Spurs and Lace (Lonely Lace Series Book 1)

by Bonnie R. Paulson

  Yep, an engine’s throaty purr was getting closer.

  He yanked the door open and stopped mid-stride. It wasn’t a truck. Or even a car. The damn thing was a snowmobile with Ronan James driving.

  Slate stomped out across the threshold and pulled the door shut behind him. He’d love to slam the dang thing, but Mac and Amelia hadn’t come out of their room yet which meant they were probably still asleep.

  Shoving his hands into the large square pockets in the front of the coat inches from his always present revolver, Slate planted his feet in a wide stance at the top of the stairs. He jutted his chin out and demanded. “What the hell do you want, Ronan?”

  The returning chuckle absorbed into the new snow mounds, but reached Slate with an additional layer of ice underlying his words. “Don’t worry, MacAllister, I don’t want anything from you. I brought the doctor back to check on Mac.” An edge, sharper than the last, cut through the cold.

  She-Doc? From behind Ronan, Becky slid off the snowmobile seat. She adjusted her coat and offered a smile to her driver. Her lips moved and inaudible words floated on the slight chilly breeze. It hurt to see her in such close proximity to the man trying to rip everything from Slate’s family. The sight actually punched him in the gut. He swallowed and ground his teeth together to hold in his scathing comments.

  The bastard said something in return and nodded toward the house. She-Doc laughed. And Slate winced. Ronan made her laugh. Slate hadn’t been able to do more than get a smile from her shapely lips. How the hell had R.J. gotten her to laugh?

  She turned from the sled and walked to Slate, her eyes focused on the ground. At the bottom of the steps, she placed a gloved hand on the end of the railing and looked up. “Are you planning to let me in? I’d like to check on my patient, please.”

  Slate flicked his gaze from her to Ronan and back to Becky. He stepped to the side and nodded, not sure if he was angry or jealous or what the hell was going on in his head. It wasn’t like she belonged to him or anything, but she was supposed to head back into town the night before. Instead, she arrived with Slate’s least favorite person at little more than seven in the morning. The facts added up to a bittersweet flavor he wanted to spit into the snow, better yet, into Ronan’s face.

  She climbed the steps with caution, passing him without another glance.

  The least Slate could have done was say hello, or glad to have you back, or… anything. But he let her walk on by and directed his anger from himself to the man on the driveway.

  Ronan cut the engine. And climbed off the sled. And – what the hell? – walked up the drive to the end of the walkway leading to the house. He tucked his jaw and stared at Slate, the challenge raw in his eyes. “I want to see my nephew.”

  Chapter 9

  The house was quiet. Becky tiptoed down the vast hall and poked her head into each open doorway she passed. She could have, probably should have, asked Slate where Mac was, but the shadows in his dark eyes and the angle of his jaw dared her to set him off. She didn’t know what she’d done, but she didn’t want to find out.

  The house couldn’t be that big anyway, right?

  Wrong.

  At the end of the hallway, furthest from the foyer, a door stood slightly ajar.

  She glanced down the empty hall and pushed the door open to see inside. A masculine room with browns, creams, and green accents decorated the large suite-style area. A picture of Mac and Slate rested on the nightstand beside the large, oh, extremely large, bed covered in a dark brown duvet with elk and deer appliquéd in a random pattern.

  Slate’s bed. She couldn’t stop staring. The room even smelled like him.

  A soft click startled Becky. She spun and gasped.

  From down the hall Amelia watched her with an arched brow.

  Clutching her hands in front of her, Becky walked to Amelia as if she hadn’t been looking through Slate’s room. “I found you. This place is huge.” She reached the blonde woman, jerking her head toward the closed door and ignoring the heat in her face. “How’s Mac doing, Amelia?”

  Dark shadows under the mother’s eyes couldn’t hide the excitement sparkling under her lashes. Amelia grasped Becky’s hand and shook with more strength than she appeared to have. “Oh, Dr. O’Donald, his fever is down and he drank some water.” Amelia stopped moving and leaned into Becky. “I didn’t even ask if it’s okay that he eat or drink. It is okay, right? I didn’t hurt him, did I?” True fear shook Amelia’s unsure hand. “Maybe that’s why he coughed?”

  Becky shook her head and patted Amelia’s fingers. “No, it’s fine. No solids for a few days. Ice cream, puddings, anything soft, okay?” She pointed at the door. “Do you think I can see him?”

  “Oh, of course.” Amelia waved Becky ahead of her.

  Hushed and warm, the room, or set of rooms, had been decorated in an undertone of extremely rough femininity from the driftwood wall hangings to the peach, green, and cream furnishings spread throughout the suite. A lone rug, approximately ten feet square, lay off to the side of the bed beside a modest fire place. The image came unbidden to Becky’s mind of Slate and Amelia wrapped in each other’s arms in a passionate embrace.

  Hell, as soon as she got back to her place, she was packing all of the romance novels she had and donating them to the local library. Passionate embrace, psht.

  Becky spied the small child bundled in blankets on the couch. A desk lamp glowed with a night light hue from across the room.

  She’d left her bag at the truck, hadn’t thought of it until that moment. Crap.

  Close to Mac, she pressed her palm to his forehead. His temperature had dropped. She pulled the covers back from his stomach and removed the bandage over his incision. No redness, irritation or swelling.

  Across the makeshift bed, Amelia touched her son’s arm and whispered, “He’s going to be okay, right? I’ve been so worried.”

  “Yep, so far so good. We’ll watch him for a few days, but as long as infection doesn’t set in, he’s good to go.” She matched her tone to Amelia’s and glanced toward the front of the house. “I better go. Slate and Ronan didn’t seem —”

  “Ronan? What do you mean ‘Ronan’?” Amelia stopped stroking Mac’s hand and stared, wide-eyed at Becky.

  “I mean, Ronan James? He drove me here from his ranch. The roads were so slick last night. I crashed my rig in a ditch not far from his place.” Becky re-covered Mac with his blankets and brushed his hair from his face. “Your son is so sweet. He looks just like his dad.” She didn’t mention the small pang that admission rang from her.

  She wanted to ask why Slate’s room didn’t seem to have any hint of Amelia in the decorating. The woman dripped feminism. Her room would have flowers and be decorated so well. Like the area Becky was in.

  “How do you know Mac’s father?” If possible, Amelia’s face whitened further.

  A deep chuckle, dry as gin, cut across Becky’s reply. Ronan’s broad shoulders seemed larger indoors. Mussed from the helmet, his blond hair complemented his dark brown eyes. “Most women know his father, Amelia. You’re not the only one and you know it.”

  Becky glanced at Amelia, then back at Ronan. Their coloring was extremely similar.

  “R.J. What the hell are you doing here?” A feisty spark Becky hadn’t expected lit up Amelia’s face, painting a deep flush over her becoming cheeks. Amelia spun, putting her body between the tall man and her son.

  Uncomfortable being the spectator in something she didn’t really want to know details about, Becky edged around the couch.

  Slate shoved through the door, cutting off Becky’s escape. His arms crossed over his chest and a scowl etched into his stubbly skin. Heaven help her, Becky wanted to touch his skin and see if the dark speckles were as rough as they appeared. She turned from him and the direction her thoughts had taken.

  “What? No ‘hello, how you doin’?’ I’m fine, thanks for asking.” Ronan moved into the room, angling his head to see the boy behind Amelia. “I came to see my
nephew, move so I can.”

  Nephew. He’d seemed curious about the goings on at the Lonely River Ranch the night before but he’d never mentioned he had vested interest in the residents.

  Clearing her throat, Becky smiled. The tension had to be imagined, then. They were all family. “Oh, I didn’t realize you were his uncle, Ronan. Why didn’t you say anything? I’m sure we could have come sooner.” Her voice trailed off.

  No one moved or agreed with her optimistic words.

  Ronan laughed, a deep rough sound. The man found everything amusing. Becky had a fleeting thought he might have something loose “upstairs”. “I’m not welcome, Doc. Am I, MacAllister?” He didn’t even look Slate’s way, but focused hungrily on the small boy.

  His steps slowed as he approached Amelia by the bed. But Ronan didn’t look at his sister. Ignored her attempts to seem bigger than she was. All his attention honed on Mac. His voice dropped to a whisper, as if he finally realized a child slept in the room. “He’s getting so big.” Ronan reached out a hand.

  Amelia’s hard voice ripped across the inches between them. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Amelia? Can I have a word?” Slate’s words chilled Becky’s spine with pleasure. Dang it, she was attracted to him and that annoyed her to no end. Amelia glanced between Ronan and Slate, as if undecided. Something in Slate’s face must have convinced her to join him. She threw a warning glance at her brother – and oh, if looks could growl.

  Slate nodded his head at Amelia as she approached.

  Becky shifted her feet. She’d never been a complete outsider before. She was the doctor. Usually people hung on her words, but at the moment no one even seemed to care she was there.

  Like conspirators, Slate pulled Amelia outside the door, leaving it open so she could poke her head through to check on the uncle and nephew. Snatches of speedy words catapulted through the door. But Becky didn’t care. Let the lovers fight.

  Ronan reached out his large hand and touched Mac’s ink-black locks. He murmured something Becky couldn’t make out over the increasing sounds from the hall. The drama was more than she wanted to deal with.

  Mac was fine. Becky ducked out the door and brushed past the quarrel going strong. She ignored Slate’s stare boring in her back. She didn’t need this crap.

  At the door, she debated her options. She could wait for Ronan to return her to the truck or… what? Set out on foot? And why not? She’d been all but trapped into the uncomfortable situation in the bedroom. Ronan could’ve told her the boy was his nephew, instead of pretending to be concerned about Becky. As attractive as he was, Becky had been more interested in getting back to check on Slate, no, wait, her patient.

  The storm had stopped sometime in the night. Becky had two good legs. Why the heck couldn’t she walk to her truck? Waiting on men had never been her style. Zipping her jacket tighter around her, she opened the door and slipped out.

  In the brisk morning air, Becky breathed in cool relief after the heat of Slate’s gaze. Snow crystals glistened in the rising sun.

  Montana had always called to her, but Becky didn’t do rural. She was into the city, the lights, the activities, the emergencies. Nothing happened in the wilds of the mountains and she needed the surgeries. True, she’d just followed up on a surgery she had performed, alone, on a kitchen counter, but they were few and far between.

  The only plus at the moment was the call of the clinic. With Roylance on sabbatical, Becky could focus on learning, studies, and of course, paying off her family’s debt. She couldn’t wait to document her first appendectomy on her blog.

  Her friends from med school were going to freak.

  Snow crunched beneath her boots. If she didn’t pick up the pace, she’d never get warm. Forcing her clenched fingers to relax, Becky sped up and swung her arms with a brisk desire to move her blood.

  Sometimes knowing the inner workings of the body had benefits, other times it bugged the hell out of her, like the mystique around “blowing smoke” when the cold air froze one’s breath. The science behind the freezing molecules couldn’t be cooler, but the fun in thinking one knows magic is sometimes better than science.

  Stomp, stomp. There it was, the flood of warmth she was looking for below her knees. On the driveway, the heat from the pavement didn’t radiate through her rubber boots and she considered going barefoot. But the driveway would end and then what – wet feet to put into dry socks. No thanks.

  So she walked down the drive while steam rose around her ankles.

  By the road, she tightened her jacket. Three snowmobile ski tracks let toward town, mere shadows in the whitened landscape. Even footprints didn’t mar the virgin scene. Yet.

  The sled’s engine roared from the house. Should she take the ride he was sure to offer or stick to her principles… and what would those be? Her truck hadn’t worked the last time she’d been in it. She needed a ride into town to call the local mechanic.

  Mrs. Roylance most likely had alerted the town’s gossips that Becky hadn’t returned the night before to her apartment.

  The engine growled alongside.

  Becky pumped her arms harder.

  It wasn’t Ronan on the snowmobile.

  Chapter 10

  He’d be damned if he’d let Ronan escort Becky back to wherever she needed to go. How had she ended up with R.J. anyway? Lacey Caverns had an onsite PA. They didn’t need a doctor.

  Stealing the snowmobile felt kind of good, all things considered. One thing Slate had to give R.J. credit for was his taste in toys. He’d always had the best in rigs, snowmobiles, four-wheelers, women. His tastes were untouched… except for Robbie. Slate’s brother pushed the boundaries for expensive taste. At least he had.

  She-Doc had a stride on her, surprising for a small pixie. Over the noise of the engine, Slate called out as he pulled beside her, “You walkin’ all the way to town?”

  Her green eyes slid to him and darted back to the hidden road. “I’m walking to…” She stopped and thrust her hands on her hips. Spinning toward him, she jutted her chin into the air, a habit of hers he was starting to like.

  Slate stopped the sled and shut off the engine.

  Her next words split through the sudden quiet. “Dammit, I don’t know how far I have to walk. My truck is rammed into the fence outside Ronan’s place. I couldn’t get it to start. I honestly don’t think I can make it to town.”

  Slate forced his gaze up from the rapid rise and fall of her chest, curves evident even under her coat and layers. Her full lips tightened under wide eyes. Damn, but the She-Doc was hot. He curled his lip. “Well, fortunately for you, I’m good at rescuing damsels in distress.” At the sudden flare in her eyes, he added, “It’s the least I can do, returning the favor. So far I owe you two lives, right? Mine and Mac’s?”

  The ire cooled in her stance and she glanced at the house. “What about Amelia and Ronan?” She nodded at his ride. “Isn’t that his?”

  Slate laughed and patted the seat behind him. She didn’t know it but with his nephew safe from the fever that had raged in his little body, Slate’s amicable demeanor could return.

  True, his least favorite person on earth was in his house, but come on, Slate would do anything to see family, too, even walk across the Lacey Caverns Ranch grounds, if that’s what it meant. He understood where R.J.’s need came from. Hadn’t Slate wished everyday for one more glimpse of his brother? “Nah, a little bit of sibling contention never hurt anyone. Plus, Amelia won’t raise her voice around the kid while he’s sleeping and R.J.’s too distracted by Mac to push her buttons.”

  Becky eased onto the long seat, perched on the edge of the sled, almost dangling from the back over the exhaust.

  Slate rolled his eyes. Okay. “Where to?” He reclaimed his seat and pulled the throttle. She couldn’t stay there forever. He revved and she clenched at the material of his large jacket. He grinned. And pushed the brake, slamming her small body into his back. Her shoulder connected with his spine. He bit bac
k a chuckle.

  She squeaked and then said. “Can you take me back to your place? I can call the mechanic and catch a ride into town with him. I need to be at the clinic by nine.”

  He heard her say something about turning around, but lost his focus as her hands rested at his waist. That would never do. He wanted her arms around his ribcage, her breasts pushed into his back, maybe even her cheek pressed between his shoulder blades. Another braking wouldn’t get her legs closer to his.

  Wait, had she said she needed to be to the clinic by nine? “You’ll never make it, if we go back to my place. I’ll run you in, won’t take more than fifteen minutes. Hang on.” He waited a moment for her to settle closer, but not long enough to give her time to protest before gunning the gas. Ah, and there they were, barely perceptible under all the layers of clothing between them. Firm and round and, damn, his mouth grew overly moist.

  Another plus side to leaving with Ronan’s ride, beside the obvious supple body nearly merged with his, included forcing Amelia to talk with Ronan. If they didn’t clear up the misunderstandings, Slate faced a very good chance of losing his ranch.

  R.J. owned the bank and Slate owed the bank money for his newest endeavor, for which he’d placed the ranch as collateral.

  Damn you, Robbie. Come home.

  ~~~

  The house was still standing when he returned home after the blissful twenty minutes on the snowmobile with Becky’s body bumping into his. She-Doc… hmmm.

  Slate parked the snowmobile.

  Moments after the engine fell silent, Ronan stormed from the front door, arms waving. “Who the hell do you think you are? I should’ve called the Sheriff on you, MacAllister. Stealing and kidnapping? That’s some nerve.” R.J. smacked his hand on the top of the helmet he’d retrieved from the deck.

  In too good a mood from Becky’s breasts, Slate clucked his tongue. “So sad, Ronan. You let the girl get away… again. How infuriating.”