The Trouble With Cowboys (27 page)
Vaughn rushed forward, his firearm at the ready, motioning for the other officers to follow.
“He’s armed,” Kellan said. “In his waistband. A nine millimeter Berretta.”
One of the deputy sheriffs flipped Morton’s shirt up and seized his weapon. Another was ready with handcuffs.
“What am I being charged with?” Morton sneered.
“Possession of an unregistered firearm within the state of New Mexico, for starters,” Vaughn said. “But threatening a witness in an investigation will probably be what sends you to prison for a good long time, Morton. Then, when you’re convicted of your Amarex crimes, they’re going to throw the key away to your cell, you greedy son of a bitch.”
Two deputies led him to the backseat of their car.
Holstering his weapon, Vaughn nodded at Kellan. “You called.”
Kellan removed his cell phone from his pocket and hit
END
on the call to Vaughn. “You came. Thanks. I don’t know if Morton would’ve shot me, but I’m glad I didn’t have to find out.”
END
on the call to Vaughn. “You came. Thanks. I don’t know if Morton would’ve shot me, but I’m glad I didn’t have to find out.”
“You and me both.” They shook hands. “Now for the not-so-fun part. You get to ride with me to the stationhouse to answer questions and make a statement.”
“Any chance you recorded the phone call?” Kellan asked.
“Every word. Makes me wish Gerald Sorentino was alive so I could arrest his ass too.”
Kellan rubbed his arms. “Are you going to tell Amy, Rachel, and Jenna the truth about their father?”
Squinting into the sun, Vaughn sighed. “Not before Christmas, that’s for sure. But they’ll need to hear it from one of us before it comes up at Morton’s trial.”
Good call. “After Christmas, I’ll tell them. Hopefully, it will be the sisters’ last piece of bad news for a good long while.” He and Vaughn started for his patrol car. Kellan made a detour for his rifle. He nearly put it in his truck, until he realized that concealing a weapon without a permit in front of six police officers was maybe not the best move. “I’ll be right back,” he told Vaughn before jogging into his house.
All the officers but Vaughn had driven away by the time he returned.
“There is a silver lining to this story, you know,” Vaughn said.
Kellan climbed into the passenger seat of the patrol car. “What’s that?”
Vaughn started the ignition and pulled out of the driveway. “If Morton was telling the truth, then Sorentino Farm has enough oil underneath it to sustain them indefinitely. No bankruptcy, no foreclosure. That ought to bring the sisters some piece of mind.”
“And, with any luck, a shitload of money to go along with that piece of mind.”
“Amen to that, brother. Amen to that.”
The next morning, the day before Christmas Eve, Amy battled the pull of grief by working through kitchen prep on an elaborate Christmas meal. She held out hope that Kellan would join them, but doubt had taken root in her mind. He hadn’t come to visit that morning, but sent his Slipping Rock workers to manage the farm chores for Rachel. By midmorning, he still hadn’t called.
Could he possibly be that upset with her for taking in his mother? Well, she was mad at him, too. His behavior toward Tina at church had been appalling. After they’d maneuvered their way through the post-service masses, he hadn’t said a word to her or Tina before speeding out of the parking lot. She understood that his actions stemmed from a place of profound hurt, but still, giving her and Tina the cold shoulder was inexcusable and uncharacteristically immature.
For her part, Tina had been a quiet, unassuming guest at Amy’s home. After a low-key Sunday supper, she’d taken a several-hour walk over the dirt roads of the farm and had generally stayed out of everyone’s way.
This morning, she’d meekly asked if Catcher Creek hosted any AA meetings. Amy and her sisters shrugged, but Mr. Dixon knew all about the daily meetings at the VFW. He was twenty years sober and happy to escort her, he announced, which is where they’d disappeared to a few minutes before Matt Roenick pulled his dusty, red SUV to a stop in front of the house. Amy, Jenna, and Rachel watched from the porch. Sloane and Tommy had retired to the kitchen to bake cookies for an afternoon snack.
Of the three sisters, only Jenna had spoken to the lawyer, so Amy had no idea what to expect before his door opened. He was as tall as Kellan, but slim beneath his white dress shirt and charcoal slacks in a marathon runner sort of way. He offered the sisters an immediate, genuine smile, which earned him tons of bonus points in Amy’s book.
“Well, Jenna,” Amy said under her breath. “Does he look like he sounded over the phone?”
Jenna tilted her head. “Cuter. Way cuter.”
“Oh brother,” Rachel added.
Rachel led the procession into the dining room. While Matt shuffled through papers in his briefcase, Jenna took his drink order.
“I was surprised you were willing to make a house call this close to Christmas,” Amy said, sliding onto the bench across the table from him.
He shrugged. “House calls are my style. I primarily work with home owners who are experiencing problems with oil companies. Not only are people more comfortable talking to me at their homes than driving to my stuffy little office in Santa Fe, but then we can actually go outside and look at the land involved in the home owner’s legal issues.”
Made sense. Still a pretty cool philosophy. None of the other lawyers they’d dealt with had given a rat’s ass about comfort or common sense.
“As far as it being Christmas week,” he continued, “if I’d had bad news to give you, I would’ve held off until after the holiday. But we’ve got nothing but good things to discuss today. Plus I’m Jewish. Chanukah was last week.”
Jenna bent over the table to set a glass of soda near his elbow. Maybe it was an optical illusion, but it looked like she’d pulled her shirt lower so her cleavage could say hello to their guest. Rachel was right—oh brother.
“So here’s a question for you,” Jenna said, straddling the bench next to him. “What do Jewish people do on Christmas Day? I’ve always wondered.”
“Jenna,” Amy warned. No need to start their first meeting with the lawyer by asking insensitive questions about his religion.
Matt chuckled, not seeming at all offended. “Christmas is one of my favorite days of the year. Santa Fe is like a big empty playground. My family raises and trains therapy horses, and on Christmas, they take our latest ‘graduates’ on a multi-day trail ride and I usually join them if I’m not working. It’s a blast.”
“Therapy horses?” Rachel asked.
He scooted to the edge of his seat, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “For disabled kids and adults. My family’s ranch sells horses to special needs camps and mainstream tourism outfits who want to make sure their services are accessible to all their guests. Blows me away, what a difference these specially trained horses make in people’s lives. Balances my lawyer karma out, you know?” He swatted the air. “Aw, I’m only kidding. I’m the good kind of lawyer.”
Amy and Rachel exchanged a look of disbelief. Who the heck was this guy?
He slapped a stack of papers on the table. “Enough about me. Let’s talk about this lawsuit.”
“You said you have good news,” Jenna said. “Are you planning to fight the suit on the grounds that the contract is null due to our father’s death and the property transfer, like you mentioned over the phone as a possibility?”
“We can still fall back on that if we need to, but there’ve been a couple developments I didn’t anticipate when we last spoke. On Friday, the FBI opened a criminal investigation against Amarex in conjunction with the Quay County and Potter County, Texas Sheriffs’ Departments. It’s huge. Unprecedented. In light of the charges the company’s facing if convicted, there’s an excellent chance their lawyers will drop the lawsuit against you.”
My God.
Amy couldn’t stop blinking. Rachel grabbed her arm. They shared a wide-eyed look filled with shock and hope. Amy tried to temper her excitement because news that wonderful was usually too good to be true.
Amy couldn’t stop blinking. Rachel grabbed her arm. They shared a wide-eyed look filled with shock and hope. Amy tried to temper her excitement because news that wonderful was usually too good to be true.
“What are the charges?” Rachel asked.
“Corruption, coercion, fraud—a laundry list of corporate abuse that leads straight to Amarex’s CEO, Bruce Morton. He was arrested yesterday in Quay County. I’m headed to the sheriff ’s station after this to find out the details.”
Did Kellan know? If he did, he sure hadn’t brought it up all the times he’d come over to her house that weekend. Maybe he thought it would be inappropriate to bring up the lawsuit in light of her mom’s passing. If he didn’t know, then how would he react? Bruce Morton was his family. Not to mention that he was set to inherit Morton’s company.
“How . . . what?” Jenna stammered.
Matt turned his bright smile on her. “An insider witness has come forward with damaging information about Amarex. Handed multiple recordings to the FBI of private conversations between himself and the CEO. I haven’t heard them myself, but I’m hoping my meeting with the Quay County sheriff clears up my questions.”
Amy swabbed a hand over her forehead. “A witness? Like a whistle-blower?”
Matt flipped a pen around his fingers like a baton. Though Amy hadn’t thought it possible, the wattage in his smile cranked up another notch, revealing rows of straight, white teeth and a dimple on his right cheek. “I believe you all know Kellan Reed.”
Chapter 17
Amy drove at an uncharacteristically slow speed to Slipping Rock Ranch, giving herself time to get her thoughts in order. Did she start with an apology for assuming he was an Amarex spy and flying off the handle? A large part of her was too stubborn to apologize, feeling that he’d probably deserved her wrath for lying to her. Besides, she was done with her rules, done with apologizing for every little misstep.
She wanted an explanation about why he’d ignored his mother and her for the past twenty-four hours, but she was still irritated about that, which wasn’t the tone she wanted to set with this conversation. Not after what Matt Roenick told them. Maybe, instead, she’d skip straight to a thank you that he’d stepped forward to help her family fight Amarex. No matter what happened between them in the future, or how angry she was at him for lying or ignoring her, she’d always be indebted to him for that.
As she climbed his porch steps, she realized that she didn’t want to do the talking during this conversation—either to apologize or thank him. What she wanted most was to listen to what he had to say so she could understand why he couldn’t forgive his mother, but longed for forgiveness from his brother. And why he’d lied to her about who he was and still slept with her the second time, knowing about the Amarex lawsuit. And she definitely wanted to try to understand why the heir to a billion-dollar empire would elect to bring the company down on criminal charges, likely at the forfeit of his inheritance, to protect her piddly little farm.
She rang the doorbell and waited.
No answer.
After a minute, she knocked. Then rang again.
Max sidled up next to her, thumping his tail on the floor and whining for attention. She scratched behind his ears. “Hey, cutie. You know where your boss is?”
He whined again and scooted himself closer, until he was sitting on her feet. Sighing, she lowered to the porch stairs to wait. Max stayed right with her and laid his head in her lap. She petted him absentmindedly, watching the gray clouds roll through the sky and the sun dip west toward Sidewinder Mesa.
A horse with a rider crested a rolling hill in the distance. She squinted until she could make out the identity of the rider. Kellan.
He rode with the abandon of a man who was born in the saddle. His chocolate brown horse was tall and lean and tore up the ground beneath it as they dropped from the hill into a canyon. The closer he got, the more detail Amy could make out—his worn, brown cowboy hat, his jean-clad thighs, his strong back emanating strength and control as he moved in rhythm with his steed.
He was magnificent. Amy’s every fantasy come to life. But so much more than that.
He was Kellan Reed, a real cowboy who’d single-handedly created a renowned cattle ranch from the dust of New Mexico’s high desert, not some chef from Portland playing dress-up. It didn’t matter that he grew up in a lower-class Florida suburb. There was no faking his skills on a horse or the scuffs on his boots. There was no faking those muscles, carved from years of hard labor, or the deep tan of his skin from working every day under the unforgiving sun.
But he was also a man of sharp intelligence, with a passion for fine food and unwavering loyalty to his friends. He loved Christmas, but was haunted by the scars of his childhood. He held Tommy in his arms for hours in the hospital without complaining, then brought her endless bunches of celery after her mother’s passing. This was the man who hated public spectacles, but elected to expose his private life and give up millions of dollars in inheritance so Amy’s family home would survive.
She’d thought she’d fallen in love with him that night at his house, when he revealed his MAC knife collection. How wrong she’d been. Love wasn’t about a Stetson hat or the right knife, or any of life’s superficial details. That had been infatuation, along with a heaping scoop of lust.
What she’d learned from her roller-coaster relationship with Kellan was that a person did not fall into real love, but built it. Slowly over time. With painstaking care and patience. Real love was the fusion of two people’s flaws and strengths, sitting atop the rubble of their past, cemented by the hopes for their future. It was humor and steadfastness and a little bit of magic. It was a creation stronger and more durable than either person had been alone.
What she’d felt for Brock McKenna, or even Kellan on their first date, paled in comparison to the potential for love she felt in her heart as she watched him fly over the terrain on his horse. Hell, yes, she felt loads of hot cowboy lust, watching him ride. Everything about him called to her—his hands on the reins, his thighs rubbing against the saddle, the curls of brown hair beneath his hat. And those lips . . .
Thinking about his skill with those lips made her body heavy and achy, and demanding of attention. She shifted her weight and her jeans rubbed just the right way, making her aware of her panties clinging to her wet center. She nearly touched herself, her yearning for contact was so potent. This time, though, her cowboy lust was only for Kellan, and had as much to do with the man he was as it did with his command in the saddle.
When he entered the yard, he tugged on the reins and brought the horse to a stop, then dismounted in one powerful, lithe move. Amy’s reaction was swift and visceral. A zing of sensation shot through the juncture of her thighs. She sucked air in through her teeth and gripped the porch rail.
Leaving the horse untethered in the middle of the yard, he walked toward Amy. She wondered if he recognized the desire burning hot on her cheeks, in her eyes. She certainly felt its flame.
He stopped a solid ten feet away from her, breathing hard, studying her with a dark, inscrutable gaze. Even with a chasm of space between them, tension, wicked and hot, stretched like a band around them both, binding them to their basest needs.
She wanted his hands and mouth on her flesh. She wanted to explore the infinite possibilities of their joined bodies. To make love to him so slowly and tenderly that time stopped. But also for him to control her as he had in his truck outside the restaurant, with his raw masculine power that made her limbs weak. She wanted him to fuck her until they collapsed, sweaty and sated, knowing they could do it again, as often as they wanted for the rest of their lives.
He was dressed in worn work jeans and a loose, long-sleeved T-shirt. Her gaze zeroed in on his pants. A button fly design. She could work with that. And, as luck would have it, there wasn’t another soul in sight. He could take her right on these steps with his clothes on and no one would be the wiser.
“Amy.”
Her name on his lips in that deep, rumbling voice snapped her focus to his face. Could he tell she’d imagined him screwing her brains out on his porch steps? She swallowed, not quite knowing what to say now that she’d decided she’d rather stick her hands into his pants than listen to him explain his side of the Amarex debacle.
His scowl took her aback. He looked past her, to his house, then at his horse. Then he sighed, deeply, wearily. Apparently, Amy was alone in her lust. Why, oh why, couldn’t she stop making a fool out of herself in front of this man? Mr. Dixon told her she needed to find her true self, but the
me
she’d found was an idiot.
me
she’d found was an idiot.
“Sorry I didn’t call first.” Oh brother. An apology? Precisely what she swore she wasn’t going to do. And her voice, husky with desire, was definitely not cool and collected. In fact, nothing about her was cool and collected at the moment. “I take that back,” she amended with a toss of her hair. “I’m not here to apologize.”
His lips didn’t smile, but the edges of his eyes wrinkled with amusement. “You don’t owe me an apology, for not calling or anything else. I’d say it’s the other way around.”
Oh. “Maybe not an apology, but an explanation would be good.”
“I owe you that too.” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “I need to get Remington settled in for the night. We can talk in the stable while I work. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
After putting in a twelve-hour day on the ranch and in the office, Kellan smelled terrible. Probably looked even worse. When he got close enough to see Amy clearly, he was baffled about why she was staring at him like she was debating about the most efficient way to rip his clothes off. Why would a classy woman like her get all hot and bothered over a stinky, sweaty cowboy?
Then it hit him. Amy’s cowboy fantasy. Hell.
Since watching
Ultimate Chef Showdown,
he’d worked diligently to sidestep the John Wayne image she’d formed of him, but he’d walked right into it today. Or rather, cantered into it.
Ultimate Chef Showdown,
he’d worked diligently to sidestep the John Wayne image she’d formed of him, but he’d walked right into it today. Or rather, cantered into it.
He was glad she was finding her way out of the fog of grief that had settled over everyone in her house that weekend. No one got a look
that
hungry in their eyes while in the throes of sadness. Then again, a little sorrow might help him keep his clothes on and his hands to himself, because he refused to settle for the role of
cowboy-of-the-moment
in her life any longer. If Amy couldn’t lust after him because of who he was, then thanks, but no thanks.
that
hungry in their eyes while in the throes of sadness. Then again, a little sorrow might help him keep his clothes on and his hands to himself, because he refused to settle for the role of
cowboy-of-the-moment
in her life any longer. If Amy couldn’t lust after him because of who he was, then thanks, but no thanks.
Even if she looked sexy as hell in those tight jeans and black sweater, which were snug enough to frame her curves and offer a hint of the softness beneath. He could have her top off in a half second flat.
Nope. The best course of action was to keep busy tending to Remington. He led the horse into the open stable, feeling Amy’s eyes on his ass as he walked. She always seemed to be staring at his ass. Funny, he was always angling for a look at her ass too. He pictured it now, juicy and round, turned up on his truck seat while he gave it to her good on their date.
His pants grew snug at the memory. Lord Almighty, he and Amy were quite a pair. Like two hormonal teenagers without a lick of self-control. Thirty-four years old and he was a hairsbreadth away from pinning her to the stable wall and having his way with her, personal ethics be damned.
Cursing under his breath, he snagged the bucket of grooming supplies, then set to unfastening the saddle strap, working on the opposite side of the horse from Amy so she wouldn’t see his hard-on. She settled against the far wall, watching him through half-closed lids, breathing through parted lips.
“You can’t look at me like that, Amy.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re picturing me naked.”
“What’s wrong with that? I know firsthand how good you look naked.”
He jerked the strap clear and lifted the saddle. “What’s wrong is that if you keep it up, I’m not going to have the strength to do the right thing.”
“What’s the right thing?”
He met her gaze. “Keeping my hands off you.”
“How honorable.”
If she only knew how dishonorable—how downright filthy—his thoughts about her were at the moment, she’d amend that conclusion. He worked Remy’s bit away from his mouth, selected a brush from the bucket, and got busy brushing his flank in large circles, grateful for the distraction.
“Watching you groom your horse is not helping.”
He didn’t look at her, for fear it would unravel the last shreds of his control to see the expression that accompanied such a breathy, sexy tone of voice, and instead bent to brush lower on Remy’s leg. “Why’s that?”
She let out a long, slow exhale that answered his question better than words could. Apparently, horse grooming fell under the purview of her cowboy fantasy.
Frustration knifed through him. He didn’t want to be some interchangeable guy in her fantasy. When she looked at him with those lusty brown eyes, he wanted her to see him and him alone—not some stereotypical image she’d conjured up.
He tried to ignore how much he wanted her, despite all that. But the rustle of material as she shifted her legs and the shallow rhythm of her breathing made it tough to focus on anything except her arousal and how desperately he wished to transform her shallow breathing into whimpers of pleasure.
He couldn’t see her lower body, but she seemed so turned on that he half expected to find her touching herself as she had in his bedroom that Friday night of their date. The image of her leaning against the wall, her fingers working in the slick folds of her flesh, took root in his mind.
Holy hell, she was right. Grooming his horse wasn’t helping. Mashing his eyelids closed, he shook his head, clearing it. Maybe if he could keep a conversation going, he could overcome his lust. Maybe his common sense would prevail after all.
So he plunged into the least sexy topic he could come up with. “You asked for an explanation, so how about we try that?” His voice was thin, strained.
“Okay.”
Clearing his throat, he kept his eyes glued to the task at hand. “I started working for Amarex when I was eighteen. I told you I went looking for my uncle to confront him, right?”
“I remember.”
“Well, he offered me work and I was too broke and angry to turn him down. Didn’t take long for me to realize Morton didn’t offer anything without strings attached, especially a paycheck.”
His uncle had been manipulative even then, calling on Kellan to scare home owners into signing papers, much like the courier who’d visited him a couple weeks earlier. Kellan refused and the two clashed heads more often than not. After two years of that, Kellan was ready to move on and find work somewhere else because what Morton was asking him to do was reprehensible in every way.
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