans.
Without warning she jackknifed off his lap and stumbled onto the floor, ended up sprawled in a heap at his feet.
“Don’t touch me!” she spat. Her hair was a wild storm around her face, her lips pulled back in a snarl.
Nat sat immobile for several seconds, his breath coming in big, harsh gasps. He’d been drugged by passion, aroused so quickly it was embarrassing, only to be doused by ice.
He didn’t remind her that she’d been the one to kiss him. He’d only been kissing her back. Narrowing his eyes, he slowly rose to his feet.
“Don’t worry, lady,” he drawled. “It won’t happen again.” He grabbed his hat from where it had fallen on the floor, turned on his heel and left.
SEVEN
Elizabeth lay on the hearthrug as frost spread through her veins. Drawing her knees tight to her chest, she curled up into a ball, too humiliated to move, too desolate to cry. She concentrated on feeling nothing—just lay on the hard floor, the rough fibers of the rug scratching her cheek as she hugged herself like a child. Seconds stretched into minutes. She didn’t move.
Slowly, stiffly, she uncurled clenched fingers and straightened her legs, stretching them out beneath her and tried to stand. Gingerly, she put her weight on her sore ankle, but pain shot up her leg. She gave up and hopped to the tiny bathroom, using the furniture for balance, and ran the shower while stripping off her damp clothes.
Pulling herself awkwardly into the bath, she knelt beneath the old brass sprinkler and turned the water as hot as it would go. It blasted her skin like a branding iron, but still she shivered. She felt cold on the inside, like hollowed out ice. Grabbing the soap she scrubbed herself, working the lather into every inch of her skin, desperate to remove the taint—the shame.
Not Nat Sullivan. Andrew DeLattio. And herself.
She’d wanted so badly to kiss Nat Sullivan. To prove she wasn’t a victim anymore. To prove she was normal.
Ha!
Skin glowed red beneath her fingers and still she scrubbed. The water began to cool as the tears came. Hot gushes of pure misery wracked her body with sobs that refused to be quiet. So ashamed, so stupid. Blinded, she sank down, curled into a ball in the bottom of the tub, the tepid water beating on her head like doves’ wings.
Crimes of Passion Page 38