Desert Heart (The Wolves of Twin Moon Ranch Book 4)

by Anna Lowe

  Touché, Rick wanted to crow as Dale’s brow furrowed. Touché.

  “I’d hate to hold you up,” she continued, smiling at Dale with an expression that said, Run along now. “You must have so much to do.”

  “Actually, I have plenty of time,” Dale said in open challenge.

  “I doubt that.” Rick stood and stretched to full height, looking down at Dale. Long and hard and unrelenting. The days of Dale running his own show on the ranch while lawyers haggled over wills were over. Rick was the boss now. Not Henry, bless his soul. And certainly not this wash-up of a cowboy named Dale.

  I am the boss now. Every cell in his body united to send that message pulsing over to Dale. I am the boss.

  Dale’s eyelid twitched, and his eyes dropped to the floor. His jaw stopped working his wad of chewing tobacco.

  Tina grabbed the fish and stood. “See you, Dale. We have to get going.”

  We. Rick wanted to grab the word and mount it in a frame.

  She wove her arm through his elbow and steered him away from the table, leaving Dale behind. And even though Rick could feel Dale shooting daggers at his back, even though he wanted to spin and give the man another withering glare, he didn’t. At Tina’s touch, the rage building in him eased, giving way to something warmer and mushier. Something much more important than a washed-up old man.

  “Hey!” he protested as they walked down the sidewalk. “Don’t you know cavemen have to establish rank?”

  “Believe me,” Tina sighed, “I could write a book about territorial alpha males.”

  He let her maneuver him to the car and shove the fish in his hands, then nod at the door in a command. “Get in, caveman.”

  He grinned at her over the roof of the car. “Bossy, much?”

  She smiled back, and just like that, they were kids again. Joking, teasing, having fun together.

  “I get a lot of practice being bossy, too,” she said.

  Good, something inside him said. His pulse sky-rocketed again as something primal worked at his insides. The urge to possess this woman and to be possessed.

  And the vibes coming off Tina as she drove him back to his truck? They screamed exactly the same thing.

  To possess, to be possessed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tina shook her head at herself. Having a perfectly innocent—well, mostly innocent—coffee with the man she’d never stopped loving was one thing. Agreeing to meet at his place four days later was another.

  Pure business, she reminded herself as she drove down the dirt road connecting Twin Moon with Seymour Ranch. Just one manager helping another out, right?

  Her wolf wagged its tail a little too enthusiastically.

  Okay, so it wasn’t such a great idea. But how could she say no when Rick Rivera, all six foot two, hundred-and-eighty pounds of muscle, had quietly asked for help? A man capable of asking for help was a novelty, given the family she’d grown up in. Her father, her brothers—all powerful, alpha types.

  Just like Rick. The man had gone pure, animal alpha with Dale at the café, and Dale had just about shrunk into the woodwork. She couldn’t get that out of her mind. If Rick were a wolf, he’d be right up there in the hierarchy with her brother Ty or her father. That raw, male power, that authority. Rick’s version, though, was balanced by something softer, more forgiving. Something his mild-mannered father had instilled in him, like the ability to ask for help. The open, easy capacity to love.

  She frowned. Rick was so unlike her father in that way. So unlike her grouchy, growly brother Ty, despite the soft side Lana brought out in him. Rick was just so…so…Rick.

  In her mind, she replayed his smile and melted all over again. It wasn’t a once-a-year phenomenon, like Ty’s—okay, once a week, now that Lana was in her brother’s life. Nor was it one of Cody’s dime-a-dozen smiles, promising everyone he was their best friend—which wasn’t exactly a lie, because he practically was, damn him. Rick’s smile was warm, genuine, broad. It lit up her world like a goddamn sunrise.

  So she’d said yes. Sure, I’d be happy to help.

  She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. Business, pure business.

  Sure, her wolf hummed inside, swiping its tail in long, sultry strokes. Business.

  She crested the hill leading to Seymour Ranch and drew a deep breath, looking over the familiar features once again. The Seymour homestead, shaded by lazy sycamore, facing the southwest. The big barn on the left and the smaller outbuildings behind it. The paddocks and the bunkhouse on the opposite side. There was something cozy, homey about it, even if it didn’t reach out with the same vibrant feel it had when the Seymours were alive. But it had potential. A new paint job would spiff up the house. A couple of new fence posts for the front paddock and it would be ready for that new breed of cattle Henry had been planning to try out. Grain-fed, organic beef; an honest way to work the land. The ruined foundation of the original barn, set back to one side, that would serve perfectly for a greenhouse, where she could—

  She caught herself there. This wasn’t her home. Not her place to interfere. So what if her heart was leaping half out of her chest at the possibilities?

  She coasted down the hill and rolled to a stop at the porch. And just like the first time, when she’d driven up with Ty, Rick emerged from the shade wearing that easy, glowing smile. Moving down the three steps in his graceful, athletic stride.

  But this time, her brother wasn’t around to chaperone. This time, it was just her and Rick.

  Mate. Her wolf nodded inside.

  Her soul urged her to jump straight into Rick’s arms, while her mind forbade anything but sticking out a stiff hand for a formal shake. Rick solved the stalemate by leaning in for a loose hug and a peck on the cheek. A peck that sent tingles all the way down her spine. Then he turned sideways, draping an arm lightly over her shoulders, and let her lead the way into the house. Giving her space. Letting her choose just how close to walk to him and just how far.

  Close, her wolf purred, sidling closer with each step.

  Far, her human side barked, trying to summon the willpower to lean away.

  She was about to make the sharp turn into Henry Seymour’s office, the first room on the right, when Rick tugged her down the hallway, past the grandfather clock.

  “Lunch first.”

  “Lunch?”

  She glanced at the walls as they went. Everything was all so familiar, as if she’d been over for Thanksgiving a month before. Everything except the empty feeling of the place these days. The house begged to be filled with the laughter of children, the whispers of lovers, the promise of family.

  Their footsteps echoed, amplified by the emptiness until Rick tugged her out onto the back veranda.

  “A late lunch,” he said as they stepped out of the doorway and into the light.

  She caught a breath and held it, rooted to the spot. Held that breath a little longer, because she wasn’t quite ready to believe.

  The table was covered in one of Lucy Seymour’s gorgeous lace tablecloths and dotted with colorful dishes. Feta-stuffed peppers, grilled eggplant. Tamales that could only have been made by hand. Dips, spreads, a salad. A couple of hand-picked desert flowers, popped into a tiny vase. Plus Rick, in a clean white shirt that showed off his bronze skin, pulling out a chair for her.

  “Wow,” she breathed.

  He grinned. “Cook’s son, remember?”

  She looked at him and nodded slowly. The man must have a bank account that stretched over seven or eight digits, but what did he take pride in? His humble, modest dad. The one with a ready smile, a recipe for every occasion.

  “I remember.”I remember him well.

  A bubble of sorrow welled up in her. His father’s death had been so brutal, so sudden. So undeserved. But it was all over in such a rush—the investigation, the funeral. Rick had come and gone so quickly, she hadn’t even had a chance to see him or say a word.

  Words she wanted to say now. Your father was kind and loving and generous.
A good man.

  And God, Rick was exactly the same. Kind. Loving. Genuine, through and through.

  Mate. Mine. Her wolf hummed.

  She stepped closer, eyes locked on his. Forgetting about business as she let her hand cover his and feel the heat pulsing through it.

  Mine. Mate.

  Her knees were about to give way, so she slid to the chair and let him push it in. She stared dumbly at the spread as Rick sat kitty-corner from her. And that was another thing. He didn’t take Henry’s old place at the head; he took a seat around the side. Tina glanced down, realizing he’d seated her in Lucy’s usual place. The place of the woman of the house.

  Rick sat down and regarded her quietly with eyes that barely hid the hope inside. Her heart thumped in time with the happy strokes of her wolf’s tail.

  “This…” She waved a weak hand toward the spread. “This is gorgeous.”

  His smile grew; his eyes twinkled. His shoulders stretched just a little wider. “Give it another couple of seasons, and it will really be gorgeous.” He nodded toward the garden.

  Yes, that part could use some work. It was dry and dusty and overgrown, a shadow of its former glory. But someone had been at work there recently. The left side had just been weeded, the flagstone walkway dividing the left and right halves freshly swept. Somebody cared. Somebody wanted that little part of the past back.

  Not just somebody. Rick.

  Her fingers itched, eager to dig into the soil right there and then. To turn the flower beds, revive the herbs over in the corner. Make old Mrs. Seymour proud.

  “It’s gorgeous,” she said again.

  He smiled wider. “It’s a mess.”

  “Not for long.”

  His naturally tan skin darkened with a blush as he picked up a fork. “Dig in.”

  She laughed, then went a little pink at the innuendo her wolf served up at the words.

  Yes, dig in, the wolf purred, looking straight at him.

  Tina grabbed a napkin and pressed it to her lips before she even took her first bite.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was the best lunch she’d ever had, bar none. And the best company, too.

  Tina dragged her eyes off Rick and anchored them firmly on the bottom of her coffee cup. Business, pure business.

  Her wolf, though, was pacing and yowling within. This man is our mate.

  He can’t be, she wanted to retort, but she couldn’t quite get the words out, not even inside. The best she could come up with is, He’s human, not wolf, and our bite will kill him, not turn him.

  He’s strong enough, the wolf urged.

  Exactly the problem, she shot back. He’s strong enough to try resisting the change. It will kill him.

  “More coffee?” he asked, lifting Lucy Seymour’s antique silver pot. It looked so small, so delicate in his hand.

  She wanted to scream at the hills. Holler at destiny. Lodge a formal complaint with fate. Because this was impossible.

  He’s worth the risk, a whisper snaked out of the hills.

  She shook her head. No. She couldn’t live with herself if he died.

  “No?” Rick shook his head.

  Her wolf whimpered inside.

  “Maybe we should get started on the books you wanted me to look at.”

  He looked blank before a flash of disappointment clouded his face. Then the smile crept back. “Sure. That would be great.”

  “Great,” she croaked back.

  “Great,” he whispered, managing to make even that sound sincere. But that was Rick. Hopeful. Positive. Making the best of things, even if it hurt him inside.

  He pulled her chair out, still treating her like a queen, and led the way to the office. Back down the long hallway, past the grandfather clock, ever deeper into the shade of the house. Out of the harsh sunlight and into a private, sheltered world.

  She hesitated at the threshold to the office, because the afternoon was not going the way she wanted—needed—it to. She thought she’d be safer from temptation in here. But the urge to give in to the insistent magnetism of the man was stronger than ever.

  It could be a secret, the house seemed to hint. Nobody will know.

  “So,” Rick said from over at the big, oak desk, and she had no choice but to step inside. To come around next to him, holding her breath. “These are the books.”

  She nodded, trying to hear over the roaring in her ears. The office smelled of wood oil and leather, underpinned by Rick’s impossibly heady scent. So strong, it was as if fate were fanning his scent toward her. Toward her keen wolf senses, all too eager to suck him in.

  This man is ours, her wolf purred. This man is our mate.

  Rick turned one of the leather-bound ledgers toward her. “I need to check the records, but it’s damn near impossible.”

  Impossible, like resisting that scent.

  Books. She slid into Henry’s swivel chair, trying to concentrate. Books were familiar territory. She’d be safe as long as she kept her focus there.

  Rick angled an open ledger her way. Neat rows of numbers lined up like so many soldiers, ready to march.

  “Those are the old ones. Those, I can make out,” he said from where he stood behind her. “But the more recent ones—the last of Lucy’s, and the books Dale has been keeping—I can barely read.” He leaned in to pull another ledger from the pile, and the scent of him rolled toward her like a wave. A wave that called to her to jump in, cool off, revel, and play.

  “I don’t know if it’s me or the books.”

  She turned, hearing the waver in his voice and found him glaring at the ledgers. A vein throbbed at his temple, right next to the tiny scar. Weakness. Rick had to hate admitting weakness, just like her brothers. He had to hate the need to blink and squeeze his eyes to try to focus on the tiny, scrawling script.

  His right arm was braced on the desk at her side, and without thinking, she curled her fingers around his. Maybe the accident wasn’t as much in his past as he wanted it to be. Maybe it never would be.

  Whether or not the touch helped Rick, she couldn’t tell. It sure helped her, though, because the second they made contact, her jumpy nerves calmed down.

  Nice, her wolf purred. Nice.

  She forced her eyes back on the ledger and swept a finger along the page without letting go of his hand. She studied the numbers silently and eventually pulled out another ledger, and another, watching the tidy, round script of the earlier volumes grow lopsided, just as Henry Seymour’s body had aged. She turned the page and saw new entries made in Lucy Seymour’s lacy handwriting. Then there was a gap, and an entirely new script invaded the pages. Dale Gordon’s blocky print. The first few months were legible and in line with the Seymours’ conventions—date there, sum there, comment on the right. In the subsequent volume, though, Dale had started leaving out dates, or amounts, and even sticking in question marks. The print leaned more and more heavily, sometimes left, sometimes right, like a drunk winding his way down an alley late at night.

  She tilted the page toward the desk lamp.

  “It’s not you,” she assured him. “I can barely make this out.”

  “But you can read it.” For the first time ever, she heard a trace of bitterness in Rick’s voice.

  “Barely. Now shush.” She said it lightly, and his fingers tightened around hers.

  His scent surrounded her as he leaned in to read over her shoulder. It was all she could do to keep her mind on the page. She tapped each row before moving on, trying to focus there. Tap, tap, tap, doing rough sums as she went. Skimming down the left page then down the right. She leafed to the next sheet and skimmed again before skidding to a sudden stop and jumping back a line.

  April 17—$85—dynamite for…

  She leaned closer, trying to make out the rest. Dynamite for what?

  “What?” Rick asked. His breath tickled her cheek.

  She wanted to slide a hand over his cheek and pull him close.

  Concentrate. Just concentrate.

&nb
sp; “Dynamite for…for…” The letters were so crooked, she couldn’t make them out. “What would the dynamite be for?”

  Rick shifted closer, and everything in her screamed, Yes! Yes! Closer!

  “No idea,” he murmured.

  Destiny, her wolf hummed. It’s destiny.

  Concentrate! She tried, but her heart wasn’t in it. Everything blurred together. Hardware bills, invoices from the vet, and feed receipts crowded on a page she strained to make sense of. A Post-it note she could barely read. “Dan…Danielson…Davidson Resources?”

  He shrugged.

  “Something to do with drawing more water from the aquifer?”

  His face was blank. “There’s no plan to pump more water. I swear there isn’t.”

  The letters on the Post-it were a scrawled bird’s nest she couldn’t make sense of, especially with Rick’s cheek a hair away from hers. Warm and just a little stubbly and…wait. His cheek was touching hers.

  Her heart skipped faster. Her wolf licked her lips.

  She forced herself to lean away but only wound up nuzzling the arm that caged her in from the other side.

  Nuzzling, her wolf murmured. Good idea.

  It was that or turn and kiss him, because she couldn’t not touch him any more. She was powerless against destiny. It was a magnetic force, sucking her closer and closer. She rubbed her cheek up toward his shoulder then down, following the bulge of his biceps.

  Harder, her wolf demanded. Rub harder. Mark him as ours.

  She knew she shouldn’t. She knew she couldn’t. But she did it anyway. She needed it more than she needed to breathe. Needed his scent on her, needed his warmth, his touch.

  “Tina,” he murmured, nestling closer so his cheek was back on hers.

  She’d had dreams like this. Dreams in which they woke up to hours upon languid hours of gentle touches, fluttery kisses, secret smiles. Innocent hours in which she could just be Tina. Not the daughter of the alpha, not the manager of Twin Moon Ranch, not the responsible sister. Just a woman who loved her man. And he could just be Rick. Not the superstar, not the forbidden human. Nothing but the kid next door she’d always, always loved.