by Tawny Weber
Sammi’s head spun. She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. She felt as if her heart was exploding in her chest, filled with too much joy to contain. But her stomach was so tight with worries, her head so full of doubts, that she couldn’t feel the joy. How would she support herself? What would she do? She’d be leaving her job, her home, all her friends. But was he asking because he liked the sex? Did he mean he wanted her to live there or to just visit for a while? Would they live together or was he thinking a hotel room for a weekend?
“I can’t,” she heard herself say, the words sounding like they’d been forced through a long tunnel. “Not right now. Not like this.”
If he loved her, she’d go. If he loved her, she’d follow him to the ends of the earth and back. She wanted to ask Laramie why he wanted her, what he felt for her. She wanted to push him to confess his feelings, to explain what he was really asking.
But a lifetime of rejection kept her lips closed tight and her heart aching with the anticipation of pain.
“And after Barclay is back? After right now is done?” Then, before she could respond, before she could even think of how to answer, he shook his head. “Forget I said that. Just forget all of it.”
“I’m sorry.” All of her fears, all of her excuses trembled on the tip of her tongue. But Sammi could only shake her head. “What we’ve had, it means so much to me. But I can’t just walk way. I’m not trying to be ungrateful—”
He shook his head, stopping her words cold.
His eyes chilled to ice.
“We had a good time.” He shrugged. “Consider your debt paid in full, sugar.”
He turned and walked away.
It took her until he’d reached his truck to find her voice.
“Where are you going?” she called, forgetting—not caring about—their audience.
“To bring you back your fucking fiancé.”
* * *
MAYBE IT WAS a questionable decision to take a late-night horseback ride into the den of armed kidnappers on the word of a half-drunk tramp.
But given that his only other option was hauling Sammi Jo out of that damned bar and sharing his feelings, Laramie had saddled up his horse.
Now, guiding Star along the moonlit path toward a cabin that, according to Art, had once belonged to the Barclays on the north side of Cone Peak, with the wind cooling his skin and the freedom of open land all around, he enjoyed the ride.
He could have driven in, but this was four-wheel drive terrain and he wanted to keep his approach silent. He figured the extraction would be quick and easy. He had rope, a flashlight and water in his saddlebag. He hadn’t bothered with a weapon, figuring that’d be overkill. And since he didn’t plan on riding double, the truck and trailer were waiting about a mile away.
When he was a quarter mile from the cabin he swung off Star, loosely tethering the gelding to a tree by the trickling stream. All he needed for the initial recon was the flashlight, so he tucked that into the pocket of his denim jacket and hooked his hat on a low-hanging branch. He gave the horse a pat on the flank, then headed up the hill.
The cabin was surrounded by tall bushes, a copse of summer-browned trees and dirt. A lot of dirt. Laramie crouched behind a stunted piñon, rubbing his hands into that dirt, then transferring it to his face while he assessed the situation.
Two guys stood beside a beat-up Jeep with out-of-state plates. Each with a pistol on their hip. Keeping low, Laramie angled toward the cabin. It had windows on all four sides and from the dimensions it looked like two rooms. Heading for the unlit side, he checked the back window. A cot, a chair and two doors, one open to the head. Through the other, he could see nothing more than a brightly lit room. No bodies.
Needing to ascertain that Barclay was here before he took out the guards, he dropped to a crouch, moving toward the east side of the building.
After figuring out that he only heard a single voice, Laramie shifted to the side so he could see through the window.
Like the other, this room was sparsely furnished. A card table and two chairs. A minifridge with a microwave on top and a beat-up TV/DVD combo.
And a cot, with Barclay kicked back on it like a guy without a care in the world. His back propped against the wall, loafer-clad feet crossed at the ankles, the guy was chatting away on his cell phone.
Laramie leaned closer to the window, listening. Then almost growled as enough of the other man’s words filtered through to realize that Barclay was talking to his girlfriend.
Laramie wanted to pound on the asshole, then reminded himself the dumbass would eventually pay the price for being such a pathetic example of humanity. They always did one way or the other.
But watching the jerk make kissy noises into the phone made it damned hard to depend on eventually.
Fueled by fury, Laramie ignored stealth, simply striding toward the front of the building. Before the goons could react, he grabbed the bigger of the two and with a quick flip sent him flying. Momentum carried his fist into the other man’s jaw, sending him toppling backward over the jeep.
Laramie stood there, fists tightened, waiting for one of them to move. But they were both out cold.
Dammit.
He took a minute to remove their weapons and disable the Jeep before heading into the cabin in time to hear Barclay say, “Baby, don’t worry about the wedding. I told you, nothing is going to change. I promise, it’s you and me forever.”
Laramie’s fists were up before he realized it.
This was what Sammi Jo was rejecting him for? This stupid, cheating jerk?
God. It was like being kicked in the head with an ugly case of déjà vu. Laramie leaned against the wall, staring out at the night-darkened bushes as memories washed over him. Another mountain, another cabin and another man with a woman he didn’t deserve.
He could do it again and he’d be in the right.
Bringing that dumbass back to Sammi Jo was as good as consigning her to a life of joyless boredom playing a role that minimized her awesomeness. She’d be stuck with a guy who’d never see her as the special woman she was. Who’d never appreciate her sense of humor or her quirky honesty.
Laramie hated thinking of Sammi living that life.
But it wasn’t his choice to make.
Barclay was a cheating bastard; he wasn’t abusive. He wasn’t putting Sammi in danger. He was simply unworthy of her. And while Laramie could hate that fact, he couldn’t justify using it to take Sammi away. Because he’d learned his lesson well. He couldn’t save everybody. Especially when they didn’t want to be saved.
Still, as he turned back into the doorway, Laramie had to wait for the fury at watching the man who’d be Sammi Jo’s husband sweet-talk another woman. It took a couple deep breaths, then before the jerk could finish his call, Laramie stepped into the cabin and waited for the other man to look his way.
Making sure his voice was loud enough to be heard through the line, Laramie greeted, “Hey there, Barclay. Your fiancée is waiting.”
12
SAMMI JO STOOD on the porch of Barclay House, trying to unknot the emotions tangled in her belly. But they were so messy and snarled that it was all she could do to keep from turning heel and running like hell.
The air was so hot it felt as if it was pressing down on her with the weight of all her worries. It was silent up here on the top of Main Street, the view of the town below a nagging reminder of what was at stake.
This was what she wanted, she told herself, clenching her fists as if she could squeeze the turmoil into nothingness. It was hard to care about reputations when her heart was breaking, but she couldn’t let things slide. She wanted out of her engagement, and she owed Mr. Barclay the courtesy of breaking it before word of her scene with Laramie hit the town.
And she owed it to Sterling to let him down easy. Theirs might not have been a love match—or a physical match of any sort—but they were friends. She didn’t want to hurt him any more than she had to.
She knew he was home. Laramie had texted
her early this morning that he’d dropped him at Barclay House. She’d waited all day to hear something more. From Sterling, or from Laramie. But neither man had contacted her.
Finally, Sammi took a deep breath. She followed that up by calling herself a yellow-bellied chicken-fueled wimp; she managed to lift the heavy brass knocker and let it fall.
Thankfully, it was opened right away, giving her less time to give in to the still nagging urge to run.
“Sammi Jo.” Brows beetled together over surprised eyes, Mr. Barclay inclined his head. Dressed for a casual evening at home, he’d loosened his tie and wore a sweater instead of his suit jacket. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to talk with Sterling.” The words came out a hoarse croak. Sammi cleared her throat and tried again. “Is Sterling available? I’d like to speak with him.”
He looked as if he was debating whether or not to let her in. That’s when Sammi realized she’d never actually been inside of Barclay House. For a second, she didn’t think she’d make it now, either. A bubble of hysterical laughter lodged in her throat as she imagined her boss and supposed future father-in-law bellowing for Sterling to come to the door while refusing her entry. Or worse, sent her around the servants’ entrance.
But after a considering look, he stepped aside to let Sammi into the glossy foyer. She wiped her feet on the welcome mat, but as she crossed the threshold she wondered if she should have removed her shoes altogether in case they marred the glass-like surface of the hardwood floors.
Curiosity outweighing nerves, she looked around. Gilt mirrors ringed the midnight-blue walls. The staircase was almost wide enough for Sammi to lie across, with two doors on either side. Her entire apartment could fit in this foyer alone.
Was her mouth hanging open?
“What a lovely...” Sammi’s words trailed off as someone stepped through one of the doors on the right. No question about it, her mouth did drop open this time. Her shoulders stiffening, she closed it with a snap. “Mrs. Ross. What a surprise to see you here.”
Today’s jumpsuit was the same pink as that stomach medicine and just as nauseating. Instead of her usual bun, the older woman wore a braid atop her head like a crown.
“Robert and I were chatting.”
Robert?
Sammi frowned at Mr. Barclay. She’d known the man for over a decade, but the only reason she knew that was his first name was because it was on her paycheck.
Suddenly it wasn’t the hot pink making her ill. It was the look of triumph creasing the woman’s face. Well. Sammi took a deep breath. That explained the crown.
“Mrs. Ross and I are discussing weddings at the Inn,” he said comfortably, crossing the foyer to stand at the woman’s side. “After careful consideration of her suggestions, I’ve decided that she’ll run the entirety of the wedding program. And all other events, of course.”
The room did a long, slow twirl as black dots danced in front of Sammi’s eyes. It wasn’t until the aching in her chest told her to that she realized she needed to breathe.
But offering weddings had been her idea. She’d researched for a year before proposing the project. She’d done all of the legwork, she’d done all of the groundwork. Weddings at the Barclay Inn had been her guarantee to get promoted to manager.
She wet her lips, but had to wait until the ringing cleared in her ears to speak.
“What other events?”
“Sharon believes that we’re the perfect destination for a variety of events. Reunions, conventions, holiday parties.” He gave Sammi what was probably supposed to be a reassuring look. “But don’t worry. You’ll still assist in managing the inn.”
Assist.
Sammi looked at the man she’d always considered her benefactor. She’d worried so much about gossip—to the extent that she’d hurt Laramie’s feelings—because of loyalty to the Barclays. But now she realized that when it came to these men, loyalty only went one way.
“Is this your final decision?” she asked quietly.
“Of course,” he said assuredly. There was absolutely no discomfort or regret on his face. Was he oblivious or did he simply not care?
Feeling that heady sense of freedom calling again, Sammi decided it really didn’t matter.
“Okay.” She nodded. “Then if you’d be so kind, I’d like a meeting first thing Monday morning. Right now, I need to speak with Sterling.”
Ignoring the other woman’s smirk—and pretty much her entire puke-pink existence—Sammi followed Mr. Barclay’s gesture toward the second door on the left.
Her deep breath before opening the sitting room door had nothing to do with nerves this time.
It was that delicious taste of freedom right there within her grasp. All she had to do was decide if she was going to grab it or just let it pass on by.
Pretty sure she knew the answer, Sammi strode into the sitting room, noting the sumptuous decor. Gilt and velvet seemed at odds with the uptight elder Barclay. Yet more proof that she didn’t know the man.
Then she saw Sterling, looking no worse for wear as he frowned at the computer tablet he was reading.
“Hey, Sammi.” Despite the lack of bushy eyebrows, his frown looked remarkably like his father’s. “What are you doing here?”
And just like that, all of her worries about hurting his feelings and every vestige of loyalty to his reputation disappeared.
Sammi crossed the thick Persian rug, anger giving snap to every step. She stopped just short of Sterling’s leather chair, folding her fingers into her palms to keep from smacking the man.
“Laramie sent word that he’d brought you home. Since I’d had no contact from you after your last all-is-well-in-kidnapping-land phone call, I wanted to see for myself.”
Texted word, actually. Dropped your fiancé at Barclay House. Have a good life. Just thinking about it made Sammi want to cry. She hadn’t thought it was possible, but she’d hurt him. And for what? Her own insecurities and a couple of men who didn’t give a damn about her.
As if sensing her mounting irritation, Sterling grimaced. Setting his computer tablet aside, he rose and gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.
“Sorry about that. I had a lot of damage control to handle and wanted to jump right on it.” He shot a look at the doorway, then gave her a rueful smile. “And I’ve been stuck here listening to lecture after lecture on everything from proper business practices to the correct wording for my wedding speech.”
She could only stare.
He really thought they were still getting married.
“Sterling, we need to talk.”
* * *
HAD HE EVER hated the outcome of a mission more than he did the one Sammi Jo had saddled him with?
Laramie scowled his way through the last dozen-yard hike toward the cabin, wanting the beer to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth.
He’d done the right thing, rescuing that dumbass. Although it was pretty obvious that the guy could have easily rescued himself it he’d just got off his butt and put a little effort into it.
He’d done the right thing by not forcing Sammi Jo to choose between him and the dumbass.
Laramie kicked a rock out of his path, sending it flying into a tree. It ricocheted with a hard spray of bark, sailing into the dry grass with a bird-scaring thud.
God, doing the right thing sucked.
He crossed the clearing and stomped up the porch steps. Yanking off his mud-coated boots by the door, he tossed them aside to deal with after he packed.
He was getting the hell out of here.
Walking into the cabin was like getting hit in the heart with a fistful of memories.
He could see her standing in front of the fireplace in that damned second wedding dress of hers. Or curled up on the couch wearing nothing but his shirt and a satisfied smile.
He could smell her perfume, the delicate scent that reminded him of the mountains late at night.
He could hear her breath soft and even as she slept. Or fas
t and ragged when she came.
He could hear her voice, the sweet honesty of her words and the simple understanding in her tone. She saw him for who he was and knew him better than he knew himself.
And now she was out of his life.
Because he’d done the right thing.
Laramie pulled a beer from the fridge and ripped the cap off. He tilted back his head, upending the ice-cold liquid down his throat with a growl. Even as he finished the last drop he debated another. Instead, he tossed the bottle into the trash and headed for the bedroom.
He’d toss his things into his duffel, drop the truck off at Art’s and get the hell out of Texas. Maybe there was an overseas deployment he could put in for. Something demanding and dangerous was just what he needed right now.
Then he stepped through the door and stopped short.
Sammi was in his bed. She lay on her side, her head propped on one hand, her hair spread like sunrise over his pillow.
And she was naked.
Well, there was a sheet tangled between those long, smooth legs, wrapping over the sweet curve of her hips to drape across the lush fullness of her breasts.
But Laramie knew naked. He’d specialized in it once upon a time.
For a moment he wondered if he were hallucinating. Except one beer did not a hallucination make.
Which meant that yes, indeed. Sammi Jo was naked in his bed.
He wanted to reach out and touch her. He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her. More, he wanted to strip that sheet away and lose himself in the heaven of her body.
But he couldn’t.
Because he was doing the right thing.
But doing the right thing hurt. It physically hurt.
“What are you doing here?” Opting for caution over temptation, he asked the question from the doorway.
Hurt shone in Sammi’s eyes for just a second before she blinked it away. Leaving what looked like scary determination.
“I realized a few things in the last day or so. Having my heart broke will do that to a girl,” she said, her tentative smile and worried eyes at odds with her sensual pose.
Damn it all to hell. She’d asked him to find that dumbass, and he had. Wasn’t that enough? He didn’t want to listen to her feelings about the guy, too.