Easy, boy.
Going off half-cocked was not going to solve this one. He’d already done that once tonight—okay, twice—and look where that had landed him. He had to think. Hard. Somehow find a way to get rid of the woman. Fast.
Before the need to be inside her again overwhelmed what was left of his rapidly dwindling mental capacity.
Damn, she’d felt good. And the way she’d held him close, kissed him long and tender, it was almost as though…
He slashed a hand roughly through his hair. No. All that was lies. Any emotion he’d felt in her response to him had been in his own desperate imagination.
He took a final calming breath and realized it was spiced with salsa and refried beans. There was a note on the table, which had been set for two.
“Hawk and Rhiannon, dinner’s on the stove when you finish your bath. I’m thinking I’ll have an early night. Hugs, Fitz.”
Hawk squeezed his temples between a thumb and forefinger. So he’d seen them together. Great. Lord knew what conclusions he’d leaped to. Hell. Redhawk was no monk and Fitz knew it, but he’d always kept his affairs off the ranch. What would the old man think about his foreman seducing his innocent niece right under his nose?
He snorted. Innocent, nothing. She’d watched him undress, worn a practically transparent slip and joined him in his bath without blinking an eye. All that pointed to premeditation. He was the one who’d been seduced.
But why?
Did she think he’d trade the ranch for the use of her body?
He frowned, anger filling him. It was possible. She hadn’t come across as that kind of woman, but…What other explanation was there? He had to find out.
The back door opened and Rhiannon walked in, her invisible dress clinging to her curves and dripping a trail of water on the floor as she beelined it to the laundry room. Belatedly, he realized she was carrying the dirty clothes he’d left hanging on the railing.
“I’ll take care of those,” he said, striding to catch up.
“That’s quite all right,” she said with her chin in the air.
He’d meant to protest further, but his attention snagged on her perfect bottom, perfectly visible through the drenched fabric as she bent over to put his things in the hamper. Before he was conscious of moving he was standing behind her, palms itching, battling not to flip up the thin see-through veil and take her again right there.
She turned, gasped at his nearness, and backed into the hamper so he had to reach out to catch her when she stumbled. Her eyes widened as he grasped her arm, pressing his fingers into her soft flesh. They stared silently at each other for an endless moment, sparks arcing between them. Her nipples peaked, swirling into tight, hard buds beneath the bodice she hadn’t bothered to button back up.
“Are you on the Pill?” he asked harshly, reality suddenly smacking him in the gut.
Her eyes narrowed. “’Tis a little late to be asking now, wouldn’t you say?” she retorted.
“At the time I didn’t think it mattered. I’d just asked you to marry me.”
Her mouth parted, surprise flitting across her face. After a slight hesitation she said, “No, I’m not on the Pill. But I counted days. We’re fine.”
“The rhythm method?” he asked, incredulous.
“I’m quite regular. Not that it will be an issue in future.” She tried tugging her arm from his grasp, but again he found perverse pleasure in preventing her escape.
“Oh?” He held on to her and slid a deliberate finger down the edge of her bodice. He wanted to push her, to find out what she was up to. But mostly he wanted to touch her again. “What makes you say that?”
She sucked in her breath when he slowly scraped aside the wet fabric covering her breast, exposing her, and trailed his knuckles over the pebbled tip.
“We both—” Her voice cracked.
“Both what?”
She cleared her throat. “Agreed that making love was a mistake.”
His mouth was watering so badly he barely resisted leaning down and sucking on her rosy nipple until she—
Damn.
He set his jaw and cupped her breast provokingly. “I believe what we did was have sex. And neither of us objected, so I noticed.” He squeezed her nipple gently between his fingers, making her whimper softly. He wanted to do more, do it harder, make her cry his name in pleasure-pain, but he forced himself to drop his hand and let her go.
“I’ll buy condoms,” he said levelly, and handed her a towel from the shelf. “Meanwhile, supper’s ready. Let’s eat.”
He turned and walked as calmly as he could back to the kitchen where he set about getting the food on the table. When she scurried past him to rush up the stairs, he called after her, “Five minutes. Don’t make me wait.”
He figured she’d disappear upstairs and try to hide out, but he wasn’t about to let her. He wanted her across the table from him, having to meet his eyes. He wanted to push her until she broke, one way or another.
To his surprise she appeared two minutes early, dressed and her hair combed and pulled back into a neat ponytail.
“Mr. Jackson,” she pronounced carefully.
He paused in dishing up the salad and nailed her with a bald look. If she was going to lecture him ten minutes after giving him the most intense sex of his life, she’d at least call him by his first name.
Her gaze flicked away momentarily, then returned to his face. “Redhawk,” she started again, then licked her lips and gave up. “Look, there’s something that needs saying here.”
If he’d thought he intimidated her with his boldness in the laundry room, he was obviously mistaken. She didn’t look the least bit intimidated.
“Yeah?” This ought to be interesting.
She sat up in her chair and straightened her silverware with long, tapered fingers. “I claim full responsibility for what happened out in the—” her hand fluttered “—outside tonight. I’m not proud of my behavior, but I fully acknowledge it.”
“Nothin’ wrong with your behavior,” he muttered, and took his seat. “I enjoyed every minute of it.”
She picked up her water glass and took a sip. He could see red-flagged reflections of her cheeks in the silvery liquid. “As I said, it would be wrong of us to marry simply because it’s convenient. And it would also be wrong of us to continue…to continue to—”
He helpfully supplied a word that made her choke on her water and her cheeks turn scarlet.
“Exactly,” she managed after coughing a moment. “Simply because we are attracted to each other and find ourselves living under one roof doesn’t mean we have to lower our standards.”
“Thanks very much,” he said, regarding her sardonically.
“Standards of behavior,” she huffed. “I didn’t mean—Oh, honestly.” She picked up her fork and took a bite of salad. Her eyes widened and she took a quick gulp of water. “What is that?”
“Red-chili-pepper dressing. Too hot for you?”
She waved her napkin in front of her mouth. “Surprised me. I wasn’t expecting salad to be spicy.”
He tipped his head. “Everything’s spicy in Arizona. Better get used to it. Now, about us—” she snapped him a glare and he held up his hands “—having sex.”
“It won’t happen again,” she said succinctly.
He bet she even believed that. “Then why did you seduce me tonight?”
She did her best to look indignant. “I didn’t.”
He scraped up his last bite of salad and started to dish the steaming tamales onto their plates. “Bull.”
Avoiding his eyes, she nibbled on her salad. Finally she murmured, “I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to get your attention. Find out why you don’t like me.”
“I like you. And you had my full attention from the first moment I saw you with that steer.”
“Because you thought I was a rustler.”
He shrugged. “What difference does it make?”
She shrugged back. “None. This is go
od.” She indicated the tamales.
“Not too spicy for you?”
She leveled him a look. “I like spicy.”
“Then let me share your bed.” It was out before he could stop it.
Her lips parted in surprise, then closed. “No.”
He shoved away his half-eaten meal. Feeling petulant. And unreasonably angry. He knew he had no right. None at all. He was being stupid and irrational. It was just…
Damn, he wanted her again. Wanted to feel her heat surrounding him. Her curves against him. Her soft moans in his ear.
Hell and damnation.
Of all the women to lust after, this was exactly the wrong one. He’d already realized what a huge mistake that marriage proposal had been. After that, she would never believe his wanting her had nothing to do with the ranch.
Hell, he didn’t believe it.
How could this have happened to him in less than forty-eight hours?
He clenched his jaw.
Hormones, that’s how. That had to be it. He refused to believe these strange feelings were anything more than a whopping case of raging hormones.
“Fine,” he said, calmly and reasonably. Then he calmly and reasonably pulled his plate back and calmly and reasonably began eating again.
There. See? He could be calm and reasonable about this.
“Burton Grant seemed nice,” she said. “What’s Fitz—”
She looked up and halted in midsentence.
Or not.
He jumped to his feet and stalked to the door. Whirling, he pointed a warning finger at her. “Stay. Away. From Burton. Grant.”
Chapter 5
W ell!
If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought Redhawk was jealous.
But she did know better.
Despite her clear refusal, that night and every night for the next week Rhiannon went to bed half expecting him to creep into her darkened room, slip between the sheets and have his jealous, passionate way with her.
Obviously, wishful thinking.
It had been a whole week since their encounter in the trough, and he’d made no attempt to change her mind about repeating it.
In fact, he’d been avoiding her.
He was doing so even now. After dinner he’d mumbled something about bills and buried himself in paperwork at the small, cluttered desk in the corner of the living room and hadn’t looked up since. He didn’t appear happy.
He could probably use a beer. Rhiannon fetched a bottle and twisted off the cap, setting it in front of him, then stood there, arms folded.
“How many of those do we have left?” he growled, eyeing the beer, a scowl darkening his handsome face.
“Most of a carton,” she answered, somewhat surprised at the topic he chose to fuss over this time. He’d been fussing at her all week. And the nicer she’d tried to be, the more and longer he’d fussed.
He jetted out an irritated breath. “Great. Guess we’d better start rationing.”
With a raised brow, she scanned the papers strewn in front of him, immediately recognizable as invoices and bank statements. “Is it that bad?”
“Worse.” He grabbed the bottle and took a long draught. His old-fashioned wooden office chair creaked as he shifted his large frame to lean back in it. His eyes were tired and filled with worry and frustration. “We barely have enough money for food and propane through the winter. Thank God Fitz installed those solar-powered batteries way back when, or we wouldn’t have electricity for lights and the water pump.”
She glanced over at the woodstove in the middle of the room. “Guess I’d better add chopping wood to my list of chores.”
“You know how to use an ax?”
“I can learn.”
He looked none too happy over that prospect, either. He was still in a twist that she’d insisted on taking over several of his outdoor chores along with the house cleaning and laundry. It annoyed her to no end that he didn’t believe her capable of doing these things.
She was about to tell him exactly where he could stuff his male chauvinism, when it suddenly struck her that the reaction she was seeing might go much deeper than mere masculine pride. Could Redhawk be the kind of man who wanted to take care of everyone and everything himself? That not being able to do so was making him angry?
She swallowed her retort and asked instead, “Can’t you sell some of the cattle?”
“Not until spring, unless we want to take a real dive on the price. And even then, the rustlers have hit us so hard we have to make damned sure every last one of the herd survives the winter in good health. Otherwise we won’t earn enough money even come springtime, and we won’t have enough calves born to replace the steers we sell, so things will be even tighter next year.”
He closed his eyes and swiped a hand over his forehead, pushing back the errant lock of raven-black hair that had fallen out of place. He looked so like a lost little boy trying desperately to find his way in the dark. Her heart went out to him. She wanted nothing more than to round the desk and take him in her arms. To comfort him, and assure him she’d help.
“What I’m really worried about,” he said, yanking her back to the real world, “is Fitz’s medication. It’s so damned expensive. I’ve run the numbers over and over again, and there’s just no way to squeeze it all in. It’s either food or his medicine.”
A sickening sense of dread washed over her. And déjà vu. She recalled vividly counting out dole pennies during the last year her mother was alive. Pennies to pay the rent, pennies to pay the butcher and the green grocer. There’d seldom been enough left over to pay for her mother’s cancer medication. Certainly none to pay for the expensive treatments that might have saved her life.
Her heart sank. This was all her fault. If Fitz hadn’t spent all their money on a plane ticket for her…
“Buy the medicine,” she said, swallowing the bitter lump of guilt rising in her throat. “I’ll find a way to get food.”
Hawk’s expression mocked. “How?”
“I’ll plant a vegetable garden.”
“Too late. It’s September. It’ll start snowing soon.”
“I’ll get a job.”
“Where? Doing what? Besides, foreigners aren’t allowed to work here without a work permit. Getting one can take years—unless you marry a U.S. citizen.”
She ignored that last comment, delivered in a sardonic tone. “I’ll find a way,” she told him.
And she would. There wasn’t a chance she would go through that torture again—having to choose between starving to death and watching someone you love waste away. She’d sell herself on a street corner before that happened again.
So the next morning, while Redhawk was out checking the cattle and Fitz was watching his favorite game shows on television, Rhiannon climbed in the Jeep and drove into town to find a job.
She started at one end of the few blocks that made up the not-so-sprawling metropolis of Windmill Junction and worked her way down the dusty line of shops, inquiring if they were looking for help.
Nobody asked about a work permit. But nobody was hiring, either.
“Have you tried Jake’s?” the girl from the western-wear shop where she’d bought her jeans suggested.
“The saloon?”
“Yeah. I heard Josie up and lit out with a traveling art salesman from Wichita two weeks ago.”
“Josie?”
“The barmaid.”
She shouldn’t ask, but couldn’t resist. “Traveling art salesman?”
The salesgirl winked. “Most of his paintings were real ugly. But the guy was cute.” She snapped her gum. “A real son of a gun.”
Rhiannon smiled cluelessly and thanked her, heading for Jake’s. What the heck was a son of a gun?
A barmaid, on the other hand, she knew. Could she do that? She thought about the pubs back home and decided they couldn’t be much different here. Just other brands of beer. She’d never worked in a pub, but how hard could it be? The tricky part would be convin
cing Jake—or whoever owned Jake’s—to hire a foreigner with no work permit.
By the time she went through the swinging doors she had her strategy set.
As it turned out, Jake wasn’t all that worried about the technicalities of immigration law. But it made her very nervous that Deputy Sheriff Burton Grant was sitting on the next stool the whole time, listening to their conversation. He even nodded approvingly when she suggested Jake buy Fitz’s medicine instead of giving her a paycheck.
“We can figure out how many hours I need to work to make it an even trade,” she said.
“Smart,” Burt remarked. “The old geezer is damned lucky to have you for a niece.”
“Naturally, you can keep any tips you make,” Jake told her. “Wear somethin’ short ’n’ tight and you can pull in a right tidy sum on the weekends.” He grinned. “Can you start tonight? Bein’ Friday night it’ll be crazy busy. I could really use the help.”
“Yes, indeed. Thank you, Mr—”
“Just Jake. See you at eight.”
“Maybe I’ll drop by,” Burt Grant said with a broad smile.
“That would be lovely,” she said, smiling back.
Too late she remembered Redhawk’s warning.
Pleased with the progress he’d made in Crimson’s training, Hawk rubbed the colt’s neck and fed him his reward carrot for standing perfectly still as Hawk removed the saddle. Timing was everything in both cowboying and rodeoing, so a good mount knew to stand steady in all situations.
Now for something more fun. Well, dead serious, but it looked a bit like a parlor trick. Hawk always trained all his horses to “wake me up.” You never knew when you’d be knocked unconscious in either line of work, so it was good to know your horse would automatically rouse you back to the world of the living. In both the desert and the rodeo ring, that could mean the difference between life and death.
Hawk dropped down on the dusty ground of the corral and lay perfectly still. Sure enough, Crimson trotted up and started breathing in his face. It was tough not to laugh. The colt’s stiff whiskers tickled his cheek, and his breath smelled like old hay. After a moment his soft muzzle began to prod at Hawk’s ear and his breath came in hard bursts accompanied by several loud nickers. Yet he was careful not to jostle Hawk’s head. There was always the risk of a spinal injury with unconsciousness, so he taught the horse not to move the person, just wake him up.
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