Riley's Retribution

by Rebecca York

  Then what?

  Inching forward, he followed the trail. It emerged from the overhang and into the swirl of snow. The white stuff had almost obliterated the tire tracks on the other side, but he could follow their path as they skidded toward the right.

  When he projected the trajectory to its logical conclusion, he saw a green pickup truck that had taken a header into a field.

  So, had somebody rescued the driver? Or was he still inside?

  Riley slowed, then pulled onto the shoulder and ahead of the vehicle.

  When he climbed out, the first thing he saw was that the windshield of the truck was crazed. Maybe a rock had spun up from the road—causing a one-car accident.

  Shivering in a sudden blast of cold, he was glad to be wearing a heavy shearling coat, a Western hat, boots and gloves.

  The snow was up to his boot tops, making the shoulder surface slippery, and he walked carefully as he started back the way he’d come—his eyes trained on the truck.

  He’d been thinking nobody was inside. Now he revised his assumption since he saw no footprints around the driver’s door and the windows were fogged. He couldn’t see much, but he did detect the vague outline of a figure behind the wheel.

  He cupped his hands around his mouth as he approached. “You okay?”

  Nobody answered, so he reached for the handle and pulled the door open.

  Several impressions registered at once. The person inside the cab was small. A small man—no, a woman.

  Her features, what he could see of them, were definitely feminine. Large camel-colored eyes. A delicate nose. Nicely shaped lips. A bit of reddish-brown hair poking from below her wool ski cap.

  She was wearing a man’s heavy coat and a wool scarf. For further protection against the cold, she had wrapped a blanket around her legs. But the blanket wasn’t the main detail that smacked him in the face.

  The woman held an old-fashioned, long-barreled revolver in her right hand, and it was pointed directly at his chest.

  The weapon might be old, but it looked to be in excellent shape.

  “Get away from me, you bastard,” she ordered in a shaky voice, “or I’ll kill you.”

  Chapter Two

  Riley raised his hands to shoulder level, gloved palms outward, thinking he was in deep swamp water now. Make that freezing swamp water.

  He hadn’t expected an attack when he opened the door. So he hadn’t drawn his own weapon. It was a SIG-Sauer P-226—not the standard issue with Western wear. But he’d figured that enough guys carried them around here that he could get away with it.

  “Put away the six-shooter. I came to help you.”

  “Sure,” she answered. “That’s why you shot at me.” Her words were slurred, her face was pale, and he knew in that dangerous moment that she was suffering from hypothermia. She wasn’t thinking clearly, and she could shoot him if he blinked—or if he took a step back. On the other hand, if he stood here with snow swirling around him and tried to keep talking to her, she could drift dangerously close to death.

  “Let me help you,” he said calmly.

  “Get away.” Just the effort to talk seemed to be draining her remaining energy.

  “Don’t do anything foolish,” he answered, edging closer. When the pistol wavered, he made his move, diving for her gun hand, pointing the weapon toward the floor even as he wrestled the gun away from her.

  She had the strength of desperation, and she wasn’t willing to give up easily. As she fought him, he kept imagining disaster—one or the other of them with a gaping bullet wound turning the snow crimson.

  It felt like centuries as he fought her for the gun, trying to keep either one of them from getting hurt. Probably it was only seconds.

  She moaned as he twisted the weapon from her grasp. To hide it from sight, he set it on the ground below the truck.

  “Oh, sugar.” She said it like a curse, and he found the combination of vehemence and ladylike language oddly endearing.

  “It’s all right. Everything’s going to be all right,” he murmured as he cupped one gloved hand over her shoulder.

  Tears welled in her eyes, yet he saw her struggling for control. In the next moment, he found that letting his guard down was a big mistake.

  Still on the offensive, she made her gloved hands into small fists, pounding against his chest and shoulders.

  “Hey, cut it out,” he growled. “There’s only so far I’m willing to carry chivalry.”

  The situation was still deteriorating, and he couldn’t help wondering which one of them was going to end up getting hurt.

  Luckily, the hypothermia had sapped the little wildcat’s strength, and he was able to lean into the cab and wrap his arms around her, drawing her close.

  “Honey?” she said.

  Before he could answer, she whispered, “You came back to help me.” Whoever her honey was, he had a calming effect on the woman.

  She let her head drop to his shoulder, and he cradled her against his body, thinking she felt delicate and feminine under the heavy coat she wore. Holding her was no hardship.

  Her hands came up again, and he braced for an attack. But she only opened one of the buttons on his coat and slipped her gloved hand inside. When her fingers flattened against his shirtfront, he felt his heart thunk. Then she turned her face and stroked her lips against his cheek.

  Easing away, he looked into her sleepy camel-colored eyes. “We need to warm you up,” he muttered.

  “Oh, yeah,” she answered in a voice that had gone from panicked to sultry.

  He’d climbed out of his SUV to rescue a stranded driver, and he’d expected to be greeted with relief when he opened the truck door. Instead she’d fought like a wounded tiger. Now she was coming on to him—and she probably didn’t even realize what she was doing.

  Keeping his voice even, he said, “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. I saw you on the road and figured you needed help.”

  He watched her pull herself together and focus on him. Maybe she was really seeing him for the first time. In any event, her expression went from sexy to sharp in the blink of an eye.

  “If you’re here to help me, why did you take a pot-shot at me?”

  “I didn’t shoot at you,” he said, hoping he was putting the right amount of sincerity into his voice.

  “Oh, yeah? If you’re on the level, then go away and leave me alone.”

  He struggled to rein in his exasperation. “It’s too cold for that. Just for a minute, try to think logically. If I’d wanted to kill you, I could already have done it.”

  Either the reasoning had sunk in, or she was too exhausted to keep up the struggle because he saw her shoulders sag.

  He picked up her gun from the ground and shoved it into his belt. Then he reached for the lady.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Getting you out of the cold.”

  She was back in fighting mode, kicking against him, and he ignored the thuds from her Western boots as he carried her back to the SUV, set her in the passenger seat and slammed the door before hurrying around to the driver’s side. To his chagrin, he almost lost his balance.

  As he climbed behind the wheel, she was already reaching for the door handle,

  He yanked her hand away. “Don’t do anything foolish. Let me get you out of this storm.”

  She gave a sigh and leaned back against the seat as though admitting defeat.

  But he wasn’t going to trust that. Not hardly. She was too far out of it—and too determined to fight him.

  He tucked the blanket more firmly around her and fastened her seat belt, wishing he’d feel her shiver. That would be a good sign.

  After starting the car, he turned up the heat and drove slowly down the road, squinting into a swirl of white and wondering how far he’d have to go before he found both of them shelter.

  After twenty minutes, he spotted a red-and-blue neon sign just visible through the driving snow.

  Leaning forward, he s
truggled to make out the words. Finally he saw Buckskin Motel. Vacancy.

  “Thank God,” he murmured, then looked toward his passenger. She was sitting with her eyes closed, breathing slowly and evenly.

  Was it safe to leave her?

  He thought about the scene in the lobby if he showed up carrying her over his shoulder like a caveman dragging his mate off to make love. No. Better leave her in the car—unless she was going to make a run for it.

  Wondering how fast he could get in and out, he pulled up beside the office door and cut the engine. Next to the office was a small restaurant. All the comforts of home.

  “Do us both a favor and stay put, sugar,” he ordered, then quickly exited the SUV and dashed into the lobby.

  “I need a room to wait out the storm, and maybe something to eat later,” he told the old man who came through a door in response to the tinkling bell over the door.

  “You’re in luck. We’ve got a few rooms left. And Molly just made a big pot of her beef and vegetable soup.”

  “I may try some,” Riley allowed. He kept one eye on his SUV while he filled out the form and paid with a credit card. His passenger didn’t move. And he felt reluctant to talk about her to the man behind the counter.

  She’d said someone had shot at her, and she had a serious hole in her windshield. What if it wasn’t a stone that had done the damage? And what if the shooter was looking for her—and somebody talking about her led the bad guys to this motel?

  He put long odds on that scenario. But in his years with the Special Forces and then with Big Sky, he’d learned caution. So he decided to keep her under wraps, so to speak, until he could have a coherent conversation with her.

  Completing the transaction as quickly as possible, he hurried back to the SUV, then drove down the row of motel rooms and around the back where the old guy had directed him.

  When he came around to the passenger door, the woman stirred. “What?”

  “You can’t stay in the car. I’m no medic, but I know what you need. I’ve got to get you inside where it’s warm and cozy.”

  She roused herself enough to slit her eyes and ask, “Are we at the ranch?”

  “No, a motel.”

  Her eyes blinked fully open, and she focused on him again—obviously seeing a man she didn’t know and didn’t trust. “I’m not going into any motel room with you.”

  “If I had wanted to try anything funny, I could have done that in the car.”

  Before she could object, he stepped away from the vehicle and unlocked the motel room door. Returning to the SUV, he scooped her up and carried her inside, where he laid her on the bed.

  After bringing in a few things, he closed and locked the door, then fired up the heating unit under the window and put her gun in a drawer so she couldn’t grab it and shoot him. When he turned back to the woman on the bed, he saw that she was dozing again.

  The thought crossed his mind that a warm bath might be just what she needed. It made sense in medical terms, but he canceled that plan as soon as it surfaced. No way was he going to do anything that intimate.

  But he did pull off her boots, gloves, hat and jacket, tossing them in the general direction of the chair in the corner. Leaving the rest of her clothing on, he bundled her under the covers.

  “Can you tell me your name?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Because she couldn’t remember? Or because she didn’t want to?

  He hadn’t seen a purse in the truck. Maybe he’d missed it. She might have a wallet on her, but he didn’t think it was a good idea to pat her down.

  She spoke again, her voice faint and urgent. “Honey?”

  Apparently, she wanted them back on intimate terms again.

  “I’m not your man,” he answered, looking at the mass of rich chestnut hair that had been hidden under her hat. The cloud of hair around her face totally changed her appearance, making her look feminine and seductive. But he didn’t have much time to study her, because she was speaking again, and her tone had turned high and urgent. “I need you to hold me. Please.”

  She was calling out to another guy. But she sounded on the edge of panic. When she pushed the covers aside and swung her legs out of bed, he figured he’d better act before she exited the room into the cold and snow again.

  “Come on, sugar, let’s get back into bed and get you nice and warm.” He kicked his own boots off and shrugged out of his coat.

  Leaving his jeans and shirt on, he climbed into bed and gathered her to him, then pulled the blankets up around them and held her close, stroking her hair and shoulders, murmuring low, reassuring words.

  Apparently he had calmed her fears because she closed her eyes and snuggled against him, burying her face in his shirt so that all he could see was her shining mass of chestnut hair.

  Very appealing hair, with a strawberry scent that must have come from her shampoo.

  “It’s been so long,” she murmured.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  When she started to shiver, he figured she was warming up. She was going to be okay, and maybe he should let her go.

  But he was enjoying holding her. She was soft and relaxed in his arms, and he hadn’t been in bed with a woman since forever; to be exact, not since before the damn prison camp. After getting out of that hellhole, he’d felt too needy, and he hadn’t wanted to inflict his insecurities on some random woman he picked up in a bar.

  So he and Miss Sugar might as well share a little counterfeit intimacy. And when she realized he wasn’t her lover, they’d deal with the consequences. All that sounded logical. But he wondered how clearly he was thinking himself as he stroked his lips against that beautiful, sweet-smelling hair.

  Who was she? What was she doing out on the road? Had someone really shot at her?

  She was talking again, her voice still dreamy. Apparently addressing herself to her man, she said, “You came back, and there’s something I have to tell you.” She swallowed. “But I know you’re not going to like it.”

  His muscles tensed as he prepared to hear some other guy’s bad news. “What do you want to tell me?” he managed to say.

  She didn’t answer, and he saw to his profound relief that she had drifted into sleep again. Which postponed the inevitable confrontation.

  He was exhausted, too. From the long ride through the driving snow. From fighting her. And from all the sleepless nights when he’d contemplated this assignment.

  To be brutally honest, he’d hated being the lucky sucker assigned to cozy up to Boone Fowler—after being beaten and tortured in the guy’s prison camp. But he hadn’t tried to duck the job, because somebody had to do it…and he was better equipped than most. He’d always talked a good game, and he looked nothing like Fowler’s former prisoner. And he was pretty sure he knew the right buttons to push to talk his way into the militia leader’s organization.

  He hoped.

  He raised his head and looked at the woman next to him. She was sleeping normally.

  Probably, he shouldn’t leave her alone. But that didn’t mean he had to stay in bed with her, either. He should crawl out from under the covers and try to sleep on the chair in the corner. In a minute, he thought. He’d just relax here for a little while before he heaved himself out of this nice soft bed.

  His eyelids drifted closed, then snapped open again. Lying in bed with this woman was wrong, not to mention dangerous. She could wake up and strangle him.

  Not likely, he told himself. He wasn’t going to sleep. He was only going to rest for a few minutes. Then he’d get up. It was a reasonable scenario. But he drifted off before he could put the plan into action.

  COURTNEY’S EYES BLINKED open. For a moment she had no idea where she was, and panic choked off her breath.

  Had Eddie brought her here?

  She remembered talking to him just a few minutes ago.

  No. That was impossible. Eddie was dead. The man next to her in bed definitely wasn’t him. She knew that for sure.

  Mem
ories floated at the edge of her consciousness, and she struggled to grasp them. When she did, they brought back a mixture of embarrassment and panic.

  Someone up on the bridge had shot at her. She’d tried to get away, skidded off the road and been stuck in the truck—until this man had come along.

  She’d tried to shoot him. But he’d overpowered her and driven her—where?

  She looked around cautiously and didn’t see her gun.

  She turned her face toward the man on the bed.

  He was a handsome devil with sun-streaked brown hair, long lashes, high cheekbones and sensual lips.

  Of course, his appearance didn’t mean squat. Underneath those good looks, he could still be a snake. Could she find the gun without waking him? Probably not.

  The place looked like a motel room. If this guy was out to help her, why hadn’t they gone to the ranch?

  Presumably, because she hadn’t told him who she was.

  Vaguely she remembered his asking her name and her refusing to give it. That might be a dream, though. Like the part about Eddie.

  But she couldn’t remember all the details. Her most vivid impression was that she’d been chilled to the bone—and out of her mind.

  The man next to her moved, and her body went rigid.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said, shifting so that he could meet her panicked gaze.

  “Who are you?”

  “Riley Watson.”

  As the full impact of the situation hit her, she moaned. “Oh, Lord.”

  “And you are?” he prompted.

  “Courtney Rogers.”

  His complexion went gray, and he was out of bed and halfway across the room before she could blink. “Sorry, ma’am. Wrong bed.”

  They stared at each other across eight feet of charged space.

  “You are the Riley Watson who applied for a job at the Golden Saddle Ranch?” she clarified, knowing she must sound like an idiot. How many other guys named Riley Watson would there be in this part of Montana?

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “It’s not going to work out. I can’t hire you.”

  He stood up straighter. “Why? Because I stopped you from shooting me?”