The Courting Cowboy

by Tara Janzen

  “Kiss me, Sarah.” The words were spoken low, with a seriousness that captured her attention.

  Her gaze returned to his, and she searched his crystalline-blue eyes, the color of a Wyoming sky, until his dark lashes lowered and his mouth lifted to hers. She met him halfway, not knowing what to expect, but suddenly reminded of the look she’d seen on his face in the drugstore. Colt was hurting.

  She kissed him sweetly, her lips soft but closed, and he didn’t press for more. But then his hand slid to the nape of her neck, his legs spread apart, and he pulled her between his thighs. That was when the kiss changed, growing mysterious, and darkly exciting, and confusing all at once.

  He bit her lips gently, something he’d never done before. His other hand settled on her hip and pulled her closer against him, causing him to groan and her to catch her breath. His mouth came back to hers and he pushed his tongue deep inside, caressing her with slick, even strokes.

  Sarah started to tremble, but she couldn’t move away. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her mouth open and responsive. She knew what he was doing, what he was pretending to do, but she didn’t know where it would lead, not in broad daylight in the alley and not between them, even if they’d been parked on the prairie in the middle of the night.

  She couldn’t move away, though, and he didn’t stop. He only held her tighter. Her breaths grew shallow. His grew rough. She knew when he became aroused, and guilt slipped in next to her confusion and gathering excitement.

  “Colt . . . Colt,” she whispered, breaking away and burying her face in the crook of his neck.

  Colt tilted his head all the way back to the seat, his eyes closed, his teeth clenched. Frustration gnawed on his insides. He was angry, angry at himself for letting go and getting half crude on her, and angry at a nice girl’s code when he needed her so badly.

  He felt her leave him and slide over to her side of the truck. Her hand came back and rested on his arm in a touch of comfort he didn’t acknowledge. He didn’t want her young-girl comfort. He wanted the woman inside her. He wanted her beneath him, around him, all over him, until he couldn’t think.

  “Let’s go to the river,” he said, and didn’t wait for a reply as he pushed himself back behind the steering wheel and started the truck.

  The engine was slow to turn over, but Colt was an expert at getting the ancient pickup going and keeping it going. He’d had years of practice and damn little hope of getting a newer or better vehicle. The truck finally fired up, and he pulled out on the prairie side of the alley, to catch the highway on the outskirts of town.

  Miles of road and pale amber bluffs ran past them to the horizon, the bluffs breaking into a stretch of cliffs as they neared the river. She was quiet on the other side of the barrier she’d absently built out of boxes of cookies and crackers. She offered him a can of soda, which he accepted without thanks. But he wasn’t quiet inside, and he knew what her little wall meant even if she didn’t.

  He turned off on a dirt track at riverside, following it through two gates and up through the pastures before driving back down to the river. He parked in front of an old barn used officially for winter hay, and unofficially by him and his friend Daniel Calhoun as a fishing shack. Daniel’s father owned the ranch, and it was taken for granted that Daniel would own it someday. Colt had often wished his future was as securely mapped out. Instead, it had taken another vicious twist he was going to have to fight damn hard to accommodate.

  “Do you want to go swimming?” he asked, the edge still in his voice.

  She shook her head, not meeting his eyes. He didn’t blame her. He wasn’t in much of a mood to face himself either.

  He got out of the truck and started for the river, leaving her behind. He’d ground gears getting to her; he’d kissed her as he’d never dared before, he’d dragged her all the way the hell out there—and then he’d walked away. He didn’t know what to think.

  But he knew he hurt less because she was with him. He knew his thoughts were evening out because she was near, within touching distance if he needed her. He took off his hat and with a snap of his wrist sent it sailing across the pasture to the pussy willows crowding the river.

  Sarah watched the black Stetson float through the air and land on a willow branch. When he shrugged out of his shirt and went for his belt buckle, she looked away. She had enough problems without watching him strip down to his underwear. Or so she told herself just before her glance strayed back to where he’d sat down by the riverbank to take off his boots.

  Sunlight caught in his white-blond hair and shone along the hard brown length of his arms. His chest was sleekly muscled, his belly ridged and tight. He finished taking off his boots and rose to drop his jeans. She unconsciously held her breath for an instant, capturing her bottom lip with her teeth. The pants came down.

  He was hopelessly beautiful, and she loved him beyond reason. The pent-up breath released on a pained sigh. With Colt, the lines between right and wrong grew so damned thin, it was hard to think straight.

  Strong legs corded with muscle carried him to the river’s edge. His buttocks moved in graceful rhythm beneath the white cotton of his shorts. She watched him dip in and stretch out in the shallows, then kick off and slide deep beneath the water to where the brown trout reigned.

  She wanted to know so much about him, everything. She wanted to know how he breathed in his sleep, and what made him so elemental, able to slip into the river and rise again, water flying from his hair, freezing like anybody would, but somehow not minding.

  He didn’t last too long, though, and soon he was padding back across the strip of pasture between the river and his truck, his shirt flapping open, his jeans damp in spots from his wet legs, his boots hanging from his fingers.

  With one lithe movement of bunched biceps and tensed thighs, he levered himself into the back of the pickup, where she had laid out their impromptu picnic.

  “Thanks,” he said, sitting down and accepting the sandwich she handed him. “You always make the best sandwiches.”

  It was a compliment of sorts, and Sarah hid her quick grin. Truth was, Colt would eat anything that didn’t eat him first, no matter what it tasted like. She was still pleased. For being so crazy in love with him, she had the strangest surge of maternal instincts with him. She didn’t want to be his mother—she had enough mothering with four younger brothers—but she sure liked taking care of him.

  “How was the river?” she asked.

  “Cold.” A small smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

  She laughed. “Didn’t seem to bother you.”

  “I’m tough.” His gaze caught hers, and the moment of lightness passed. His darkening eyes, filled with a hundred messages, held her motionless beneath the flickering shade and muted sunlight sifting through the cottonwood trees. “I’m leaving, Sarah.”

  She’d known the words before he’d spoken, and the answer she’d built in her heart was quickly on her lips. “No.”

  He shrugged and lowered his gaze to take a bite of sandwich.

  “No, Colt,” she insisted, feeling strong and right. “Nothing can be that bad. There’s no reason to leave.”

  “There’s no reason to stay.”

  She would have hit him for the thoughtless insult, if she could have hit him at all. Instead, she got to her feet, angry and awkward in her haste to get away. He just as quickly pulled her back down, holding her on her knees in front of him. The bed of the truck was hot through her jeans. His hand was tight around her upper arm, his gaze piercing.

  “Will you marry me?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation, glaring at him, her anger unabated.

  “Will you leave with me?”

  “Yes.” There was nothing to hold her in Rock Creek except a lifetime of memories, some good, some not so good, and some downright bad. She was signed up for college in the fall, but she wouldn’t lose Colt for college. She wouldn’t lose him for anything.

  “Will you
make love with me?” His voice grew more intense, his grip tighter. “Now?”

  She stared at him long and hard, then jerked her arm free. “Is this some kind of test?”

  He swore and dropped his chin to his chest. When she made a move to leave, he grabbed her again, his hand wrapping around her wrist too tightly for comfort. “No, Sarah. This isn’t a test.” His lashes slowly lifted, and she saw all his hurt return. “This is real. I want you. I want to make you mine, because I’m leaving and I’m going to lose you.”

  “You won’t lose me, Colt,” she promised, her tone softening.

  A shuttered look of defeat shadowed his face. “Can’t have you. Can’t lose you. What in the hell am I supposed to do?”

  She felt helpless. “What’s wrong, Colt? What’s happened?”

  “My mom—” He paused and took a steadying breath. “My mom has a new boyfriend.”

  “Is that so bad?” She didn’t understand. If anybody deserved a little happiness, it was Amanda Haines.

  “He’s married.”

  “Oh.”

  “And I think she owes him money.” He didn’t think it, he knew it. The man was the landlord of his mother’s beauty shop, and there was never enough money to spread over the bills.

  Dammit all. He worked two jobs besides running their small herd of stock. She could have his money, his school fund. All she had to do was ask. Or they could sell the damn ranch. It wasn’t much of a place to begin with and once he went to school, they wouldn’t be able to keep any stock on it at all.

  It took Sarah a minute, but she finally pieced together what he was getting at. The awful truth didn’t change her reaction, except to make it sadder.

  “I’m sorry, Colt.”

  His eyes snapped up to hers, flashes of white burning in the cerulean depths. A sneer curled his lips. “My mother is a whore and you’re sorry. Thank you.”

  She would have slapped him then for calling his mother a whore, but he was too fast, rising to his feet. She grabbed his arm instead and stumbled upright to stand in front of him.

  “You’ve got no call to go—”

  He silenced her with a quick shake of his head, but had nothing to say—nothing he could choke out around the growing lump in his throat.

  Sarah saw the change in him and reacted immediately. “Colt, you’ve got it all wrong. Hell, half this town is sleeping with the other half, and they’re all married to somebody else, and it’s not just this town. My aunt who works in a bank in Cheyenne, she says those folks are fooling around all the time.”

  “It’s different when it’s your mother.” He spoke the words as damning fact, not opinion.

  “Different for you,” she said. “Not different for your mom. She’s just like everybody else, looking for some love.”

  The look he gave her tore through her with searing heat. “Just like me, Sarah?” he asked, moving closer. “Looking for some love from you?” He slid his hands down over her hips and pulled her tightly against him, claiming her with the action.

  “Colt . . .” Her voice trailed off, tremulous.

  “Marry me tomorrow,” he whispered roughly, lowering his mouth to hers. “But be my wife today.”

  Read on for an excerpt from Thieves in the Night.

  Thieves in the Night

  One

  Her skis glided through the heavy snow, fast and smooth, as she swooshed her way to the crest of the hill. Chantal Cochard stopped on the rise and listened through the silence, every sense in tune with the gathering storm rolling in over the mountains and the darting flight of chickadees looking for shelter. Fresh flakes drifted down from the broken sky, melting on her exercise-pinkened cheeks and disappearing against her pure-white one-piece snowsuit. Her cross-country skis were white. Her boots were white. The hood covering her mane of long blond hair was white. She was invisible against the mountain.

  Chantal glanced behind her, to the west and the fading gray sun hanging low in the cradle of the Rocky Mountains. The wilderness stretched around her for miles, valley after valley of frozen solitude. With a quick movement she pushed back her right-hand mitten and checked her watch. Four o’clock, and so far so good.

  Kicking off again she made a telemark down the hill, the movements swift and sure as she bent first one knee and then the other. Her skis slashed a zigzag across the pristine slope. The forest came up to meet her, and within minutes she was deep in the trees. Lengthening shadows laced their way along the snow beneath the ponderosa pines and naked aspen trees, and Chantal slowed her pace. She stopped every few minutes to memorize the view behind her, looking for landmarks and tucking them in the back of her mind. A lichen-covered boulder silhouetted on a rise, the scythelike curve of a bent pine against the sky. This was her escape route, and she would be traveling it in darkness—after her job was finished.

  A troubled frown reflected the intensity of her concentration, lending a firm set to the delicate features of her face, darkening the crystalline blue of her eyes. This was the last time she’d play this game, she told herself. She had said the same thing ten years before, but this time she meant it. She would get in, heist the necklace, and be curled up in front of her own fireplace in time to watch the sun rise over the Rockies. This one’s for you, Poppa, and for Paul, she thought, and then it’s over.

  Another mile through the forest and then the multi-peaked roof of the Sandhurst mansion flickered into view through the pines. The gray shake shingles blended with the thickening clouds, smudging the lines between roof and sky. Negotiations for the million-dollar property had hinged on those shingles, Chantal mused. Using every ounce of her diplomacy, she had convinced the previous owner to replace part of the roof rather than lose his only qualified buyer in a year. Tonight she was going to scale those imperial heights to repay a debt long overdue. There was no other way.

  She moved in close enough to have a clear line of sight of the long gravel drive and noted with satisfaction the bevy of Porsches, Mercedes, and four-wheel drives clustered along it. Intermittent notes of music caught the soft night breeze and drifted toward her side of the mountain. The après-ski party was in full swing; the outside security system would be turned off—at least on the ground floor.

  Chantal released her mountaineering bindings and settled in under a shelter of pine boughs. The storm front tumbled in over Independence Pass, dropping its frozen moisture in waves of heavy silence. And she waited, every move she’d make in the next four hours clicking through her mind. The storm passed, and by the time night had truly fallen, a full moon had risen to fill the landscape with shadows.

  She slipped off her white pack and pulled a smaller, black one out. Adrenaline pulsed through her, warming her body and honing her senses. Her heart pounded and her throat got dry, and not for the first time she was tempted to turn around, to let the family’s honor, or dishonor, die without her intervention. For the past ten years she had lived an exemplary life, subduing every rebellious urge, not daring to risk ruining everything again. But tonight she had to go against those years of careful training. There was more than honor at stake here, and what others had stolen from her family she was determined to return—one necklace of a hundred diamonds and a single perfect emerald.

  She fingered the zipper of her pack, telling herself again and again that this was the only way. There would be no turning back. Tonight a debt would be paid in full and her life would be her own.

  In minutes she was dressed completely in black, the turtleneck and form-fitting wool pants she had worn underneath her white down suit hiding her in the night. The white fur-lined hood was replaced with a black knit hat, and she carefully checked to make sure all her hair was covered. For her last piece of camouflage she exchanged her white boots for a pair of soft black leather sneakers. Then she pulled off her mittens and smeared blackface over her cheeks. She dabbed some on her chin and made one quick swipe across her forehead.

  Her thin black gloves were looped over her belt, and she murmured a silent prayer as she sli
pped them on. Then, with only a quick glance to make sure her skis were well hidden, she slung the smaller pack onto her back and loped through the trees toward the south side of the house.

  * * *

  Jaz Peterson wedged his foot between two hunks of the natural stone wall of the north side of the Sandhurst mansion and heaved himself over the edge of the roof. All in all it had been an easy, free climb, even with eight pounds of rappelling gear bandoliered across his chest. The tricky part was going to be hanging in front of the eastern window of the library and cutting an opening in it. In truth, his biggest worry was getting caught in the act. If he pulled off the heist he was safe; he knew Sandhurst would never report the crime. Stealing classified documents to sell to the global opposition wasn’t something Sandhurst—or anyone else in his position—would call the police about, no matter how ticked off he was.

  When the Air Force had finally realized they couldn’t put Sandhurst away yet, they had decided to do the next best thing—stop him. That was where Jaz came in. A call here, a flight there, and one Jasper Peterson, retired Air Force Intelligence, now a private investigator, found himself inching along a frozen roof in the mountains around Aspen, Colorado, instead of soaking up the sun in Mexico. There was no justice.

  One little screw-up and you owed your life to those military types, he thought. Easy for them to ruin his life instead of sacrificing one of their own. Either way, this should square him with General Moore. And not for the first time Jaz wondered if a dishonorable discharge would have been so hard to live with. Certainly none of his clients gave a damn about his military record.

  What clients? he thought with a snort. Thank heavens the fishing was free and the weather was warm in Mexico. He hoped the General reimbursed him for his time, or it was going to be another lean season lying on the beach in Cozumel. Maybe, and it was a hesitant maybe, it was time to abandon the expatriate game and come home.