Читать книгу Big Sky Secrets - Linda Lael Miller - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

RIA BARELY SLEPT that night, one moment worrying about her financial future and the next, lusting after Mr. Wrong, that being Landry Sutton, the first man she’d really been attracted to since Frank’s death. With widow guilt compounding physical and emotional exhaustion, she was out of the house as soon as the sun rose, taking no time for coffee, let alone breakfast.

Those things could wait. Right now she wanted a good look at whatever havoc the buffalo had—or hadn’t—wreaked on her farm, without Landry there to gauge her every reaction. Or to guess somehow that she’d lost sleep wondering what he looked like without a shirt, what it would be like if he kissed her or to feel the weight of that hard, uncompromisingly masculine body of his poised over hers, then settling into her softness and, finally, claiming her...

“Stop it!” Ria ordered her inner love slave, right out loud, as she marched through the still-dewy grass in the front yard, bent on inspecting poppies and daisies and other colorful residents of her flower beds, performing a sort of horticultural triage.

Some plants, she soon discovered, had been squashed, or even uprooted, but to her surprise and relief, most of the blossoms had survived. Ready for a new day, they were already raising their brightly colored faces toward the big sky and the first promise of sunshine.

Hardly daring to hope everything would be all right after all, Ria trudged over to the field of zinnias, a glorious ground quilt of red and magenta, orange and gold, pink and purple and white. There was no evidence of the buffalo invasion here, no tracks in the fertile soil, no broken stems and stripped petals. She was moving on to the field of gerbera daisies, which abutted the carnations, when she saw Landry’s truck turn into her driveway, glinting silver in the morning light.

Although her first impulse was to dive between the rows of multicolored daisies and hide there until her visitor gave up and left, Ria planted her sneakered feet firmly and stood her ground, lifting her chin a jot to convince herself, as well as Landry, that she wasn’t intimidated, and waited.

Landry parked the truck at the edge of the field, got out and strolled toward her in that easy, rolling-hipped way of men who were used to meeting challenges and coming out on top.

Ria gulped. Unfortunate choice of words, she thought, glad she hadn’t voiced the observation out loud.

Sunlight danced in Landry’s hair and lent him a full-body aura of glittering gold, and last night’s fantasies rushed to the surface of Ria’s skin, fiercely visceral now, and pulsed there, dangerous and primitive and absolutely delectable.

She frowned hard, hoping Landry wouldn’t pick up on the fact that she was ridiculously attracted to him, physically, at least—a man she didn’t even like. Maybe her friends back in Portland were right—she’d been too quick to start over in a new place, among strangers, wasn’t over the trauma of losing Frank, needed grief therapy, not a change of scene.

Landry’s smile was taut, but it still opened a trapdoor in the pit of Ria’s stomach and made her heart pound under her lightweight sweatshirt. “Well,” he said, coming to a stop one row over from where she stood, and she almost giggled at the contrast between his blatant self-confidence and all those delicate flowers at his feet, “what’s the verdict?”

Ria felt a blush climb her neck and throb in her cheeks. Damn it.

“There doesn’t seem to be any real harm done,” she finally managed, after reminding herself that Landry had told her he’d be stopping by, and so what if she hadn’t believed him for a second? She’d just have to deal. “No thanks to your marauding buffalo.” Even as Ria spoke, she was measuring the shadows under his eyes, the tight lines of his jaw, the hard set of his shoulders. He hadn’t shaved, she noticed, and the effect was disturbingly appealing.

You’ve been alone too long, girl, Ria thought.

For one terrible moment, she thought she’d spoken aloud, because Landry gave a rough bark of laughter, as if he’d heard her. He tilted his magnificent head to one side and studied her as though he couldn’t quite get a handle on whatever it was that made her tick. Dressed the way he was, in jeans and a long-sleeved green cotton work shirt and beat-up boots caked with manure, it was hard to picture Landry in his former incarnation, managing a multibillion-dollar international investment fund back in Chicago, where he’d surely have worn three-piece suits, custom-tailored, of course, and paid hundreds of dollars for a haircut.

This morning, he was all cowboy.

All man.

“You sound disappointed,” he observed, after a few moments, his tone on the dry side. “That your crops aren’t lying in ruin, I mean.”

Ria’s blush went from mild to moderate to off-the-charts, all in the space of a second or so. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she sputtered. “Of course I’m not disappointed—”

Landry laughed again, though this time it was more of a chuckle, and there was a rawness to the sound that pinched her heart—the heart she wished she could harden at will, but couldn’t. She didn’t need all these crazy feelings, didn’t want them.

“You’re hell-bent on hating me, aren’t you?” he asked, very quietly. Almost gently. “Why is that, Ria?”

Nervously, Ria twisted Frank’s wedding band on her finger, trying to ground herself. Landry’s gaze followed the gesture unerringly. “I don’t hate you,” she said lamely. “I just don’t happen to like you very much.”

Again, he laughed, and the sound stirred things inside Ria that were better left alone. “Why not?” he asked.

The question stumped Ria, at least briefly, and left her slightly embarrassed. “Because—well, because—”

While she faltered, searching for something sensible to offer in reply, Landry stepped over the row of tall orange zinnias between them and stood facing her, so close she could feel the heat and the hard substance of his flesh. “Because—?” he prompted. One side of his mouth crooked up slightly, but the expression in his blue eyes was solemn, even a little bleak.

Ria squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, prepared to brazen her way through to goodbye, see you around, get lost, and finally took a stab at putting her opinion into words. “Because you’re—I don’t know—too good-looking.”

His eyes twinkled. They were the most startling shade of blue. Was he wearing colored contacts? And were those impossibly white teeth genuine, or cosmetically altered?

“Excuse me?” he said.

Ria was mortified, but she forged ahead anyway. “And you know it,” she added.

He frowned, looking confused. “I do?”

Ria folded her arms, drew a deep breath, huffed it out again. “You’d have to be blind not to,” she retorted.

“That’s my big crime?” Landry asked, after a brief, charged silence had passed. “Being ‘too good-looking’ and ‘knowing it’?”

She didn’t have the first idea what to say to that. She’d gotten herself into this, and she’d have to get herself out, but she’d be darned if she could see how that was going to happen.

That was when Landry cupped one hand, calloused and gentle, under her chin, tipping her face up slightly, so that their gazes locked and their breaths mingled. Right there in that field of sunlight and dazzling color and sweet-scented breezes, he bent his head, and he kissed her.

At first, Landry’s lips merely brushed against hers, but before Ria could so much as catch her breath, and certainly before she could recover from the shock of pleasure jolting through her like a series of violent earthquakes, Landry deepened the kiss.

Ria moaned, knowing she should resist, pull back, make a run for it—and completely unable to do any of those things. Instead, she gave herself up to that incredible kiss, and to the man administering it, without reservation. The windswept depths of her need, a vast and lonely canyon yawning within her, terrified her, even as thrill after sweet thrill rolled through her.

She wanted to run away. Conversely, she wanted more of Landry, more than the kiss. Right here, right now. Yikes. She’d been intimate with one man in her entire life—her husband—and now here she was, ready to make love in the open, under the morning sun.

In the end, Landry was the one who withdrew, his breathing ragged, his gaze fixed on something—or someone—far off in the distance. When he looked back at Ria, though, an impish light danced in his eyes.

“That’s why you think you don’t like me,” he said.

Ria blinked, still dazed by the kiss and the internal ruckus it had caused, trying to firm up her melted knees by sheer force of will. “What?” she muttered, when she figured she could speak coherently again.

Landry’s crooked grin was mildly insolent, maddening in the extreme, and downright sexy. “You’re afraid of me,” he said easily.

Ria opened her mouth to protest, to tell Landry Sutton that she thought he was a smug, overconfident son of a bitch and, furthermore, she wasn’t at all scared of him, so he shouldn’t flatter himself that she was. But this time, nothing came out. Not a whisper, not a squeak.

Landry, meanwhile, reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind Ria’s right ear. “Admit it,” he said. “You’re afraid of the things I might make you feel if you ever gave me a chance to get too close to you. You’d have to let go, and that’s a risk you don’t want to take.”

The gall of the man.

A fresh surge of fury rushed through Ria then, and she fairly trembled with it. “You have to be the vainest, most obnoxious person on earth,” she burst out, though she wasn’t sure exactly who she was more put out with at the moment, Landry or herself. If she hadn’t let the man kiss her, or if she’d made even the slightest effort to pretend the sensation of his mouth on hers hadn’t shifted the very core of her, if she hadn’t been instantly and obviously aroused...

Landry was still grinning, the self-satisfied bastard.

“It just so happens,” Ria snapped, reconnoitering, “that you don’t ‘make me feel’ anything, Mr. Sutton!”

He arched a skeptical eyebrow, folded his arms and waited without speaking for her to continue.

“Except,” she qualified, well aware that the conversation was now careening downhill and unable to put on the brakes, “an overwhelming urge to slap you right into the next county!”

At that, Landry actually threw back his head and gave a raspy shout of laughter.

“You’re just lucky I’m not a violent person,” Ria said. She was digging herself in deeper with every word, and she knew it. Why couldn’t she just shut up?

Landry had stopped laughing, but mischief sparked like blue fire in his eyes as he looked directly down into her face, and maybe into her soul, where she stashed her deepest secrets.

“Prove it,” he said.

“Prove what?” Ria demanded, disgruntled and overheated, even though it was still too early in the day for the temperature to climb. “That I’m not a violent person? I think I just proved that by not striking you or running you through with the nearest pitchfork.”

Slowly, Landry shook his head from side to side, as though marveling, albeit sympathetically, at the ravings of a dimwit. “No,” he drawled, in a voice so low and so quiet that it felt—well—intimate, like a caress. He leaned in toward her, until their noses were almost touching. “Prove that you’re immune to me,” he breathed. “That shouldn’t be difficult, now, should it? Not unless the lady protests too much, that is.”

Part of Ria reconsidered finding a pitchfork and using it feloniously. Another part of her, one she barely recognized as belonging to her, wanted to rise to Landry’s challenge, prove once and for all that, unlike a lot of other women probably, she could live without him. Happily.

“That’s crazy,” she said, after some mental scrambling. “I don’t have to prove anything to you or to anybody else.”

“How about to yourself?” Landry asked reasonably—so reasonably that Ria thought about breaking her personal code of behavior and slapping him after all. No, punching him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied, heading for the edge of the field now, her stride brisk and purposeful.

And slightly desperate.

“The hell you don’t,” Landry said, keeping pace easily, since his legs were so much longer than hers. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. That kiss was nuclear, at least on my side, and you’ll have to go some to convince me you didn’t feel some of the same things I did.”

“I’m not trying to convince you of anything,” Ria argued, afraid to look at Landry, because if she did, she might just hurl herself into his arms, wrestle him to the grass right there where the flower fields and the lawn met and have her way with him. In broad daylight.

Oh, God, she thought. What was wrong with her?

She’d loved Frank passionately—she had—but the best climax she’d ever reached making love with her husband hadn’t rattled her as much as the one and only kiss she’d shared with Landry Sutton.

In the shade of a venerable maple tree, one with some of the lower branches stripped of leaves, almost certainly a casualty of the most recent buffalo raid, Landry caught hold of Ria’s elbow and stopped her. His grasp was gentle, but firm, and it sent fresh waves of wanting roaring through her.

“You’re right,” he ground out, glowering down at her now. “You don’t have to convince me of anything. You don’t need to prove a damn thing. But something’s going on between us, Ria, and maybe you’re too cowardly to find out what it is, but I’m not.”

Her throat thickened, closed tight. She didn’t pull away, didn’t speak, didn’t move at all.

Landry sighed, loosened his hold on her arm, slid his hand down to close his fingers around hers. “I’m not asking you to sleep with me, Ria.”

She met his gaze directly, there in the soft shade of that old tree. “Then what are you asking me?” she replied, in a near whisper. Her heart felt winged, like something caged, flailing against the bars, frantic to break free and go soaring into that big sky arching high over their heads.

At last, Landry smiled. It wasn’t a mocking grin; it wasn’t a smirk. It was a genuine smile.

And Ria realized, much to her chagrin, that she was helpless against it. It rocked her first, then settled over her heart like some invisible balm.

When Landry finally answered her question, she was panicking again, and she could barely hear him over the hum in her ears. “There’s a party at the Boot Scoot Tavern, over in Parable, this Saturday night. It’s a sort of kickoff before the rodeo starts, and half the county will be there, so nothing drastic will happen. Between us, I mean.”

Nothing drastic?

Even as she mentally catalogued the most obvious reasons why she should refuse—she’d be tired and grubby after a long day at the farmers’ market, selling flowers, and crowd or no crowd, the proposed evening amounted to a date, and what were the implications of that?—Ria was stunned to find herself on the verge of agreeing. Was she losing her mind? She wasn’t much of a drinker, after all, and she had no clue what else there was to do in a bar.

Again, Landry seemed to be reading her mind, a disconcerting thing. “If you won’t trust yourself,” he said, “how about trusting me?”

“I do trust myself,” Ria insisted.

Not so much, argued a snarky voice in her head.

Landry smiled again, and spread his hands wide in a well-then kind of gesture. “Great,” he said. “Then we don’t have a problem. I’ll pick you up around seven—we’ll have some dinner and head for the Boot Scoot.”

With that, he nodded a farewell and started off toward his truck.

“Just a minute,” Ria called after him.

He paused, perhaps ten feet away from her, the sun in his hair, his eyes lively with amusement and something less easily defined. “What?”

It’s not too late to beg off. Make an excuse—do something!

“What do people—women, that is—wear at the Boot-whatever-tavern?”

Had she really and truly just asked him such a 1950s kind of question? Brylee could have clued her in on the dress code, or Casey Parrish, both of whom were good friends. Damn, what was up with her mouth?

Landry’s gaze glided over Ria, from head to foot, with a look of appreciation and, strangely, nothing that even vaguely resembled mockery. “I figure you’d look good in just about anything,” he told her gruffly, “and even better in nothing at all. But the Boot Scoot isn’t fancy, so jeans and something short-sleeved will do. It gets hot in there when there’s a crowd.”

Ria opened her mouth, closed it again.

There was still time to call off the whole crazy idea—she was no cowgirl: she didn’t ride horses or dance to ballads on a jukebox or anything like that—but, for some reason she refused to examine too closely, she didn’t call it off.

Landry reached his truck, turned long enough to nod an amiable goodbye and got behind the wheel. He was driving away by the time Ria collected her scattered wits, willed some strength into her legs and headed for the house.

The wall phone was ringing as she stepped inside and, in need of an immediate distraction, she answered—in spite of the fact that the caller was Meredith—a robotic voice had already announced that.

“Hello,” Ria said tersely.

She could almost see her half sister recoil at the tone of the greeting. “Ria?” Meredith asked, sounding wary. “Is that you?”

Ria thrust out a sigh. No, she thought. The real Ria has been abducted by aliens and replaced by a reckless and wanton woman determined to play with fire.

If she and Meredith had been close, like other sisters, they could have talked about Landry Sutton and the way he riled her, hammered out some of the whys and wherefores. Ria might have confided in an older and wiser Meredith that she was scared and confused and horny as hell, all at once. But she and Meredith weren’t close.

“Yes,” Ria finally replied, with another sigh. “It’s me.”

Meredith’s voice brightened. Enough small talk—time to move in for the kill. “Have you given my offer any thought?” she trilled sweetly, immediately setting Ria’s teeth on edge.

Her offer? Last night’s voice mail had sounded more like an order than a request—come to Seattle, straighten out the financial mess at the branch office there, or else Daddy will turn over in his grave, heads will roll, all will be lost.

Yada yada yada.

“I can’t get away right now,” Ria said. “Sorry.”

A stricken silence ensued. Meredith had a gift for conveying disappointment and disapproval without saying a word, either in person or over the phone.

“I guess I didn’t make the situation clear in my message,” Meredith ventured, after several moments. “Things are dire, Ria. There could be an audit, a scandal, even indictments—”

Not my problem, Ria thought, without bitterness.

When their father had died, the business, as well as the bulk of his fortune, had gone to Meredith, the daughter of Dad’s first and only love, his beloved Marjory. Ria, being the child of a trophy wife who’d earned her living as a Las Vegas showgirl before hooking up with a wealthy Portland businessman, had gotten a few thousand dollars, the used car one of the maids had driven while running errands and a subtle-but-still-plain “don’t let the door hit you on your way out.”

And she’d never felt a moment’s resentment, not over the inheritance anyway—only profound and lasting relief. Wealth was fine for others, Ria supposed, but she preferred simplicity and the freedom that came with it. For her, enough really was enough.

“Meredith,” she said calmly, after drawing a deep, preparatory breath, “please tell me you haven’t done anything illegal.”

She did care what happened to her sister; it was just that she didn’t feel responsible for smoothing Meredith’s way.

Meredith immediately bristled, insulted by the very suggestion. “Of course I haven’t done anything illegal!”

“But you want me to break the law?” Ria asked, keeping her voice mild.

“I didn’t say that,” Meredith protested, snappish now, and unable to hide the fact.

“You didn’t have to, Meredith,” Ria said. “You want me to go to the Seattle office and ‘straighten things out’—isn’t that the gist of it? In other words, I’m supposed to cover someone’s tracks—maybe even doctor the books—wave some fiscal wand and make the whole thing go away.”

Meredith was even more affronted than before; Ria didn’t have to see her sister’s cameo-perfect face to know that. “So you’re not going to help?” she asked, after a very long time. “You’re really not going to help?”

“Meredith,” Ria responded, “I can’t help. What’s done is done—from what you’ve told me, there’s nothing to do now but deal with the fallout.” She paused, bit her lower lip, then tentatively added, “Besides, I have a life here.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Meredith sniped, obviously still smarting over Ria’s refusal to do what she wanted. People generally did what Meredith wanted—it was easier that way.

Indignation rose into the back of Ria’s throat and tightened there, like a tiny ball of rusted barbed wire. Normally, she would have allowed the gibe to pass—after all, it had been implied, rather than stated outright—but something had changed. Ria, always ready to lend a hand before, even when she shouldn’t have, wasn’t the same person she’d been when she’d woken up that morning, the woman she’d been before—before—

Before Landry Sutton kissed you.

“Look,” Ria said firmly, “I’m proud of who I am and what I do for a living. Maybe I’m not setting the financial world on fire, like you, but my flowers are beautiful, and they brighten people’s lives.”

Meredith waited a beat before replying. “Of course, dear,” she said, her tone acidly sweet and, therefore, completely condescending. “You brighten people’s lives. But does your little business even begin to pay the bills? Where would you be without Frank’s life-insurance money bringing in quarterly dividends? And what about that big salary Whittingford International paid you, after college? If you hadn’t socked away most of that—”

Ria sucked in a breath, rubbed at one temple with the fingers of her right hand, trying to forestall a tension headache. Whittingford International, her father’s company, and now Meredith’s, had indeed paid her well, but she’d worked twelve-and sixteen-hour days to earn that paycheck, too. It was only after she’d married Frank, a firefighter, that she’d cut back on her time at the office. “You know what, Meredith?” she shot back. “None of that is any of your business. I’ve earned what I have, such as it is. And in approximately one second, I’m going to hang up, so, not to be rude, goodbye.”

Meredith started to say something more, but the allotted second had passed by then, so Ria put the phone receiver back on the hook.

The ringing began again as she walked rigidly to the other side of the kitchen, took a water glass from one of the cupboards, filled it and drank every drop. She would have liked to ask about her seventeen-year-old niece, Quinn, the only loving relative, now that her mother was gone, that Ria had left. She was close to Meredith’s daughter and they usually stayed in touch, via email and texts, but she hadn’t heard from the girl in over a week. Was something wrong?

Unfortunately, Ria and Meredith didn’t have that kind of relationship. They didn’t talk about family, or anything else that was purely personal. The bristly exchange just past was all too typical.

For a moment, Ria considered calling Quinn directly; she knew her niece’s cell number by heart, but she decided to wait awhile, until she’d weeded and watered and fertilized a few rows of zinnias. That way, she could work off some of her irritation and not have it spilling over into her conversation with Quinn.

She headed for the field, worked until she was sweating and her nose was surely peeling from too much direct sunlight—she’d forgotten to put on the blue baseball cap she usually wore when she spent more than a few minutes outside—and was on her way back to the house to clean up and have a light lunch when she heard the jaunty honk of a car horn and looked up to see Brylee Sutton’s SUV rolling along the driveway.

Ria smiled, made for the edge of the lawn and waited.

Brylee stopped the rig and got out, smiling that warm, wide smile of hers. As always, her dog, Snidely, was riding shotgun, and he leaped across the seats and down to the ground to stand benignly at his mistress’s side.

Brylee, her beautiful brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, held out a cloth-covered basket, the contents exuding a marvelous butter/cinnamon/sugar smell.

“Hope we’re not interrupting or anything,” she said, meaning herself and Snidely. “It’s just that I’ve been on another of my baking jags.”

Ria was genuinely glad to see her friend, though she suspected there was more to this visit than an overabundance of baked goods.

“Come on inside,” she said.

* * *

LANDRY CAUGHT UP to Zane over at his place, where he was standing just outside the barn, next to Blackjack, his gelding. Bent at the waist, Zane was in the process of checking the animal’s right rear hoof for pebbles or burrs, and while he didn’t stop what he was doing or straighten his back, his eyes blazed at Landry.

“Say what?” he growled, in response to Landry’s opening statement.

Landry sighed, rubbed his beard-stubbled chin. The jangly state of his insides had nothing to do with the five thousand he’d sent to their dad, via the internet, or with Zane’s clear disapproval—and everything to do with the lingering scent of Ria Manning and the crazy effects of just one kiss.

“I’m not here to confess my sins and get your absolution, bro,” he said. “I just thought you ought to know the old man is up to something again, that’s all. In case he turns up in person with a plan to cause trouble.”

Young Nash, their half brother, nowhere to be seen at the moment, was settling in at Hangman’s Bend just fine, but, like any kid, he wanted to believe, against all evidence to the contrary, that his father loved him. And that meant the boy was susceptible to Jess’s influence, easily manipulated. Vulnerable.

Jess wouldn’t hesitate to promise the boy everything there was to promise, use him to achieve some purpose of his own—most likely gouging one or both his older sons for more money—and then abandon the kid all over again.

Slowly, Zane let go of Blackjack’s shin, walked away from the horse and set the hoof pick on top of a nearby fence post. “Did Jess say he was headed here?” he asked, his tone as taut as his expression. “To Montana?”

“Not exactly,” Landry answered, simultaneously shaking his head no. “But he’s been gambling, and I think he’s in deep—probably deeper than he admitted to me. Even if he settles up with the badasses he told me about over the phone last night, that doesn’t mean the heat is off.” He paused, sighed. “I think his life is in danger, Zane.”

“And I think you’re a world-class sucker,” Zane answered, but some of the tension drained from his face and the stiffness in his shoulders eased a little. Lightly, he slapped Landry on the back. “Let’s go inside and talk awhile.”