A Ranching Man

by Linda Turner

  Well, that at least, was something. Knowing she was being protected by two conscientious men gave him one less reason to think about her. But she still hadn’t explained what she was doing in his room. Glancing pointedly at his unmade bed, he arched a brow at her. “Now that we’ve got that cleared up, why don’t you tell me what you’re doing in here, Goldilocks? Or do I have to ask? From the looks of things, I’d say you were just about to try out my bed.”

  “I was not!” she gasped, flushing. “I would never—I can’t believe you think I would—”

  He’d never seen her quite so flustered, and he had to admit, he enjoyed seeing her rattled. His brown eyes glinting with sudden humor, he teased, “Don’t stop now. You would never…what?”

  It was only then she saw the grin he made no attempt to hide, and she couldn’t help but laugh herself. “Go ahead. Have your fun. I was going to wash your sheets for you since I was doing mine, but now you can do them yourself. And it’s no more than you deserve.”

  Sniffing haughtily, she lifted her nose in the air and started to sweep past him as he stood in the doorway. But just as she drew even with him, her gaze dropped to the handkerchief wrapped around his hand. “You’re hurt!”

  “It’s nothing, just a scrape,” he began.

  That was as far as he got. Grasping his injured hand above the wrist, she hustled him into the bathroom next door and with quick, efficient fingers began to untie the bandage. At the sight of the wound on his palm, she clicked her tongue, her frown fierce. “How in the world did you do that? It must hurt like hell. Sit down while I find something to clean it with.” And without so much as a by-your-leave, she flipped down the lid on the commode, pushed him down, then turned away to search his linen closet and medicine chest for everything she needed to doctor the wound.

  “Angel, it’s not that bad.”

  “Have you had a tetanus shot lately?” she demanded, glancing over her shoulder to scowl at him. “Good. Then we don’t have to worry about that. Do you have any peroxide? Never mind, here it is. All right, brace yourself. This could sting.”

  That was putting it mildly. He sucked in a sharp breath, but she was quick and efficient and used to dealing with a three-year-old who didn’t sit still for much. Before he could draw his next breath, she soothed on a cool, antiseptic cream with a gentle touch. A bandage was taped into place, and less than two minutes after she’d taken his hand in hers to clean it, she was finished.

  Pleased with herself, she patted the back of his hand and smiled down into his eyes. “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  “That depends on which end of the peroxide you’re on,” he retorted wryly, and pushed to his feet. “Thanks.” And before she could begin to guess his intentions, he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

  It wasn’t planned—she only had to look into his suddenly somber eyes to know that he was as surprised by the innocent kiss as she was—and she should have accepted it in the spirit in which it was given. All she had to do was smile, say, “You’re welcome,” and turn away to return his things to his medicine cabinet, and the sudden awareness between them would have died as quickly as it had thundered to life. It was that simple.

  But her heart was tripping over itself, and her feet refused to move. She knew she needed to walk away from him—it was the only smart thing to do—but she couldn’t. There was a longing in her heart that made her want to weep, a need unlike anything she’d ever felt for another man. Literally aching for the feel of his arms around her, she wanted nothing so much as the heat and taste and hunger of his mouth on hers.

  Helplessly, she lifted her eyes to his, the words trembling on her tongue, but she couldn’t tell him what she needed. Somehow, though, he knew. She saw an answering longing in eyes that had suddenly gone nearly black with desire, felt it in the tenderness of the callused hand that cupped her cheek like she was more precious than the most fragile porcelain. With a groan that was her name, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her with a pent-up frustration that stole the air right out of her lungs.

  Dizzy, she clung to him, welcoming the heady invasion of his tongue in her mouth with a passion that stunned her. How long had she wanted him this badly and not even known it? From the first time she’d met him? Touched him? Kissed him? It could have been days—or weeks—it didn’t matter. She just knew she never wanted it to end.

  “Joe…please,” she whimpered against his mouth, “make love to me.”

  Groaning, he knew he shouldn’t. There were a dozen reasons why he would regret this, but with her so soft and needy in his arms, he couldn’t think of a single one. Just Angel. The taste and feel and scent of her. The sweet hunger of her kisses. She was in his blood, an ache that wouldn’t go away. He’d fought it, sworn he wouldn’t give in to it, to her, but then she took his hand, and just that simply, she made him burn for her. He had to have her—here, now—and damn the consequences. Need clawing at him, he swept her up in his arms and carried her into his bedroom without ever taking his mouth from hers.

  The covers had been stripped from the bed and the top sheet trailed on the floor, but he didn’t care. Lowering her to the mattress, he followed her down, a groan rippling through him as her arms came around him, cradling him close, and her soft, slender body took his weight. Wrench ing his mouth from hers, he reached for the buttons of the cotton blouse she wore, the need to touch her, all of her, more than he could stand.

  Urgency firing his blood, he wanted her naked—now!—and was stunned to find his fingers not quite steady. Concentrate! he told himself, but found it impossible when the back of his fingers brushed the curve of her breasts. Then, somehow he had her shirt off and her bra, and he couldn’t think at all. Beautiful. There was no other way to describe her. Lying like a pagan goddess in the late afternoon sunshine that streamed in through the open curtains of the window, her breasts bare and creamy, her eyes slumberous with passion, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his life.

  With a rough sound of need, he leaned down and closed his mouth over her beaded nipple, caressing her with tongue and teeth and lips, and Angel thought she would die right there. Pleasure streaked through her like summer lightning, and with a strangled cry, she arched under him, lost to everything but the desperate need for more.

  Frantic to touch him, she fumbled with the buttons of his shirt and finally managed to undo them. Then her hands were pushing it off his broad shoulders and her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him. She’d seen her share of buffed bodies in Hollywood that were the sole result of too many narcissistic hours at the gym. They had nothing on Joe.

  His skin was bronzed from years in the sun rather than a tanning booth, his body rock-hard from a lifetime of physical labor. Unlike the pretty boys of Tinseltown, his muscles weren’t overblown and sculpted, but as tough as tempered steel, without an ounce of fat. Suddenly, quite desperately, she needed to touch more than she needed her next breath. With a murmur of approval, she lifted her hands to him to stroke, to tease, to caress.

  Up until then, he’d thought he was in control. No woman had ever taken that from him, not even Belinda. But with nothing more than a touch, Angel stirred something savage in him, something wild and primitive that refused to be leashed. Even as he fought it and tried to regain control of the need that threatened to take on a life of its own, he tugged off her shoes, then his, with fingers that were anything but steady. Within seconds, he’d stripped them both of their jeans.

  Bare skin met bare skin, and his mind blurred. Nothing had ever felt so good, so damn right. And he needed more. A hell of a lot more. His hands raced over her, then his mouth, heating her skin, tasting every sweet inch of her, driving them both crazy. He kissed his way down her body and very nearly shattered her. She cried out, arching under him, her nails biting into his shoulders.

  The world could have stopped then and he never would have noticed. She was all that mattered, pleasuring her, driving her over the edge, making her come undone in
his arms. He moved against her and she gasped, parted her thighs and she shuddered. Then she was opening to him, lifting her hips to him, taking him inside her, and the fire in his blood heated to flash point. He surged into her, and then they were moving in a rhythm as old as time, their hips circling, rolling, driving toward release.

  Her breath tearing through her lungs, her eyes locked with his, Angel felt the tension clawing at her tighten unbearably. Blindly, her fingers sought his. She wanted to tell him that no man had ever brought her to this, driven her to the very edge of sanity, but she couldn’t find the words. Her mind clouded over, need fisted deep inside her, and then, with a suddenness that stunned her, she cried out as her senses exploded.

  She was still shuddering when a low groan was ripped from Joe’s throat and he followed her over the edge into a pleasure so intense it bordered on madness.

  Chapter 7

  Outside, the sun slipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows, and one of the guards outside called to Buster as he made his hourly rounds around the perimeter of the house and barn. Her head cradled against Joe’s shoulder, the reassuring beat of his heart pounding in her ears, Angel drifted back to her senses slowly, too content to move, let alone think. Given the opportunity, she could have lain just there, with Joe’s arms snug around her, for hours.

  But reality had a way of forcing its way into even the most magical of moments. As her pulse steadied and her head cleared, images of their loving flashed before her eyes—hot, breathless kisses that took her outside herself, touches of tenderness that melted her heart and brought the sting of tears to her eyes. Despite the outrageous stories in the tabloids, she wasn’t a woman who slept around. There’d only been one other man in her life, and that was Kurt Austin, Emma’s father; and she’d never felt for him a tenth of the emotions Joe had pulled from her with just a touch. And she’d thought she loved Kurt with all her heart.

  So what did that say about her feelings for Joe?

  The question came straight from her heart and stunned her. No, she thought, shaken. She wasn’t going to play that game with herself. She was attracted to Joe, that was all. Her feelings for him had nothing to do with affection or caring or any of the varied emotions that could, if nurtured properly, lead to love. It was just chemistry, a physical reaction brought on by loneliness and the physical needs that any healthy woman experienced after being too long by herself.

  That had to be it, she thought in relief. It was the only explanation. Because she couldn’t, under any circumstances, allow herself to consider, even for a second, what it might be like to fall in love with Joe McBride. She’d done that once—given her heart to the wrong man. She wouldn’t do it again.

  And in spite of the passion they’d just shared, there was no question that Joe could never be anything but wrong for her. Oh, he was a good man, but he had a steel barrier around his heart that no woman was ever going to get past. He could give her tenderness and desire, even affection, but he was never going to be able to give her love. And if he couldn’t give her that, then she wanted nothing else from him. Because she knew what it felt like to love someone who didn’t love you back, and she’d never put herself through that kind of heartache again.

  Lying on his side, cradling her close, Joe felt her stiffen, and swept his hands down her naked back in a reassuring caress. Already, he wanted her again—he couldn’t be this close to her and not—but he had a feeling that the sudden tension in her had nothing to do with renewed desire. “Are you all right?”

  Frowning, he pulled back to get a good look at her face, but she turned away, avoiding his gaze, and slipped from his arms. “Laura and Emma will be here soon,” she said huskily, reaching for her clothes. “I need to finish washing the sheets and start dinner. Emma will be tired. She’s had a long day and I’d like to get her in bed early tonight.”

  She was making excuses and they both knew it. His brow knit in a scowl, Joe watched her pull on her clothes with an unconscious grace that made his mouth water and had to fight the need to pull her back down into bed with him again. Dammit, what the hell was going on? He liked to think he wasn’t an insensitive man, but something had definitely upset her and he didn’t have a clue what it was. It couldn’t have been the loving they’d just shared—she’d been right with him every step of the way and as caught up in the moment as he was. So what the devil was wrong?

  Frustrated, he was tempted to lie there until she gave him an answer, but one look at her closed expression and he knew she wasn’t going to talk about whatever was bothering her. And he couldn’t insist—not when Laura and Emma could return at any second.

  Silently cursing the lack of time and privacy, he reached for his own clothes and tugged them on, unconscious of his nudity until she blushed and hurriedly looked away. Still frustrated, he couldn’t help but be fascinated by her. Did she know what a contradiction in terms she was? She was an experienced woman, a beautiful, single movie star who had, no doubt, been exposed to any number of racy things in Hollywood that would shock the good people of Liberty Hill. Not ten minutes ago, she’d come undone in his arms when they made love, yet he only had to climb from his bed naked to turn her cheeks rosy.

  Given the chance, he would have teased her then, taken her back in his arms until she softened and told him what was bothering her, but she was already stripping the bed down to the bare mattress. All business, she remade it with clean sheets, then gathered up the dirty ones and walked out without saying a single word.

  “Well, hell,” he growled, and strode into the bathroom for a shower.

  The load of sheets was already in the washing machine and agitating when Angel walked into the kitchen to start supper. If she just kept busy, she told herself, she wouldn’t have to think about Joe and the look on his face when she’d all but run out of his bedroom. He’d let her go but she didn’t fool herself into thinking that he wouldn’t demand an explanation when the opportunity presented itself. After the intimacy they’d shared, he had a right to know why she’d suddenly jumped from his bed like a scalded cat. And she would tell him. But not when she felt like she was going to shatter at the least provocation. She needed some time to get her emotions under control, to rebuild her defenses so that she wouldn’t give in to the need to go back into his arms the second he touched her again. And he would touch her again—she didn’t doubt it for a minute. It was just a question of when.

  Her heart lurching at the thought, she started to turn to the refrigerator to retrieve the chicken tenders she intended to cook for Emma, only to stop at the sight of the small pile of mail on the kitchen table. Normally, she wouldn’t have given it a second glance—Joe had been hurting when he came in and must have dropped it there before coming upstairs to bandage his hand—but the letter on top looked distinctly familiar.

  Stepping over to the table, she felt her heart squeeze painfully as she recognized her own handwriting on an envelope that looked a little the worse for wear. It was the same letter she’d sent to her father just last week.

  Had he moved without bothering to notify her or the post office? she wondered. She’d sent it to the café—he should have gotten it. Then her eyes fell on the big red letters scrawled across the bottom of the envelope in her father’s precise handwriting.

  RETURN TO SENDER.

  Pale, she fumbled for a chair at the table and dropped into it, pain squeezing her heart as she picked up the letter. He hadn’t even read it, hadn’t even bothered to give her a chance to tell him about his granddaughter. She’d hoped that with time, he’d let go of the past; but with three little words, he’d told her nothing had changed. He was still a hard, unforgiving man, still judgmental to a fault, still condemning of anyone who didn’t believe the way he did. He wasn’t interested in why she had made the choices she had, didn’t want explanations of any kind. The bottom line was that he hadn’t wanted anything to do with her when she’d left home the day after she graduated from high school, and he didn’t now.

  Heartsick,
she crumbled the letter but couldn’t bring herself to throw it in the trash. Damn him, why did he have to be so hard? All she wanted to do was make peace, but he fought her at every turn. Did he even love her? she wondered as tears flooded her eyes. How could he if he could cut her out of his life so effortlessly?

  She wanted to cry then, to lay her head down on the table and give in to the pain that tore at her with razor-sharp claws. But if she started to cry now, she didn’t think she’d be able to stop. And then she heard Joe’s step on the stairs. Hurriedly wiping at her damp eyes, she jumped up and turned to the refrigerator. By the time he stepped into the kitchen, she was at the stove, heating oil in a skillet to fry the tenders.

  The crumbled letter was forgotten on the table. Glancing from it to where Angel stood at the stove with her back to him, her shoulders stiff and unyielding, Joe frowned. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course,” she said coolly, never taking her eyes from the skillet in front of her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Joe could think of several reasons, not the least of which was the letter lying on the table. Who the hell was James Wiley, anyway? A brother? A father? She’d never said anything about her family, but whoever James was, he obviously wanted nothing to do with her. And for reasons he couldn’t explain, that irritated the hell out of Joe. Returning a letter like that was downright cruel and totally unnecessary. If the bastard hadn’t wanted any correspondence from her, he should have just pitched it in the trash and she never would have known the difference.

  Which was, he thought grimly, noting the New Mexico address on the letter, why the jerk sent the letter back. He wanted her to know that not only had he not read it, but that he wanted no part of her, not even a letter.

  And she’d gotten the message—there was no doubt of that. She was hurting, dammit, and he didn’t like it. But he didn’t have the right to help her unless she asked, and she wasn’t asking. Which wasn’t surprising. She might look as fragile as spun glass, but the lady was tough. Any other woman being stalked by a madman who wanted her daughter dead would have found a safe place to lie low and retreated from life like a turtle drawing into its shell until the bastard was caught. But not Angel. There was no question that the bastard had scared her, especially with his threats against Emma, but she had refused to hide out like a criminal on the run. She defiantly continued to work, and by doing so, just dared the jerk to come after her or Emma.