Rough Wrangler, Tender Kisses

by Jill Gregory

  Wade was aware of them, too. Every part of him was aware, Caitlin realized as she wriggled beneath him.

  “Wade—”

  “You don’t really want to leave, Caitlin, do you?” He leaned down closer to her and his lips brushed her eyelids. His smile seared her soul.

  “What if . . . I say I do?” But her senses were already swimming. Her heart thudding. She could scarcely breathe as his lips skimmed a hot trail down her throat.

  “Then I’d say we’d have to find out for sure.”

  “And . . .” Caitlin couldn’t suppress a moan as he pressed a scorching kiss against the base of her throat. “How do we do that? You . . . mmmm . . . don’t seem to believe me when I say . . .”

  “Only one way to tell for sure.” His eyes glinting into hers made Caitlin tremble with a desire that she was helpless to stem.

  “What . . . way is that?” she whispered, fascinated as he brought his mouth up a scant inch from hers.

  “A kiss, princess.” Wade chuckled, the sound scraping from low and deep in his throat. “Remember—kisses don’t lie.”

  Oh, how her breasts ached for his touch. Her entire body tingled, yearned. His mouth moved closer, closer.

  Then, slowly, he slanted his lips to hers and she was a thousand candles bursting into flame.

  Caitlin forgot everything but this man. This moment. This kiss.

  The night wrapped around them, and as her arms encircled his neck, the passion and the sweetness all began again . . .

  Chapter 21

  Drew Raleigh was in a foul temper.

  Beside him, the young whore stirred and stretched her voluptuous body, naked beneath the damp sheets. She was stunning, eager, and pleasantly stupid, with her small face, full red lips, and raven-black hair, but he didn’t want her again. They’d been at it all night and he still wasn’t satisfied.

  This was one time a good meal, a good smoke, and a lusty woman in the town brothel weren’t going to solve the problem besetting him.

  Maybe nothing would.

  “Damn it all to hell.”

  He shoved himself off the bed and dressed briskly in the hazy glow of the moon that slanted in through the window.

  The whore didn’t do more than turn over, the sheets twisting around her legs as he let himself out of the gold-curtained room.

  He needed to walk, to think. It was the middle of the night, the darkest hour, the time he did his best thinking.

  Drew Raleigh, immaculate as always in his fine suit that never seemed to wrinkle, his expensive derby, a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth, strode up Hope’s main street.

  The town was dead—dark and silent as a coffin six feet under. Up and down the street he strode, back and forth. All the while thinking about Cloud Ranch.

  He had to find a way to get the Barclay boys and Caitlin Summers to sell. If he didn’t, he might as well start walking straight out into those endless, merciless plains full of sagebrush, wolves, and coyotes and never come back. This impasse was putting his position with one of the most powerful business syndicates in the East in jeopardy—very serious jeopardy—and he stood to lose everything he’d spent a lifetime building—his reputation, his wealth, his prominence—and the respect with which the barons of Wall Street regarded him. His associates at E. M. Piedmont would spread the word of his failure and everything he’d achieved would go up in smoke.

  If only he hadn’t been so overconfident—if only he hadn’t assured his syndicate partners that he’d hand them Cloud Ranch on a silver platter.

  Now Edward Piedmont and the others wouldn’t be satisfied with any other ranch. At the syndicate board meeting months ago, they’d selected only two cattle ranches big enough and successful enough to fit the bill, qualifying as precisely the type of property they’d been seeking.

  Another syndicate had just beaten them to the Wallach Spread in Montana, and that had left Cloud Ranch. When they’d learned that the owner Reese Summers had recently died, they’d been certain that the property was vulnerable for acquisition. Drew had guaranteed them that he’d make the deal.

  And if he didn’t . . .

  Piedmont would cut him loose quicker than a cowpoke cutting out a weak calf from the herd. And his reputation among those in the inner circle of movers and shakers wouldn’t be worth a cow dropping.

  He paused at the edge of town, hurled the butt of his cigar into the street, and stared up at the sky. “Who’d have thought it would be so damn complicated?” he muttered to the dark heavens.

  Caitlin Summers couldn’t sell her share. Wade Barclay and his brothers wouldn’t sell theirs.

  But Raleigh had made it his business to ask questions in town, one here, one there, until he found out the details of the will. He knew that it was Wade Barclay’s vote that really mattered—if Wade wanted to sell out to the syndicate, he had the influence and control to make it possible for everyone else to do the same.

  The problem was motivating Barclay to sell. The man didn’t gamble much—and when he did, he didn’t lose. He didn’t go on drunken binges, he didn’t have any enemies—only friends. The whole damn town respected him, wanted him to be the next president of their Cattlemen’s Association. How could someone get to a man like that?

  Think, damn it, Raleigh told himself angrily. You know damn well that under the right circumstances, any man will sell, or give in, or turn tail and run. You just have to find the right circumstances—or create them, he thought, his eyes glinting in the darkness.

  He paced back toward town. Lost in thought, he didn’t see the shadowy figure seated on a wooden bench on the porch of the Glory Hotel. He didn’t know another soul was awake on this seemingly deserted street until the silken voice came at him out of the darkness.

  “My dear Raleigh, what scheme are you up to now?”

  “What the hell . . . !” He nearly jumped out of his skin, and his hand lurched automatically toward the hideaway pistol beneath his vest until he suddenly recognized both the voice and the man.

  “Trent! What the hell are you doing here? How long have you been here?” Raleigh stared at the tall, powerful figure in the shadows of the porch, his heart still hammering.

  “I’m here for the same reason you are, I expect. There’s something I want.”

  “Here—in Hope?”

  Dominic Trent nodded. In the dimness, Raleigh could see the gleam in those nearly colorless eyes, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled. Out of all his acquaintances throughout New York, Philadelphia, Chicago—all the cities where industry was thriving and where he had a wide circle of associates—Dominic Trent of the Philadelphia Trents was the only man he knew who was more ruthless than he himself.

  Trent would ruin a man in business over a minor dispute or some perceived insult—and when it came to women, he was rumored to be utterly relentless in his pursuit and domination of those who caught his eye.

  There had been stories . . .

  But that didn’t matter now. He certainly wasn’t afraid of Trent—they’d done business together with perfect amicability on several occasions. He was merely stunned to find him here in this speck-on-a-map town.

  He stepped up onto the porch. “Care for a cigar?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Moments later, they were both smoking, eyeing each other across the darkness. Trent lounged on the bench while Drew Raleigh leaned against the porch post, his mind racing.

  “What is it that brings you here—that thing you ‘want’? Is it business—or pleasure?” Raleigh asked at last.

  “Most assuredly pleasure.”

  “I see.” A woman then.

  “I don’t need to ask about you.” Trent smiled through the darkness. “Having arrived in town only today, I spent an hour in the saloon this evening. In that short time, I learned that you’ve been sniffing around one of the larger cattle properties in the area.”

  “Cloud Ranch.”

  “So,” Dominic Trent said softly, “you must have met the lady
who recently inherited a portion of it.”

  “Of course. Caitlin Summers. Of Philadelphia.” Raleigh suddenly straightened as things began to fall into place. “You were acquainted with her in Philadelphia, I presume?”

  There was such a long silence that he wondered if Trent had heard him. He was about to repeat the question when the other man spoke again, his voice smooth as silk, but tinged with a nearly indiscernible note of menace.

  “It seems to me that we perhaps could be of use to each other, Raleigh. There is something each of us wants quite badly—and the lady is at the center of both our desires.”

  “That may be true, but unfortunately what I want isn’t in the lady’s power to give.” He spat disgustedly into the street. “I’m prepared to offer a veritable fortune for that damned ranch—but it’s owned in large part by these Barclays—and the foreman of the place, Wade Barclay, is the only one who could convince everyone else to sell. Trouble is, there’s no budging him.”

  “Come now.” A tinge of contempt echoed through Trent’s voice. “You know as well as I that everyone can be ‘budged’ as you say. It’s only a matter of finding the proper leverage.”

  “Well, short of trying to burn him out or rustle him out of business—and they’ve already been fighting rustlers without any real damage as far as I can see—I’m at a loss. Barclay’s a tough bastard—he doesn’t give a damn about the money—he’s attached to the damn land and nothing else, except maybe . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “His brothers, from what I hear. They’re all close, even though the other two don’t live hereabouts . . . but that’s not what I was thinking.”

  Dominic Trent studied the glinting tip of his cigar. “Tell me, dear Raleigh.”

  “The girl—Caitlin Summers. I saw her with Barclay a few days ago in town—she’d had some bad news about her sister and it looked like . . .”

  He took a deep breath. Trent hadn’t moved, but suddenly it seemed to him that a feral smile twisted the man’s lips. He peered again through the darkness and his neck prickled at the strange sheen of those colorless eyes. Perhaps it was only the odd light coming off the moon, or the late hour, or the smoke of the cigars, but he looked . . . almost eerie, as if he were demented.

  “Go on.”

  “Well.” Raleigh cleared his throat. “It struck me that he cared about her . . . more than in a casual way, if you know what I mean. And she about him. A few people in town have noticed and begun speculating about wedding bells,” he added somewhat cautiously.

  “Indeed.” An ominous note had entered the soft voice.

  “Of course I could be mistaken. You know how gossip thrives in a small town like this one . . .”

  “Do you think Barclay cares enough about Miss Summers to provide some . . . leverage?” There was a banked excitement in the voice now. It was unnerving in a way, and yet, the words penetrated Drew Raleigh’s uneasiness.

  Leverage. Of course. This whole thing was about leverage. Barclay wouldn’t sell for profit, for any reason Raleigh could discover—but if it was something involving the girl—if she wanted him to sell, or needed him to sell . . .

  “I think our running into each other tonight is going to prove most fortuitous.” Dominic Trent rose. At six feet four he was several inches taller than Drew Raleigh, but it was more than his height that made him so imposing. His features were aristocratic and chiseled, his hair pale brown, and he possessed a cold spirit that almost seemed to frost the air around him.

  Raleigh felt eagerness surging through him. And for the first time in a while—hope. “So you think you have a way to help me then—and of course, in return, I’d be more than happy to help you.”

  That was an understatement. Whatever it took, he must do. And would do. Either that or kiss his future with E. M. Piedmont good-bye.

  “I think that you, my dear Raleigh, can provide me with the final and most important piece of the little puzzle I’ve been playing with for some time. The pièce de résistance.”

  Trent laughed suddenly, loudly, and the sound screeched through the silence of the night.

  Drew Raleigh felt hope beat through him—hope that Trent had truly discerned a way to convince Wade Barclay to sell Cloud Ranch. He sensed that whatever Trent had in mind might be a bit unpleasant, but he’d dealt in unpleasantness before—when the outcome hadn’t been nearly as crucial as it was now.

  He held out his hand. “I’m certainly interested in whatever proposition you have in mind.”

  Dominic Trent shook his hand in a grip so strong as to be painful. He squeezed Raleigh’s fingers relentlessly, until he saw the flash of pain in his eyes, then he let go.

  “Of course you are interested.” He gave a low laugh. “I’m going to give you the only chance you have to win at your little game. No guarantees, of course,” he murmured. “But a chance. As for me . . .” His eyes glistened in the light of the moon as from somewhere in the distance came the sudden screech of a vulture.

  “If things go well, your participation is going to make my own victory utterly complete. Satisfying, final, and perfectly, deliciously sweet.”

  Chapter 22

  “Caitlin? You’re sorting laundry?”

  Becky giggled as she entered Caitlin’s room, Dawg trotting at her heels. Caitlin gave a small laugh as she folded the last of the sheets and set them atop the pile of clean linens on her bed.

  “It’s true I haven’t had much experience doing house-work, but then you’d never washed dishes or slept in a hayloft until recently, either,” she pointed out as her sister plopped down in a chair. Caitlin straightened the neat pile of linens atop her quilt, fresh from the clothesline out back. She hadn’t wanted Francesca to find the bloodstained sheets so she’d volunteered to do the day’s laundry, and had spent hours scrubbing them clean. And thinking about every moment she’d spent with Wade the night before.

  “Our lives have certainly changed since Mama and Papa died, haven’t they?”

  Becky nodded, her brown eyes somber. “I miss them,” the girl whispered.

  Suddenly Caitlin heard a sniffle. “Oh, honey, I miss them, too,” she murmured, hurrying to her sister’s side.

  “It’s all right to cry, Becky.” She hugged the girl tightly. “Go ahead.”

  “But you . . . never cry.”

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t.”

  She held the little girl as her tears flowed, but the sobs that accompanied them were gentle, heartfelt ones, not the wracking and inconsolable sobs that had torn through Becky when the awful news had first been received.

  After a few moments, her thin shoulders stopped shaking, and Caitlin gave them a reassuring squeeze.

  “Mama and Papa would be very proud of us, you know. We’re sticking together, just like sisters should. And we’re doing just fine.”

  “You think so?” Becky gave one last sniff.

  “I’m positive.” Caitlin smiled as she fetched a handkerchief from her drawer and dried her sister’s tears. “What do you say we sneak down to the kitchen and see if we can steal a piece or two of Francesca’s blueberry pie?”

  “Really? Okay!” A wavery smile replaced the tears. “You know what, Caitlin? I sort of like some of the changes we’ve gone through. Like leaving school,” she said, her eyes darkening. “I don’t ever want to go back!”

  “You won’t have to.”

  “And I like living here on Cloud Ranch. Who would have ever thought I’d like living on a cattle ranch in Wyoming Territory?” Suddenly she burst into giggles, and in the sunlight, the freckles stood out on her small sweet face. “But I do. I love Dawg, and the wranglers are so funny, and the Morgensen twins are my best friends. And I want Miss Porter to be my teacher,” she rushed on, “and Wade is so nice and he makes me feel calm inside, you know? When I’m with him I feel like . . . like . . .” She pursed her lips, searching for words. “Like the world is safe again,” she said slowly. “Like nothing could ever hurt me if he’s around. Do you ever feel that
way, Caity?”

  Caitlin spoke softly. “Sometimes.”

  She turned away and returned to the pile of sheets on the bed, gathering them up in her arms.

  “But you mustn’t get too attached to things here,” she forced herself to say. “I don’t know for certain how long we’re staying—”

  “Do you mean because of Mr. Trent? We might have to run away again?” A note of panic throbbed through Becky’s voice and Caitlin quickly shook her head and sent her sister a firm look.

  “No. We’re not running away from that man again— either one of us. If he comes here”—which he probably will, she thought grimly—“I’ll deal with him. I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother us anymore, Becky. I promise.”

  “But . . . then . . . why can’t we stay here? Your father left Cloud Ranch to you, didn’t he? Don’t you like it here?”

  Caitlin hesitated. “I do,” she said softly as slow wonder filled her. “Actually, I like it very much.”

  “Then why don’t you want to stay?”

  Because I like it too much. I like Wade too much. I’ve fallen in love with a man who’s never said he loves me, a man who feels obligated to me. She knew Wade was attracted to her, that he wanted her in his bed—their fiery union last night proved that. And she knew that he did care about her. But love?

  No. Wade felt responsible for her—hadn’t he spent his entire childhood being responsible for his brothers? It was ingrained in him to take care of those he considered his responsibility, and thanks to Reese, that select group now included her.

  Instead of comforting her, the thought filled her with misery. She didn’t want Wade to think of her as a responsibility, an obligation.

  She wanted him to love her.

  But he didn’t. And she needed more than heat and desire, more than surface companionship, than friendship and duty.

  She needed trust and caring that came from the soul. She needed the giving and sharing of love. Deep, everlasting, solid love, as real as the mountains, the sky, the glowing light of the moon.