Coming Home

by Shirlee Busbee

  Grinning to herself, Roxanne walked inside the cabin. Crossing to the new refrigerator, she took out a bottle of water and, after twisting off the cap, wandered out the other door of the cabin. There was a small deck here, too, this one covered, and she had a charming view of a small, meandering meadow before the ground rose and forested hillside met her gaze. Like many places in the country, the rear of the cabin was both the entrance and the back door. It had always struck her as strange to drive up to the back of a house, until she took in the fact that the front had the views and no one in their right mind would sacrifice view for a front yard or driveway. The much-speculated-about greenhouses were situated to the south of the cabin, and sipping her bottled water, she'd started to amble in that direction when the sound of an approaching vehicle caught her ear.

  She wasn't expecting anyone, and puzzled, she turned back to walk over to the wide gravel area where her own jaunty, rag-topped Jeep was parked. A second later, a red truck, a one-ton dually, roared up the last incline and stopped in a cloud of dust.

  Recognizing the truck and the very tall, very big man who stepped out of it, her spine stiffened and her fingers tightened around the bottle of water. Jeb Delaney. Absolutely the last person she wanted to see.

  Like the lord of all he surveyed, he strolled over to where she stood. Roxanne once surmised that the commanding air about him came from his job—a detective with the sheriff's department. There was a sense of leashed power around him, like a big huntingtiger on a slim lead, but even she had concluded that it was nothing he did on purpose, it was just…Jeb.

  Most people liked Jeb Delaney. Old ladies doted on him; young women swooned when he smiled at them; men admired him, and young boys wanted to grow up to be just like him. Just about everybody thought he was a great guy. Roxanne was not among them. He rubbed her the wrong way and he always had. She couldn't be in his presence for more than five minutes before she was thinking of ways to knock his block off. It wasn't a new emotion—she'd felt that way since she'd been seventeen years old and he'd busted her for possession of a joint of marijuana. She'd been embarrassed and humiliated as only a teenage girl can be and she'd never forgiven him. The stern first-time warning and confiscation of the joint wasn't for her, nope, he'd made an example of her—probably, she thought crabbily, because she'd been friends with his brother, Mingo, and he hadn't wanted Mingo to become corrupted. It had been the worst incident of her young life—the whole valley had known the story about how he'd handcuffed her in the high school parking lot and put her in the backseat of his patrol car. Fortunately, he hadn't taken her to jail, as all her bug-eyed friends had thought, Mingo among them; he'd driven her home, giving her a tongue-lashing along the way that still made her cringe. Tight-lipped, he'd turned her over to her parents. She'd spent the rest of the school year grounded and endured the disappointed look in her parents' eyes—she'd hated that most of all. Hated the knowledge, too, that she had flaunted the joint practically right under his nose, just daring him to do something about it. She scowled. Well, he'd done something all right. He'd ruined that year of school. She brightened. Of course, she had gained a bit of notoriety over the affair, which had made her a big deal among her friends.

  That time was behind her now and over the years most of her cocky edges had been sheared off, but to this day, the sight of Jeb Delaney still had the power to scrape her nerves raw. It puzzled her when she thought about it. She made friends easily and had a reputation for being charming and easy to work with. She liked people—she couldn't have been the success she was if she hadn't. But Jeb Delaney…Jeb Delaney set her teeth on edge and made the hair on the back of her neck rise up…and, a small voice nagged, excites you more than any man you've ever met in your life.

  A big man, he stood six feet five and had the shoulders and chest to match. His arms were muscled beneath his plain blue chambray shirt and the tight, faded blue jeans he was wearing fit his lean hips and powerful thighs like a second skin. Sunglasses, dusty black boots, and a wide-brimmed black Stetson completed his garb.

  Watching him with all the enthusiasm she would have for an invasion of rattlesnakes, Roxanne demanded, “What are you doing here?”

  Jeb stopped about two feet from her and removed his sunglasses. His handsome face was expressionlessas his gaze roamed over her, taking in the long, long tanned legs revealed by her pink-striped shorts and the firm breasts only half hidden by the cut of her white halter top. There had been a few times in her career, not many, that she had posed nude, but she had never felt so very naked as she did at this very moment with Jeb Delaney's knowing black eyes moving over her.

  Her lips tightened. “I repeat: what are you doing here?”

  “Just being neighborly?” he offered with a quirk of his brow.

  She snorted. “Jeb, I haven't a clue as to what rock you sleep under at night, but neighbors we're not.”

  He rubbed his jaw. “Yeah, I guess not.” He looked around. “Seems an odd place for you to buy.”

  “And that's your business because…?”

  Jeb sighed and pushed back his black Stetson. “Are you always so prickly with everyone or is it just me?”

  She smiled sweetly. “Just you—I like everybody else.”

  He grinned, white teeth flashing beneath his heavy black mustache. It made him look like a brigand, a very, very attractive brigand, and Roxanne didn't like the way her heart leaped at the sight of that grin. The jerk.

  Her foot tapped. “Are you going to tell me what you're doing here or are we going to spend the morning exchanging insults?”

  “Princess, I haven't insulted you…yet. You just keep tossing those smart remarks out of that pretty mouth of yours and I might just have to do something about it.” His gaze fastened on her mouth and something dark and powerful leaped in the air between them. Then Jeb seemed to shake himself and took a breath. “Look,” he said quietly, “I just wanted to see if the gossips were right about you buying this place.” He glanced around. “After Dirk was killed, Danny and I came up here to double-check the place—it was a shambles—certainly not the sort of place I'd ever expect you to buy. Thought I'd take a drive up here and check it out. Since you're here, I guess this is one time that the valley gossip was right on the mark.”

  She was being rude. She knew it. She hated herself for doing it, but she just couldn't seem to stop. Looking down at her pink-painted toes in the flip-flops, she made the supreme effort and muttered, “The gossips are right. I did buy it.”

  “Why? Like I said, this sure isn't the kind of place one would expect the exalted Roxanne of fame and fortune to buy. Now, a mansion in San Francisco, where you could invite all your famous friends and hold wild bashes, yeah, I could see that. But here? A dead dope-grower's digs in the middle of nowhere? Don't tell me you're thinking of turning your hand to growing a little marijuana on the side?” Coolly, he added, “Not your style, Princess.”

  Who the hell was he, Roxanne thought furiously, to look down that oh-so-handsome nose of his at her? Most people, especially men, fell over themselves trying to attract her attention, but not Jeb. Oh, no. Hecouldn't even be polite. And the contempt in his voice when he called her “Princess”.…She squirmed, feeling seventeen again and hating him with all that same thwarted fury. Her jaw tightened. What right did he have to condemn her lifestyle? She was a big girl now. All grown-up. She'd like to bloody that handsome nose of his and slap that cool expression on his face into next week.

  Knowing she was getting herself all in a snit over nothing, she took a deep calming breath. She'd tried to be polite. OK, not much, but she'd made the effort and what did she get for it? Disparaging remarks and insults. “Is this an official inquiry?” she asked tightly. “Otherwise, my reasons are my own and I don't have to share them with you. In fact, get off my property.”

  A muscle clenched in his jaw. “You know, someday someone is going to teach you some manners.”

  Her lip curled. “You volunteering?”

  His gaze swe
pt over her. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Maybe.”

  He swung on his heels and climbed into the truck. The engine snarled to life and with more force than necessary, he spun the vehicle around and nosed it down the hill.

  For several minutes after he'd left, Roxanne stood there staring at nothing. What the hell was the matter with her? With anyone else, she would have offered a smile, refreshments, and the hand of friendship. She bit her lip. So why not with Jeb? Because I'm a bitch? Nah. Because he's a jerk. Pleased with her conclusion, she headed for the greenhouses.

  It was only ten o'clock in the morning, but already the heat was savage—by noon, every living thing, plant and animal alike, would be gasping for relief—relief that wouldn't come until the sun set. Despite her brief apparel, Roxanne still felt the heat and after walking a couple of hundred yards in the direction of greenhouses decided she'd put off investigating them until early tomorrow morning. Before it got hot. She grimaced. Yeah. Right.

  She started back to the cabin when a rustling in the heavy brush to her right had her freezing in her steps. Visions of bears and cougars leaped to her mind—she knew the area abounded with them—and she cursed herself for not carrying some sort of weapon. Even a big stick would have been a comfort at the moment. Trying to remember everything she'd ever known about confronting a bear or a mountain lion, she faced the direction of the noise and edged backward toward the cabin.

  The noise grew fearsome and just when she was certain she couldn't stand the suspense any longer, a horse and rider, followed by three dusty, panting cow dogs, burst into view.

  Recognizing the wiry rider, a battered beige cowboy hat on his head, Roxanne's heartbeat slowed to normal and a welcoming smile lit her face. “Acey Babbitt!” she exclaimed. “You nearly gave me a heartattack. I was certain that a bear had me in mind for breakfast.”

  Acey grinned, blue eyes bright in his sun-worn face. “And a tasty meal you would have made.” Beneath an impressive pair of white handlebar mustaches, he smacked his lips. “Yes, ma'am, you do look good enough to eat—even to an old cowpoke like me.”

  She chuckled. “Why, Mr. Babbitt, are you putting the moves on little ole me?”

  “Might…if I were twenty years younger and you were twenty years older,” he said, wriggling his bushy white eyebrows. “Of course, if you don't mind a fellow who creaks when he walks, I'd sure be still willing to give it a try.”

  Roxanne laughed again, not at all fooled by his hopeful expression. Acey Babbitt was seventy-five years old if he was a day and one of the dearest men Roxanne had ever known—and one of the biggest teases. His prowess with cattle and horses alike was legendary and throughout his long career, at one time or another, he had worked for almost every ranch in the valley, including the Ballingers. Just about every kid in the valley, including herself and her siblings, had learned to ride under Acey's gentle but steely guidance. And while he may have worked for others, his first loyalty had always been to the Grangers. She knew he was living in the apartment over the barn at the Granger place and that he was working for Shelly, Sloan's wife.

  “OK, enough lecherous talk—you've convinced me that you're hell on wheels,” she said with a smile. “What brings you out here?”

  Acey made a face. “One of them fine expensive cows that Shelly brought out from Texas is due to calve and clanged if she didn't find the only break in a fence for miles around. We discovered it last night about dark. Wasn't much we could do about it then, but Nick and I have been out since before daybreak trying to track her down.”

  Roxanne frowned. “Wouldn't she head for gentler ground? Toward the valley? My place is so rough, I'm certain goats would turn up their noses at it, let alone a cow ready to calve.”

  “Don't want to hurt your feelings none, but you're right about that—this has to be some of the roughest ground I've ridden in many a day and I didn't really have much hope of finding her. We figured right off that she'd head down to the valley, but we didn't find any tracks leading in that direction. For the last hour or two, we've been working up and down the ridge, hoping to see sign of her. No such luck so far.”

  “Well, I'll keep my eye open, but I don't think she'll come this way.”

  “If you do see her, just give the house a call. Nick's got an answering machine.” He paused. “You got a phone out here?”

  “Cell phone. The magic of modern technology.”

  He glanced around. “I heard you'd bought the Aston place. Couldn't hardly believe it.” His sharp blue eyes came back to her. “What're you going to do with it?”

  “Not grow marijuana,” she snapped, her eyes glittering.

  Acey held up a hand. “All right. All right. I just had to pry some.” He bent his gaze on her. “You've been gone a long time, Roxy. Lived in New York and all them other fancy places. You were always too damned pretty for your own good, but you were always a good kid. I figure you still are, but there are some folks who are a bit more suspicious. Lots of talk in the valley about what you're gonna do up here.” He smiled at her. “Glad I'll be able to put their minds at rest.”

  “Are you serious?” she asked, astounded. “People really think I came home from New York to grow marijuana?”

  Acey pulled on his ear. “No one with any sense…but you know, we got a few poor souls in the valley that got shortchanged in life—they have more feathers in their heads than brains. Don't let it bother you none.”

  “Did you know Dirk Aston?”

  “Not real well. And no, I don't know if he grew marijuana up here or not. I do know that he ran with some rough fellows with bad reputations—Milo Scott, for one, but it wasn't none of my business. If you're real curious, you might talk to Jeb. I know he's a detective these days and isn't doing patrol anymore, but he knows more about what goes on in these hills than just anyone else.” Acey wiggled his brows. “Except for maybe me. All kidding aside, you should talk to Jeb. He's a good man. A good deputy.”

  “Could we please talk about something else besides Deputy Delaney—I just ate.”

  Acey shrugged, but there was a little gleam in his eyes. “Sure. Anything else you want to know before I slope off?”

  “I heard that Dirk Aston was murdered, shot, in Oakland. That he was involved in some sort of turf war? Is that true? Or just more gossip?”

  “Maybe he was. And maybe he wasn't. Like Jeb says, Aston could have been just a victim of circumstances. Nothing to prove it either way. The way I hear it, drive-by shootings happen all the time—especially in the area of Oakland where he was found. Could have been that Dirk was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That's my take on it and the take of just about anyone with any brains. Dirk was small-time. Liked to talk big and act tough, but no one paid any attention to him. And as for any gossip about you growing marijuana up here …” He shook his head. “That's just plain foolishness. And anyone who knows you knows it.”

  “Thanks, Acey. I needed to hear that.” Especially, she thought to herself, after Jeb's visit. El Jerko himself.

  He nodded, his eyes kind and shrewd beneath the wide brim of his hat. “Figured as much. Those fellows with feathers for brains talk too much and half the time don't even know what they're talking about. Don't pay 'em any mind.”

  He glanced around. “So what are you going to do up here?”

  She grinned. “Haven't a clue. Ain't it grand?”

  Chapter

  2

  Wearing an expression that would have frightened Dracula, Jeb punched the gas and roared away from Roxanne's place. Heedless of the curves and the clouds of dun and gray dust billowing up behind him, he rocketed down the winding road, sending gravel flying.

  A half mile later when he hit the main road, not much wider or less winding than what he'd been driving on, common sense and a fondness for his own neck—and that of others—had him easing up on the gas and driving with some signs of sanity. His expression was still black, though, and his thoughts were equally so.

  Why was it, he wondered grimly, that
he had only to be thirty seconds in Roxanne Ballinger's presence before his temper snapped? All it took was one taunting glance from those huge golden eyes of hers and that belligerently lifted chin angled up at him and his brain turned to a seething mass of violent impulses. Worse, his body betrayed him—anytime he came within ten feet of the woman he was instantly, achingly hard with a boner that would have done a stallion proud. More damning, out of nowhere would come the overwhelming urge to sling her over his shoulder, dump her on the nearest available space, and jump her bones. And he didn't even like her!

  He scowled. Jesus! He was forty-five years old. He wasn't a hormone-driven teenager anymore. He'd been married. Twice, he thought with a wince. He was a respectable member of the community. Hell, he was a sheriff's deputy, a sergeant and a detective at that. He should know better. He should have better control. And yet, one sight of Roxanne Ballinger and he was in knots—infuriated and fascinated, aroused and angry at the same time.

  The fascination he could understand. She was a gorgeous female. Even when his temper was fraying and he was certain he disliked her intensely, he was aware of that. Too aware. Maybe that was the problem. His lips thinned and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. He was not, not, he repeated, going to become one of a long line of pecker-brained fools who had fallen for those stunning looks of hers. You couldn't pick up a magazine or turn on a television when there wasn't something about Roxanne's love life mentioned. Of course, he realized that the numbers of lovers she'd had over the years had to be inflated—unless she spent every available minute on her back and he doubted that. He didn't doubt much else about the stories he'd read and heard about her, but common sense told him she couldn't have been that promiscuous and still have appeared on and in all the magazines that she had.