by Cait London
“I’m not looking for a cowboy like you, lady-killer,” she whispered when her breath returned to her body. She managed to pull her eyes away from that stalking symphony of broad shoulders and fine backside, cupped in worn denim, and placed a check-in call to Lou, her agent. To her disgust, Rio Blaylock’s backside and long legs fascinated her.
Rio slowed the horses, hushing the uneasy mare. Frisco, his saddlebred gelding, settled with the touch of Rio’s gloved hand and the Appaloosa mare quieted. He waited until the bear, awakened from his winter nap and foraging for food, crossed the path leading to Boone’s cabin. Rio pushed down the panic that the bear had already found Paloma, alone and unprotected. He’d given the stubborn woman two weeks, two long weeks of wondering if she were alive, if she needed him. He grimaced, unsettled by his admission that he needed her—his woman. Irritating, mule-headed woman...
May sunlight dappled the thick pines, and animals scampered in the forest’s thickets. The mountain blueberries would be thick and sweet this year. Waxy yellow buttercups would soon rise, and he hungered for her, this woman who softly haunted his sleepless nights, blending with the nightmares of the boy he couldn’t save....
“Perverse...contrary...maddening,” he muttered, beginning his journey again after glancing at the mare, packed with supplies. Why should he care if the obstinate woman had food? Would she be safe? Why did he care? Why had he promised himself after that first meeting that he’d come for her—if she didn’t return to Jasmine?
That shy dimple on her left cheek created the whole problem, he decided stormily. He couldn’t wait to see it again, that bit of magic on her smooth cheek.
It was her hands, he corrected as he watched deer move through the thicket, heading for lush summer grazing meadows on higher ground. He wanted those lovely, active, slender hands on him, touching his face, his hair, tethering him. He wanted that angular feminine body to be a part of his. He wanted to hold all that silky river of hair in his fists and kiss that—
He almost smiled. Paloma would bite.
Rio shook his head, not understanding his need for her, his need to keep her safe. She wouldn’t like his visit, of course, his checking up on her. He released his smile. Those sky-blue eyes would darken, slashing at him—His heart leaped at the thought, the excitement of seeing Paloma respond to him, almost vibrating under his touch, shocked as he’d kissed her palm, stunned as he’d touched her hair. Hell, he’d been stunned at the feel of her skin beneath his, the widening of her eyes, so blue a man would think he was floating in the sky.
He whipped the reins through his fingers. He should be at home, tending his Corriente and Hereford cattle, plowing and seeding and keeping his accounts. The beefy Herefords were a practical choice, but the contrary Corrientes matched Rio’s Spanish heritage—edgy, dark, dangerous. He smiled; the cattle reminded him of Paloma’s fire and the excitement she gave him; his heart raced just looking at her.
His remodeled house—an old barn—always needed work, and he was behind on his ranger and deputy rounds. He’d taken time away from his duties to see about Paloma, and to explore his shocking hunger for her. He scoffed at himself, now thirty-seven, desiring a woman who wasn’t sweet-natured, cuddly or curved. He recognized the age-old instinct to capture and claim her for his own-he’d known it the moment he’d seen her left hand, her third finger barren.
The Appaloosa mare was his first gift—she’d need the horse; that injured leg wouldn’t like the mountain hike. And Rio had just discovered that he liked the traditions of his Apache ancestors—like the bridal gift. A tracker and a hunter by nature and by Blaylock blood, Rio had followed Paloma to the cabin, watched her struggle, laden with a backpack. She had begun limping just before she’d reached the cabin, but she had reached it. He’d smiled when she’d let out that victorious whoop. Then he’d slid away into the forest; she wouldn’t have appreciated his concern.
“The ride with her won’t be easy,” he muttered as he moved into the clearing. Boone’s rough-hewn log cabin stood as it had for years, frequented now by Roman, Kallista, their adopted daughter, Cindi, and soon their new baby. Roman’s new family had nudged Rio’s nesting urges—okay, he wanted Paloma in bed, under him, over him. The savage need to mate with her, a primitive fire that would create new life, awoke him and he blamed her—that exotic scent, those agile pale fingers.
When he managed to stop staring at the lacy underwear hung to dry across the porch, Rio swung to the ground and tethered the horses to the old hitching post. He quickly unleashed the supplies from the mare’s saddle and tossed them on the board porch, expecting Paloma to come out, temper blazing. She didn’t, and the house was too quiet. Rio scanned the pines circling the house and slowly walked up the steps—at any moment, Paloma would rush at him and he didn’t care to sprawl in front of his lady—his ladylove, he corrected grimly. After all, he’d come to court her, hadn’t he? The admission went down uneasily.
Everything about her was expensive and classy. Exactly what did he have to offer a woman who had traveled around the world? He liked to carpenter, to smell the wood and work with his hands. He liked good hard work, he liked his ranger and deputy duties, because he felt he was helping preserve the land Other than a few sound financial investments, he bad a barn he’d remodeled, part of the original Blaylock homestead, his cattle and a deep need to love Paloma as she’d never been loved before. He wanted to protect her—no woman should have to awake in terror, protecting herself.
Rio’s jaw tightened. A relationship with a woman as strong and independent as Paloma might take time to craft, but he would. His first priority was to prevent a boutique from replacing half of Jasmine’s feed store. Part of the man-woman sorting process was that a man’s century-old gathering place stayed intact.
When she didn’t respond to his knock, Rio opened the door and entered the cabin. The shelves were lined with canned and dried foods, the cabin neat. Too neat—as if Paloma was ready to move easily, quickly. Boone’s big bed was littered with women’s magazines, all with one theme—country collectibles and crafts. A quick glance at her lists—Rio ran his thumb over her large, loopy feminine handwriting-said she was going through with her plans. “Boutique makings,” Rio heard himself mutter. “No way.”
He wondered who had dropped the supplies. An old boyfriend? He didn’t like the sudden unfamiliar surge of jealousy. One hand on the old woodstove said that she’d burned a fire at night and let it die in the morning. Where was she?
She could be anywhere on the mountain, and in danger. He inhaled sharply, remembering the trees clawed by a cougar and a bear, each marking their territory. There were timber wolves on the mountain, and coyotes and bobcats, none of them friendly. There was that old mine, where he’d finally found the boy—
He pushed down his leaping fear and hurried outside; panic wouldn’t help find Paloma. He glanced-at the old avalanche, the rock slide now covered with moss, and just over that hill was a cliff, a sheer drop to the bottom that no one could survive. Visions of Paloma’s mangled body terrified him. Rio quickly unsheathed his rifle from his saddle and looped a circle of sturdy rope across his shoulder. Minutes later, he shook his head—Paloma’s footprints led to the cliff. She’d broken a pile of sticks, the stacks small and neat as though she’d been placing her thoughts in order. “The footprints are a few days old. Contrary, mule-headed...”
At a run, he headed for the old mine—that killer mine—the timbers rotting and treacherous, and if she were lying at the bottom, unconscious...Rio pushed away the fear clawing at him. He’d failed to save the boy; maybe he was too late to save Paloma, too. The vise around his heart tightened, and then he saw the gold mine’s fresh cave-in. “Paloma?” he called, bracing himself for her call—he prayed she would be alive. “Paloma?”
Silence echoed his fears. He took one step, moving toward the tree that would hold his rope as he eased down into the opening. Suddenly the crumpling sound of rotted wood enveloped him; the earth gave way beneath his feet and
he slid into the cold musty darkness.
Returning from her walk and furious with herself for think ing of Rio Blaylock, Paloma had heard the earth rumble. She paused, frowning at the two horses in front of the cabin. Then Rio’s shout sounded in the vicinity of the old mine. At a run, she made her way through the red-barked pines and found a new cave-in. “Rio?”
“Stay back.”
“Are you hurt?” Her body frozen in terror, she prayed he wasn’t.
“A few bruises. Get my horse over here and—” A coil of rope surged up out of the cave-in and landed at her feet. “Tie this to Frisco’s saddle horn. He’ll pull me out. He is the gelding, the other is a mare,” he added very carefully. “He’s bigger and—”
“I know the anatomical difference,” she muttered, nettled by his male arrogance, and just that little need to torment Rio slipped out again. “You say you’re not hurt?”
“Uh-huh. I don’t exactly feel like wasting time chitchatting,” he answered daddy, returning her comment to him when they first met.
“You don’t? You say you’re not in any danger now?” She had to be certain before she set about provoking Rio, about making him pay for disturbing her thoughts and dreams and for her wanting that brush of his mouth to deepen into a very warm, hungry kiss. His silence provoked her and she grabbed a tree limb, easing closer to the cave-in.
He swore tightly, efficiently, as a small rock, dislodged by her foot, fell into the mine. “You’re a contrary woman. Muleheaded—”
“You don’t sound like a man who wants to be rescued, sweetie.” She eased closer, she had to see him to make certain he was safe, and to enjoy her upper hand at the moment,
“Just get the horse and—”
“Who invited you to my party? Don’t you know that this is private property? Stop ordering me—” The branch broke and the earth gave way. She slid on her bottom down to land at Rio’s feet. She scrambled to stand, terrified of the small dark space closing in on her, taking her breath away. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw Rio, hands on hips, his Western hat tipped back on his head, his chap-covered legs braced wide.
“You’re not hurt. You slid down all the way on that beautiful butt. Well, this is just great, Ms. Forbes,” Rio muttered in disgust. “My rope is upstairs and it’s a long way up. If for once, you could act like any other normal woman and—what’s wrong?” he asked urgently as she hurled herself against him.
She clung to his strong, warm male body, anchored herself to him, her arms locked around his shoulders, her head tucked into the safety of his throat. “Don’t let me go,” she whispered shakily as his arms enclosed her. “Just hold me.”
He stood too still, not moving, and terror clawed at her. If he didn’t hold her, she’d shatter into tiny pieces. Against her cold, damp temple, Rio whispered, “I won’t let you go. Honey, your heart is facing, you’re shaking and you’re perspiring. You’re terrified.”
She closed her eyes, holding on to Rio, listening to the safe solid thump of his heart. She wasn’t alone in the dark. She had to cling to that comfort. “You’re here...with me.”
“Yes. We’ll get out.” His voice was even, confident, wrapping around her like a warm safe cloak. His hands robbed her back, comforting her.
“You promise?” As a woman, she regretted the childish plea. But she couldn’t stop shivering, haunted by visions of the locked closets she’d been in as a child—cold, alone...but she wasn’t alone. Rio was here, his hands smoothing her hair, his body rocking hers, his murmur comforting.
“I promise, honey. Take a deep breath. That’s tight. Take another. That’s my girl. Don’t be afraid. I’ve got you and we’re getting out of here. But first tell me—”
That’s my girl. Boone had said that and she’d been so safe—She swallowed, clinging to Rio, panicked. Her terror came out in spurts—“My mother locked me in closets. I’m claustrophobic. I can’t breathe.”
Rio’s harsh curse sailed past her ear into the musty shadows. Then his tone softened and he bent to lift her into his arms. “Hold on to me. Let’s sit and talk for a while.”
“I want out of here. Now!” The earthen walls began to close in on her. She clung to him as he settled on the dirt floor with her on his lap.
“Just let me hold you for a while. rve got a plan, but you’ve got to calm down. Talk to me.”
The terror of her life spilled out of her. She dragged in air, forcing herself to breathe, though panic crushed her lungs and fear dampened her forehead and upper lip. “She’d lock me in closets if I didn’t perform well. When I was four, I broke my ankle and couldn’t be the ballerina she wanted. She was furious. Then the piano—one wrong note and—I can’t stand it!”
“But she isn’t here now, honey. I am.” Rio’s voice curled around her as he stroked her hair back from her face. He removed his denim jacket and draped it around her, tucking it beneath her chin. “And we’re getting out, but right now we’re just resting, okay? Here, suck on this. Suck, don’t chew. When you’re finished we’re leaving.”
He’d placed a candy in her mouth and offered her hope and comfort. Paloma curled toward him, shaking. “Don’t leave me. I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Why, honey, I came all the way to see you. I’m not leaving you. I said we’re getting out and I always keep my promises. See that timber over there. I think it will support your lighter weight, with me helping. All you have to do is to let me help you up on it and then you’ll be out, okay? Breathe, Paloma. There’s sunshine upstairs and that’s where we’re going... to the sunshine and wind and trees.”
“Hurry,” she whispered, managing to breathe more easily with hope in sight. She saw his rifle. “Shoot it. Someone will hear.”
“No. The vibrations could cause more damage.” He tipped her chin up and gave it a playful wiggle as he smiled. “You cheated. You chewed that candy, didn’t you? We’re going to take this nice and easy, and you’re going to do what I say. Okay? Can you stand?”
“Okay.” Paloma tethered her hand to Rio’s strong one as she stood shakily. He placed her arms in the jacket as though she were a child, and buttoned it to her throat. She hadn’t expected the tender look, the smoothing of her hair, his finger brushing away a bit of dust from her cheek. He reminds me of Boone. she thought. That same safe tone, as though he knows everything will be fine. She had to trust him... “What do I do?”
With Rio’s gentling voice directing her, his hand locked to hers, Paloma stepped up on the slanting timber. She eased her way upward to the end of it, and Rio placed another timber beneath her bottom, pushing her higher. At the edge, she grabbed a branch and pulled herself to the grassy surface, flattening against it.
From the depths, Rio spoke softly, his tone relieved. She hadn’t realized he’d been frightened; he’d made it seem so simple. “You made it.”
“Yes. I’ll get the horse.” She managed to get to her knees, then to her feet, nmning for the gelding. Within minutes, the horse was backing away from the cave-in, the rope tied to his saddle horn, and Rio was pulled to the surface.
He stood free, his scowl smudged with dirt, his legs braced against the earth, his leather chaps gleaming in the sunlight, his body outlined against the blue sky. When he tossed his rifle to the ground and looked at her, Paloma didn’t hesitate—she ran straight for his arms and began crying and laughing as they locked fiercely around her.
“Hey, what’s this?” he asked, his tone a mixture of humor, curiosity and delight.
Then he tipped her chin up and looked down into her eyes. “This won’t hurt a bit. But I need it like I need to breathe,” he said before his hands cradled her face and he took her mouth.
She hadn’t expected the sudden fire, the slant of his lips hungrily fused to hers. Savage and demanding, the kiss tasted of fire and need and...and dreams and longing. Caught in the whirlwind, she traveled with him, the heat growing, warming her, filling her. She ached now for him. Rio’s mouth slanted, tasted, linking them as though nothing
could tear them apart. She could feel his blood pound, race, and her own leaped and heated, causing her fingertips to dig into his shoulders, to the safety of Rio, to anchor herself to him in the storm.
Deep within her, she knew that Rio had claimed a very feminine and guarded portion of her, that she’d remember this devastating kiss forever. Then his mouth moved softly over hers, comforting, brushing and seeking, tasting the corners of her lips. He held her face, cupping it in his hands, his thumbs smoothing her flushed cheeks. In his black eyes, she saw herself—a woman warmed, soft and waiting.
With a reluctant groan, Rio bent, sweeping her up into his arms, and strode toward the cabin. An independent, worldly woman, she should have objected, but her legs were weak, both from fear and from the shattering, savage, then tender kiss. One look at Rio’s dark determined expression and she knew she’d have a fight freeing herself. He was scowling, anger in the hard lock of his muscles, the set of his jaw. For once, Paloma tossed aside her pride and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He kissed her temple and whispered roughly, “We’re in sunshine now, honey. Feel the breeze. Listen to the birds sing. You’re safe.”
“Boone said that same thing years ago.” She shivered, the bands of fear closing around her chest. He shouldn’t be carrying her, a six-foot woman, like a child. But still wrapped in terror and her shocking discovery that she liked kissing Rio, Paloma wasn’t certain she could walk by herself. “You’ll put me down now,” she whispered in an effort to salvage her shields and her pride, to withdraw from what she had given him—an insight into her terror and into her needs as a woman.
“No. Shut up.”
He trembled within her arms and the pulse at Rio’s throat pounded, racing against her cheek. She recognized the fear etched in the taut lines of his jaw, the set of his mouth. “You were frightened.”