The Loner (7 page)

On the other hand wasn’t that why she’d agreed to his proposal in the first place? Why wasn’t she grabbing at the chance her mother had offered her with both hands?

Her current confusion was all Billy’s fault.

His return had reminded her that once upon a time she’d had a best friend with whom she could share everything, say anything. And for the briefest moment before they’d been separated two years ago, she’d felt things for Billy Coburn that she hadn’t known it was
possible for one human being to feel for another. Frightening feelings. Terrifying feelings. Billy had touched someplace deep inside her that she’d kept hidden from everyone, even herself.

What she felt for Geoffrey wasn’t nearly so threatening. She could marry him and get the ranch and never have to worry about having those terrifying feelings again.

Unfortunately, she’d already broken off their engagement. She’d have to lie to Geoffrey if she wanted their marriage to go forward now, and she’d never believed herself capable of that sort of deceit.

Summer made a growling sound in her throat. She hated being manipulated even more than she wanted Bitter Creek. First her father throwing Geoffrey at her as a prospective husband, hoping for a grandson to carry on after him. Now her mother offering her Bitter Creek because she was concerned with appearances and didn’t want to call off the wedding.

She had half a mind to marry the first man whose path she crossed. That would show her parents she was no puppet on a string!

Summer dressed hurriedly in a plaid Western shirt, crisp new jeans, and her favorite red boots with the Circle B brand hand-tooled into the fine leather, determined to escape the Castle before her mother awoke and demanded her answer. She needed more time to think, and she needed a private, peaceful place to do it.

Summer headed out the kitchen door, undecided whether to ride horseback or take her pickup. She never got past the cherry-red Silverado her father had given her as a twenty-first birthday gift.

It reminded her of Billy.

Summer remembered leaning against the front fender of the big Chevy truck, the warm sun on her face, as Billy Coburn kissed her. Remembered hearing her buttons ping against the cherry-red finish as he tore open her blouse to bare her breasts, his gaze both endearingly reverent and excitingly carnal.

She’d offered him her virginity.

Summer remembered the astonishment she’d seen in Billy’s eyes when she’d told him she was untouched. She couldn’t blame him for being surprised. She’d spent years running with wild crowds at one university after another, doing whatever outrageous acts it took to get herself thrown out, so she could return to Bitter Creek—until her father made a generous donation to another institution of higher learning and the whole ridiculous scenario began again.

The truth was, between her father and her three older brothers, Trace and the twins, Owen and Clay, no boy in high school would have dared to touch her for fear of his life, and she’d never let a man in college get close enough to seduce her. Owen had done a good job of warning her what happened to an unwary woman when a man started spouting flowery compliments. Forewarned, she’d gotten bored with hearing how her eyes were like topaz jewels and her hair was like spun gold and her lips were like wild, sweet strawberries, and rejected her would-be suitors out-of-hand.

Maybe the reason she’d liked Billy so much from the start was because he hadn’t used false flattery to get her attention. Even the lowliest cowhand at Bitter Creek knew who she was, and they’d all tipped their hats in obeisance.

Except Bad Billy Coburn.

Summer grinned ruefully as she remembered the first time she’d come to the stable and found him mucking out stalls. Billy hadn’t even acknowledged she was alive. He’d kept right on working as though the barn were empty.

She’d studied him secretly from the safety of the wooden stall while she saddled her horse. Billy was extraordinarily tall and had black hair like her brothers, but his eyes were a brown so dark they were almost black. A day-old beard stubbled his cheeks and chin. His jeans had worn white at the seams and his T-shirt had the arms torn out, allowing her to see the flex and play of corded muscle and sinew as he worked.

Both intrigued and affronted at being ignored—after all, she was an acknowledged beauty and the boss’s daughter—she’d contrived a way to force him to speak to her.

She’d led her horse from the stall, stopped near the wheelbarrow into which Billy was forking manure and asked, “Do you think Brandy’s hock is swollen?”

Without glancing in her direction, he’d forked another load of manure into the wheelbarrow and said, “Looks fine to me.”

“You haven’t even looked,” she accused. Not at her horse… or at her. She might be only sixteen, but she had a grown-up figure which she knew had turned older men’s heads. Billy Coburn seemed immune.

“Look,” she insisted. Even she hadn’t been sure whether she meant at her horse or at her.

He stopped abruptly, leaned his elbow on the pitchfork, and did a slow, sensual inspection of her body that left her pink with mortification.

“Everything looks fine to me,” he said in a whiskey-rough voice. “But I think you knew that before you asked.”

His eyes were narrowed in contempt, and his mouth had formed a sneer. At least, that’s what Summer thought it was. She’d never actually seen anyone sneer before, especially not at her. Without another word, he turned and began forking manure again.

“Just a minute,” she said, dropping the reins and taking the two steps to bring her toe-to-toe with him. She thought about reaching out to grab him, but figured that would be like sticking her arm into a lion’s cage. It was likely to get torn off.

“I’m speaking to you,” she said.

He ignored her.

“Do you know who I am?”

“A little girl playing grown-up,” he muttered under his breath.

She was appalled and humiliated. And fascinated.

Didn’t he care about his job? Wasn’t he worried about losing it? All it would take was one word to her father, and he’d be gone. He must know it. Yet he seemed fearless.

“What’s your name?” she demanded.

“Why do you care?”

She frowned. “I’d like to call you something besides—”

“It’s not like we’re gonna be friends, Mizz Blackthorne,” he interrupted. He turned his back on her, leaned the pitchfork against a stall, and moved the wheelbarrow farther down the center aisle. Then he retrieved the pitchfork and went into another empty stall.

“I can be friends with whomever I like,” she said, crossing to stand in the stall doorway, blocking his exit.

He glanced at her and lifted a dark brow. “Your father might have something to say about that, little girl.”

“My father doesn’t run my life.”

He snorted. “Right.”

“And I’m not a little girl. I’m sixteen.”

He leaned on the pitchfork with his crossed hands and grinned, revealing a mouthful of straight white teeth. “You don’t say. That old?”

Her breath caught in her throat as she realized how good-looking he was, his shaggy black hair falling over his brow, his dark eyes filled with humor, his smile revealing twin dimples in his cheeks. “How old are you?” she asked.

“Old enough to know better,” he said, bending to scoop up another load of manure and crossing toward her. “Move it, kid. I’ve got work to do. I can’t stand here all day jawing with you.”

“You’re a hired hand. If I want to talk to you, you’ll stop and talk,” she said, angry at being brushed off.

He dropped the load of manure so close to her boots that she had to resist the urge to jump backward, then threw the pitchfork into the hay and braced his hands on either side of the stall door. He loomed large above her, and she was aware of the dark hair in his armpits and the rivulets of sweat streaming down his throat into his torn T-shirt. He smelled like a hardworking man, musky and… different from any other man she’d ever met.

His dark eyes looked dangerous and a muscle flexed in his cheek. “Nobody orders me around, little girl. I’ll quit before I let a spoiled brat like you—”

“I’m sorry.”

“—order me—”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. She felt breathless, her chest tight, her heart pounding. “You’re right. I’m used to getting my own way. And I’m not used to being ignored.” Watching his dark eyes, she saw the danger pass, replaced by suspicion.

He looked down at the hand she’d extended to ward him off, as though he were a feral beast. She selfconsciously pulled it back and stuck it in the back pocket of her jeans. But that made her breasts jut, and aware of his eyes lowering to look their fill, she yanked her hand out of her back pocket and crossed her arms over her chest.

“What is it you want from me, kid?”

“Nothing.” She hesitated, then said, “Just someone to talk with.”

He shook his head, took a step back, and dropped his arms to his sides. “I’m not your man.”

“Why not?” she said. “You’re the first person I’ve met on this ranch who isn’t frightened or intimidated by the fact I’m the boss’s daughter. You have no idea how wonderful that is.”

He looked skeptical. “Do you know who I am?”

She gave him her most charming smile. “Not yet. You haven’t told me your name.”

His features hardened. “They call me Bad Billy Coburn.”

It was plain he didn’t like it. And that he probably deserved it. “You do look pretty ferocious,” she teased.

He scowled.

She laughed. “My name is Summer. It’s nice to meet you, Billy.” She held out her hand for him to shake.

He stared at it for a long time, so long she thought maybe he wasn’t going to take it. His eyes looked haunted, like a starving animal that sees the cheese laid on a trap, and knows that if he reaches for it, he’s liable to get hurt, but still so hungry that he takes the risk.

He reached for her hand and clasped it in his own. At the touch of his callused hand, a shiver ran through her. She shook off the odd feeling and said, “It’s nice to have a friend, Billy.”

He released her hand and took a step back. “Have a nice ride… Summer.”

She smiled at him, feeling buoyed by his use of her first name. “Thank you… Billy.”

It was a beginning.

Over the next several years, their friendship had grown. Until she’d spoiled it all two years ago by wanting to know how his kiss would feel. When he’d refused to kiss her, she’d leaned up on tiptoe, right there on his front porch, and kissed him.

And then he’d kissed her back.

Billy’s kiss had opened her eyes to what had been missing in every other kiss she’d ever received. His lips had been surprisingly soft and a little damp and had moved against her own seeking pleasure, discovering the wonder of touching her intimately and completely.

She’d felt her skin tingle, felt her blood begin to race, felt a surprisingly heady euphoria that seemed at odds with being touched by a man who’d been her good friend for almost five years without touching her in more than a
friendly way. She’d wanted some indefinable something more.

At that fragile moment in time, Billy’s mother Dora had arrived home from church. The rest of what happened that day on Billy’s front porch was painful to remember.

Dora’s face had turned a mottled red and spittle had flown from her mouth as she’d confronted Billy and said, “I won’t have you lying with that Blackthorne bitch. Not ever. Do you hear me? Never!”

Summer couldn’t remember everything Billy’s mother had said, but even now her face went fiery hot when she remembered how that beautiful moment had been turned so ugly.

Of course, now Summer understood why Mrs. Coburn had been so sharp-spoken and upset. Any mother would panic if she thought two children related by blood were about to become lovers. For twenty-five years she’d kept the secret that Billy was Blackjack’s son.

And she hadn’t known that Summer was not his daughter.

Summer sighed and shifted in the seat of her Silverado as she headed the Chevy toward a towering live oak. She hadn’t realized where she was going until she’d arrived. She’d come the back way to the stock pond on Billy’s ranch where they’d so often spent private time with one another.

As she pulled her truck to a stop at the base of the ancient live oak, Summer saw a horse ground-tied and eating grass. She should have realized Billy might be here. After all, it was his favorite spot to think, as well.

She found him sitting at the base of the tree, his long
legs extended in front of him, his Stetson pulled low, his hands tearing apart a blade of long-stemmed grass. She knew he must have heard the approach of her truck, but he never acknowledged her. She slid onto the ground beside him and leaned back against the tree.

“Hi,” she said.

He glanced at her and said, “What are you doing here?”

“I needed to think. How about you?”

He grunted an assent.

A sudden gust of wind rustled the leaves above them. She squinted and covered her eyes as sunlight stabbed at her through a break in the leafy canopy. She drew her knees up to her chest and laid her cheek on them. “Oh, God, Billy. I’m so confused. I don’t know what to do.”

She felt his hand briefly on her shoulder before it was gone.

“I know,” he said.

She felt a sob building and turned her face away from Billy, not wanting him to see her lose the struggle for control. “I thought I’d grown up so much in the two years you’ve been gone,” she said. A sob broke free, and she made a
grrrrrr
sound of anger and admitted, “And less than twenty-four hours after you get back, I’m reduced to sniveling like some kid whose toy is broken.”

“Mind if I join you?”

She heard the humor in Billy’s voice and turned to face him. “What have you got to cry about?”

He broke off another stem of grass and chewed on the sweet end of it, staring off into the distance instead of answering her.

“Your mom must be pretty sick,” she guessed.

“Yeah. I talked to her this morning. I’d never told her about Will,” he admitted.

“Oh, my God. What did she say?”

Billy shrugged. “She was upset. Wanted to know how I could be so irresponsible, getting some girl I didn’t even know pregnant, and then trying to raise a kid by myself.”