Riley's Retribution

But he wasn’t going to trust that. Not hardly. She was too far out of it—and too determined to fight him.

He tucked the blanket more firmly around her and fastened her seat belt, wishing he’d feel her shiver. That would be a good sign.

After starting the car, he turned up the heat and drove slowly down the road, squinting into a swirl of white and wondering how far he’d have to go before he found both of them shelter.

After twenty minutes, he spotted a red-and-blue neon sign just visible through the driving snow.

Leaning forward, he struggled to make out the words. Finally he saw Buckskin Motel. Vacancy.

“Thank God,” he murmured, then looked toward his passenger. She was sitting with her eyes closed, breathing slowly and evenly.

Was it safe to leave her?

He thought about the scene in the lobby if he showed up carrying her over his shoulder like a caveman dragging his mate off to make love. No. Better leave her in the car—unless she was going to make a run for it.

Wondering how fast he could get in and out, he pulled up beside the office door and cut the engine. Next to the office was a small restaurant. All the comforts of home.

“Do us both a favor and stay put, sugar,” he ordered, then quickly exited the SUV and dashed into the lobby.

“I need a room to wait out the storm, and maybe something to eat later,” he told the old man who came through a door in response to the tinkling bell over the door.

“You’re in luck. We’ve got a few rooms left. And Molly just made a big pot of her beef and vegetable soup.”

“I may try some,” Riley allowed. He kept one eye on his SUV while he filled out the form and paid with a credit card. His passenger didn’t move. And he felt reluctant to talk about her to the man behind the counter.

She’d said someone had shot at her, and she had a serious hole in her windshield. What if it wasn’t a stone that had done the damage? And what if the shooter was looking for her—and somebody talking about her led the bad guys to this motel?

He put long odds on that scenario. But in his years with the Special Forces and then with Big Sky, he’d learned caution. So he decided to keep her under wraps, so to speak, until he could have a coherent conversation with her.

Completing the transaction as quickly as possible, he hurried back to the SUV, then drove down the row of motel rooms and around the back where the old guy had directed him.

When he came around to the passenger door, the woman stirred. “What?”

“You can’t stay in the car. I’m no medic, but I know what you need. I’ve got to get you inside where it’s warm and cozy.”

She roused herself enough to slit her eyes and ask, “Are we at the ranch?”

“No, a motel.”

Her eyes blinked fully open, and she focused on him again—obviously seeing a man she didn’t know and didn’t trust. “I’m not going into any motel room with you.”

“If I had wanted to try anything funny, I could have done that in the car.”

Before she could object, he stepped away from the vehicle and unlocked the motel room door. Returning to the SUV, he scooped her up and carried her inside, where he laid her on the bed.

After bringing in a few things, he closed and locked the door, then fired up the heating unit under the window and put her gun in a drawer so she couldn’t grab it and shoot him. When he turned back to the woman on the bed, he saw that she was dozing again.

The thought crossed his mind that a warm bath might be just what she needed. It made sense in medical terms, but he canceled that plan as soon as it surfaced. No way was he going to do anything that intimate.

But he did pull off her boots, gloves, hat and jacket, tossing them in the general direction of the chair in the corner. Leaving the rest of her clothing on, he bundled her under the covers.

“Can you tell me your name?” he asked.

“No.”

Because she couldn’t remember? Or because she didn’t want to?

He hadn’t seen a purse in the truck. Maybe he’d missed it. She might have a wallet on her, but he didn’t think it was a good idea to pat her down.

She spoke again, her voice faint and urgent. “Honey?”

Apparently, she wanted them back on intimate terms again.

“I’m not your man,” he answered, looking at the mass of rich chestnut hair that had been hidden under her hat. The cloud of hair around her face totally changed her appearance, making her look feminine and seductive. But he didn’t have much time to study her, because she was speaking again, and her tone had turned high and urgent. “I need you to hold me. Please.”

She was calling out to another guy. But she sounded on the edge of panic. When she pushed the covers aside and swung her legs out of bed, he figured he’d better act before she exited the room into the cold and snow again.

“Come on, sugar, let’s get back into bed and get you nice and warm.” He kicked his own boots off and shrugged out of his coat.

Leaving his jeans and shirt on, he climbed into bed and gathered her to him, then pulled the blankets up around them and held her close, stroking her hair and shoulders, murmuring low, reassuring words.

Apparently he had calmed her fears because she closed her eyes and snuggled against him, burying her face in his shirt so that all he could see was her shining mass of chestnut hair.

Very appealing hair, with a strawberry scent that must have come from her shampoo.

“It’s been so long,” she murmured.

“Mmm-hmm.”

When she started to shiver, he figured she was warming up. She was going to be okay, and maybe he should let her go.

But he was enjoying holding her. She was soft and relaxed in his arms, and he hadn’t been in bed with a woman since forever; to be exact, not since before the damn prison camp. After getting out of that hellhole, he’d felt too needy, and he hadn’t wanted to inflict his insecurities on some random woman he picked up in a bar.

So he and Miss Sugar might as well share a little counterfeit intimacy. And when she realized he wasn’t her lover, they’d deal with the consequences. All that sounded logical. But he wondered how clearly he was thinking himself as he stroked his lips against that beautiful, sweet-smelling hair.

Who was she? What was she doing out on the road? Had someone really shot at her?

She was talking again, her voice still dreamy. Apparently addressing herself to her man, she said, “You came back, and there’s something I have to tell you.” She swallowed. “But I know you’re not going to like it.”

His muscles tensed as he prepared to hear some other guy’s bad news. “What do you want to tell me?” he managed to say.

She didn’t answer, and he saw to his profound relief that she had drifted into sleep again. Which postponed the inevitable confrontation.

He was exhausted, too. From the long ride through the driving snow. From fighting her. And from all the sleepless nights when he’d contemplated this assignment.

To be brutally honest, he’d hated being the lucky sucker assigned to cozy up to Boone Fowler—after being beaten and tortured in the guy’s prison camp. But he hadn’t tried to duck the job, because somebody had to do it…and he was better equipped than most. He’d always talked a good game, and he looked nothing like Fowler’s former prisoner. And he was pretty sure he knew the right buttons to push to talk his way into the militia leader’s organization.

He hoped.

He raised his head and looked at the woman next to him. She was sleeping normally.

Probably, he shouldn’t leave her alone. But that didn’t mean he had to stay in bed with her, either. He should crawl out from under the covers and try to sleep on the chair in the corner. In a minute, he thought. He’d just relax here for a little while before he heaved himself out of this nice soft bed.

His eyelids drifted closed, then snapped open again. Lying in bed with this woman was wrong, not to mention dangerous. She could wake up and strangle him.

Not likely, he told himself. He wasn’t going to sleep. He was only going to rest for a few minutes. Then he’d get up. It was a reasonable scenario. But he drifted off before he could put the plan into action.

COURTNEY’S EYES BLINKED open. For a moment she had no idea where she was, and panic choked off her breath.

Had Eddie brought her here?

She remembered talking to him just a few minutes ago.

No. That was impossible. Eddie was dead. The man next to her in bed definitely wasn’t him. She knew that for sure.

Memories floated at the edge of her consciousness, and she struggled to grasp them. When she did, they brought back a mixture of embarrassment and panic.

Someone up on the bridge had shot at her. She’d tried to get away, skidded off the road and been stuck in the truck—until this man had come along.

She’d tried to shoot him. But he’d overpowered her and driven her—where?

She looked around cautiously and didn’t see her gun.

She turned her face toward the man on the bed.

He was a handsome devil with sun-streaked brown hair, long lashes, high cheekbones and sensual lips.

Of course, his appearance didn’t mean squat. Underneath those good looks, he could still be a snake. Could she find the gun without waking him? Probably not.

The place looked like a motel room. If this guy was out to help her, why hadn’t they gone to the ranch?

Presumably, because she hadn’t told him who she was.

Vaguely she remembered his asking her name and her refusing to give it. That might be a dream, though. Like the part about Eddie.

But she couldn’t remember all the details. Her most vivid impression was that she’d been chilled to the bone—and out of her mind.

The man next to her moved, and her body went rigid.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said, shifting so that he could meet her panicked gaze.

“Who are you?”

“Riley Watson.”

As the full impact of the situation hit her, she moaned. “Oh, Lord.”

“And you are?” he prompted.

“Courtney Rogers.”

His complexion went gray, and he was out of bed and halfway across the room before she could blink. “Sorry, ma’am. Wrong bed.”

They stared at each other across eight feet of charged space.

“You are the Riley Watson who applied for a job at the Golden Saddle Ranch?” she clarified, knowing she must sound like an idiot. How many other guys named Riley Watson would there be in this part of Montana?

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s not going to work out. I can’t hire you.”

He stood up straighter. “Why? Because I stopped you from shooting me?”

She felt her face heat.

“Or because I got into bed with you?”

“That part.”

“You were calling me honey. You were half out of it, and you asked me to hold you.”

“So you took advantage of me.”

“Took advantage?” he sputtered. “You’ve still got all your clothes on, haven’t you?”

She watched him consider how that must have sounded.

“And you needed me to help warm you up,” he added, then looked as if he wished he hadn’t stuck his foot further into his mouth.

She honestly hadn’t remembered the part about asking to be held, but when he said it, an embarrassing image filled her brain. How far had she gone in cozying up to this guy that she didn’t even know?

Well, as he said, she still had her clothing on. That was good. And Mr. Watson looked like he wished he could sink through the floor and into the center of the earth. That was good, too.

“You found me in my truck—after someone shot at me and I ran off the road?” she asked, struggling to change the subject.

“At you specifically? Is there someone using random motorists for target practice around here?”

It was an interesting question. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. Then she looked at her watch and puffed out a breath. “But I do know I’d better call the bunkhouse. My hands have to be worried about me.”

Glad of the chance to turn away from him, she climbed out from under the covers and sat on the side of the bed, then picked up the phone from the bedside table and dialed.

Jake, one of her ranch hands, answered immediately. “We were worried about you. Are you stuck in town?”

She hesitated for a moment, wavering between truthfulness and the need to make sure her ranch hand wasn’t worried. “No. I had some trouble on the road.”

“The storm?”

“Um,” she answered, thinking that she wasn’t going to tell him about the shooting now. Maybe not at all.

“My truck is stuck. But I have a ride. I’ll be home soon,” she said, then hung up before he could ask any more questions. Half turning, she saw that Watson was looking at her, tension stiffening his face.

“That’s one of your men?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t want to tell him that someone took a shot at you?”

“I prefer not to worry him.”

“Don’t you want him on his toes—looking for trouble?”

“I hope there won’t be any.”

He looked as if he was going to argue about that. Before he could make some kind of point, she said, “I need to go back to town. Right away.”

“If someone used you for target practice, you should go to the ranch where you’ll be safer.”

“What do you mean—if?” she demanded.

“You could be mistaken.”

“I’m not. I saw a man up on the bridge with a rifle.” She reached into her coat pocket and pulled something out, then flattened her hand, watching his eyes narrow as he saw a rifle slug lying in her palm.

“You thought I dreamed it up, didn’t you?”

“Where did you get that?” he asked.

“From the floor of the truck.”

“Who do you figure might have wanted to hurt you?”

“I have no idea.” She wanted to hear him say he believed her. But that wasn’t the important issue at the moment. “I have to get back to town. It’s urgent.”

Chapter Three

Riley struggled to hold his temper. This woman had fought with him, cuddled with him, argued with him. Now she was telling him she wasn’t going to her ranch where she’d be safe. Or relatively safe, given the inconvenient fact that Montana Militia leader Boone Fowler was out there doing Lord knew what.

Since his assignment was to get a job working for her, he stayed where he was and kept his voice low and even. “Do you mind explaining your thinking to me?”

Her expression turned fierce. Standing up, she turned to face him, hands on her hips. “I have to go back to town and see the doctor.”

His throat tightened. “Were you hurt when the car went off the road?”

“I don’t think so.” She stopped and swallowed hard. “But I have to make sure the baby is all right.”

He literally felt his jaw drop open, then managed to ask, “What baby?”

He saw color come into her cheeks. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m pregnant.” She kept her gaze steady. “I’m almost seven months along.”

“Seven months?” he wheezed. His gaze dropped to her middle, where he detected a small bulge under her man’s shirt.

She took in his question and his doubtful look. “I’m carrying small,” she said.

“Oh,” was the best he could dredge up.

“I have to make sure the baby is okay.”

“Yes, right,” he answered briskly. He wasn’t going to ask her how she’d happened to get pregnant. Instead, he started rushing around the room, collecting outerwear. He had been lying in bed with her, entertaining carnal thoughts, if he were honest about it. And now he found out that she was pregnant.

Damn. He felt like a prize fool. She’d seemed small and fragile in his arms. Well, except for that bulge he hadn’t noticed at her middle. And her breasts. They were large. Probably because they were full of milk. No wait, not milk. She wouldn’t have milk yet, would she?

He kept his lips pressed together so he wouldn’t say anything stupid, and his face turned down because he didn’t want her to see the red stain spreading across his cheeks.

She’d been separated from her husband for a year before he’d died. Had she had an affair with one of her cowhands?

When she disappeared into the bathroom, he breathed out a small sigh, then retrieved her gun from the drawer and put it with her coat.

“Jerk,” he muttered to himself. He’d been letting himself get turned on by a pregnant woman. That just showed how bad off he was.

Before she could emerge, he pulled on his coat, went out and started furiously clearing the snow from the windshield.

It was less than he’d expected. While he’d been holed up with the little mother, the weather had changed. The storm had abated, leaving the sky a dark blue. And much of the snow on the ground had blown away, the way it could in this part of the state.

Ms. Rogers came out while he was doing the side windows.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Almost done,” he mumbled, wondering if he’d blown his chances for getting the job. If he had, what the hell was he going to say to the colonel—that he’d screwed up before he ever got to the ranch? On the other hand, his commander hadn’t exactly given him sterling information.

The background papers hadn’t mentioned that Ms. Rogers was pregnant. What other surprises was he going to encounter?

When he’d cleared off the snow, they climbed into the SUV, and he started back toward town. Since most of the snow was gone, the road was fairly clear.

He split his attention between the driving and his own thoughts. Maybe because he didn’t know what the hell he was going to say to Ms. Rogers when they finally discussed the ranch manager situation.

She damn well needed him. But given her previous behavior, he could believe that she might not admit that. And he couldn’t tell her that this assignment was of vital importance to the national security of the United States. Big Sky wasn’t just on the trail of domestic terrorists. They needed to nail down the connection to King Aleksandr of Lukinburg—then arrest Fowler and his gang.

And he’d better keep reminding himself that no matter how sweet and vulnerable this woman looked, she was sheltering Fowler. And he didn’t have a clue about her motives.

He brought himself up short. Vulnerable? Oh, sure.

She would have drilled him if he hadn’t gotten the gun away from her. He stole a glance at her, seeing the set line of her mouth and the tightness of her jaw.

Probably his expression was similar—to avoid giving anything away while he sorted through logic and emotion.

His job was to cozy up to her and get information about her relationship with Fowler. Her pregnancy had suddenly made the assignment more difficult. His own mother had been a single mom, and he knew how hard that would be for Courtney—especially on a horse ranch that was barely making it.

He slid her another look. She had said nothing since they’d started back toward town. Now he felt tension radiating from her.

He turned his head toward her, then followed her gaze. She was staring at the bridge ahead of them—and her vehicle, which was in the field where they’d left it.

Riley slowed, scanning the overpass. “This is where he shot at you?”

She nodded tightly.

While she was feeling off balance, he probed at her with a question. “If the attack was directed at you, who do you think would do it?” he asked.

Her face contorted. “I…don’t know.”

“Does one of your neighbors have a beef with you?” he probed.

She sighed. “People out here are big on conventional morality. Since I’m pregnant and unmarried, I’m the target of more than a few snide remarks.”

“Hmm.” He wasn’t going to ask her for any clarification. What she did in bed was her own damn business.

He cleared his throat and switched the topic back to attempted murder. “You think the righteous citizens of Spur City would shoot at a pregnant woman?”

“Well, the bullet didn’t hit me in the head. Maybe it was just meant to be a warning.”

He winced, thinking that if it was a warning shot, the rifleman had been playing fast and loose with her life.

“And the point of a warning would be?”

“Maybe they’re trying to get me to move away.”

“You mean, as in leave your ranch?”

“I’m not planning to do that!”

She looked beautifully defiant, and he had to remind himself he couldn’t trust her. Not until he found out why she’d let Boone Fowler and his gang of thugs onto her ranch.

They had hit the outskirts of the straggly little town that had the audacity to call itself a city. “Drive to the first cross street, then turn right. The clinic is the low building at the end of the block.

Riley knew he was well within the speed limit. When he saw a police car on his tail, he assumed the guy was going somewhere else. But as Riley pulled into the parking lot next to the women’s clinic, the cop followed.

He shot Ms. Rogers a quick glance. “You break any laws recently?”

She gave him a startled look. “What are you talking about?”

“There’s a cop car pulling in beside us.”

She groaned. “Just what I need. Good ol’ boy, Sheriff Bobby Pennington.”

Riley cut the engine, and she waited a beat before climbing out of the SUV.

Riley hung back, not wanting to step into the middle of anything until he understood the lay of the land.

A big man with a ruddy complexion, mirrored sunglasses and a gray trooper’s uniform strode toward her with a purposeful expression on his face. He looked like he owned the street. As he approached, he tipped back his wide-brimmed hat.

She stood with her arms at her sides, and Riley thought she was probably struggling not to fold them protectively across her middle.

“Something I can do for you?” she asked.

“Your truck was found out on the road. Just on the other side of the overpass.”

“Yes,” she answered, the one syllable coming out clipped, making it clear that she didn’t want to continue the discussion.

“What’s it doing there?”

“I ran off the road in the snowstorm.”

“From what I hear, there’s a hole in the front windshield that could have been made by a bullet.”

Her face contorted. “News gets around fast.”

“Yes it does,” he allowed.

“As it happens, the rumors are true. Somebody shot at me.”

Riley waited for her to turn over the slug she’d shown him. But she kept it in her pocket.

“You need to come to the office and report the incident.”

She hesitated for a moment. “I will. After I stop in at the doctor’s office.”

“For what? Were you hit?”

She raised her chin. “No, but I want to make sure the baby wasn’t hurt in any way, if that’s all right with you.”

The redness of his complexion deepened. “Yes. Of course. But I want you to file a report before you leave town.”

“I will,” she promised, and strode into the clinic. Riley hurried to catch up, wondering what had caused the bristly relationship between Ms. Rogers and the sheriff. Was he hostile to the militia—and hostile to her having them out at the ranch? Was it about her relationship with the town? Or was it something personal?

He tucked the questions into his growing mental file for later investigation.

When he stepped into a room decorated with cute little pictures of babies dressed up like flowers, he wanted to step right back out. But he forced himself to stand there and breathe normally. Ms. Rogers was already at the reception desk, talking to a woman in a white uniform. The rancher glanced back at him. “You might as well sit down.”

He nodded, then surveyed the audience looking him up and down as if he was a prize bull at a cattle auction. There were eight women giving him the once-over, ranging in age from teenagers to grandmas. They all sat on molded chairs. The younger ones were all visibly pregnant.

He felt his stomach muscles clench. Trying to keep his expression neutral, he sat down, holding his Western hat in his lap as he focused on a poster beside the desk advertising the opening of a shelter for battered women.