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  “Yes, well, now neither one of us has to worry about waiting.” She turned and stalked away. “Don’t let the barn door hit you in the ass on your way out, Marine.”

  2

  WELL, THAT WAS QUICK.

  Trace watched as Jo emerged from the stables, her shirttails trailing like a cape behind her, she was moving so quickly.

  Her visiting boyfriend followed, and grabbed her by the arm. Trace snapped upright. But Jo promptly shook the guy’s hand off her and he stumbled backward. They exchanged words Trace couldn’t hear, and then Jo stalked toward her rusty old truck. She got in and headed down the long gravel driveway that would take her to the road, spitting up dust in her wake.

  The ex-marine kicked at the dirt and then went to his bike, disappearing right after her.

  “Lovers’ spat?” the sheriff mused.

  “Looks that way.”

  Brody chuckled and downed half his beer, careless of the droplets spotting the front of his uniform.

  “I’m going to head back to the house to catch a shower,” Trace told him. “I can’t barely stand myself.”

  Brody straightened. “Before you go, I wanted to ask if you’ve hired on any new hands lately.”

  Trace frowned at him. “A couple of regulars we take on when we need extra help. And Jackson and Milford, sitting over there.” He nodded to the two new men who’d begun work on the ranch around the same time Jo had. “But Vernon would be the man to ask about that.” Vernon Burnett was the ranch’s longtime foreman and the go-to guy when it came to dealing with the hands. “Why?”

  The sheriff shrugged and leaned against the railing. “There was a rape over in Strade. I’m making the rounds to see if there are any new faces in the area.”

  Trace shook his head. “None that I can think of.” He glanced over his shoulder at the guys beginning to drift away, having had their fill of barbecue and beer. Some would go inside to the main room to catch some TV or play pool, others would head to their bunks for the night, knowing another early morning would soon be staring them in the face.

  “Who was attacked?” he asked.

  “One of the Johnson girls.”

  “Art Johnson?”

  “That would be the family. It was his youngest, Penny. Someone was in the back of her car when she left the honky-tonk the night before last.”

  “She get a look at him?”

  The sheriff shook his head. “Nope. Covered her head with a pillowcase.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah. Her daddy’s pretty torn up. Fit to be tied.”

  “I can imagine. Maybe I’ll go over there tomorrow, see if I can’t help out.”

  “Art would appreciate it.” Brody shook his finger at him. “But you be sure to let me know if he tries to sign you up for a lynching party.”

  “How can there be a lynching if there isn’t a suspect?”

  “You know these hotheaded cowboys. One nod in the wrong direction and they’re ready to unload their frustrations and their ammunition on the closest available target.”

  Unfortunately, Trace did know. All too well.

  He watched as the sun sank below the horizon. Funny how it seemed to hang mercilessly in the sky all day long, then within seconds it was gone.

  He looked at Brody. “Wasn’t there a similar attack, say, six months or so ago?”

  The sheriff finished off his beer and dropped the bottle in the case of empties nearby. “Yeah, there was. Out in Barncart. Same MO.”

  “Think it’s the same guy?”

  Brody shrugged and put his hat back on. “Hard to tell. Word of the first one got around, so this might be a copycat.”

  “My father used to tell me there was no such thing as coincidences.”

  Brody grinned. “Which is why a copycat would have a greater chance at success, seeing as everyone out this way feels the same.” He hiked up his pants. “Your father was a wise man, but matters like these are better left to professionals.”

  Trace tightened his grip on the railing. “Hope you get the guy soon.”

  “Oh, I will. You can rest assured of that.” The sheriff navigated the stairs. “Thanks for the beer. Tell Vern good-night for me.”

  “I will.”

  THE MAIN HOUSE had pretty much remained unchanged since Trace’s parents had been killed in a flash flood almost seven years earlier. Neither he nor Eric had ever issued orders to maintain it, but Alma, their longtime housekeeper, seemed content to keep everything the way it was. Sometimes Trace thought the older woman missed his parents almost as much as he did. He’d catch her dusting the picture frames on the large stone mantel above the fireplace, a sad look on her soft, brown face. He supposed it was only natural, since she had known his parents longer than he had. She’d hired on at the house when his older brother was born, to help his mother take care of the growing family. And had become much like family herself, even though she lived in a small house a couple of counties away, where she’d raised her own family.

  She’d left lights on in the front room and the kitchen tonight, and a plate of TexMex food for him in the refrigerator. Trace looked it over as he reached in for a beer, fresh from his shower. Though he had clean jeans riding low on his hips, his T-shirt was draped over the back of the couch in the main room. Despite the heat, he hadn’t turned on the air conditioner, preferring open windows and ceiling fans and the sound of cicadas over the hiss of the machine and the feeling of being shut off from the world around him.

  Still, he lingered in front of the open refrigerator for a few moments.

  He finally closed the door and walked toward the main room, sitting down on the couch and switching on the large screen television. He flipped through the channels and then settled on the news out of Odessa. Weatherwise, it was more of the same, with a chance of isolated thunderstorms late tomorrow. He and the men would have to keep an eye to the sky while they were out. Thunderstorms were nothing to be casual about, not in this neck of the woods.

  He took a long pull from his cold bottle and then reached over to check his answering machine, which was blinking three messages.

  “Hey, little bro, it’s Eric.” Trace rested his head against the back of the couch. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about wanting to expand…and, well, I’m sorry for going off on you.” There was noise at the other end of the line. “That’s it. Hopefully I’ll get a chance to call again before I come home this weekend.”

  The apology did little to ease the knot of tension that had formed between Trace’s shoulder blades. The ranch had been left to them equally, and although Eric had run off and joined the marines post 9/11, Trace had left things the way they were on paper. Which meant he needed his brother’s okay whenever he made any changes. An okay that was always slow in coming. Despite being over five thousand miles away in the Middle Eastern desert, Eric liked to think he was in charge, simply because he was a year older. But the truth was he hadn’t run the ranch in any capacity for the past six years, no matter how much he wanted to think differently.

  And while Trace was glad his brother was coming home from a dangerous war, his feelings were mixed about what would happen when Eric’s boots hit the Texas dirt again. This time for good.

  The next message was from Alma, telling him his dinner was in the refrigerator, and reminding him that she had an appointment in the morning and wouldn’t be there until after eleven.

  He wondered if it was a doctor’s appointment. Alma wasn’t exactly a spring chicken anymore. He made a note to return early from the range tomorrow so he could talk to her, see how she was doing.

  The third was from the woman who should be starring in his wet dreams instead of the hardheaded Jo.

  “’Evening, Trace. It’s Ashleigh. I just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you. If it’s not too late, give me a call. It would be nice to hear your voice before your brother’s welcome-home barbecue Saturday night.”

  He glanced at the clock. Ten wasn’t too late, but he didn’t feel l
ike calling Ashleigh just now.

  He reached for the remote and surfed ESPN. Baseball. He left it on a Rangers game and settled back into the couch. He no sooner got comfortable than a knock sounded on the front door.

  Damn. Vern, the foreman, would have come around back. And Trace hadn’t heard a car pull up.

  He frowned, hoping it wasn’t Ashleigh. Not that she was known for showing up unannounced, but lately she’d been doing some strange things. Like popping up a couple of Sundays ago with a packed picnic basket, and enticing him out for brunch.

  Another knock sounded.

  He put his bottle on the table as he got up, grabbing his T-shirt as he went. He pulled it over his head and then opened the door.

  But it wasn’t Ashleigh standing on his front porch. It was Jo.

  “No need putting any clothes on for me, cowboy.” She opened the screen door and came in without being invited. “You’re just going to have to take them off again in a minute….”

  3

  TRACE ARMSTRONG LOOKED better than any man had a right to.

  Jo stood in the open doorway, gripping the jamb. The sexy ranch owner towered over her by at least five inches, which was saying a lot, since she topped out at five foot eight. She wondered if the rest of him was in proportion, and smiled, taking in the snug cotton of his faded navy-blue T-shirt, checking out the swell of muscles as she went. Her gaze drifted down to his jeans. No belt buckle. Just a handful of metal buttons.

  Yes.

  She moved to step inside and then hesitated, surprising herself. But just for a moment. For two hours she’d been building up momentum to come over to the house. She wasn’t about to turn tail and run back to the bunkhouse now.

  She finally brushed past Trace, breathing in the scent of something tangy. His soap? Seemed likely. It sure wasn’t cologne.

  He looked out the door and then closed it.

  “Nobody saw me,” she said. “I hiked here from the bunkhouses, and most everyone is either asleep in front of the television or in their bunks.”

  “Vern?”

  “Left a little while ago. Probably running into town for something.”

  Trace turned toward her and crossed his arms over his impressive chest. “What can I do you for, Jo?”

  His best boss impression amused her as she went to the couch and sat down, propping her boots up on the table and grabbing his beer. “Just craving some company, is all. Oh, the Rangers are playing. Who’s winning?”

  She took a pull from the beer bottle, half expecting him to tell her to get her irreverent ass up and head back to the bunkhouse. She pretended to pay attention to the game, not realizing she was holding her breath until he budged from his statuelike stance and moved toward the couch to take the seat next to her.

  She lifted the bottle back to her lips, but he caught it midway. “This is mine. You want one, there’s plenty in the fridge.”

  She rested her head against the back of the couch and grinned at him. “Is that so?”

  He eyed her warily as he took a swig from the bottle. “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Is there more of that in there?” she asked, gesturing toward his food. “I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch.”

  “Nope.” He moved the plate so that it was sitting in front of him instead of her. “You should have caught dinner at the bunkhouse with everyone else.”

  “And eaten Vern’s rubbery barbecue with warm beer? No thanks.”

  Trace shrugged his shoulders. “Go without then.”

  Jo made a face, staring at the TV screen, although she saw none of it. Instead, she was hyperfocused on the man next to her. Inches separated them, but she swore she could feel his heat.

  As a rule, she wasn’t the type of woman who went from one man to the next within the blink of an eye. In her twenty-six years, she could count the guys she’d slept with on one hand. Carter included.

  Carter…

  She winced inwardly, not liking the way things had ended between them now that she had a better handle on her emotions. And ended was the word, wasn’t it? He’d gone back to Dallas, and she didn’t expect to see him again. But somewhere down the line she’d learned that when the game was over, it was over. No sense in dragging things out. They weren’t married, and they weren’t committed to each other, although she certainly didn’t go around sleeping with other guys while seeing someone.

  She also wasn’t one to pull her punches when she’d made a decision to go after someone full out.

  So what if her growing attraction to Trace had caught her unawares? She was a woman. And he was a man. And right now that was all that mattered.

  She slid a glance his way. Well, mostly, that’s all that mattered.

  “You always spend the evenings alone?” she asked.

  “Hmm?” He looked at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. She knew better. He appeared just as distracted by her as she was by him. “Mostly,” he answered.

  “And that pretty woman that sometimes comes over?”

  “Who? Oh, you mean Ashleigh.” He shrugged and offered nothing more.

  That was good enough for Jo. If he wasn’t concerned enough to indicate he was taken, then he was free game.

  Besides, she wasn’t looking for marriage. She was looking for sex. A physical connection that would chase unwanted thoughts from her mind. Make her feel human. Release the pent-up tension that coiled her muscles and prevented her from sleeping at night.

  And if it was just the same to him, she’d prefer to keep any possible illicit liaison under wraps.

  She cleared her throat. “This probably isn’t a very good idea, is it?”

  She half expected him to play dumb. She was pleasantly surprised when he didn’t.

  Instead, he grinned, causing his tanned skin to crinkle around his brown eyes. “Probably not.”

  Jo’s breathing hitched. “But you’re not kicking my brash behind out onto the front porch.”

  He shook his head slightly as he downed the rest of his beer. “No. I’m not.”

  Jo swung her boots off the table and sat up straight. “So tell me, Boss, what exactly does that mean?”

  He put his bottle down. “You want me to spell it out for you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  His gaze raked over her face and then down the front of her tank. “I’m saying that I like your brash behind right where it is at the moment.”

  “That’s all I needed to hear….”

  TRACE WASN’T THE KIND OF guy who leaped without looking. He hadn’t had that luxury. Not for a long time. But when Jo’s boot heels had thudded against the wood floor when she’d come inside, he’d known he was going to sleep with her, no two ways about it. He’d spent too many nights wondering what it would be like to follow her into the stables and take her on one of those hay bales to even think twice when she launched herself into his arms. The assault she executed on his mouth left him wondering how long she’d been thinking about the same thing.

  Jo tasted like beer and lavender. A combination that was surprising and intriguing. Obviously, she’d caught a shower sometime during the evening. Still…

  He captured her hands, which were plucking at the buttons of his jeans. “I’m not one for sloppy seconds.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. “No worries. There would have to be a first to be a second.”

  He believed her. Partly because she had no reason to lie. Mostly because she hadn’t been insulted by his words.

  He eyed her mouth, already swollen from his kisses, and groaned, kissing her again.

  While Jo was all grit and gristle on the range, now she was soft and pliant, straddling his hips on the couch, barely breaking contact with his mouth as he helped her strip off her shirt and tank. That left only her lacy white bra, a scrap of material so delicate, so sexy, Trace found it momentarily difficult to concentrate on what he was doing.

  He didn’t know what he’d expected. One of those stretchy sports bra thingies he’d seen some women jog in, maybe
. But this…

  He curved his fingers under her right breast, marveling at the way she filled the cup and his palm. Of course, he’d always been superaware that Jo was a female, but he’d never expected her to be so feminine. The effect on him was mind-blowing. The contradictions of the woman even now tugging off his T-shirt were fascinating.

  He pulled his mouth from hers in order to fasten his lips over the stiff peak of her breast under the lacy material. He was rewarded with her soft gasp and her momentary stillness.

  The power of making love to a woman never ceased to amaze him. Giving, taking, surrendering to the moment in search of sensations that went well beyond what you’d anticipated.

  He reached around her and unhooked her bra, watching as the material sprang away from her breasts, causing them to bounce slightly. His mouth watered as he lowered his head to finally taste a nipple without anything in between.

  Jo sat up tall and proud, pressing her pelvis against his as her eyes drifted shut. Trace grasped her slender hips, feeling her hair tease his fingers as it cascaded down her bare back.

  Sweet Jesus, but the woman was beautiful. Considering they didn’t come any tougher than Jo Atchison, the juxtaposition was a potent one.

  Even as he laved her left breast, giving the pouting flesh the same attention he had the right one, he reached for the catch to her jeans, reveling in the way her stomach muscles trembled against the backs of his fingers as he worked.

  Soon they were both stripped down, boots discarded, clothes flung aside, skin to skin.

  And how soft her skin was. Trace couldn’t seem to get enough of touching her, running his hands over her bare back, her plump thighs, her smoothly rounded behind.

  His fingertips scraped against something on the back of her hip. A scar? A birthmark?

  She wrapped her fingers around his erection and he hissed. Okay, she was soft almost everywhere but her hands. Just like any cowboy, she had calluses that no amount of scrubbing and lotion could hope to soften.

  Strangely, though, he found the sensation tantalizingly different than what he was used to. It helped that she wasn’t hesitant or shy. She openly looked at his stiff member, as if memorizing every ridge, every vein, rubbing the rough pad of her thumb over the top and then massaging the droplets of semen she found there down his throbbing shaft.