Читать книгу In A Cowboy's Embrace - Charlotte Maclay, Charlotte Maclay - Страница 11

Cliff pulled his truck into the sheriff’s parking lot behind the combined city hall and county courthouse, a squat brick building that had been constructed in the 1930s. He’d barely had time to stop by home, shower and get dressed after his day at the roundup. He’d given Stevie a hug, said a quick hello to Tasha and her daughter, and then he’d been on his way.

Fortunately it was only a couple of weeks out of the year when he burned the candle at both ends, being both cowboy and deputy sheriff. But he owned half the Double S. Even though he never took any of the profits from the ranch—assuming there were any—he couldn’t leave his brother to do all the hard work during roundups. Besides, he kind of liked keeping his hand in the business.

Aching muscles or not, it felt good to ride hard, work harder and have something to show for his efforts.

Which was more than he could say for the success of the sheriff’s office at catching the band of rustlers who’d been plaguing the area for the past year, including the time Cliff was living in Los Angeles.

Adjusting his sidearm, he went into the office. Sheriff Colman was behind the counter talking to Deputy Andy Linear, a Barney Fife look-alike and not a whole lot smarter.

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” he said. He hooked his hat on a peg and joined them at the counter where they were studying a large-scale map of the area.

Reed County encompassed some twenty thousand square miles of mostly rolling hills, grassland suitable for grazing cattle. Periodically rivers and winter creeks bisected the land, creating ravines and forming lakes and ponds. To the west, the land rose, becoming more forested. To the east was prairie country. Within the county boundaries only a few small towns existed, shown on the map as clusters of houses and often connected by nothing more than gravel roads.

“What’s up?” Cliff asked.

Larry Colman tapped the map at a spot south of Reilly’s Gulch. “Got a report of another truckload of steers picked up from the King place last night. The King ranch got hit last year, too.”

Larry had put on a good fifty pounds in the years he’d served as county sheriff. Though his body wasn’t as agile as it used to be, his mind was still alert and he was eager to get on with retirement in order to pursue his other interests—primarily opening a museum to house his old-time radio memorabilia, from Captain Midnight decoder rings to a set of broadcast tapes from early Green Hornet shows.

“You find tire tracks?” Cliff asked.

“Yep. We went out to investigate this morning first thing. An eighteen wheeler’s, rear inside left tire with a notch in it same as the other jobs.”

“And another full moon last night,” Andy pointed out.

Cliff studied the map. “That’s when they do their best work.” Last month during the full moon a ranch to the east had been victimized in the same way, the first rustling activity reported since the winter snows had melted. “Looks like it’s going to be another long summer unless we get a lead on them. Or they make a mistake.”

“These particular crooks are sneaky devils,” Larry commented. “Using a big truck like that, then poof! It vanishes into nowhere before we even get word of the missing steers.”

Andy said, “It’s just like that big TV magician who makes the Statue of Liberty and airplanes and stuff disappear. Now you see it, now you don’t.”

Cliff suspected they were hiding the truck somewhere safe between jobs, but he didn’t have a clue where that might be. So far the Double S hadn’t lost any steers. Idly he wondered how long their good luck would last.

The office door opened and in marched Winifred Bruhn, editor, publisher and sole reporter for the Reed County Register. She was also a member of the school board and the self-appointed head of the town’s morality police.

“Seems to me you folks ought to be out catching criminals instead of standing there chewing the fat.” She whipped out a notepad and slapped it on the counter. “Now then, Sheriff, what are you planning to do about those rustlers stealing the livelihoods right out from under our citizens’ noses?”

Larry exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “We’re working on it, Winnie. Like always.”

“Fine lot of good you’re doing. How many head were taken last night?” Something about her narrow nose and drooping eyebrows gave her a perpetually sour expression that made it easy to understand why she’d never married. Her shrill voice alone would be enough to scare away any man.

“The Kings figure about thirty,” Larry told her.

Winnie jotted that fact down in her notebook.

Having no interest in Winifred’s interrogation of the sheriff, Cliff eased away from the counter. The rustlers could be hiding their truck in a whole different county—hell, a different state, for that matter. If they had something more to go on, they could ask other jurisdictions to keep an eye out for the suspect vehicle. As it was, any truck going down the highway could be the one involved in the crime. But they couldn’t stop them all to check the tires. Not without probable cause.

Finished with Larry, Winifred cornered Cliff as he was riffling through Wanted flyers. “I want to know what you plan to do about the band of rustlers if you’re elected sheriff.”

“I’m likely to be elected,” he said easily, “since I’m running unopposed.”

“That might change. There’s another two days left before the filing deadline, young man, and there’s talk in town of wanting new blood in the sheriff’s office.”

“Sorry to hear that, ma’am.”

“Well, you’d best come up with a statement saying how you plan to catch those crooks. There’s folks in this county saying they won’t stand for another do-nothing sheriff.”

Irritated by Winifred’s criticism of Larry—who’d been a damn good sheriff—Cliff struggled to come up with a decent quote. Of course he planned to catch the rustlers. But in his business there were no guarantees. The voters shouldn’t ask for them, but he supposed they had the right, even when that wasn’t a fair way to make a judgment. All he could promise was to do his very best.

After what seemed like ages, Winifred left, her notebook filled with misquotes, Cliff was sure. Dealing with the Reed County Register and its star reporter wasn’t going to be the favorite part of his job as sheriff.

He was just getting ready to go out on patrol when Larry said, “Looks like you’ve got a new housekeeper.”

Cliff froze. Had the word already spread he had a cover model working for him—temporarily? “Where’d you hear that?”

“Didn’t.” Larry got a Santa Claus twinkle in his eyes. “Whoever ironed your shirt scorched a big triangle right smack in the middle. Figured Sylvia wasn’t the culprit.”

Practically dislocating both his neck and his shoulder in order to look at his back, Cliff cursed. Why him? Why couldn’t some other man have been in line when they passed out an incompetent housekeeper, one who just happened to be the sexiest female this side of the Mississippi?

One who was definitely double trouble.

CLIFF CAME HOME on his dinner break and Tasha couldn’t decide if he looked sexiest dressed in jeans and a work shirt with his Stetson tipped back on his head at a rakish angle, or in his khaki sheriff’s uniform, tailored to fit his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Difficult decision, she thought as she watched him wash up at the kitchen sink.

“Hey, Daddy, what’s that on the back of your shirt?” Stevie asked. Sitting at the table opposite Melissa, his little legs were swinging back and forth expending nervous energy.

Cliff dried his hands with a towel. “Somebody was using an iron that was too hot.”

“Actually, I got distracted when Melissa fell off the porch swing and was screaming bloody murder.”

“Stevie pushed me,” Melissa said.

“Did not.”

Melissa held up her elbow. “I got an owie, Uncle Cliff. Wanna see?”

Tasha contemplated the back of Cliff’s shirt as he bent over to examine the Snoopy bandage. “It doesn’t look too bad.”

“I think she’ll live,” Cliff said. In an easy gesture of affection, he brushed a quick kiss to Melissa’s elbow.

Tasha’s heart squeezed tight at the sight of his gentle caring. Just the way a father should be, except Melissa had never really known her daddy. “No, I meant your shirt.”

Eyeing her, Cliff took his place at the head of the table. “I’ll change after we eat. It’s an old Western custom that we don’t wear scorched shirts out in public, particularly when we may have to make an arrest. If the crooks get too many laughs, it makes them unruly.”

She flipped her hair behind her shoulder. “Who knows? You might start a new fad.”

A reluctant smile played around the corners of his mouth, and she noticed what really nice lips he had—not so full that he’d give sloppy kisses, but pleasantly soft, a shape hers could easily mold to. And that was a thought she shouldn’t be considering.

“Are we going to eat anytime soon?” he asked.

She gazed at his mouth for another long heartbeat, thinking—

“Mommy? You aren’t going to burn the dinner, are you?”

“No! Absolutely not.” Whirling, she grabbed a hot pad, opened the oven door and pulled out the chicken and rice casserole she’d been keeping warm. Not burned. A little dried around the edges maybe but no charcoal.

With a degree of pride, she put the casserole on the table and produced a big bowl of salad from the refrigerator. All the grocery store in town carried was iceberg lettuce and a little wilted Romaine—nothing resembling endive or alfalfa sprouts—but she’d chopped a half-dozen fresh veggies into the mix. Definitely nutritious.

Cliff ladled some of the casserole onto her plate, and she held up her hand to stop him from serving her too much. Then he served Melissa and Stevie.

“I thought we were having steak tonight.” He piled several spoonfuls on his own plate, no doubt relieved to see she’d made an adequate quantity to fill up a hardworking cowboy.

“Chicken’s better for you. The children, too.”

“Better not let the folks around here hear you say that. Those are fightin’ words in cattle country.”

She met his teasing blue eyes with a wink of her own. “I’ll be sure to keep my radical N’Yawker ideas to myself.”

As they ate dinner, the children were eager to relate their afternoon activities, which had included Stevie giving Melissa and Tasha a tour of the corral and barn. They’d met Peaches, the aging mare Cliff had apparently decided would be placid enough for Tasha to ride. Henry, the mule, appeared less tranquil, had big yellow teeth and a disposition that would make Manhattan’s pushiest panhandlers keep their distance.

“You catch any bad guys today?” Stevie finally asked.

“Not so far.” He forked the last of the rice on his plate into his mouth and eyed the remains in the casserole dish.

Tasha gestured for him to help himself to more.

“Ricky Monroe says there’s bank robbers ’n murderers ’n aliens all over the place.”

He reached over to ruffle his son’s hair. “Not in our town, bucko. You’re safe here.”

Smiling at the boy, Tasha said, “I’d say your friend Ricky has a vivid and rather gory imagination.”

“He says he’s seen ’em,” Stevie insisted.

“Well, if they come around here, they’ll have to watch out for me, won’t they?” Cliff patted the badge on his chest.

Tasha’s unwilling gaze shifted to his holstered weapon and she shuddered. She didn’t like guns. Or violence. And wondered how a man who was so obviously gentle could make his living carrying a gun.

Before he could finish off the casserole, he got a call on the radio he had strapped to his belt. An accident on the state highway east of Brady.

“Gotta go, kids.” Standing, he gave his son a quick kiss. “Do what Tasha tells you, okay?”

“I will, Daddy.”

He circled the table to give Melissa a kiss on the top of her head. “You, too, Little Miss Goldilocks.”

She giggled. “I have to. She’s my mommy.”

For a heart-stopping moment, Tasha thought he was going to kiss her, too. A husband and father going off to work. But then he stopped himself.

“Good dinner…considering the main course used to wear feathers.”

She laughed with him, but somewhere deep inside disappointment curled painfully through her. The family image they’d all created sitting around the kitchen table wasn’t real; he hadn’t kissed her.

It was hard to tell which one of those truths hurt the most. Although she recognized neither of them should.

CLIFF GOT BACK HOME after midnight and he was bone-weary. The accident near Brady hadn’t been too bad, only minor injuries, but it had taken him a long time to complete the paperwork after the tow truck had cleaned up the debris.

He slipped into the house through the back door, sensing the good kind of quiet that meant everything was all right. Smiling, he realized Tasha had left a light on for him in the living room. But he wasn’t prepared for what he found there.

She was curled with her legs under her, her head resting on the back of the couch, her hair feathering around her face. On the end table there was an open paperback book as though she’d just laid it down. She had one hand on his son, who was sleeping with his head on her lap, a light blanket arranged over his small form.

Tears stung at the backs of Cliff’s eyes. It should have been his wife Yvonne comforting Stevie against whatever fear had kept him awake. But it was another woman. A woman so classically beautiful, she took his breath away. He didn’t want to care about her, be attracted to her. Yet every instinct in his body contradicted what he kept telling himself. When it came to Tasha Papadakis Reynolds, he seemed incapable of rational thought.

He knelt beside her. Against his will, his fingers toyed with the ends of her hair—molten silver so fine, it must have been created by the gods.

In sleep, her lips were relaxed, inviting a kiss. Her lashes formed golden half circles beneath her eyes. A splash of color highlighted her cheeks, the makeup so subtle he wasn’t sure if what he saw was her natural color or something a brush created. And her sultry scent was all around her, enticing him.

Slowly, as if she were Sleeping Beauty awakening, her eyes opened. Blue magic the shade of midnight.

“Hi.” She blinked and ran her tongue across her lips.

He felt the gesture as powerfully as if she’d slid the zipper down on his trousers. “Hi, yourself.”

She roused slowly. “You’re home safe.”

“Hmm. No bad guys out there tonight.” Only traffic victims who shouldn’t have been driving so fast. “Stevie have a problem?”

“The alien space monsters were after him.”

He nodded. “It’s that Monroe kid. He’s in Stevie’s kindergarten class, or was. School’s out now.”

“Your son seems particularly sensitive.”

To Cliff’s surprise, she lifted her hand and placed it on his cheek, her fingers incredibly soft and caressing. Delicate like the wings of a butterfly.

“Like his dad, I suspect.” She breathed the words as warmly as a summer breeze.

Cliff knew he had to move away—away from her touch. Away from the feelings that swept through him. He’d been lonely for so damn long….

By sheer force of will, he stood. It wouldn’t be right for any of them if he followed his impulse to kiss her, to carry her into the guest bedroom and make love to her for the rest of the night.

Instead, he picked his son up in his arms. “Thanks for taking care of my boy.”

She gave him a lazy smile. “No problem. That’s my job.”

For now. She’d be leaving within weeks, maybe even days. They hadn’t even worked out the details and Stevie wasn’t her responsibility. Cliff didn’t want his son hurt when Tasha left. Keeping an emotional distance was better for all concerned.

She followed him into Stevie’s bedroom, where she pulled up the covers that Melissa had tossed aside.

Stevie muttered something unintelligible as Cliff tucked him in, then rolled to his side, curled into a ball, instantly falling back into deep sleep.

The night-light cast an orange glow in the room, enough to see the usual clutter had been straightened, the toy box lid closed, the wooden train set in its place on the brightly painted play table Cliff had constructed for Stevie’s second birthday, when he’d still had his mother.

Cliff lifted his eyes, meeting Tasha’s gaze. The room felt strangely warm, the air sultry with her seductive perfume. She stood on one side of the room, the twin beds between them. Yet he could almost feel the heat of her body touching him.

“Where’s Melissa’s father?” he asked quietly.

“I have no idea. Our marriage, such as it was, only lasted two years. He said he needed to find himself. The last I heard he was looking in Australia.”

Cliff couldn’t imagine walking out on his child—or on a wife like Tasha, for that matter.

“This guy you were engaged to…was Melissa upset when you broke it off?”

“Just the opposite.” With a quick check of her child, Tasha left her bedside, moving closer to Cliff as soundlessly as a moonbeam. “Nick wasn’t very fond of kids. She picked up on that right away, which should have given me a clue that he wasn’t exactly the best catch of the year.”

“Love can do funny things to people.”

She glanced away from him. “I’m not sure love was involved—for either of us. More like convenience, although I admit there was some sexual chemistry. He was my agent and business manager. We often traveled together. It was, well, easy to get involved. It was also a mistake.”

He’d like to be able to console her, but that would be a mistake, too.

With a shake of his head, he cleared the image of holding her in his arms. “Morning comes early around here. We’d better call it a night.”

“More roundups tomorrow?”

“One more day and we ought to have it licked. For this season.”

“Good night, then.” She slipped past him, heading for the guest room.

He inhaled her lingering scent, and cursed himself for wanting to follow her all the way to her bed.

HE’D JUST POURED his first cup of morning coffee, and the mug froze halfway to his mouth when Tasha walked into the kitchen. No woman had a right to look that good first thing in the morning—her hair sleep-mussed, her face free of makeup and her cheeks naturally flushed.

Darn it all, he’d like to see her sleepy-eyed, her hair mussed from a night of his lovemaking—an image that had kept him awake most of the night. Not gonna happen, he reminded himself.

“I heard you up.” Pulling her cotton robe modestly around her, she smiled a lazy greeting. “Should I wake the children?”

He tried to act natural, as if he were used to having a beautiful woman in his kitchen every morning. “No, let ’em sleep. If they want to come out to the ranch later, you can bring them.”

“Fine.” Barefoot, her toenails an intriguing raspberry red, she glided to the coffeepot and poured herself a mug.

“You know how to find the place now?”

“Ella showed me what to look for at the turnoff. Evidently that new invention called street signs hasn’t reached Reed County yet.”

“We’re a little backward,” he admitted, taking a gulp of coffee. It burned as it slid down his throat. “But then, only strangers would need signs, and we don’t get many tourists.”

“Really? The countryside is beautiful, in its fashion. Reed County must be a well-kept secret.” Glancing around the kitchen, she asked, “Do my housekeeping duties include making you breakfast?”

“I’ve already got the oatmeal on.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll do toast. Thanks, anyway.”

He nodded toward the toaster on the counter. “Help yourself.” Getting down a bowl from the cupboard, he stirred the oatmeal.

Someone knocked on the back door.

Cliff swiveled his head that direction, dismayed to find Winifred Bruhn staring at him through the door’s window. Not waiting for an invitation, she marched right into the kitchen.

“Now, isn’t this a cozy domestic scene!” Her gray hair was frazzled and windblown, her omnipresent notebook in her hand.

He leveled her his harshest look, which didn’t seem to faze her. “You’re supposed to wait until someone says come in after you knock.” Her sudden arrival had startled him so badly, he’d nearly dropped the damn pot of oatmeal on the floor.

“Pshaw! I can’t wait on folks when I’ve got a newspaper deadline to meet.” She looked Tasha up and down with the eye of a predator—or someone about to make an arrest on behalf of the morality police. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting this young lady.”

Impatient, and angered by the woman’s unspoken insinuations, Cliff made perfunctory introductions. “What do you want, Winnie?”

“You say she’s your housekeeper?” she asked, busily scribbling notes that would no doubt appear in the local gossip column. And probably be vicious in the conclusions drawn.

“Would you like some coffee, Ms. Bruhn?” Tasha asked smoothly, though a blush had risen to her cheeks.

“She doesn’t have time for coffee. She has a deadline to meet, right, Winnie?”

The woman lifted her nose, sniffing with an air of superiority. “I’ve come by to tell you Bobby Bruhn has decided to run against you for sheriff. I’d like a statement—”

“Bobby? He doesn’t have any law enforcement experience. What makes him think—”

“I assure you, the full weight and influence of the Reed County Register will be behind Mr. Bruhn’s election.”

“He’s your nephew, for crying out loud!”

“It’s time for a change in this county, a breath of fresh air. Now I can print your reaction to Mr. Bruhn’s candidacy or I can indicate, despite the efforts of the press to gain an interview, you were otherwise engaged….” She eyed Tasha pointedly. “And that you had no comment. The choice is yours, Deputy Swain.”