Finally Home (3 page)

“The bunk—”

“The
bunkhouse,
” she corrected, desperate to be practical. “I can walk to the bunkhouse.”

“But why risk it?”

“Risk—”

“You have kids to think about.”

“That's what I
am
thinking about.”

“Really?” he asked, looking disappointed and mildly confused. “Then I think I'm doing something wrong.”

She blinked at him, not sure what to make of that but determined to push through to the sensible her . . . the her that would make it to the house under her own steam and bandage her own minuscule scratch like a capable human being. “Listen. You have to put me down. What if the kids see—”

“You can't think about them all the time, Case.”

“But you just said—”

“Sometimes you have to think about yourself.”

“I do think about—”

“About what
you
want.”

“I want—” she began, but they had reached the bunkhouse.

“Get the door, will you?”

She didn't really know why she did as requested. It was a ridiculous situation, made even sillier by the fact that she turned the knob with her injured hand.

“What
you
need,” he added, seeming entirely undistracted by their trip up the hill, completely unhindered by her considerable weight. At a hundred and thirty pounds, she didn't weigh
that
much less than he did. The best bronc riders, after all, were neither tall nor particularly beefy. But were they all made of this delectable stuff that he seemed to be comprised of? Did their muscles shift like magic beneath their clothes? Did their grins make a woman's respiratory system feel taxed and her heart bang like a blacksmith's hammer?

But it didn't matter, she reminded herself. She was an adult. An adult with responsibilities. “Listen . . .” she began, but in that moment she realized they were entirely alone in a room with a bed, and though she knew that should be of little consequence, said consequences loomed like towering giants. The bunkhouse was lit by nothing but the distant yard light and the waxing moon shining on endless miles of drifting snow.

“What do you need, Cassandra?” he asked.

“I . . .” His lips were inches from hers. His body felt warm and hard against her side, and his voice did weird, infuriating things to a system left too long to its own devices. But she found her voice. “I don't need anything,” she said. “Put me down.”

He delayed a full two seconds, but finally let her feet drop to the floor. “Okay,” he said, “but a man can only wait so long, Case.”

They stood facing each other, touching here and there: elbow, hip, thigh. His right arm was still curved around her back.

“I didn't . . .” She drew a deep breath, steadying herself. “I didn't ask you to wait, Colt.”

He raised one brow. The world went absolutely silent. “Then come here,” he breathed, and pulling her against his chest, kissed her.

CHAPTER 2

T
he breath left Casie's lungs like a tornado sweeping the heartland. She felt every nerve buzz and every muscle go limp. But by the time he pulled away, her mind was just beginning to blink back to life.

“I wasn't . . .” Her voice sounded ridiculously high-pitched, like Minnie Mouse on nitrous oxide. His right hand was cupping her neck while his left arm gripped her waist in a far-too-intimate manner. But truth to tell, it was entirely possible that if he removed that arm, she would have flopped to the floor like a fish out of water “I wasn't talking about
that—
”

“I call it the drought,” he said and kissed her again.

Her knees sagged, but she braced them with cowgirl grit and pushed against his chest. Or at least that's what she
thought
she did, though, when her mind was a little less muzzy, she was sadly suspicious that her fingers might have been curled tight in the front of his jacket.

“The drought?” She didn't even know what she was saying. Why the hell didn't she know what she was
saying?

“I think we could both use a little rain,” he said and drew back a few scarce inches.

She glanced down. Her overalls had somehow become wide open. “How—”

“Zippers like me,” he explained.

She scowled, first at her traitorous garment, then at him as she remembered a dozen high school cheerleaders who had talked about him with giggling giddiness. “I suppose hooks like you, too.”

He grinned a little. “We could give it a try,” he said, but she found her strength and pushed him away.

“Is this how you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Is this how you make all your conquests? Do you just . . .” She waved one wild hand at him. “Make googly eyes at them and they fall at your feet?”

He raised his brows at her. “Googly eyes?”

“I'm not that kind of girl, Dickenson. You must know that. You can't just flex your muscles . . .” She glanced toward his chest. There was little enough to see. He was, after all, dressed for winter, but his neck was bare, and somehow the sight of that dark little hollow between his collarbones made her feel a little giddy herself. She swallowed a giggle. “And think I'm going to . . . to . . .”

“Are you all right?” he asked and stepped toward her.

She jerked back. “Of course I'm all right! Why wouldn't I be all right?”

“I don't know. You're acting kind of funny. Are you feeling dizzy?”

The idea was overtly offensive. “No, I'm not feeling dizzy! Why would I feel—” she began, but just then a wave of something weird struck her. She steadied herself with a hand on the rough timber table beside her.

“Case?” he said, voice earnest now as he eased her toward a nearby chair. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing's—” she began, but her head felt as if it had become disconnected from her body. She slid onto the Navajo cushion that covered the nearest chair. “. . . wrong,” she said, and exhaled forcefully.

“Here.” He hurried to the cupboard. Having resided for decades in Hope Springs' granary, the little cabinet was weathered and scarred and bursting with character. When The Feed and Seed was renovated, Frank Pullman, its current owner, had donated the cabinet to the Lazy in exchange for partial board of his wife's geriatric gelding. Pulling a mug from the cupboard's depths, Colt filled it with water from the nearby tap and turned back to Casie. “Geez, woman, you have to eat.”

“I eat,” she said, and took a sip of water.

He nudged the cup back up to her lips. “As much as you drink?”

“What?” She scowled at him.

He tilted the mug toward her mouth again. “You drink like a dehydrated goldfinch. Finish that cup.”

“Listen,” she said. “I know how to eat
and
drink.”

“Then prove it.”

“I—”

“Prove it,” he insisted, and pushed the cup toward her again.

Snatching the mug from him, she finished off the water, then snapped the empty vessel back toward him. Embarrassment sometimes made her cranky.

“There,” she said. “You satisfied?”

He raised a brow at her, grin barely contained. “It takes a little more than that, Case,” he said. “Even from you.”

“What—” she began, then understanding his meaning, skipped her gaze away without dipping it toward his crotch. Her face felt warm.

He chuckled a little. “Sorry,” he said, and crouching next to her chair, took her hand in his. “But you shouldn't give me such great opportunities if you don't want me to take advantage of them.”

“I didn't give you any opportunities,” she said, but she could muster absolutely no heat in her tone. Her face, on the other hand, felt as if it might incinerate before his very eyes.

“It's not too late to change that,” he said.

She tried to ignore the feelings that shivered through her, but there was no point. She had to face the facts. “Listen, Colt—” she began, but he stroked her knuckles, causing tingles to dart off in every direction.

“I'm listening,” he said, and kissed the faint veins that crisscrossed her right arm.

She blinked breathlessly.

“Case?” he said.

She shook herself back to reality. “I really appreciate everything you've done for us,” she said and found his eyes with her own. “But you can't keep this up.”

“There's some pretty hard evidence to the contrary,” he said, and rising to his feet, turned away. Opening another cabinet, he reached inside.

“What do you—” she began, but he spoke before she made a fool of herself.

“You and the kids have your hands full. No reason I shouldn't help out some.”

“Some!” She breathed a laugh. “You're here every day. I can't pay you for—” She paused and scowled as he pulled out a first aid kit that had been housed in the cabinet.

“How did you know that was there?”

He raised his brows at her. “I saw it when I was framing the new windows.”

It wasn't until that moment that she remembered his woodworking skills. He had been instrumental in getting the old chicken coop converted into a bunkhouse for paying guests.

The poultry now lived in a cozy little room in the corner of the cattle barn.

He crouched down beside her chair again and reached for her hand, but she pulled out of his grasp.

“That's just what I'm talking about.” She would have risen to her feet, but he was too close to allow her to do so without pressing up against him . . . an eventuality to be avoided at all costs.

“Windows?” he asked, and opening a tube of antibacterial gel, retrieved her hand again.

“You!” she said and waved frantically toward the ranch at large. “Doing all this work. I can't pay you for it.”

“I didn't ask you to.”

“I know! And that's the worst part.”

Putting a dollop of ointment on his index finger, he smeared it over her cut. She was absolutely certain it shouldn't feel good. “What's the worst part?” he asked.

“You're so—” The word
gorgeous
popped into her head. She popped it back out with frenetic haste. “I just . . .” She glanced to the right. Outside, the half moon was framed in a sky as black as an Angus steer. “I don't want to disappoint Emily,” she said.

He was watching her. She could feel his attention like sunshine on her face.

“What does Em have to do with this?” he asked and eased the ointment to the medial end of her scratch.

Casie refused to close her eyes at the luxurious feelings. “She's been through a lot.” In actuality, Casie wasn't entirely sure what the girl had endured before her arrival at the Lazy. But drugs had been involved. And theft. Emily was naturally talented in a host of ways. There was no reason to believe she wouldn't be just as gifted a thief as she was a chef. “I don't want her to be hurt again.”

“Me either,” he said. His voice was low and steady.

She skipped her gaze to his, wondering if they were still talking about somebody else.

“I'm sorry,” he said. The words were slow and earnest, his expression somber for once as he drew a deep breath. “I should have told you about the baby.”

She glanced away, remembering the conversation they'd had just a couple of months before. Remembering the pain of learning that Colt's ex-girlfriend had been expecting his child. Remembering his agonized expression when he'd told her of the abortion, unsanctioned by him, but maybe not entirely unhoped for. “Yes. You should have.”

“I'll make more mistakes,” he said. His eyes were dark, his tone steady. “But they won't be with other women.”

For a moment she considered pretending she didn't know what he was talking about, but there was no point. His hands were like magic against her skin, his gaze like moonlight on hers. She was drowning in it, falling under his spell, but she shook her head and pushed to her feet.

“That's what Bradley said.”

He gritted his teeth and rose beside her, so close they shared the same breath. “You two were engaged when he cheated on you,” he reminded her. “You'd agreed to marry him.”

“I know it's different, but—”

“Different!” He laughed out loud. The sound was coarse and angry. “Do you really think I would have given another woman a glance if
we
were engaged?”

“Yes, I do. I mean . . .” She laughed, feeling crazy. “Come on, Dickenson . . .” She moved away, putting distance between them like a barbed wire fence. “You're not exactly marriage material.”

“What am I, then?” he asked.

She shook her head. “You're . . .” She paused, fighting to find something that wouldn't make her sound like a lovesick imbecile. But he was so tempting, so rough and hard and hopelessly attractive. “You're the stuff dreams are made of, and I'm not the dreaming type.” She turned away.

He said nothing to refute her statement. Nothing to assure her that she, too, was desirable. But what did she expect? She would never in a thousand years match his cosmic appeal. “No.” She blinked back her tears and raised her chin as she shook her head. “You're not the marrying kind, Colt.”

Still he said nothing.

She drew a deep breath, steeling herself as she turned back toward him.

But he was gone. Or at least, for a fraction of a second, that's what she believed, until her gaze dropped. He was kneeling in front of her.

Her breath jammed tight in her throat. Her heart ceased to beat.

“Casie,” he began, but in that second the door burst open and banged against the wall.

She spun around just as Sophie Jaegar stepped into the doorway. The girl held a Winchester in both hands.

“Soph!” Casie gasped.

“What the hell!” Colt snarled, but just then Emily rushed up, breath wheezing as she careened to a halt.

“What's—” Emily began, then gasped as her attention dropped to Colt. He was just pushing up from one knee to curl his hand around the rifle barrel and shift it aside.

“Hey!” Sophie said, perfect face marred by a scowl of thunderous proportions.

“Hey what?” Colt asked, signature grin noticeably absent. “What the devil do you think you're doing?”

For a moment Sophie almost looked chagrined, but then she shifted her gaze from Colt to Casie and back again. “What are
you
doing?”

“Well, I'm not threatening your life,” he said, still holding the rifle.

“I'm not—” Sophie began, then paused. Her scowl darkened even further, but she cleared her throat. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Someone else!” Casie's voice sounded squeaky to her own ears. And her knees felt weak again, but maybe for different reasons. “Like who?” she asked, but Emily took that opportunity to jump into the conversation.

“Mr. Dickenson, were you going to—”

“Give me that!” Colt demanded and tugged the rifle from Sophie's hands.

She glowered but released it. “I thought you were burglars.”

“Burglars?” Emily said, and tearing her gaze from Colt, glanced around the bunkhouse. “What would they burgle?”

“I don't know,” Sophie said. She looked a little embarrassed and a lot angry. Far be it from Sophie Jaegar to come out of any situation looking less than in control. “There's been that rash of robberies in town. Kids stealing copper from old buildings and . . . I was worried about the horses.”

“In the bunkhouse?” Emily asked.

“Maybe that bastard's still after Freedom,” she said, referring to the mare they had rescued a few months before.

“He's in jail,” Emily reminded her.

“Maybe he broke out.”

“He didn't break—” Emily began, then drew a deep breath, forced a smile, and aimed it with deadly accuracy at Casie. “Hey,” she said and grabbed Sophie's arm in a tight grip. “Listen, I'm sorry we interrupted . . .” She glanced at Colt. “. . . whatever you were doing. We're just going to . . .” She took a step backward, dragging the other girl with her. “Soph's going to finish up chores while I—”

“I already finished—Ouch!” Sophie said and tried to snatch her arm out of the other girl's grasp, but when Emily Kane set her mind to something, there wasn't much short of the apocalypse that could change her course.

“Then you can help me with supper,” she said, ghoulish smile still pasted in place. “It's not quite ready, by the way. So just . . .” They goose-stepped backward in tandem. “Just take your time doing . . .” She waved. “Whatever.” The door closed firmly behind them, all but reverberating on its hinges.