Best of Cowboys Bundle

by Vicki Lewis Thompson, Barbara White Daille, Judy Christenberry, Christine Wenger, Shirley Rogers, Crystal Green, Nina Bruhns, Candance Schuler, Carole Mortimer

  Fitz sat back down, a sad-dreamy look coming over him. “Nah, I’m t’inking I’ll stay home. Expecting a phone call.”

  “Okay, old man.” Redhawk sighed, knowing Fitz hadn’t gotten a call past 6:00 p.m. in years. “If you’re sure.”

  “Give my love to Janet,” Fitz said, picking up the remote. “Treat her right, Jamie lad, or I’ll steal her for meself.”

  Jake’s was packed and rockin’ by the time Hawk strolled in through the swinging doors wearing his newest blue jeans and best white western shirt. His hair was wet-combed, and he’d even polished his black boots.

  God knew why. Not like he had anyone to impress.

  A chorus of howdy’s and hey pard’s greeted him as he pushed through the crowd and past the pallet stage where a four-piece local band was whining out an off-key country tune.

  “Lookin’ good, cowboy,” said a sultry voice above the din. “Long time no see.”

  “Teresa,” he said, turning to accept a hug from his ex-girlfriend. “How you been, darlin’?”

  “Missing you, baby. Buy me a beer?”

  He calculated the wisdom of such a move, and decided it would not be wise at all. Teresa was a knockout, and way too high maintenance for him. Besides, their short but intense relationship had been over a long time ago, even if he’d occasionally relapsed since. She was a hard woman to say no to. But looking into her dark, heavily made up eyes, suddenly he wondered what he’d ever seen in her.

  “Sorry, darlin’,” he said, pulling the five-dollar bill he’d allowed himself for this fool’s errand out of his pocket and snapped it between his fingers. “This has to last me all night.”

  She pouted prettily. “Damn, sugar. Those rustlers must have done a real number on you. Guess I’ll just have to buy you one.” She looped her wrist through his arm and led him to a table packed with several of their rowdier friends and a couple of men he didn’t recognize.

  “Make room, guys,” Teresa ordered, and tugged him down on the bench next to her.

  “Can I get you something?”

  He looked up at the familiar lilt and found an unfamiliar chill in Rhiannon’s eyes as they met his.

  “Rhee,” Teresa said before he could open his mouth. “My friend here will have a longneck and I’ll have another draft. Put them both on my tab.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rhiannon answered sweetly and strode off without looking at him again.

  Hawk hid a wince. Calling Teresa “ma’am” was a surefire way of making an enemy for life.

  “Say,” Teresa said after a few minutes of amusing the men with bawdy stories about her latest ex-boyfriend, with whom everyone at the table was well acquainted, “isn’t that Irish waitress the one who’s living with you? Some kind of relative of your boss?”

  “Fitz’s niece,” he supplied casually. “Yeah. She’s sleeping in my bed.”

  The conversation came to an abrupt halt. At that exact moment Rhiannon returned with the beers and smacked them down in front of him and Teresa. The men at the table grinned at her with sudden open interest and the women giggled, except for Teresa, who looked like she was contemplating homicide. Rhiannon glanced around in confusion, her face flushing at the stark assessment in the men’s eyes. She pinned him with a scowl and stomped off.

  “’Course,” he added then, “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

  “Oh, you!” Teresa exclaimed, hitting him in the arm.

  “Then you won’t care if I ask her out,” said one of the men he didn’t know, leaning into the aisle to watch Rhiannon in her tight jeans weave in and out among the patrons, carrying her round tray filled with drinks. Jake must have given her one of the official bar T-shirts which she’d cut off at the arms and midriff into a kind of crop-top muscle shirt. Damn, she looked sexy.

  Hawk took a long sip from his bottle before facing his challenger. “Don’t believe I know you,” he said. The guy looked a few years older than Hawk’s thirty-six, with a passable appearance but a bit weasly.

  “Name’s Jeremy Lloyd.” No smile.

  Lloyd. Sounded vaguely familiar. “You from around here, Lloyd?”

  “Four generations.”

  Hawk dredged out a distant memory. “From down on the Lost Man Ranch?”

  “That’s me.” Lloyd’s lips finally moved upward, but Hawk wouldn’t exactly call it a smile. “What about you, Jackson?”

  Hawk lifted his beer in a salute. “Nobody from nowhere. Just a hired hand.”

  Jeremy Lloyd’s gaze slid back to Rhiannon, who was laughing with some cowboy trying to buy her a drink. “Mighty pretty gal,” he said. “Wouldn’t blame you if you got lost on the way to the couch one night.”

  “I think you better shut up,” Hawk said, grinding his teeth together.

  “Now, baby, she’s not worth a fight. Let’s go dance, okay, sugar?” Teresa pushed at him until he got up from the bench, and she hopped to her feet after him. “Oh, good! I love this song.”

  He balked at putting his arms around Teresa in a slow dance. “Darlin’, I’m not really in the mood. Thanks for the beer.”

  He gave her a peck on the cheek, turned decisively for the bar where he’d seen one of his good buddies shooting the breeze with Jake, and left her standing there with her forehead scrunched and her toe tapping. Aw, she’d get over it. She could have any man here. Any man but him. Tonight he only had eyes for a certain red-haired Irish sprite with a fiery temper and a touch to match.

  Hell, was he ever in trouble.

  He squeezed in at the very corner where the bar met the wall and tried to look invisible. Naturally she spotted him right off. And proceeded to ignore him all night. Except when she seemed to take extra delight in flirting with all the best-looking cowboys in the place, then she’d flash him a triumphant glare. The little witch.

  He ignored her right back, talking to his buddies, and casually observing every man in the room, trying to figure out who could be involved in the rustling ring. He’d decided it had to be locals running it. The hits seemed a little too well timed to be random. And that meant inside information.

  Unfortunately, scrutinizing all the men also meant Rhiannon was constantly waltzing through his field of vision bringing them drinks and joking with them. So between thinking about one of his neighbors ripping him off and watching his woman flirt with every guy in pants, he just got angrier and angrier.

  Wait just a second. His woman? No way.

  Clearly it’d been hugely stupid coming here tonight. By half an hour to closing, he knew he had to get out or risk making an ass of himself.

  He thanked his friends, who’d heard about the latest rustling incident and seen to it he never had an empty bottle in his hand, waved to Jake and headed for the door.

  “Leaving so soon?”

  Rhiannon appeared in front of him, tray lifted and jaw jutted.

  “You care?”

  “Heavens, no. It’ll be a relief to be out from under your black scowl.” She pretended to look around. “Where’s your pretty little brunette friend? I’m sure she’ll be disappointed. Baby,” she added in a perfect imitation of Teresa’s desert drawl.

  His lips twitched with satisfaction. He had to admit, Teresa had done her worst, swinging back to hang off his arm every time she thought Rhiannon was looking. He’d tried to discourage her. Really he had. But the woman was mule stubborn.

  “Jealous?”

  “In your dreams.” She turned on the toe of her silly pink boot and started to walk off.

  Sure. “Rhiannon.”

  She stopped but didn’t turn back. “What is it, then?”

  It was all he could do to stop himself from grabbing her and dragging her out with him. “I’ll expect you home in an hour.”

  Her spine straightened a fraction just before she strode off without comment. He forced himself to stride with equal determination through the swinging doors and out to his truck, the effect being spoiled only marginally by his tired, uneven gait.

  Wrenching open the truck doo
r, he cursed inwardly. This was not working. He had to get hold of himself. There were too many real problems to deal with on the ranch to spend this kind of energy on a libido gone haywire.

  One way or another he would have to put this uneasy thing between him and Rhiannon to rest. Too bad the only way he could think of required her being naked and him on top of her. And for that to happen he’d probably have to hog-tie her to the bed.

  He swore roundly and gunned the truck to life, grateful for the long drive home to cool off. That was an altogether too potent image to dwell on.

  One thing was for damned hellfire certain. This had to stop or he’d go stark raving mad.

  Tonight he’d confront her. Though he didn’t have a clue what he’d say.

  Maybe he wouldn’t say anything at all. Maybe he’d just haul her to him and kiss her until she gave in to what they both wanted.

  Yeah. That sounded good.

  He drilled his hand through his hair. Or maybe he should just grow up and stop acting like a horny teenager.

  Probably the better choice.

  But his traitorous mind was suddenly flooded with memories of sleeping with her last night—just sleeping. He wasn’t exactly sure how he’d gotten there, but in the middle of the night he’d woken up to find himself in his own bed with his arms wrapped around Rhiannon, who was snuggled up to his chest slumbering peacefully. It’d been…nice. Real nice. Of course, he’d had to get up at dawn, before he started getting ideas. But he hadn’t slept so well in…well, frankly ever.

  Maybe that’s what they could do. Just sleep together. Share the bed and the warmth. No sex. Just closeness.

  Yeah. That sounded good, too. And more likely to happen.

  That’s what he’d suggest to her. Just as soon as she got home from work, he’d ask her.

  “Rhiannon,” he’d say. “Will you please, for pity’s sake just sleep with me?”

  Rhiannon pulled the Jeep up to the ranch house, switched off the engine and stretched her aching body before getting out.

  What a night. She could barely stay up to speed and keep the drinks straight, let alone with Redhawk-bleeding-Jackson watching her every move from the shadows. By the saints!

  But again it had been worth the hard work and frustration. Tonight over sixty dollars in tips filled her jeans pocket with its comforting bulk. Sixty dollars! She might even be able to buy herself a new blouse to wear to work. The cut-up T-shirt had been Jake’s idea, and it was slightly embarrassing to appear in public wearing something hacked off with a pair of blunt scissors. Though, she had to concede, the customers seemed to like it.

  But this time Redhawk wouldn’t get a single penny of the money. She was furious over him spending her hard-earned tips buying beers at Jake’s just so he could spy on her. What did he think she’d do? Pick out a new man for every week?

  She grabbed her sweater and boots from the seat and walked to the house in her new flip-flops—her big purchase for the day—tiptoeing when she got inside. She needn’t have bothered. Fitz’s door was closed as always this time of night—and Hawk was not fast asleep on the sofa as she’d expected—or rather, hoped.

  She glanced nervously up the stairs. Could he be up in her bed again? A shiver sifted through her body. After the way he’d watched her in the bar tonight, he probably wouldn’t be content with just sleeping this time.

  A sudden, sickening thought jolted through her. Unless…unless he was with someone else, and that’s why he wasn’t on the sofa. That petite, beautiful brunette might be holding him in her arms at this very moment.

  Rhiannon felt like someone had smacked her hard.

  Then she took a deep breath. Well, fine. If that’s what he wanted, it was just fine and dandy with her. Who needed the beastly man anyway? Certainly not her. He had the disposition of a badger and the manners of a hungry wolf.

  She’d be far better off with him distracted by some other hapless female. Let someone else contend with his bloody moods.

  She marched up the stairs, her new flip-flops snapping against the oak risers, each snap louder than the last. She flung open the bedroom door. When she saw the empty bed, her heart constricted. But only for the merest second. Then she breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Good,” she said firmly. “And good riddance.”

  She flung down her things and marched to the window to let in some fresh air. She raised the sill—

  And saw him. Lounging in the water trough. Alone.

  The noise must have alerted him, for he looked up and saluted her with the bottle in his hand. A beer bottle.

  That’s it. This was the last straw.

  It took her about ten seconds to steam downstairs and out to the trough, glower down at him and demand, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Havin’ a soak and waiting for you. Here, have a beer.” He twisted off the cap and offered her the bottle.

  She exploded. “How dare you spend the money I gave you on beers all night and then come home and drink the ones you told me to ration?” She’d wanted to scream the words, but was proud that they came out only as a low, intense hiss.

  A muscle below his left eye twitched, the only outward sign that he’d heard her. “Do you see any other bottles sittin’ around? Empty or not?” he asked, still holding the bottle aloft for her.

  She faltered, and glanced around. “No,” she had to admit.

  “I’ve had enough to drink tonight. This was for you. I thought you’d be thirsty after working so hard. Take it.”

  “Oh.” Embarrassed, she did as he asked.

  Meanwhile he’d dug something out of the pocket of the white shirt that was hanging on the fence post and handed it to her. She looked down and realized it was the thirty dollars she’d given him earlier.

  “But—”

  “Where I come from, friends take care of each other when they’re down on their luck. I didn’t spend a dime tonight.”

  Shame heated her face and neck. “I’m sorry. I thought…”

  The muscle twitched again. “Well, don’t. You don’t know anything about me, so don’t try to second-guess my behavior.”

  “No,” she said, thoroughly chastised.

  “Now,” he said in a low growl. “Take off your clothes and get in the damn water.”

  Shock blazed a trail through Rhiannon’s insides, burning away all traces of the shame she’d been feeling. And replaced it with an unwelcome mix of anger and…searing physical need.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Shy?”

  “No,” she gasped, focusing on the anger. Ignoring the temptation of his beckoning hand. “But if you think—”

  He wagged a finger at her. “There you go again, second-guessing my motives.”

  She drew herself up. “Your motives, Mr. Jackson, are clearly visible to anyone looking.”

  She tried valiantly but couldn’t prevent her gaze from dipping south. Just as she thought. Plain as day, even in the murky moonlight. And growing. Oh, mercy.

  “Get in, Miz O’Brannoch, and I’ll show you you’re wrong.”

  She swallowed. She doubted it. “About what?”

  “Everything.”

  She doubted that, too. “I’m tired. I need to get some sleep.”

  “I won’t touch you,” he said.

  She regarded him skeptically.

  “I promise I won’t. Even if you beg.”

  “I don’t beg.”

  But she blushed and turned away, because they both knew it wasn’t true. She’d begged him last week in this very place, as they were joined together, for things she hadn’t even known she wanted.

  “Then I’ll beg,” he said, his voice gravelly like the landscape around them.

  “No,” she whispered quietly. Almost desperately. “You mustn’t. Because if you do, I might give in. And we shouldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  She shook her head. Unwilling to discuss it. She turned to leave.

  His hand shot out and grabbed her calf. “Why shou
ldn’t we?”

  “Because you don’t really want me. You only want the ranch.”

  With that, she handed him back the beer and hurried across the pasture to the house. To escape.

  Because she couldn’t believe how much the truth of that hurt.

  Sunday morning Rhiannon was awakened by the sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway below. It was late again, after ten, but she felt as though she hadn’t gotten more than a few seconds of sleep. Thinking about Redhawk and his tempting bedroom eyes. Tossing and turning. Wishing he were there with her.

  Had she been wrong to turn him down last night? Did it matter so much that he had an ulterior motive for making love to her? They were both adults. As long as she clung tightly to her heart and didn’t let him steal that along with her inheritance, maybe taking him for a lover wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

  The night he’d spent in her bed had been so nice. It had felt so good to sleep tucked securely into his warm embrace, the dusky smell of him dancing through her senses, the rhythm of his deep, even breaths soothing her like a lullaby. It would be heaven to have him there every night….

  She groaned in frustration, then heard voices below and flung off the covers. Enough. Mooning over the man would solve nothing. She’d decide about him later. After she found out what all the fuss was about downstairs.

  It turned out to be Burton Grant, again.

  “The M.E. identified the body found on your property,” Burt announced, taking a seat at the kitchen table across from Hawk while Rhiannon poured three mugs of coffee.

  “Who was it?” Hawk asked.

  “Itinerant ranch hand named Rudy Balboa,” Burt said, watching him closely.

  Hawk shook his head. “Don’t know him. Who’d he work for?”

  Burt took a sip of coffee and consulted a small notebook from his pocket. “The past few years he’s been at the Bar-T, the Sanderson place, up at Lost Man Ranch, and he spent a few months at a big spread down in Yavapai County.”

  Hawk’s head shot up as she handed him his mug. “The Lost Man?”

  “Know it?”

  “Met the owner, or maybe his son, last night at Jake’s.” He glanced at her. “Didn’t like him much.”