Branded

And while Trace was glad his brother was coming home from a dangerous war, his feelings were mixed about what would happen when Eric’s boots hit the Texas dirt again. This time for good.

The next message was from Alma, telling him his dinner was in the refrigerator, and reminding him that she had an appointment in the morning and wouldn’t be there until after eleven.

He wondered if it was a doctor’s appointment. Alma wasn’t exactly a spring chicken anymore. He made a note to return early from the range tomorrow so he could talk to her, see how she was doing.

The third was from the woman who should be starring in his wet dreams instead of the hardheaded Jo.

“‘Evening, Trace. It’s Ashleigh. I just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you. If it’s not too late, give me a call. It would be nice to hear your voice before your brother’s welcome-home barbecue Saturday night.”

He glanced at the clock. Ten wasn’t too late, but he didn’t feel like calling Ashleigh just now.

He reached for the remote and surfed ESPN. Baseball. He left it on a Rangers game and settled back into the couch. He no sooner got comfortable than a knock sounded on the front door.

Damn. Vern, the foreman, would have come around back. And Trace hadn’t heard a car pull up.

He frowned, hoping it wasn’t Ashleigh. Not that she was known for showing up unannounced, but lately she’d been doing some strange things. Like popping up a couple of Sundays ago with a packed picnic basket, and enticing him out for brunch.

Another knock sounded.

He put his bottle on the table as he got up, grabbing his T-shirt as he went. He pulled it over his head and then opened the door.

But it wasn’t Ashleigh standing on his front porch. It was Jo.

“No need putting any clothes on for me, cowboy.” She opened the screen door and came in without being invited. “You’re just going to have to take them off again in a minute…”

Chapter Three

TRACE ARMSTRONG LOOKED better than any man had a right to.

Jo stood in the open doorway, gripping the jamb. The sexy ranch owner towered over her by at least five inches, which was saying a lot, since she topped out at five foot eight. She wondered if the rest of him was in proportion, and smiled, taking in the snug cotton of his faded navy-blue T-shirt, checking out the swell of muscles as she went. Her gaze drifted down to his jeans. No belt buckle. Just a handful of metal buttons.

Yes.

She moved to step inside and then hesitated, surprising herself. But just for a moment. For two hours she’d been building up momentum to come over to the house. She wasn’t about to turn tail and run back to the bunkhouse now.

She finally brushed past Trace, breathing in the scent of something tangy. His soap? Seemed likely. It sure wasn’t cologne.

He looked out the door and then closed it.

“Nobody saw me,” she said. “I hiked here from the bunkhouses, and most everyone is either asleep in front of the television or in their bunks.”

“Vern?”

“Left a little while ago. Probably running into town for something.”

Trace turned toward her and crossed his arms over his impressive chest. “What can I do you for, Jo?”

His best boss impression amused her as she went to the couch and sat down, propping her boots up on the table and grabbing his beer. “Just craving some company, is all. Oh, the Rangers are playing. Who’s winning?”

She took a pull from the beer bottle, half expecting him to tell her to get her irreverent ass up and head back to the bunkhouse. She pretended to pay attention to the game, not realizing she was holding her breath until he budged from his statuelike stance and moved toward the couch to take the seat next to her.

She lifted the bottle back to her lips, but he caught it midway. “This is mine. You want one, there’s plenty in the fridge.”

She rested her head against the back of the couch and grinned at him. “Is that so?”

He eyed her warily as he took a swig from the bottle. “Mmm-hmm.”

“Is there more of that in there?” she asked, gesturing toward his food. “I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch.”

“Nope.” He moved the plate so that it was sitting in front of him instead of her. “You should have caught dinner at the bunkhouse with everyone else.”

“And eaten Vern’s rubbery barbecue with warm beer? No thanks.”

Trace shrugged his shoulders. “Go without then.”

Jo made a face, staring at the TV screen, although she saw none of it. Instead, she was hyperfocused on the man next to her. Inches separated them, but she swore she could feel his heat.

As a rule, she wasn’t the type of woman who went from one man to the next within the blink of an eye. In her twenty-six years, she could count the guys she’d slept with on one hand. Carter included.

Carter…

She winced inwardly, not liking the way things had ended between them now that she had a better handle on her emotions. And ended was the word, wasn’t it? He’d gone back to Dallas, and she didn’t expect to see him again. But somewhere down the line she’d learned that when the game was over, it was over. No sense in dragging things out. They weren’t married, and they weren’t committed to each other, although she certainly didn’t go around sleeping with other guys while seeing someone.

She also wasn’t one to pull her punches when she’d made a decision to go after someone full out.

So what if her growing attraction to Trace had caught her unawares? She was a woman. And he was a man. And right now that was all that mattered.

She slid a glance his way. Well, mostly, that’s all that mattered.

“You always spend the evenings alone?” she asked.

“Hmm?” He looked at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. She knew better. He appeared just as distracted by her as she was by him. “Mostly,” he answered.

“And that pretty woman that sometimes comes over?”

“Who? Oh, you mean Ashleigh.” He shrugged and offered nothing more.

That was good enough for Jo. If he wasn’t concerned enough to indicate he was taken, then he was free game.

Besides, she wasn’t looking for marriage. She was looking for sex. A physical connection that would chase unwanted thoughts from her mind. Make her feel human. Release the pent-up tension that coiled her muscles and prevented her from sleeping at night.

And if it was just the same to him, she’d prefer to keep any possible illicit liaison under wraps.

She cleared her throat. “This probably isn’t a very good idea, is it?”

She half expected him to play dumb. She was pleasantly surprised when he didn’t.

Instead, he grinned, causing his tanned skin to crinkle around his brown eyes. “Probably not.”

Jo’s breathing hitched. “But you’re not kicking my brash behind out onto the front porch.”

He shook his head slightly as he downed the rest of his beer. “No. I’m not.”

Jo swung her boots off the table and sat up straight. “So tell me, Boss, what exactly does that mean?”

He put his bottle down. “You want me to spell it out for you?”

“Uh-huh.”

His gaze raked over her face and then down the front of her tank. “I’m saying that I like your brash behind right where it is at the moment.”

“That’s all I needed to hear…”

TRACE WASN’T THE KIND OF guy who leaped without looking. He hadn’t had that luxury. Not for a long time. But when Jo’s boot heels had thudded against the wood floor when she’d come inside, he’d known he was going to sleep with her, no two ways about it. He’d spent too many nights wondering what it would be like to follow her into the stables and take her on one of those hay bales to even think twice when she launched herself into his arms. The assault she executed on his mouth left him wondering how long she’d been thinking about the same thing.

Jo tasted like beer and lavender. A combination that was surprising and intriguing. Obviously, she’d caught a shower sometime during the evening. Still…

He captured her hands, which were plucking at the buttons of his jeans. “I’m not one for sloppy seconds.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “No worries. There would have to be a first to be a second.”

He believed her. Partly because she had no reason to lie. Mostly because she hadn’t been insulted by his words.

He eyed her mouth, already swollen from his kisses, and groaned, kissing her again.

While Jo was all grit and gristle on the range, now she was soft and pliant, straddling his hips on the couch, barely breaking contact with his mouth as he helped her strip off her shirt and tank. That left only her lacy white bra, a scrap of material so delicate, so sexy, Trace found it momentarily difficult to concentrate on what he was doing.

He didn’t know what he’d expected. One of those stretchy sports bra thingies he’d seen some women jog in, maybe. But this…

He curved his fingers under her right breast, marveling at the way she filled the cup and his palm. Of course, he’d always been superaware that Jo was a female, but he’d never expected her to be so feminine. The effect on him was mind-blowing. The contradictions of the woman even now tugging off his T-shirt were fascinating.

He pulled his mouth from hers in order to fasten his lips over the stiff peak of her breast under the lacy material. He was rewarded with her soft gasp and her momentary stillness.

The power of making love to a woman never ceased to amaze him. Giving, taking, surrendering to the moment in search of sensations that went well beyond what you’d anticipated.

He reached around her and unhooked her bra, watching as the material sprang away from her breasts, causing them to bounce slightly. His mouth watered as he lowered his head to finally taste a nipple without anything in between.

Jo sat up tall and proud, pressing her pelvis against his as her eyes drifted shut. Trace grasped her slender hips, feeling her hair tease his fingers as it cascaded down her bare back.

Sweet Jesus, but the woman was beautiful. Considering they didn’t come any tougher than Jo Atchison, the juxtaposition was a potent one.

Even as he laved her left breast, giving the pouting flesh the same attention he had the right one, he reached for the catch to her jeans, reveling in the way her stomach muscles trembled against the backs of his fingers as he worked.

Soon they were both stripped down, boots discarded, clothes flung aside, skin to skin.

And how soft her skin was. Trace couldn’t seem to get enough of touching her, running his hands over her bare back, her plump thighs, her smoothly rounded behind.

His fingertips scraped against something on the back of her hip. A scar? A birthmark?

She wrapped her fingers around his erection and he hissed. Okay, she was soft almost everywhere but her hands. Just like any cowboy, she had calluses that no amount of scrubbing and lotion could hope to soften.

Strangely, though, he found the sensation tantalizingly different than what he was used to. It helped that she wasn’t hesitant or shy. She openly looked at his stiff member, as if memorizing every ridge, every vein, rubbing the rough pad of her thumb over the top and then massaging the droplets of semen she found there down his throbbing shaft.

“Condom,” he said under his breath, the image of his bedside drawer coming to mind.

Jo produced a foil packet and smiled. “A girl should never leave home without them.”

Trace chuckled and kissed her, and then froze as she tore open the packet and smoothed the lubricated latex over his hard-on with quick efficiency.

She was all business. And he couldn’t be happier. It was nice knowing exactly what she wanted. Especially since he had every intention of giving it to her.

She straddled his hips again and began to position herself above him. But he grasped her silky bottom and pressed her back against the cushions at his side, nudging her knees farther apart, making room for himself as she gasped and grabbed his shoulders, her dark lashes casting shadows beneath her blue, blue eyes.

He held himself aloft, giving her the opportunity to change her mind. Instead, she linked her ankles behind his back and lifted herself against him, restlessly reaching for his sheathed member and positioning him against her slick portal.

Trace groaned and entered her. She was much tighter than he’d expected. He ground his teeth, fighting the desire to thrust in to the hilt, and instead withdrew, watching as her mouth bowed open and her breasts trembled from need. He entered her again, sinking another inch into her honeyed depths. He was about to pull back out when she used the power of her legs to force him the rest of the way down, until her pelvis met his.

All coherent thought fled from Trace’s crowded brain…

Chapter Four

JO HAD IMAGINED this moment in a thousand different ways. But she hadn’t anticipated the little details that combined to blow her mind. Like the way Trace looked down at her, his expression reflecting an internal battle—ride her like the wild mustang she was, or try to tame her with soft whispers.

She wanted to be broken.

More, she wanted to break him.

Guessing that the intimacy of being face-to-face was what held him back, she shifted until she was free, and then rolled over and raised herself up on all fours, lifting her bottom and reaching between her legs to reestablish the connection.

His groan told her he approved of the new position. Within seconds, he was filling her to overflowing, thrusting into her with an urgency she’d been seeking but hadn’t been free to express until now.

Oh, yes…

The restless yearning she’d felt earlier pooled low in her belly, robbing her of breath, seizing her every muscle, propelling her every move as she pushed back against him, taking every inch of him in, holding tight when his deep thrusts increased in speed. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, his pelvis slapping against hers, the scents of latex and her juices and his sweat teasing her nostrils as her vision slowly darkened to a small circle of light. Until her entire body shivered and shuddered, awash in golden sensation.

This, oh yes, this, was what she had been seeking. And she now realized that only Trace Armstrong could have given it to her…

SOMETIME JUST BEFORE DAWN, Trace awakened to the sound of Alma making a racket in the kitchen, most likely in an effort to rouse him. He lay across the rumpled sheets, staring through the window at a bruised sky that the sun would soon heal. He didn’t have to look to the other side of the bed; he knew Jo was gone. Had felt her slip away an hour or so earlier to sneak out of the house, disguised by shadows, likely to head back to the bunkhouse. And then he’d finally dropped off to sleep himself, exhausted yet strangely exhilarated.

The image of her perfectly rounded bottom rose in his mind. Or rather, the raised outline of a mustang that had been burned into her skin. Obviously, the mark had been made long ago. And must have caused her a lot of pain, given the thickness of the pale, twisted scars he’d first felt with his fingers, then later visually examined.

She’d been branded.

Trace rubbed his eyelids with his thumb and index finger, trying to remember a time when he’d felt so…strange. Lighter, somehow. As if he’d just gotten a straight eight hours of sleep rather than a few stolen minutes here and there between bouts with Jo.

Alma banged a pan. He grinned and looked at the clock.

Shit. He was late.

He sprang from the bed, just then remembering that he’d left his clothes downstairs. He began to get a fresh pair of jeans from the drawer when he discovered that his discarded duds were draped over a nearby chair. Alma? He didn’t think so. Had Jo done it? Seemed likely, since Alma would have left the clothes there just so she had an opening for what would likely be a lengthy interrogation to find out who he’d had over the night before.

Definitely not a conversation he planned on having with her. Or with anyone else, for that matter. What happened last night…

Well, what happened last night was a one-shot deal. Two adults looking for a little recreational sex.

He grimaced as he dressed. Who was he kidding? He didn’t do one-night stands. All right, he didn’t do them anymore.

So what did that mean, exactly?

“It means you’re going to have to keep your fly buttoned hard, and your stupid-fool grin buttoned even harder so that no one figures out that you’re having an affair with your only female ranch hand.”

He went downstairs to grab a handful of whatever Alma was cooking up, then head out the door to where the guys were already gathering at the stables.

AS WAS USUAL every third day, Trace wouldn’t be going out on the range with the men. Instead, he would stay around the ranch offices, seeing to business and catching up on paperwork. He noticed that Jo was hanging around the fringe of the crowd, not quite out of sight, but not making her presence obvious, either. And Trace couldn’t exactly single her out to see how she felt about what had transpired between them the night before.

Vern followed him into the stables. “What’s the plan, Boss?” the older man asked, matching his stride.

“Like we discussed yesterday?”

“Yeah, the back nine.”

Trace looked at him. “Sheriff Brody catch up with you last night?”

“Yep. I told him I’d get information about the latest two hands we hired on a couple months back.”

“Jackson and Milford?” Trace asked.

“That’d be them.”

“Miss Dorie can probably see to that for you.”

“Which is why I’m coming in with you.”

Trace chuckled as they reached the “offices” at the back of the stables, a couple of glass-enclosed rooms. He held open the door for Vern, but the older man motioned for him to go in first.

“Miss Dorie can see to what?” a voice demanded.

“Good morning, Miss Dorie,” Trace said to his office manager. He was long past being shocked by her teased orange hair and thick, catlike eyeliner. She was easily old enough to be his mother, but she dressed like she was ready for a night on the town instead of a day in the office, with her tight knit pants and brightly colored blouse. “You’re in early.”

“I’m in at the same time I’m in every day.”

A couple of years back Trace had heard one of the men wonder if she spent her nights out, and came straight to work after, which would explain why she was dressed the way she was. Trace hadn’t wanted to pursue the line of thought. He knew she was a widow of ten years, and had grown children that had been raised pretty much as Trace and Eric’s brothers. Beyond that, he didn’t care to speculate what she did with her time.

If he noticed that Clinton West, the stable manager, hung around the office more than he should, well, that was their business, not Trace’s. So long as the obvious flirtation didn’t interfere with their work, it was no never mind to him.

Vern had taken off his hat in deference to her, and wished her a good morning.

“So you must be the one with the request,” she said with a smile. “What can I do for you, Vern?”

Trace leafed through the messages on her desk while the two talked about the latest hires and getting the information to the sheriff’s office.

“I can see to that before lunch,” Miss Dorie promised.

Vern expressed his appreciation, then began backing toward the door, part of a generation that didn’t cotton to a man turning his back on a woman.

“I’ll walk you out,” Trace said, putting the messages down again.

“You want me to get Doc Nelson on the line?” Miss Dorie asked.

“I’ll see to it when I get back.”

“Remember, we’ve got the barbecue this weekend and need to nail down the odds and ends,” she called after him.

Trace closed the door behind him. While it wasn’t possible to completely prevent the stable smell from permeating the offices, there was no sense in letting in more of it than he could help.

“What do you know about Jackson and Milford?” he asked Vern.

The foreman put his hat back on and positioned it as they walked. “Not much. They’ve both worked for Johnson, and they’ve been doing good since hiring on, but beyond that, I couldn’t say.”

“Art Johnson?” he asked, recalling that it had been one of Art’s daughters who had been raped.

“That would be the one.”

Trace frowned. “Isn’t Jackson the hothead?” He remembered an incident about a week or two back. The younger man had nearly charged one of the regular ranch hands when he asked Jackson to clean up after himself.

“That’s him. But he only gets that way after he’s knocked back a couple.”

“He go out at night by himself?”

“Not as I can tell. Pretty much sticks around the place even on his nights off. Says he’s got a wife and couple kids up in Abilene, but doesn’t make much of an effort to go see ‘em.” Vern shrugged. “I’m thinking maybe family problems.”

“Maybe.” They stopped walking just outside the stable doors. “You might want to keep a closer eye on him.”

The foreman nodded. “Will do. Anything else?”

Trace’s gaze took in the hands as they finished saddling up. He spotted Jo. If his extra attention to the new men and the sheriff’s words had anything to do with their one female ranch hand, he wasn’t owning up to it. He was a concerned citizen and boss, nothing more, nothing less. And it wasn’t good business to have a rapist on the payroll.

“No, no. You go on ahead. Give me a yell on the satellite phone if you run into any problems.”

“Yes, sir.”

THE DAY OUT ON THE DUSTY, hot range had seemed longer than most. Jo took off her hat and dragged the cuff of her shirt across her sweaty forehead. Never had she been so glad to spot the Wildewood Ranch on the horizon. It was all she could do not to prod her horse into a gallop and run full out for the man who had occupied her thoughts throughout the day.

Instead, she dropped back, taking up the right flank of the herd and shouting for Scout to nip at the heels of a stubborn steer that had veered out of line.

The black-and-white border collie did his job and then came back to her. Was he favoring his back leg? It appeared so. She’d have to see if maybe he had a stone lodged in his paw.

Minutes later, the herd was in the paddock, and she was turning her horse over to a stable hand for cooling down and feeding.

Jo stripped off her gloves and called for Scout to come to her. He ran back and forth in front of the stables, pretending to direct operations, then darted toward her. She crouched down and gave him a hearty scratch behind the ears.

“Good boy. You did a great job today.” She smoothed her hand down his side and reached for his back leg. He fought her. “Whoa, easy there. Let me just have a look.”

His panting filled her ears as he reluctantly allowed her to play doctor. She ran her thumb over the pad, checking for tenderness. There was no reaction.

She released him and patted him again, accepting a single lap to the chin before he scrambled back toward the stables, where one of the hands had filled his water bowl.

“Arthritis.”

Jo slowly got up, the sound of Trace’s voice behind her making her instantly aware of everything that had passed between them the night before. “Pardon me?”

He was standing with his hands on his hips, his gaze on the dog. “The best Doc Nelson can figure is that Scout has a touch of arthritis in his back right hip.” Trace’s eyes slid to her and she caught her breath. The setting sun caught him at just the right angle, turning his brown eyes to gold. “Scout’s going on twelve years old. Most dogs his age are already retired.”

She smiled, smacking her gloves against her palm to rid them of dust before tucking them into her back jeans pocket. “But not Scout.”