The Climax Montana Complete Collection

by Reece Butler

  “Mine!”

  Finally, replete, he slumped onto her back, fighting to breathe. He’d just had the best sex of his life. Only a small part was because of friction. Sharing it with Lila made all the difference.

  He carefully pulled himself off her so they could all breathe. He knelt, keeping both hands on her hips for balance. His brain squeaked, as if the pounding blood had to force its way through his veins. When his head stopped spinning he gently pulled Lila’s hair off her face and tucked it behind her ear.

  He bent over. “Good girl,” he whispered, then kissed her temple.

  It wasn’t just the feel of his cock sliding into her heat or her luscious body that made him want to possess her. She trusted him. Had let him claim her publicly tonight. This was a claiming of another sort. She’d opened her body, all of it, to both him and Houston. She’d done it willingly and eagerly.

  He would never break that trust. He could never harm her. She was everything he wanted in a woman. And he may have to walk away if she didn’t want him. The thought of losing her, not the body that he enjoyed so much, but the whole woman, made his need to possess her even stronger. He had only a few weeks to prove he was worthy.

  Houston groaned. “That damn near killed me,” he said. He gave a strangled laugh. “When can we do it again?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “You didn’t wake me again,” grumbled Houston to Jet.

  His voice came out a lot higher pitched than he liked, another side effect of the pain. He held onto the stair railing with his left hand, though it wouldn’t have stopped him from going ass over teakettle if his leg gave out. He’d done too much yesterday and last night. Nothing new.

  “Figured you’d sleep,” replied Jet. “Or wake up and do something else with Lila.”

  Jet gestured to the coffee machine with his mug. Houston grunted an affirmative. Times like this, he wished he had some heavy-duty meds. Caffeine would have to do. While fighting with his pants, hoping he didn’t wake Lila, he’d briefly considered checking to see if the ranch had something stronger than standard painkillers. The thought passed quickly. He’d heard stories of other vets that got hooked on drugs. That was not going to happen to him.

  “I stood too much yesterday. Last night was damn good, but I’m paying for both now.” Houston blew out his breath as his good foot touched the floor. “Hurts like a mother no matter what I do, so I might as well enjoy Lila while I can.”

  Jet had taken care of the chores, thank God, so they sat quietly and enjoyed their coffee. They heard noises of Lila stirring. Jet pushed his chair back to get up, scraping it against the floor.

  “Did you have to make that noise?”

  Houston faced the stairs so he saw Lila first. “Baby, you look like hell.”

  It was a lie. She was absolutely gorgeous in that threadbare silky robe. He grinned at her scowl, and at the two hard bumps pointing at him.

  “I need a coffee, then I’ll throw on some jeans and join you in the barn.”

  Jet picked up a blue ceramic mug with Big Bird on it. “Sit.”

  She obeyed, slumping on one of the cushion-covered chairs. Jet poured milk and two teaspoons of sugar into the mug, filled it with coffee, and set it in front of her. She used both hands to pick it up. Her hands shook.

  “Coffee, yes,” he said. “And then you’ll put on a dress to make our breakfast.”

  She swallowed, set the mug down, and glared. “You don’t get to make the rules.”

  “You’re right. I was told a few valley traditions the other night. The ranch boss makes Sunday breakfast and the women wear dresses.” Jet waited for her grumpy nod. “It’s Sunday. Since you’re both boss and female, you’ll wear a dress to make our breakfast.”

  “Nobody will know if you don’t tell them,” she said, grumbling into her mug.

  Jet lifted Lila’s chair from the table, with her in it. He put his hands on the wooden base and bent so his face was close to hers.

  “Do you want that punishment now? Or when your head stops pounding? Your choice.” They stared for at least thirty seconds before Jet moved back.

  “Fine!” She took her coffee and stomped toward the stairs.

  “I said a dress, Lila. Nothing under it, or over.” Her foot hovered above the step for a moment. Another grumble, and she continued stomping up the stairs.

  “Ready to meet some horses?” asked Jet. “Lila’s mare is getting close to foaling, so she’s in the barn now.”

  “Christ, man! The last thing I want is to do is go tromping around in the mud.”

  “It’s dry, and we’ll use the quad if you’re hurting that bad. Unless you’re too much of a wimp—”

  “Shaddap and drive.”

  The ride across the yard was short, though the bumpy terrain would have been a bitch to walk. Houston entered the barn first. A horse looked at them from a large corner stall, ears pricked in their direction. Rascal came by for a sniff and a quick welcome.

  “Sable is getting close to foaling. Matt said she’s descended from the first Friesian brought to Montana, back in the late 1860s.”

  The big black mare eyed him warily.

  “You are beautiful, princess. How’s your baby coming along?” He let Sable snuffle his hand. She nickered, and butted his shoulder. He laughed at her demands. “Sorry, babe, got no apples or carrots on me. I’ll ask the boss for some later.”

  “Where’d you learn about horses?”

  “Spent a summer on an East Texas ranch. Working,” he added, so Jet didn’t think he was a guest at a dude ranch. That was as close to reality as most of his classmates got. Ride a pre-saddled horse, nose to tail, for an hour, then head for a massage, hot tub, and gourmet meal.

  “Thought your parents wanted you golfing and sucking up to oil tycoon daughters at the country club?”

  “Gosh, dang, Mr. Pete!” he said with wide eyes and a thick accent. He pretended to take a golf swing with his cane. “I just can’t get the hang of this stick. That damn ball goes the wrong way!” Jet quietly applauded, so he put a hand over his heart and bowed at the acting job. “Before they told me to stay in the bar I hit a mayor, two senators, and just missed a general.”

  “Where’d you hit them?”

  “I made sure the ball would land close enough to their cocks to scare the crap out of him without damaging anything permanently. All by accident of course.”

  “Of course.” Jet returned the grin.

  Rascal suddenly got to his feet and looked out the door. Houston squinted. There was movement by the road.

  “Oh, shit. That can’t be good.” Three trucks, one of them an ominous black with a round gold seal on the side, drove toward them in a convoy. “Got an extra flak jacket?”

  Jet stuck his head out the door. “Oh-oh. I’d hoped we’d get breakfast before they arrived. They were fairly reasonable at the party, but reality is about to hit the fan.”

  “We spent the night alone with their precious little girl. I expect they’re here to read us the riot act.”

  “Or find out what happened last night at the bar.”

  “With an attack force of three trucks?” Houston’s leg throbbed, reminding him of his uselessness. “Are we going to get thrown in the slammer, then tarred and feathered for touching their perfect little girl?”

  “Lila’s on our side. That’s all that matters.”

  “You sure about that? They’re her relatives.”

  “She wants to prove to them she can be ranch boss. Relatives interfering with her hired hands will get her riled.” Jet fixed his gaze on the approaching vehicles. “Best if we meet them in the open.”

  Houston grabbed his cane, planning to use it for more than walking if necessary. They moved forward twenty feet, then waited. Jet, like always, kept to his bad side. His buddy was a shit sometimes but getting this job, and meeting Lila, made up for a lot.

  “How’s the law in these parts?” he asked, eying the vehicles. He’d heard the sheriff had to work and so missed
the party. Houston grimaced. “It’s not like I have anywhere to run, even if I could.”

  “Sheriff knows his town, and the people in it. He’s both fair and honest.”

  “Lance MacDougal looks a bit like you,” said Houston, bringing up something he’d been meaning to say since they left the MacDougal ranch.

  “That’s Sheriff Josh Gibson in the middle vehicle, then Keith Adams,” said Jet, continuing without commenting on Houston’s observation.

  “They’re the ones heading to Europe with Lila’s parents, right?”

  Jet nodded, keeping his eyes on the vehicles. “And you can bet he’ll be telling Eric and Matt everything that happens here.”

  The trucks stopped in a line. Three big, tall men stepped into the silence. Rascal had to say hello to each one. There’d been too many people at the party to keep track of who was who. These must be the movers and shakers of the valley, so he took his time checking the men out.

  Though his name was from Scotland, MacDougal’s dark face, hair, and skin color suggested the man’s ancestors had been in North America for thousands of years. The sheriff was in his thirties and fit. The first two looked calm, but Adams was thoroughly pissed. All three had muscle and moved like they knew what to do with it. A smaller man, also old, climbed out of the passenger seat of the sheriff’s ride. Houston recognized Tom White. Today he wore a black suit with his white shirt and black bow tie. He also carried an ebony cane with a chased silver handle. It reminded Houston of a sword stick he’d seen once. Though there was a slight hesitation in the man’s step on the rough ground, he moved with the fluid grace of a cat.

  “About that tar and feathering,” said Jet, not bothering to keep his voice down, “Sheriff Gibson says they haven’t used tar in some time, but his mom keeps all the chicken feathers from Sunday dinners, just in case.”

  “She’s got a pillowcase full of them with your name on it, Quartermain,” said Gibson, calling across the space. It was a threat, but one applied with humor. “I’ll tell her to get one started for your friend.”

  “What the hell are you doing on my ranch?”

  All six men turned at the outraged feminine voice. Lila opened the kitchen door so fast it slammed against the cabin wall. She stomped to the edge of the porch, jammed her fists on her hips, and glared at her relatives. Following Jet’s orders, she’d put on a knee-length flowered dress. The boots were an extra, which might get her a scolding, but the floor was cold so he didn’t blame her. She hadn’t braided her hair, which flowed behind her like a blonde cape. That might make up for her boots.

  “If Lila gets between the sun and their eyes, they’re going to know what she doesn’t have under her dress,” murmured Houston.

  “Good point,” replied Jet just as quietly. “Lila, go make breakfast,” he ordered. She turned her scowl on him.

  “I am not making breakfast for them!” She pointed at her relatives.

  “Your choice, Boss. Let us do our jobs, and go do yours. Inside.”

  She stiffened. Jet raised a warning eyebrow. She stared down her visitors, one by one, then whirled around and stomped inside, slamming the door behind her. The silence was broken by the chortle of a raven.

  Keith Adams turned stiffly to face them. The man was still mad, but in total control of himself. Houston had gone to the San Antonio Dungeon with Jet on many occasions. He could easily see this man with a whip in his hand. The subs, slaves, and bottoms would be drooling, lined up for a taste of it, too. Just as they had for Jet.

  “What did you do to my sweet little niece?” demanded Keith.

  “Sweet?” replied Jet, all innocent. “As you just saw, the lady is argumentative, obstinate, and impulsive. We’re encouraging her to change her ways.”

  Houston had a good idea MacDougal was holding back a grin. Lance was the first to walk toward them, hand out in greeting. He looked Houston in the eyes, nodded once, and then clasped Jet’s forearm.

  “Good to see you again,” said MacDougal clearly. He pulled Jet close and clapped him on the back. “I like your style with my niece,” he said, loud enough for Houston to hear. It was followed by a quiet chuckle.

  “Houston,” said Jet, “you remember Lance MacDougal and Tom White. Josh Gibson is the sheriff. Don’t know if you met the one who thinks the boss is sweet. That’s Lila’s Uncle Keith, from the J Bar C.”

  “What do you know about this guy?” demanded Adams of the sheriff.

  “This is the first time I’ve had a chance to talk with him,” said Gibson, nonchalantly. “Tom?”

  “Houston’s ex-army,” said Tom. “As you can see, he was injured in the service of his country. He’s a damn good mechanic and poses no danger to Lila. That’s all you need to know.”

  Houston was through playing games. His leg ached like a son of a bitch, his healing face itched, and though he’d slept like a dog, he was bone-deep exhausted.

  “This is all very nice,” he said with a barrel of sarcasm, “but my gut is empty, the boss is making breakfast, and we’ve got work to do before we eat. So, if you’ll excuse us.” He lifted his lips to bare his teeth in a parody of a smile.

  “You got time to work on some choppers?” asked Tom. “I’ve got a couple of Kiowas that need some babying. Kenny Peters is good, but his garage doesn’t do birds.”

  Houston’s heart kicked up a dozen notches at the thought of getting his hands deep in one of those babies. “Warriors?” he asked. Tom nodded. “Fully operational?”

  “I’ve got contracts with some alphabet agencies. Fire rescue, medical trauma. You get the picture.”

  Tom’s suddenly hard eyes and closed expression suggested high-tech warfare was a possibility. The army didn’t let those babies go to just anybody. Houston bet the “picture” would prove to be highly intriguing. He was tempted. Damn, was he tempted! But Jet had brought him here to work on the Circle C Ranch. He stomped on his eagerness.

  “Ranch work comes first,” he replied stiffly. “You want something else done, talk to the boss.”

  “I’ll do that,” replied Tom.

  “So will I,” said Adams in a growl. He moved his hulk onto the porch and yanked at the door. It didn’t open. “Locked? This door is never locked!” He pounded with a ham-size fist. “Lila Frost, open this door!”

  Jet was gone from Houston’s side long before he could get his cane and leg working. He’d taken three steps by the time Jet was between Keith Adams and the door. The two men were the same height. They glared, eye to eye.

  “Back off, Mr. Adams,” said Jet in a deep rumble. “Speak politely and I will ask Ms. Frost if she wishes to meet with you. Raise your voice or your fist again, and I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

  Adams bristled. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  Jet returned his ire. “Lila’s guardian. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Back off Keith, the man’s right,” said Lance.

  “I’m her uncle!”

  “Mr. Adams,” said the much younger sheriff politely, “Ms. Frost is an adult, is in charge of this ranch, and has chosen to lock you out. Unless you do as Mr. Quartermain says, I’ll have to arrest you, sir.”

  Adams narrowed his eyes at the sheriff. Houston watched his hackles slowly drop.

  “Your daddy should’ve beaten your ass a heck of a lot more when you were a boy.”

  “Yes, sir.” Gibson nodded politely. “You’ve said that before. The law is still the law.”

  “I will protect Lila. From any threat.” Jet’s voice was quiet, but clear.

  Keith stared back at Jet for a moment. He exhaled hard, then held his hand out.

  “If you’ll stand up to me to protect her, I guess you’ll stand up to anybody.” The men shook hands, both still eyeing each other. “I’ve got packing to do. I’ll be back in a month.”

  Houston took the last sentence as more of a threat than a statement of their holiday plans.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Jet.

  He didn’t move as
Adams drove away. Gibson strolled closer to the porch. MacDougal stayed in step with Houston, as Jet had earlier.

  “Good job in the bar,” said Gibson to Jet. “I’ve already heard from at least six people that Lila’s found herself a man who knows how to dance, fight, kiss, and keep her in line. Tank Jefferson will have learned all about it by now.”

  “Good,” said Jet. “Maybe he’ll move on.”

  “I doubt it.” The sheriff set one boot on the porch step and leaned his elbow on his knee. “He wants more than revenge, he wants money. Lila’s parents don’t know this, but her granny paid Tank a pile of money to disappear after high school. That’s long gone. Mr. Jefferson was killed on the job a few months back. Tank didn’t make it to the funeral, partly because the family didn’t want him there and so didn’t let on. A couple weeks ago he showed up, expecting his mother to hand over the insurance money in one lump sum. But his sister, Frannie, had set things up so all their mother’s bills are paid directly from the bank. Mrs. Jefferson also has a tab at the Mercantile for her food. She gets a small cash allowance, which she draws out each Monday from the bank. Without her husband to keep her down she started going to church and into town. She’s a different woman now, and I don’t want that to change.”

  “She has a tab at my place as well,” added Tom. “A few weeks back Stella Elliott brought her in for lunch. Louise Jefferson walked with her head up, and even smiled. Haven’t seen that before.”

  “Aunt Stella dropped by last week because Louise didn’t make it to church,” continued Gibson. “Stella said she had bruises that can’t be explained by bumping into a door. She won’t say boo because she’s scared of worse. But if Tank gets arrested for something else, his mother and sister will talk.”

  Houston wanted to get his hands on the son of a bitch but the shape he was in this morning, he’d get the shit kicked out of him.