Soul Deep

by Pamela Clare

  “You don’t look a day over thirty-eight.” He gave her a devastatingly sexy smile. “And, hey, if an old codger like me can’t play the age card, then neither can you.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s different for men. You know that.”

  “You’re a beautiful woman.” The way he said it made her breath catch.

  Warmth rushed into her cheeks. “Is that you talking—or the Côte de Brouilly?”

  “It takes more than a few glasses of wine to make me say things I don’t mean—scotch if you want poetry.” He moved closer, took their wine glasses, and set them down on the coffee table. “Janet…”

  His words trailed into silence. Then he leaned in and kissed her. His lips were soft and warm as they brushed lightly over hers, their caress an invitation.

  Her pulse skipped. “Jack.”

  Heat that had nothing to do with the wine slid into her blood. She rested her palms against the hard wall of his chest and kissed him back, brushing her lips over his, nipping his upper lip, then tracing the fullness of his lower lip with her tongue, her senses aroused by the taste of him, by the scent of his skin, by the hardness of his body.

  He caught the tip of her tongue between his teeth, the intensity in his dark eyes making her belly flutter. Then his eyes drifted shut. One strong arm encircled her waist, drawing her against him, while his other hand slid into her hair to angle her head. Then his mouth closed over hers in a deep, slow kiss.

  Oh, yes.

  Her eyes closed, too, both of them going by feel now. She parted her lips, let him take the lead. The man knew how to kiss, his fingers tracing her spine, sending shivers through her, his tongue teasing hers, his lips firm and insistent.

  This is how she’d always wanted to be kissed, and, God, he’d better not stop anytime soon because she wanted more.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jack drew Janet closer, the physical contact making his heart pound, his very blood seeming to come alive. It had been so long since he’d touched a woman, so long since he’d kissed a woman. At first, he was afraid he might have forgotten how, but then her arms locked behind his neck, pulling him closer, and he figured he must be doing something right.

  God, she tasted sweet, her body soft and pliant in his arms. He raised the stakes, let his tongue have its way with hers. She gave a little whimper, arching so that her breasts pressed against his chest.

  And damned if his jeans didn’t feel uncomfortably tight.

  They ought to stop.

  Then again, why the hell should they? They were both adults. She seemed to know what she wanted, and so did he.

  There came a knock at the mudroom door, Chuck’s voice calling to him. “Hey, boss, there’s a problem with Chinook.”

  Damn it to hell!

  “I’m sorry. That’s Chuck, my foreman. He wouldn’t bother me at this hour unless it was serious.” Jack ran a thumb down Janet’s cheek, then called out to Chuck. “I’ll be right there, damn it!”

  “Can I come?” Janet’s cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen and wet.

  God, how he wished Nate were here to handle the horses. Then again, if his son were here, Jack probably wouldn’t be making out on the sofa like a teenager.

  “I don’t see why not.” He stood, helped her to her feet. “You’ll need to get bundled up. It will be a snowy walk to the stables, but it’s not far.”

  “I’ll get my coat.”

  “I’ll meet you out there.”

  He watched her walk away, cane tapping softly on the wooden floor, then headed to the mudroom, where Chuck was waiting for him.

  “Luke is calling Doc Johnson, but you’re going to want to see this yourself. Chinook has been shot in the forearm.”

  “What the hell?” Jack’s adrenaline spiked.

  “Burt brought him in at dusk but didn’t notice anything. Luke went to settle him with hay for the night. He called me in, and I saw what looks like a graze wound on his left forearm.”

  “How the hell could Burt miss something like that?” Jack wasn’t pleased.

  “I don’t know. We’re guessing that hunting party didn’t move on the way you asked them to, and someone fired a shot that ricocheted or got caught in the wind.”

  “I thought you told me they’d cleared camp.” Jack couldn’t abide trespassers.

  Every summer and fall, he had to deal with people who came onto his property without permission to fish and hunt. He and his men chased them away, the sight of a dozen armed men usually enough to make them leave.

  “Their camp was gone. Could be they just moved and set up a new one.”

  “Could be. Did anyone hear the shot?”

  Chuck shook his head. “No.”

  Jack put on his boots, slipped into his parka, and grabbed his gloves. “Shovel a path from the house to the stables, and make sure Ms. Killeen makes it safely. I don’t want her slipping.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Jack stepped outside. The wind had kicked up, icy snowflakes biting his face. The stars and mountaintops were hidden behind dark clouds. More snow was coming.

  Inside the heated barn, he found Luke still on the phone with Doc Johnson, a woolen ski cap covering his red hair. “He’s right here.”

  “Thanks, Luke.” Jack took the phone. “Sorry to trouble you, Doc. I haven’t had a chance to look at the wound myself. We’ll call you back in five. If it’s something we can handle, we will. I don’t want you coming out in this weather unless it’s a true emergency.”

  Doc Johnson had been their vet for close to twenty years and had become a friend of the family. He’d forgotten more about horses than most people would ever know.

  Jack walked back to Chinook’s stall, found him stomping nervously, his muscular body shuddering.

  “He seems pretty shook up,” Luke said.

  Jack called to Chinook and was relieved when the big animal came to greet him. “Hey, boy, what’s going on?”

  He rubbed the stallion’s soft muzzle, spoke quietly to him, tried to calm him, then entered his stall, sliding the door closed behind him.

  Immediately he saw the wound—a deep graze across the animal’s upper left forearm. Blood still oozed from the gash, trails of dried blood running down his leg. How could Burt have missed this? Had the man been sleepwalking?

  “Has anyone checked the corral for evidence?” If they knew what angle the shot had come from, Jack might be able to take a few men out on snowmobiles and confront the bastards who’d done this.

  Luke shook his head. “I don’t think so, boss.”

  “I’d like to know where he was standing when he was hit. There ought to be some sign—blood on the snow or something.” Jack was about to send Luke out to search, but the kid was new and might unknowingly step on something. “Trade places with Chuck. He’s shoveling snow. Send him to me. I want him on this.”

  Luke looked like he wanted to object but wisely changed his mind. “You got it.”

  Jack attached cross ties to the stallion’s halter and clipped them to the sides of the stall. He needed to keep the horse still so he could examine the wound. Chinook didn’t seem to be favoring the leg, so the bone couldn’t be broken.

  Thank God for that.

  It would break Jack’s heart to have to put Chinook down.

  He heard voices and looked over to see Chuck walk in with Janet.

  “Oh, wow!” Janet stared at the stallion like a woman who’d just fallen in love.

  “How’s he doing, boss?”

  “It looks like the bone is okay, but I need to clean the wound and get a closer look. Can you get on the phone with Doc Johnson and tell him we can handle this ourselves? It looks like flakes are about to fly, and I don’t want him risking the drive. When you’re done with that, grab a flashlight and get out to the corral. I want to know where he was standing when he was hit.”

  “On it.” Chuck turned and walked away.

  Janet walked up to the grill, reached through the bars to rub Chinook’s mu
zzle. “He’s beautiful. I love palominos.”

  The stallion gave a soft whicker.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too,” Janet answered. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  Jack pointed to the wound. “You can see here on his forearm—a three-inch contusion. It’s pretty deep. I don’t think it could be anything but a bullet graze. It seems to have stopped bleeding on its own, but I’d like to clean it and get a closer look.”

  He stepped out of the stall, closed the door. “Why don’t you two get acquainted while I get the first aid supplies?”

  “That sounds like a good idea, doesn’t it, buddy?” Janet answered, speaking more to Chinook than to Jack.

  Yep. Women and horses.

  # # #

  Janet held Chinook’s halter, while Jack irrigated the wound with sterile saline, then washed it with an antiseptic soap and rinsed it. When the blood was washed away, he probed the wound gently with gloved fingers. She couldn’t help but admire his skill or the gentle way he handled the big animal.

  Had she really just been kissing him?

  Yes, she had, and he’d been skilled at that, too. She’d enjoyed every second of it, her lips still tingling, her body still warm from being pressed so closely against his.

  “We’re damned lucky. It’s just a flesh wound. It should heal well, but it’s likely to form proud flesh if we don’t stay on top of it. I’m going to get some tea tree oil on here and then bandage him up.”

  “Tea tree oil?” She’d never heard of using that on a horse before.

  Jack got to his feet. “It’s got antimicrobial properties but isn’t cytotoxic the way iodine and hydrogen peroxide are. Doc Johnson, our vet, is an old hippie. He swears by the natural shit, and so far he hasn’t steered us wrong. If he prescribed butterflies and rainbows, I’d go for it.”

  Janet couldn’t help but laugh. “He sounds like a character.”

  Jack opened the door to the stall. “Do you feel safe staying in here with him? He’s very high spirited.”

  The question surprised her. It hadn’t occurred to her to be afraid of the stallion. “Yes. No worries. We’ll be fine.”

  He grinned, nodded, the warmth in his blue eyes making her pulse skip. “I’ll be back in a few.”

  He stepped out, shut the stall door behind him, and walked away.

  Janet patted the stallion’s powerful neck. “Who did this to you, boy?”

  Had it been hunters like Jack and his men suspected?

  The horse whickered, watched her with a dark eye.

  She hadn’t allowed herself to look at the wound yet, not directly. But now that she was alone with Chinook in his stall, she glanced down. The wound was nothing like the one that had torn through her hip and pelvis, but it was clearly a bullet wound, cutting through the fleshy part of the stallion’s upper forearm.

  Sniper! Nine o’clock!

  Bullets. Screaming. Pain.

  Chinook jerked on the reins, pulling her back to the moment. The big animal clearly sensed her distress, and it made him nervous.

  She drew a deep breath into her lungs, willed herself to focus on the stallion and the present moment. “Sorry, buddy.”

  She saw a blue rubber curry comb resting on the inside ledge of the grill. She released Chinook’s halter and walked over to retrieve it, the thick layer of straw making for uneven ground and tricky footing. She began to brush the horse down, starting at his neck and working her way down toward his shoulder. She saw some specks of what must be mud near his left elbow and brushed over them, but they didn’t flake away. She reached down, touched the biggest speck with her finger, rubbed it.

  It wasn’t mud. It was…

  Oh, God.

  She bent down, saw what looked like stippling spread across the left side of the stallion’s chest, his left arm, and down to his left knee. She wasn’t a forensic expert, but she’d been to her share of crime scenes. She knew what this meant.

  Jack wasn’t going to like it.

  A moment later, he reappeared, a plastic med kit in hand. He stepped inside the stall, rested the box in the straw against one of the stall walls.

  “Jack, there’s something you need to see. Whoever shot Chinook—”

  “Hey, boss.” Chuck, a big-bellied man with ruddy cheeks, a dark mustache, and a white cowboy hat, walked in. “I looked around the corral, but I couldn’t find where he was standing when he got hit. The wind has blown the snow around, and he’s churned it up with his hooves. Maybe in the morning—”

  “Hang on a minute.” Jack held up his hand to Chuck, his gaze focused intently on Janet. “What were you about to say?”

  Janet gave a slight shake of her head, tried to tell Jack without words that what she had to tell him was for his ears alone. “Nothing that can’t wait.”

  Jack held her gaze for a moment, then looked over at Chuck. “The trouble with waiting till morning is that we’re due for another foot or so of snow. Whatever is there will be buried. Get the big spotlights out and rig them up to shine down on the corral.”

  “Whatever you say, boss.” Chuck turned and walked away.

  “Spotlights?”

  “We’ve got a rig with a couple of big halogen lights on it. We use it when we’re branding calves into the night—that sort of thing. The sun doesn’t always shine when we need it.” He opened the box, took out a brown bottle labeled “Tea Tree Oil” and a wad of gauze. “So what were you going to tell me?”

  She put her hand over the stippling on Chinook’s chest. “I found—”

  “I got it shoveled, boss man.” The young freckle-faced man in a ski cap who’d been shoveling the sidewalk—Chuck had called him Luke—entered and approached the stall. “You need my help? I’ve got a lot of experience treating flesh wounds. I’m good with—”

  “I can handle it. Why don’t you get back to the bunkhouse, warm yourself up, get some coffee going, and then meet Chuck at the corral? It’s going to be a late night.”

  Luke seemed to hesitate. “You want me to make coffee?”

  The way he said it left no doubt that he felt making coffee was beneath him.

  “For the love of Pete! I believe that’s what I said.” Jack swore under his breath. “We’re all going to be cold and tired before the night’s out.”

  Luke turned and walked away.

  Janet leaned down, lowered her voice so as not to be overheard. “There’s stippling on Chinook’s skin—powder burns.”

  “Stippling?” Jack looked where she pointed, traced the pattern of dark marks with a gloved fingertip. “Son of a bitch.”

  “This wasn’t a stray shot from some hunter’s rifle. Whoever shot Chinook had to have been standing no more than a few feet away.”

  And Janet saw in Jack’s eyes that he understood why she hadn’t wanted anyone to overhear her. She saw, too, that he didn’t like what she was implying.

  “You think one of my men did this?”

  “Who else could have gotten so close to Chinook without drawing attention to himself?”

  # # #

  Anger on slow burn in his chest, Jack carefully walked the length of the corral, the big halogen lamps turning night into day. “Here.”

  Blood on the snow.

  There wasn’t as much as Jack had expected, but the wind and Chinook’s hooves had, indeed, taken their toll.

  Chuck, Luke, and Burt came over, looked down.

  Jack watched their reactions, still unable to believe one of his own men could be behind this. He’d known Chuck for decades. Burt had been with him for five years now, and though Luke was new, he’d come highly recommended and loved horses. “I can’t tell for certain whether he was standing here when he was hit, or whether he simply bled into the snow here afterward.”

  He’d kept Janet’s discovery of the stippling to himself. There was no reason to give away what they knew. But he did need to get to the bottom of it. Not only was Chinook an innocent animal in Jack’s care, the stallion was also crucial to the financial well-b
eing of the ranch, bringing in hundreds of thousands each year in stud fees and foal sales. Jack couldn’t bear the thought of losing him—and neither could his bank account.

  He wanted to believe it was a misfire. Maybe one of his men had been handling a pistol and had accidentally fired a shot. If so, the culprit obviously didn’t have the balls to come forward and face him, knowing he’d lose his job outright.

  If it had been a deliberate act …

  Christ almighty.

  Who would do such a thing?

  He supposed it was possible that someone from that hunting party had gotten onto the property and come this close to the house. He just couldn’t imagine anyone being bold or stupid enough to take that risk, especially knowing that Jack and his men were well armed. They’d have to be completely loco even to try it.

  But even that unlikely scenario seemed more feasible to him than the one Janet had suggested. Why would any of his men shoot Chinook? As far as he knew, none of them harbored grudges against him. True, there’d been some grumbling when he’d put an end to smoking weed and gambling in the bunkhouse. But that had been months ago.

  And yet what better way to get back at him for some misdeed, real or imagined, than to kill his beloved champion stud?

  Thank God the bastard had missed! Still, Jack wanted to find the man who’d done this—and beat the shit out of him.

  Chuck knelt down, touched a finger to the snow. “Why would anyone shoot a beautiful animal like Chinook?”

  “I don’t know.” Jack had always trusted Chuck. Apart from a time or two when his foreman had been a little too free with his opinions—most particularly two years ago when those opinions involved Nate’s choice of wife—Jack had never had cause even to feel irritated with the man. “Did any of the men report misfires today?”

  Chuck shook his head. “I can ask around if you’d like.”

  “Please do. I also want to know if anyone heard anything.”

  “I think it’s those damned hunters,” Luke said.

  Luke had been hired to give Nate a hand in the stables. Young and hungry to prove himself, he hadn’t been here long enough for Jack to form a solid impression of him. The kid doted on Chinook and the mares.