The Rancher--A snowbound Western romance

by Joanne Rock

  When he reached her, he took the bodice she was clutching and let it fall to the floor, the heavy liquid silver pooling at her feet. Cool air touched her skin now that she was almost naked except for an ice-blue silk thong.

  She didn’t have long to feel the chill, however, as Miles pressed her body to his. Her breasts molded to his hard chest as his body radiated heat. He took his time wrapping her hair around his hand, lifting the heavy mass off her shoulders and watching it spill down his forearm.

  “My hands, my body, my mouth.” He parroted the words back to her, the rough sound of his voice letting her know how they’d affected him. “I pick all three.”

  Oh.

  He kissed her throat and the crook behind her ear, then trailed his lips down to her shoulder, letting her feel his tongue and his teeth until she twined her limbs around him, wanting to be closer. He drew her with him to the bed, his hands tracing light touches up her arms, down her sides, under her breasts. When her calf bumped into the mattress, she dropped onto the gray duvet, pulling him down with her into the thick, downy embrace. She wanted to feel the weight of him against her, but he sat beside her on the edge of the bed instead, leaning down to unfasten the strap of her sequined sandal with methodical care.

  A shiver went through her that had nothing to do with room temperature. When the first shoe fell away, he slid a warm palm down her other leg, lifting it to undo the tiny buckle on her other ankle. Once that shoe dropped onto the floor, he skimmed his hand back up her leg, circling a light touch behind her knee, then following the line of muscle in her thigh. Higher.

  Higher.

  She was on fire, desperate for more, by the time he pressed her back onto the bed. He followed her down, combing his fingers through her dark hair and kissing her neck, bracketing her body between his elbows where he propped himself over her. He kissed her jaw and down her neck, tracing a touch down the center of her breastbone, slowing but not stopping as he tracked lower. Lower.

  Her pulse rushed as she inhaled sharply. She noticed he was breathing faster, too, his eyes watching the movement of his fingers as he reached the low waist of the ice-blue silk thong that still clung to her hips. As he slipped his fingers beneath the fabric, the brush of his knuckles made her stomach muscles clench, tension tightening as he stroked a touch right where she needed it. His gaze returned to her face as a ripple of pleasure trembled through her. She was already so close, on edge from wondering what would happen between them. Her release hovered as she held her breath.

  He must have known. She didn’t know how he could tell, but he leaned down to speak into her ear.

  “You don’t need to hold back.” That deep, suggestive voice vibrated along her skin, evaporating any restraint. “There’s no limit on how many times you can come.”

  His fingers stroked harder, and she flew apart. She gripped his wrist, whether to push him away or keep him there, she didn’t know, but he didn’t let go. Expertly, he coaxed every last shudder from her while waves of pleasure rocked through her. Only when she went still, her breathing slowing a fraction, did he slide off the bed.

  She would have mourned the loss, but he shoved off his pants and boxers, reminding her how much more she had to look forward to. He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment but returned a moment later in all his delectable naked glory, condom in hand. Yet even as she tried to memorize the way he looked, to take in all the ways his muscles moved together so that she’d never forget it, she experienced a moment’s trepidation. Just because he’d known how to touch her in a way that had made the earth move for her didn’t mean she could return the favor.

  But when he joined her on the bed, handing her the condom and letting her roll it in place, the worries faded. Having him next to her, covering her with all that warm male muscle as he kneed her legs apart to make room for himself, made it impossible to think about anything but this.

  Him.

  The most tantalizing encounter she’d ever had with a man.

  He kissed her as he eased his way inside her, moving with her as easily as if they’d done this a thousand times before. Closing her eyes, she breathed in his cedarwood scent, letting the heat build between them again, hotter and stronger this time. The connection between them felt so real to her, even though she knew it could only be passion or chemistry, or whatever that nameless X-factor was that made for amazing sex.

  Still, when she opened her eyes and found his intense gaze zeroed in on her, she could have sworn he’d seen deep inside her, past all the artifice that was her whole life and right down to the woman underneath. The thought robbed her of breath, stirring a hint of panic until he kissed her again, shifting on top of her in a way that created heart-stopping friction between their bodies.

  He thrust again. Once. Twice.

  And she lost all her bearings, soaring mindlessly into another release. This time, she brought him with her. She could feel him going still, his shout echoing hers, their bodies utterly in sync. For long moments, all she could do was breathe, dragging in long gulps of air while her heart galloped faster.

  Eventually, everything slowed down again. Her skin cooled as Miles rolled away, but he dragged a cashmere throw up from the base of the bed, covering them both. He pulled her against him, her back tucked against his chest, as he stroked her hair in the darkened room. Words failed her, and she was grateful that he didn’t say anything, either. She was out of her depth tonight, but she wasn’t ready to leave. The only solace she took was that he didn’t seem to want her to go.

  In the morning, she’d have to come clean about what she was doing here. She hoped he wouldn’t hate her for sleeping with him after she’d tried spying on him. Chances seemed slim that he’d understand the truth—that the two things were entirely unrelated.

  Who was she kidding? He’d never believe that.

  Guilt and worry tightened in her belly.

  “Whatever you’re thinking about, stop,” came Miles’s advice in her ear, a warm reassurance she didn’t deserve. “Just enjoy it while we can.”

  How had he known? Maybe he’d felt her tense. Either way, she didn’t feel compelled to wreck what they’d just shared, so she let out a long breath and tucked closer to his warmth.

  The morning—and all the consequences of her decision to stay—would come soon enough.

  * * *

  Miles awoke twice in the night.

  The first time, he’d reached for the woman in his bed on instinct, losing himself in her all over again. She’d been right there with him, touching him with the urgency of someone who didn’t want to waste a second of this time together, as if she knew as well as he did that it wouldn’t be repeated. The knowledge gave every kiss, every sigh a desperate need that only heightened how damned good it all felt.

  The second time he’d opened his eyes, he’d felt her stirring beside him, her head tipping to his chest as if she belonged there. For some reason, that trust she would have never given him while awake seemed as much a gift as her body had been.

  Another moment that he wouldn’t be able to repeat.

  So when daylight crept over the bed, he couldn’t pretend that he felt no regrets. Not about what they’d shared, because Chiara cast a long shadow over every other woman he’d ever been with. No, he didn’t regret what had happened. Only that the night was a memory now.

  And that’s what it had to remain.

  He guessed Chiara knew as much, since the pillow next to his was empty. He heard the shower running and left some clothes for her in the dressing room outside the bathroom. The T-shirt and sweats with a drawstring would be huge on her, but a better alternative than her evening gown.

  He grabbed cargoes and a Henley for himself before retreating to the pool to swim some laps and hit the shower there. Afterward he retreated to the kitchen to work on breakfast, making good use of the fresh tortillas from a local source his brother, Weston, had mentio
ned to him. While he and Wes had never been close, they shared a love for the food from growing up with their abuela Rosa’s incredible cooking on Rivera Ranch. Miles scrambled eggs and browned the sausage, then chopped tomatoes and avocadoes. By the time Chiara appeared in the kitchen to help herself to coffee, the breakfast enchiladas were ready.

  “Morning.” She pulled down a mug from a hook over the coffee bar and set it on the granite. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  At first look, there was something soft and vulnerable about her in the clothes he’d left for her. She’d rolled up the gray sweats to keep them from dragging on the floor; he saw she was wearing his gym socks. The dark blue T-shirt gaped around her shoulders, but she’d tucked a corner of the hem into the cinched waist of the sweats. Memories of their night together blindsided him, the need to pull her to him rising up again as inevitably as high tide.

  Then she met his gaze, and any illusion of her vulnerability vanished. Her green eyes reflected a defensiveness that went beyond normal morning-after wariness. She appeared ready to sprint out of there at the first opportunity. Had her spying mission been a success the night before, so that she could afford to walk away from him now? He hadn’t been aware that at least a part of him—and yeah, he knew which part—had hoped she’d stick around if she wanted to learn more about Mesa Falls.

  Damn it. He needed to be smarter about this if he wanted to remain a step ahead of her.

  “You didn’t wake me,” he finally replied as he grappled with how to put her at ease long enough to have a conversation about where things stood between them. “At home, I’m usually up before now.” Gesturing toward the coffee station, he took the skillet off the burner. “Grab your cup and join me for breakfast.”

  He carried the dishes over to their place settings at the table for eight. The table felt big for two people, but he arranged things so he’d be sitting diagonally from her and could easily gauge her reaction to what he had to say.

  Chiara bypassed the single-cup maker for the espresso machine, brewing a double shot. When she finished, she carried her mug over and lowered herself into one of the chairs.

  “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” She held herself straight in the chair, her posture as tense as her voice.

  What he couldn’t figure out was why she was so nervous. Whatever preyed on her mind seemed weightier than next-day second thoughts. Was she thinking about whatever information she’d gleaned from his study during the party?

  “It was no trouble.” He lifted the top of the skillet to serve her. “Can I interest you in any?” At her hesitation, he continued, “I won’t be offended either way.”

  Her eyes darted to his before she picked up her fork and slid an enchilada onto her plate. “It smells really good. Thank you.”

  He served himself afterward and dug in, debating how best to convince her to spend more time in Montana. He didn’t want to leverage what happened between them unfairly—or twist her arm into keeping that date she’d promised him—but questions remained about what she was doing in his office the night before. If she knew about Zach, he needed to know how and why.

  While he puzzled that out, however, Chiara set her fork down after a few bites.

  “Miles, I can’t in good conscience eat your food—which is delicious, by the way—when I haven’t been honest with you.” She blurted the words as if they’d been on the tip of her tongue for hours.

  He slowly set aside his fork, wondering what she meant. Would she confess what she’d been doing in his office last night? Something else?

  “I’m listening.” He took in her ramrod-straight posture, the way she flicked a red-painted fingernail along the handle of the mug.

  A breath whooshed from her lungs before she spoke again.

  “I’m an old friend of Zach Eldridge’s.” The name of his dead friend on her lips sent a chill through him. “I came here last night to learn the truth about what happened to him.”

  Four

  Miles didn’t remember standing up from the table, but he must have after Chiara’s startling announcement. Because the next thing he knew, he was staring out the kitchen window into a side yard and the Bitterroot River meandering in a bed of slushy ice. He felt ice on the inside, too, since numbing his feelings about his dead friend had always been a hell of a lot easier than letting them burn away inside him.

  Snow blanketed the property, coating everything in white. Spring might be around the corner, but western Montana didn’t know it today. Staring at the unbroken field of white helped him collect his thoughts enough to face her again.

  “You knew Zach?” It had never crossed his mind that she could have had a personal relationship with Zach even though he’d seen the search history on his computer. He’d assumed she’d heard an old rumor. If she’d known him, wouldn’t she have come forward before now?

  Zachary Eldridge had never talked about his life before his stint in a foster home near Dowdon School on the edge of the Ventana Wilderness in central California where the ranch owners had met. The way Zach had avoided the topic had broadcast all too clearly the subject was off-limits, and Miles had respected that. So he didn’t think Chiara could have known him from that time. And he’d never heard rumors of her being in the foster system, making it doubtful she’d met him that way. Zach had been on a scholarship at their all-boys boarding school, a place she obviously hadn’t attended.

  “Dowdon School did events with Brookfield Academy.” She clutched the espresso cup tighter, her gaze sliding toward the river-stone fireplace in the front room, though her expression had the blankness of someone seeing another place and time. Miles was familiar with the prestigious all-girls institution in close proximity to his alma mater. “I met Zach through the art program the summer before my sophomore year.”

  “You were at Brookfield?” Miles moved back toward the table, struggling to focus on the conversation—on her—no matter how much it hurt to remember the most painful time of his life. And yes, he was drawn to the sound of her voice and a desire to know her better.

  He dropped back into his seat, needing to figure out how much she knew about Zach’s death and the real motives behind her being in Mesa Falls all these years later.

  “Briefly.” She nodded her acknowledgment, her green eyes refocusing on him as he returned to the table. “I only attended for two years before my father lost everything in a bad investment and I had to leave Brookfield to go to public school.”

  Miles wondered why he hadn’t heard of her connection to Zach or even to Brookfield. While he’d never sought out information about her, he would have thought her school affiliation would have been noted by the ranch’s PR department when she was invited to Mesa Falls events.

  Questions raced through his mind. How close had she been to Zach? Close enough to understand his mindset the weekend he’d died?

  A hollow ache formed in his chest.

  “How well did you know him?” He regretted the demanding sound of the question as soon as it left his lips, unsure how it would come across. “That is, I’m interested how you could make friends during a summer program. The school staff was strict about prohibiting visits between campuses.”

  Her lips quirked unexpectedly, her eyes lifting to meet his. “Zach wasn’t afraid to bend rules when it suited him, though, was he?”

  Miles couldn’t help a short bark of laughter as the truth of that statement hit home. “‘Rules are for people with conventional minds,’ he once told me.”

  Chiara sat back in her chair, some of her rigid tension loosening as warmth and fondness lit her gaze. “He painted over an entire project once, just an hour before a showing, even though I was a wreck about him ruining the beautiful painting he’d done. He just kept slapping oils on the canvas, explaining that an uncommon life demanded an uncommon approach, and that he had all-new inspiration for his work.”

  The shared remin
iscence brought Zach to life in full color for a moment, an experience Miles hadn’t had in a long time. The action—and the words—were so completely in keeping with how he remembered his friend.

  “He was a bright light,” Miles agreed, remembering how often they’d looked up to his fearlessness and, later, stood beside him whenever he got into scrapes with schoolmates who weren’t ready for the Zach Eldridges of the world.

  “I never met anyone like him,” Chiara continued, turning her mug in a slow circle on the table. “Not before, and not since.” Halting the distracted movement, she took a sip from her cup before continuing. “I knew him well enough to have a crush on him, to the point that I thought I loved him. And maybe I did. Youthful romances can have a profound impact on us.”

  Miles searched her face, wondering if Chiara had been aware of Zach’s sexual orientation; he’d come out to his friends the summer before sophomore year. Had that been why things hadn’t worked out between them?

  But another thought quickly crowded that one out. A long-buried memory from the aftermath of that dark time in Miles’s life.

  “There was a girl who came to Dowdon after Zach’s death. Around Christmastime.” He remembered her telling Miles the same story. She loved Zach and needed the truth about what had happened to him. But Miles had been in the depths of his own grief, shell-shocked and still in denial about the cliff-jumping accident that had killed his friend.

  Chiara studied him now, the long pause drawing his awareness to a clock ticking somewhere in the house.

  “So you remember me?” she asked, her words jarring him.

  He looked at her face more closely as slow recognition dawned. He couldn’t have stopped the soft oath he breathed before he spoke again.

  “That was you?”

  * * *

  Chiara watched the subtle play of emotions over Miles’s face before he reined them in, regretting the way she’d handled things even more than when she’d first awoken.