Читать книгу Rescued by the Ranger - Lauri Robinson - Страница 7

Chapter One

1885

Montana Territory

The creak of the bedroom door had every muscle in Trace Edwards’s body going hard, yet he didn’t crack an eyelid. Didn’t need to. He knew who it was, and the image of Annie Houlton’s honeycomb-colored hair, hanging down her back in a single braid, and perfect, luscious curves, which he’d made the mistake of sampling years ago, was burned into his mind as clearly as the brands on the thousands of cows roaming the countryside nearby. Her land. Her cows. Her brand.

He’d been a part of that brand—the Lazy E—a long time ago. Now he was just here to solve a crime. Texas was where he belonged, not Montana. Not anymore.

She didn’t make a sound, no click of heels on the floorboards, but she was moving closer. Floating across his room like a ghost coming to haunt him. Or a phantom coming to tempt him.

A swish, softer than a breeze blowing through the leaves of a single tree, echoed in his ears louder than a howling December gale forewarning a full-blown blizzard.

There’d been no way for him to prepare for this. Annabelle Houlton—no, it was Annabelle Edwards—was as tempting now as she had been all those years ago. More so in many ways as she’d matured into the beauty he’d always expected her to become, but she was off-limits now, and that was what he couldn’t quite grasp.

Trace shot up in bed and leveled his most menacing stare directly at her glistening blue eyes—which almost stole his breath.

It would be so easy to just fold back the covers, take her hand and guide her onto the bed beside him. He’d always been able to read her like a book, and right now she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. To hold her just once more, to have her flesh molded against his, to experience the passion that had always exploded between them as it had that day next to the creek—the day he’d dreamed of so many times over the years.

His entire being was tense, hot and battling fiercely against the piece of his mind insisting he couldn’t take what she was so generously offering.

Not just couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

“Get out of here, Annie,” he snapped while he still had air in his lungs.

“Trace.” Her voice was like a warm knife, and he like melting butter. “I—”

“No, Annie.”

She’d already removed her outer wrapper—the one that had covered a nightgown thinner than cheesecloth and clinging to very specific parts of her body. His stomach muscles tightened and sweat popped out on the back of his neck. Memories hadn’t done her justice, and his dreams...

“No,” he repeated.

“Trace—”

“No.” He jumped out of bed—the other side of bed—and, thankful he’d listened to his inner sense and left his britches on, he moved straight to the door. There he grabbed the handle and made a point of holding the door wide open. “This is the foreman’s house. You belong in the ranch house. Your house. My brother’s house. You do remember him, don’t you?” A burning sensation took over his throat as he growled, “Your husband? Roy?”

The room was dark except for a sliver of moonbeam, which bounced off her like sunshine, making her skin glisten and his insides ache. He’d loved her beyond all else at one time and had feared seeing her again would bring everything back to the surface, but he didn’t have a choice. This assignment was no different than numerous others that took him across the country chasing down cattle rustlers.

Yes, it was. This one included his brother.

She’d retrieved her outer wrapper off the floor, and she put it on and tugged it tight while crossing the room, chin up and glaring at him as if he’d just tried climbing into her bed instead of the other way around.

“I’ll never forget Roy,” she said, “or what he did for me and Wyatt.” Maintaining the haughty attitude she’d displayed since he’d arrived four days ago, she stopped directly in front of him. “It’s you who needs to remember Roy. The man he was. Few men, if any, were more honest, more dedicated, than him.”

She didn’t so much as blink, which only made Trace notice the tears welling in her eyes as she continued, “He’d never, ever have had anything to do with stolen cattle and you know it.”

Trace would have liked to believe that, if only so he could remember his brother fondly, but the evidence was there—and it said otherwise. Besides, Roy had stolen her right out from beneath him. A herd of cattle seemed insignificant in comparison.

“Go back to Texas, Trace,” she snapped. “You aren’t wanted or needed here.”

He’d go back to Texas, as soon as the trial was over, but he didn’t tell her that. Instead he watched as she faded into the darkness of the house and listened as the outside door slammed shut. He moved to the window in the front room and watched her walk from the foreman’s house to the ranch house several yards away. He expected she was mad, embarrassed, frustrated, yet she carried herself well, full of pride and purpose, but she always had. Even years ago, a young girl barely up to his shoulder, she’d put forth a determination he’d rarely seen—before or since. He’d loved that about her and, unfortunately, still did.

Trace let the curtain fall back into place as she entered the ranch house, and though he doubted sleep was in his near future, he returned to the bedroom, telling himself not to think of what could have been. Not tonight or years ago.

Annabelle leaned against the door, burying the shame that wanted to overcome her. No, shame wasn’t what bubbled inside her, for she wasn’t embarrassed or humiliated by Trace’s rejection.

Hurt—yes.

Frustrated—yes.

Having him so close was worse than having thousands of miles separating them. The moment he’d ridden into the yard, the exact second his dark brown eyes had connected with hers, the years he’d been gone evaporated. It had taken all she had not to race down the steps and throw herself into his arms. She almost had, but his expression had hardened, causing her to hold back.

There was no way of knowing what he knew. He’d refused to communicate with either her or Roy. Every wire had gone unanswered; every letter had been returned. The pain of that, how he’d refused to listen to explanations, tore at her insides, but she squelched it—as best she could, anyway—and focused on the here and now. Trace was home, and she’d find a way to make him understand her choices had been few.

The past four days, he’d barely said a word to her, left if she got too close, but it was still there. That attraction they’d had for one another. He could try to deny it, but she felt him watching her, saw the battle going on inside him. It was as if they were playing tug-of-war, where neither of them was willing to let go of the rope—give up the ground they’d gained. He was the love of her life, and she had to find a way to convince him that was still true. No matter what it looked like on the outside, inside that had never faltered.

Annabelle straightened, drew a cleansing breath, and after making sure the door was locked, she walked into the living room to stare at the picture of Roy hanging above the fireplace. Handsome, with dark brown hair and even browner eyes, he’d been a wonderful and caring man. Lord knows where she’d be today if not for him. They may not have loved each other as man and wife, but they had loved each other. In a softer, gentler way. As family and treasured friends. It had been special and unique. Only the two of them understood it and she missed him terribly. He’d married her not for himself but for her and Trace.

Trace, though, hadn’t listened when Roy tried to explain, and he certainly hadn’t welcomed her letters of explanation.

Annabelle wiped away a tear, wishing Roy was here right now so he could force Trace to listen. When she glanced back up at the picture, she swore the image—that of a righteous, strong-willed man—grinned at her. She had to smile in return. That was exactly how Roy would have reacted to what had just taken place. “I know going to his bedroom was a bit presumptuous,” she whispered. “But I thought if I could catch him off guard, I could make him listen.”

The painting didn’t respond, but she could imagine what Roy would have said.

“Time?” she asked in reply to her assumption. “He’s had six years. What if he leaves again? This time I won’t have you to pick up the pieces.”

Roy would have had a lot to say about that, so she turned and made her way to the staircase. It wasn’t that easy, though. Roy was never one who could be ignored. In the back of her mind his answer played over and over like the phonograph sitting in the back parlor. Roy had bought it for her for Christmas last year, boasting how it was the only one in the entire territory, and once again she cracked a grin. He’d loved how people would gather around the contraption, listening to it repeat the same tinny tune over and over again.

As she reached her bedroom door—the room that had become hers the day she married Roy—she turned and looked down the hallway. The voice in her head was so loud, so real, she truly expected to see Roy standing near his bedroom door at the end of the hallway. He wasn’t there, of course, but as a couple more tears slid down her cheeks, she nodded, just as she had so many times in the past. Letting him know she heard him. Tomorrow would be a new day.

Annabelle climbed into her four-poster bed complete with a lace canopy—Roy had spoiled her—almost as if she was the daughter who’d died in his arms fifteen years before—and closed her eyes. Sleep wasn’t going to be her friend. Not tonight. She had too many worries. Besides missing Roy, she couldn’t help but wonder if he had known the cattle were stolen, if that was why he’d penned them up near the northern border of their property.

Her body was still aching, too, as it had since the moment Trace rode into the yard.

There was more to it than just her desires. Trace wasn’t just the love of her life. Five-year-old Wyatt sleeping in the room next door was not his nephew, as the entire county believed. Before Trace left for Texas this time, she’d have to tell him that—no matter what the consequences.

She’d promised Roy.