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

  “How did this Rudy Balboa die?” she asked, squirming under Hawk’s frown as she sat down next to him. She didn’t know why he was looking at her like that. She hadn’t done anything at Jake’s last night other than work. Unlike him.

  “The findings are still preliminary, but it appears he died from a crushed skull. Trampled by a bovine type animal, judging by the bone indentations.”

  That whipped Hawk’s attention back to Burt. “Damn!” he said, vaulting to his feet. “Balboa must have been one of the rustlers!”

  “You sure he never worked for you or Fitz?”

  “Positive. Not in the last eleven years, anyway.”

  The deputy slowly closed his notebook. “Any idea why he was killed on Irish Heaven property? You didn’t happen to run into him before he died, did you?”

  Hawk’s eyes narrowed in anger. “What are you trying to say, Grant?”

  “Nothing. Just keep yourself available in case we have more questions for you. Meanwhile, we’ll look into the rustling angle. The Cattlemen’s Association is putting big-time pressure on us to find these guys.”

  “I understand they’ve offered a sizable reward for the arrest of the cattle thieves,” Rhiannon said to break the mounting tension.

  Burt rose and tugged on his Smokey hat. “That’s right.” He gave Hawk a sideways glance. “Enough to start a man off with his own place.”

  “Or woman,” she said, and both men turned to stare at her. “Well, a woman could be involved,” she stated defensively.

  “I suppose,” Burt said with a shade of indulgence. “In any case, it might tempt one of the gang to turn in the others.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Hawk said. “Keep me informed, all right?”

  “You’ll be the first to know.” He turned to her. “Walk me out, Rhiannon?”

  She didn’t dare look at Hawk. She could feel his reaction in the sudden negative electricity charging the atmosphere, which had already been taut. “Of course.”

  She slipped on her boots and went out into the bright, late-summer day, walking with Burt to his sheriff’s cruiser. Her hair flew around in the hot wind and her skin felt instantly sucked dry of moisture. It was going to be a scorcher, as they said here.

  “I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me sometime this week.” Burt leaned against the cruiser, his eyes in the shadow of his hat brim. “Some evening you’re not working.”

  Rhiannon studied her boots and toed a sparkly bit in the sand. “Um, I appreciate the offer, but, it might be, um, difficult,” she hedged. She liked Burt, but not in that way. And she didn’t want to lead him on.

  He studied her with a small frown. “You and Jackson?”

  She turned toward the towering cliffs so the hot air hit her face. She closed her eyes, acutely aware of the unfamiliar sensation of heat and wind together buffeting over her body. In Ireland, breezes were always chilly and laden with cold mist. This felt strangely exciting, though she knew it would ruin her complexion.

  “No,” she answered finally. “Not exactly. It’s just…complicated. What happened with you and Fitz?” she asked, to deflect the conversation from the subject of Redhawk. “To make him dislike you?”

  He gave a shrug. “Hell if I know. I figure it’s because my people are Irish Protestant. But it might also have something to do with my dad. I gather there was a bit of controversy when Fitz first arrived and bought up this land all those years ago. Not sure what the story was, though.”

  He opened the cruiser door and slid in.

  “Sorry about dinner,” she said, watching him buckle up.

  “I hope to change your mind. Listen,” he said, face inscrutable. “I want you to be careful around Jackson. Let me know if he does anything suspicious.”

  “Hawk? You really think he had something to do with this murder?” She made a face. “That’s madness.”

  “So I guess you know about his cousin.” It wasn’t a question, but he waited, as though he fully expected her to say no.

  “I know he’s not close with any of his family.”

  Burt chuckled humorlessly. “No. I s’pose not. That would be tough. Since the man is in jail.”

  She knew better than to react. Or read anything into that fact. Her own father had died in prison, for pity’s sake. But she couldn’t help asking. “For what?”

  “He got eight to fifteen years,” Burt said. The cruiser’s tires started crunching gravel and his mouth thinned. “For attempted murder.”

  Chapter 7

  A ttempted murder. Well, now. It seemed to Rhiannon she had more in common with Redhawk than she’d imagined.

  As she walked back to the house, she could feel his gaze follow her from the living room window. It had undoubtedly been Burt’s intent to make her feel more nervous around Hawk. But instead she felt…closer to him. She, too, had born the brunt of public opinion—for better or worse—through no fault of her own.

  “I hear your cousin is in prison,” she remarked, trailing him back to the kitchen.

  “That’s what Grant wanted to tell you?” he said disgustedly as he refilled their coffee mugs.

  “Among other things.” She sat down across from him. “Attempted murder. That’s what my da was convicted of by the British, you know. Seven counts.” Her father had been lucky none of those seven people died, or he’d have been six feet under long before he succumbed to complications from pneumonia. “That and domestic terrorism, of course.”

  “IRA?”

  She nodded. But that no more made her a murderer than Hawk’s cousin made one of him.

  “Tough break. I wondered why you reacted so strongly when Fitz admitted to being in the IRA.”

  “I was brought up to abhor the violence. My mother hated what it did to my family. She never forgave Da. Ever.”

  “Or Fitz, either, I’m guessing. Since she didn’t come to Arizona like she promised.”

  “Jamie, lad!” Fitz appeared suddenly in the doorway in his pajamas. “Should we be runnin’ to warn t’others?”

  “It’s Hawk, Fitz. And no, I think we’re safe for now.” Hawk walked over to put his hand gently on her uncle’s shoulder. “Why don’t you get dressed, old man, and I’ll make you some breakfast.”

  Fitz searched Hawk’s face uncertainly, then glanced over at her. Shock registered in his eyes and he looked quickly back to Hawk. “Hawk,” he said, his voice strained by confusion.

  “Redhawk, your foreman. And that’s your niece, Rhiannon. She looks a lot like her mother, Janet, doesn’t she?”

  Rhiannon felt the sting of tears as she watched her uncle grapple with not knowing who they were. Would the fog be there for a minute, or an hour, this time?

  He was getting worse, she thought with despair. Even in the short time she’d been at Irish Heaven, she could see the downward spiral of his disease.

  With a breaking heart, she watched Hawk soothingly squeeze Fitz’s shoulder and lead him back to his room to help him dress. He followed along docilely. Even in his dementia, her uncle knew instinctively to trust Hawk. Poor Hawk; she could see in his eyes this was killing him. What would he do when he lost his mentor and best friend permanently to the darkness?

  What would he do when he lost the ranch to her?

  Blinking to clear her watery vision, she went to the stove to start some oatmeal cooking, which was Fitz’s favorite. And made a silent pledge to herself.

  They were going to make it. The three of them. Together. They would stay on Irish Heaven and no one and nothing would ever make any of them leave. Not disease. Not rustlers. Not well-meaning sheriffs. Not a will.

  This was her home now, and she’d do everything in her power to make sure it stayed a home to the others, too. During the day she’d do the ranch chores and Hawk would take care of the cattle and horses. At night she’d work at Jake’s to see they had money for essentials and Fitz’s medicine while Hawk did the books and rested his knee for the next day.

  Romance had no place in her scheme. It didn’t
matter if she and Hawk were attracted to each other. It didn’t matter if she yearned to take him to her bed and let him make long, slow love to her. That’s not the kind of relationship he was interested in anyway, slow and loving. Besides, they’d be too busy. They would both have to focus in order to make the ranch prosper.

  And prosper it would, she vowed, if it took every last ounce of strength she had to make it happen.

  Something had changed in her.

  Redhawk lay quietly on the couch listening to Rhiannon’s soft footsteps as she tiptoed past him to the stairs. She was always so considerate of his sleep when she returned late from work, silent as a wisp of cloud drifting by in the night.

  Little did she know he was never asleep. Not until he knew she was safely home.

  After that first Saturday night, he hadn’t gone back to Jake’s. She was just doing her job; he knew that. But he hated watching her laugh and talk with other men. Watching them flirt with her and ask her out. Burton Grant hadn’t stopped asking her out since that day six weeks ago when he’d practically accused Hawk of murder. He knew because Teresa kept calling every week to give him bitchy little updates, hoping to rile him into going out with her again, now that she was between boyfriends. Not that it had worked.

  Jeremy Lloyd had also tried his hand with Rhiannon, asking her to a meal before work one day just last week. She’d gone, too. That he knew because Rhiannon actually told him. She’d said it was only to find out any information she could about Rudy Balboa, since the cops had hit a dead end in their investigation. Unfortunately, Lloyd had told her nothing. But strangely enough, Hawk believed her about the reason.

  Probably because she’d been working like a prairie fire, relentlessly consuming every task in her path, living on air and adrenaline. Making sure Hawk had time to concentrate on the herd, Crimson’s training and on doing the ten-page list of overdue repairs that had piled up all over Irish Heaven since the last ranch hand had been let go. She had no energy left for anything else, she’d say to Fitz on his good days over breakfast when they chatted about how her shift went at the bar the night before.

  That was for damned sure. In the six weeks since Hawk’s last encounter with her out at the water trough, she’d barely been in the same room as him, unless Fitz was there, too.

  He missed her.

  “Rhiannon?” he called softly when the staircase creaked as she went upstairs to her room. He heard her almost silent halt.

  “Yes?”

  “Good night, darlin’.”

  After a moment, she murmured, “Good night, Hawk,” and continued up the stairs.

  Six weeks of loneliness and frustration, catching glimpses of her only in passing.

  Six weeks of torture, wanting her so much his throat ached.

  He let out a deep sigh. How he wished he could join her!

  But it was better this way. Best not to get close to her. Because when the will was eventually read and the worst happened, he wanted to be able to limp away with at least his heart in tow.

  He wasn’t right for her. She knew it. He knew it. He had nothing to offer her except the shirt off his back, and even that was getting a bit tattered.

  The only thing he could do was keep on doing what he was doing. Help get Irish Heaven back to the profitable million-dollar estate it should be, and bide his time to see which one of them would be able to hold on to their dreams.

  More than that just wasn’t in the stars.

  Hell and damnation.

  The next day the weather was beautiful. Mid-November, it had already been chilly for weeks, but today the sun was hot, and a warm breeze blew up from the south instead of whipping over the northern plateau as usual.

  Before riding out, Redhawk decided to fill the trough for probably his last soak of the season. He’d sorely miss lying back in the water gazing up at the vast, starry canopy of the universe above, wondering if tonight might be the night Rhiannon would come home early from Jake’s, strip off her clothes and join him.

  Never happened. But a man could fantasize, couldn’t he?

  After filling the trough to the brim, he went to the barn and grabbed a snub-nose shovel, tucking it next to the saddle holster where he routinely carried Fitz’s old Winchester. Today he’d spend making sure the natural springs on the property were running well and the catch pools clear of debris for winter. There were three springs, all located deep within the crenulated walls of the stone cliffs that formed the canyonlands north of the ranch house. The shelter of the maze of box canyons and arroyos was where the cattle would take refuge from the storms that ravaged the landscape every winter. During the worst times, Hawk would haul bales of hay up to sustain the animals when the snow was too deep to get to the grass.

  Though, God knew how he was going to accomplish that this year without Fitz’s help. One more damn thing to worry about.

  But not today. The weather was too glorious to worry about anything but basking in it. Cleaning springs wasn’t the worst job to be doing on a beautiful day, and he planned to enjoy every minute of it. He even brought a blanket, thinking he might catch some rays after he ate his lunch al fresco.

  In fact, he fell asleep all afternoon. Not that that was such a big shock. But by the time he got back to the ranch late that evening, it had been dark for a long time.

  To his surprise, Rhiannon’s Jeep was parked out front. She didn’t work at Jake’s full-time, but except for Friday and Saturday, she liked to go in for a few hours, spreading them out over the whole week. Must have taken today off.

  A single light burned in the kitchen.

  Mounting the porch, he realized his knee didn’t bother him near as much as usual. Must have been the long nap. It had also improved his disposition considerably. He’d actually been singing on the ride home, belting out an old James Taylor tune about midnight ladies, to the amusement and accompaniment of coyotes from all four directions.

  Toeing off his muddy boots, he went into the laundry room and tossed his shirt and socks in the hamper. He had his pants zipper down when he heard Rhiannon’s lilting voice singing a mournful ballad in a strange, haunting language.

  Padding to the kitchen door, he leaned against the jamb and listened. She had her back to him, finishing up the dishes in the sink. Her hair was pinned back in some kind of barrette, but red-blond tendrils escaped every which way, surrounding her head in a halo of delicate curls. She had on the pink spaghetti tank top which she’d taken to wearing under the cut-up T-shirt Jake liked her in at work. With the last echoes of her song, she turned to put away the final plate and almost dropped it.

  “Hawk!” A look of relief blazed across her face. “You’re back!”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I got a little delayed out there.”

  A mouthwateringly short jeans skirt and bare feet completed her outfit. Her legs looked long as the Colorado, and just as curvy.

  “I was worried when you didn’t come home.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s so late.” When he just looked at her, she set down the plate with a clatter and smoothed her hands down her skirt.

  That’s when he noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra. The soft, natural mounds of her breasts topped by beaded nipples were accentuated by the thin, clingy fabric of her top.

  She looked gorgeous. Good enough to eat.

  “Hungry?” she asked.

  “Oh, yeah.” He took a few steps into the room.

  She nibbled on her lip. “There’s some chile stew left from dinner.”

  He took another couple of steps, bringing him within range of her. Her unique woman’s scent, the scent that had dogged him for six long weeks, played havoc with his senses. “Darlin’, I’m not really interested in stew.”

  Her eyes widened. “Hawk—”

  No sense beating around the bush. She knew exactly what he was thinking, and it wasn’t because he’d forgotten to zip up.

  “Baby,” he said, and reached for her. He put his hands on her hips and tugged her closer.


  She didn’t throw her arms around him, but she didn’t back away, either. “We shouldn’t,” she murmured.

  “I keep hearing you say that, but it’s not happening for me. I still want you just as bad as the first time.”

  Lifting his hand, he drew his fingers along her cheek, sifting through the soft tendrils at her temples. “And you want me, too.”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head, a look of torment suddenly on her face. He hated seeing that.

  “Look at me, darlin’.”

  She swallowed and hesitantly gazed up at him.

  “I know you want me. I can see it in your eyes. Hear it in your voice. I can even smell it on your skin. Say it, Rhiannon. Say you want me.”

  He pulled her closer, felt her tremble. “Yes,” she whispered. “I want you.”

  Sliding his fingers into her hair, he cupped the back of her head and banded his other arm around her waist. He held her there for a moment, waiting for her to protest. But she didn’t. So he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her.

  She opened to him, and the taste of her soaked into him like a summer rain on the desert sand. He absorbed it, letting it slowly saturate his senses, filling him with its life-giving essence and healing succor, banishing the dust of loneliness and nurturing the fragile seeds of possibility.

  She moaned softly and wound her arms around his neck, clinging to him like a windflower fluttering high on a cliff.

  “I won’t let you fall, baby. I swear. I know there are a million other things going on here, but this is real.”

  “Is it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He wanted to believe that. And he did, regarding himself—he’d never felt this way about any other woman—it was her he was unsure of.

  But right now none of that mattered.

  He deepened the kiss, spreading his hand over her bottom, pressing her to him, center to center. She undulated, catching her ankle around his leg. And kissed him back.

  He groaned, aroused as hell. Damn, she was hot. He backed her up against the counter and stepped between her legs, spreading her feet apart to get as close as possible. She made a hum of excitement, sliding her hand down to toy with the open edge of his zipper. Dangerous territory.