The Rancher and the Redhead Read online

  Sam carried the baby off to her room, and Roni swallowed hard.

  Or something?

  What did Sam expect of her tonight? More importantly, what did she expect of herself? She honestly had no idea. It was their wedding night, after all. As if I thought I could forget! she groaned inwardly.

  Swiftly she placed her bouquet and headdress in their protective bags and tucked them into the refrigerator for safekeeping. Later, she would hang them in the attic to dry, to have as an everlasting arrangement, maybe to fix them in a romantic Victorian bell jar. Her plans ground to a halt. The way the air seemed to sizzle whenever Sam came close, and the way her heart turned over at his touch were indications that she wasn’t thinking straight at all.

  Desperately, she tried to remember her arguments of just a few short days before, how things could develop slowly and naturally, how they were as comfortable as a pair of well-broken-in boots. Was she so naive? How could a few words spoken in front of a preacher have changed that? And yet it appeared that they had, and she felt as though she were on a roller coaster gaining speed down the first tall hill, faster and faster to a destiny that was as unknown as it was thrilling.

  And terrifying.

  Heart pounding against her chest wall, Roni knew it was time to put on the brakes. Now. Out of sight, out of mind. Time to cool off before they made a dreadful mistake they’d only regret in the morning after emotions settled and the champagne fumes dissipated. The plan flickered to life in her brain—a bath, a plea of fatigue, tucking herself into her solitary twin bed in the safety of her new daughter’s nursery. A cowardly path, perhaps, but eminently prudent, at least at the moment.

  With the sound of Sam’s deep voice drifting down the hall from Jessie’s room, Roni hurried to the parlor where her overnight bag sat, rummaged in it for a concealing sleep shirt and her toiletries bag, then hurried toward the bathroom. She locked the door behind her with a sigh of relief, then chided herself for acting like a trembling virgin. She was a mature woman, she reminded herself sternly, able to make competent decisions, and what she wanted right now was a long, hot bath. In fact, she planned to stay in it until her skin resembled a prune, and Sam Preston was sound asleep.

  The tub was a relic, scarred and stained with rust. Roni twisted the knobs, cursing and tugging at the stubborn hot water spigot until it gave and a stream of rusty water poured into the bath. The whole house needed replumbing, but at the moment, all she could do was pour in her foaming bath oil and hope for the best. Roni pulled off the blue garter Krystal had given her for luck, then stripped out of her panty hose and half-slip. She reached to unfasten her dress, and her eyes widened with dismay.

  “Oh, hell!”

  Straining, she could only reach the top three covered buttons of a line that ran down her spine from her nape to her hips. Her mother had helped her dress, and it had never occurred to Roni that without assistance she was trapped in her own wedding gown. And the only assistance available to her now was Sam himself.

  There had to be a way. Grimacing, Roni craned her arms backward until she thought they’d pop from their sockets, but only succeeded in freeing one more button.

  The bubbles in the bathtub were almost overflowing. With a sound of frustration, Roni twisted the taps off, struggling momentarily again with the hot water spigot before forcing it shut. She caught sight of a back brush hanging on a nail and tried to pry another button loose with its long handle. She nearly had it free when she heard the awful ripping sound of a seam giving way.

  Panting, Roni dropped the brush and tried to assess the damage. This had been her mother’s wedding dress, and now hers, and in the back of Roni’s mind she’d already been planning for Jessie to wear it someday, too. There was no way she was going to ruin it out of a misguided sense of modesty. Defeated, she realized she would have to ask Sam for help.

  Blowing a damp curl out of her face, Roni spoke to herself in the steamy mirror. “All right. Be casual. Nothing unusual here. Just a friend helping a friend.”

  Taking a deep breath, she unlocked the door, then hesitated in the hall. Sam tiptoed out of Jessie’s room a moment later, carefully pulling the door shut behind him in the way of all parents who prayed that their offspring would continue to sleep. It might have been a comical position on a man with less stature, but on Sam the attitude was watchful, protective and somehow very attractive. Roni felt her mouth go dry.

  Hand on the doorknob, he looked up at her in surprise. “I thought you were in the tub.”

  “I’m trying, but that spigot was being stubborn again. It’s really kind of dangerous, so could you fix it soon?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to get to that.”

  “And I’m having a little trouble...” She shrugged sheepishly and pointed at her back. “I can’t—that is, uh, would you?”

  “Sure.” Hands on her shoulders, he turned her, then went to work on the buttons. “I swear, female garb can sure be mystifying. Who’d think a garment you can’t get into or out of by yourself is a good idea?”

  A woman who wants her husband to touch her. The thought caught Roni by surprise and heated her skin. Or perhaps it was the brush of Sam’s callused fingers that splayed electricity along her nerve endings. Was it her imagination, or had his progress slowed, so that he seemed to linger on the last few buttons gracing the curve of her spine? And did he realize that except for her lacy demibra, she was naked beneath the dress?

  Roni’s breathing accelerated, but when she went to move away Sam forestalled her by sliding a hand through the opening of the gown to rest in the indention of her waist. Startled, Roni looked over her shoulder, only to be snagged by the intensity of Sam’s blue gaze. The pressure of his fingers on her bare skin increased, spreading down over the jut of her hipbone. Over her token resistance he pulled her back flush against himself.

  “You’re as skittish as a newborn filly, Miss Curly.”

  “Sam...” Her breath clogged in her throat as his gaze fell to her mouth, and her knees went weak. “You know this isn’t a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re just curious.”

  “Uh-huh.” His other hand skimmed over her shoulder, easing under her scalloped neckline to explore the tender skin stretched over her collarbone. “Aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Liar. You’re wondering just like I am.”

  “Wondering what?”

  “If that kiss was really as good as we both thought it was.”

  “You’re imagining things.” She licked her lips. “I—my bathwater’s getting cold.”

  Light flared behind his eyes and his voice was thick. “The hell with it.”

  Catching her chin between his fingers, he tipped her face up and settled his mouth over hers. His lips were warm and sweet and wild, and Roni melted. But even that surrender wasn’t enough for Sam. He turned her to face him, his hands pushing her shoulders against the wall, his mouth never leaving hers. He insinuated a knee between her legs, pressing her skirts in a most intimate and erotic glide of satin and lace.

  Roni moaned, feeling the urgency building in him, helpless to stop it, not certain that she even wanted to. Grasping her sagging gown to her breasts, she could do nothing but hold on as sensation washed over her in waves. Overwhelmed, she parted her lips at his demand, gasping as his tongue found hers and performed nimble and intoxicating tricks, sweeping the cavern of her mouth, striking her dumb and blind at the burgeoning power of her own need.

  He raised his head, peppering tiny kisses at the corner of her mouth, the curve of her jawbone. Her chest heaved with the effort to find enough oxygen to survive. “Sam, I can’t...breathe.”

  “Good.” His voice was muffled as he nibbled at the tender curve of her neck, riffling goose bumps down every extremity. “Neither can I.”

  “It’s too soon,” she gasped in growing panic. “Oh, stop! I can’t think.”

  “Then don’t.”

  His low chuckle was almost a growl, please
d and infinitely male and utterly alarming, for Roni knew instinctively it was the sound of a man claiming his mate. When he bent to possess her lips again, she latched desperately on to a handful of the hair curling at his nape and tugged hard to gain his attention.

  “Sam! You’re scaring me.”

  He poised a mere hairbreath from her lips, his gaze dark and murky with passion. In the blink of an eye, the clouds retreated, and he looked at her, clear-eyed, with pression.

  “My God, Curly, I’m sorry!”

  He let her go so quickly, she almost sagged to the floor, and would have if his hands hadn’t come up to steady her elbows. For an endless moment, they stared into each other’s eyes, shocked and shaken by the volatility of the brief encounter.

  There was nothing to say. Nothing that could be said. The sound of a small girl’s sleepy fretting finally penetrated their bubble of bewilderment.

  “You—you’d better go to her,” Roni said huskily.

  “Yes.” Slowly, as if his hands were having trouble obeying his brain’s commands, Sam released her and took a step back.

  “I—I’ll finish my bath.”

  “Uh, sure.” He rubbed the back of his neck, consternation and embarrassment making his features stiff. “What we both, uh, need is a good night’s rest.”

  “Right.” She backed toward the bathroom, holding the dress to keep it from falling off her shoulders. The lace felt scratchy to her sensitized palms, her breasts full and itchy. “See you in the morning, then.”

  “Yeah. Good night.”

  Roni turned the lock on the bathroom door, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. She let her wedding dress drop, unhooked her bra, then stepped into the bathtub. The bubbles had melted into nothing but an oil slick on the surface and the water was cool, but she scarcely noticed, for her bemused brain was too busy working on a new and most startling revelation.

  If truth be told, she had been wondering about a repeat of her wedding kiss, just as Sam said. Well, it had happened, and now she didn’t have to wonder any longer. The second kiss wasn’t as good as the first. No, to the detriment of any peace of mind she ever hoped to possess, she had to admit the truth.

  It was even better.

  * * *

  Sam Preston was in big trouble, and he knew it.

  A week into his second marriage, after a blistering Texas afternoon of alternately cursing and praying over the Lazy Diamond’s ailing cattle truck, he was hot, tired and dirty. Not to mention raw and bloody across the knuckles from banging into the engine block. Maybe the damn thing would run a little longer. Maybe.

  Sam stomped up the porch steps of the ranch house, mentally calculating the possibilities. If the truck died for good, it would practically put him out of the rodeo stock business, for there was no extra cash to replace the vehicle, and his line of credit down at the local bank was just about nil. In fact, five years after his divorce, he was only beginning to dig the ranch out of the financial morass left over from Shelly’s settlement, and every setback—from a worn-out vehicle to a bull he couldn’t replace—was critical.

  Reaching for the handle of the screen door, Sam came up short as a flutter of bright-colored fabric caught his eye. Mouthing a curse of pure frustration, he glared at the short line strung between two porch posts and the delicate feminine laundry clothes-pinned to it—silky teddies and little scraps of lacy panties and a heart-stopping array of mysterious female undergarments guaranteed to drive a man slap out of his mind. Which is where he was going—fast.

  Good God, who would have ever guessed that Curly hid all that fancy, female livery under her jeans every day? Shaking his head, Sam went inside. Every other problem in his life paled when compared to the fact that he had the hots for his own wife—and there was nothing he could do about it.

  For the moment.

  Setting his hat on a peg, he used the bootjack to shuck out of his boots, ripped open the snaps on his grease-stained work shirt and tugged it free of his waistband. From somewhere in the house, he could hear water running, and there was an aroma coming from the oven that made his empty belly rumble.

  There were other evidences of feminine occupation creeping into his house, too. Ruffled pot holders with cows’ faces on them by the stove. A teal rug at the back door. Some kind of strange-looking modern statue on the coffee table in the parlor, and a pile of art books nestled up beside his stacks of Western Horseman and Hoof and Horn.

  They were finding a routine with Jessie, too, from bathing to naptime to a bout of real restlessness just the night before that had kept Roni hovering to the wee hours. Despite those demands, Roni had already managed to rough out her cover illustration in her new studio. Yeah, his and Roni’s everyday lives were meshing okay. If only they could get this relationship thing figured out as easily.

  What had seemed so sensible when first discussed had turned out to be a Pandora’s box as far as Sam was concerned. He couldn’t quite explain, even to himself, how a couple of kisses—surprising as they were—had changed the way he looked at Roni. All he knew was that she was his now, legally and morally, and—dammit—all he could think about was taking her to bed!

  Too bad Roni wasn’t of the same mind. Every time he’d come near her over the past seven days, she’d shied away from him like a skittish mare scenting a stallion. She wasn’t hard to read—she just wasn’t ready for that step. Maybe she wouldn’t ever be. The thought made Sam groan. Was it too much for a husband to expect conjugal rights? Or was he just an oversexed SOB with gonads for brains and no self-control?

  Grinding his teeth in frustration, Sam opened the refrigerator for a beer, letting the cool air waft over his sweaty chest. At least she’d gotten her wedding flowers out of the food crisper. And as hard as it was for him to reconcile how quickly his thinking about Roni had changed, no doubt she was having the same kind of difficulty. Any more displays of passion on his part were likely to scare her off permanently, and that was the last thing he wanted.

  The trick was patience, a little wooing, some time for her to get used to the idea. She wasn’t indifferent to him, that much was clear, so he could take some solace in that. And although patience had never been his strong suit, he was man enough to control his impulses until she was ready, considering what his reward could be—a hot physical relationship with a woman he admired and trusted. Not a bad return for the investment, he figured.

  Taking a slug from his beer, he grimaced at the faintly bitter taste. Yeah, he could back off, keep his distance until Curly gave him some indication she was ready to pursue what had begun with a wedding kiss. And damned if he wouldn’t do it, or die trying. It was just going to be hard waiting for it to happen, that was all. But since he had been in that physical state most of the past week, what else was new?

  He headed for the parlor, thinking about flipping through some channels for some news and taking a load off his feet for a few minutes, then came up stock-still. “What the hell—?”

  Someone had rearranged the furniture. Someone had shifted things around in a room that hadn’t been changed in forty years. Plumped fat, flowery pillows and quilts on the old spring-weary sofa, tossed around baskets of silk flowers and greenery with an indiscriminate hand, and put a dad-gum Japanese paper fan in the fireplace, for gosh sakes! But worse than anything, someone had taken his chair.

  His favorite chair. The old recliner he’d just in the past few years gotten perfectly broken in for his backside. Why, he and that chair had a history, a relationship, and it was gone! Vanished, banished, booted without so much as a by-your-leave, replaced by a dinky Queen Anne contraption that wouldn’t hold up a flea, much less a hundred-eighty-pound rancher. Frustrations that had been simmering for a full week bubbled over like erupting lava.

  “Curly!” He roared the name of the perpetrator of this final indignity in the voice of an enraged lion. “By God, woman, this time you’ve gone too far.”

  Sam stormed down the hall, pounded on the bathroom door and tried the knob. To his mild s
urprise, it flew open, startling Roni into an attitude of frozen incredulity as she leaned across the basin to smooth concealer under her tired eyes. She wore French-cut panties and a brief little scrap of nothing for a bra, both crusted with stretch lace and as red as Eve’s apple. Neither left much to the imagination, cupping and molding her supple form like a lover’s hand.

  The sight of her tanned thighs pressed against the edge of the white porcelain sink, the scarlet lace, the innocent “O” of her surprised mouth, all struck a match to the smoldering bonfire of Sam’s overstretched nervous system, flaring his temper out of control.

  “Where the hell is it?” he shouted.

  Bewilderment widened her eyes. “Where’s what?”

  “You know damn well what! By God, Curly, some things in a man’s home are sacred—don’t you know that?” Whipping a towel off the rack, he tossed it at her. “And put on some damn clothes. Are you trying to drive me crazy?”

  Indignation sprouted bright color high on Roni’s cheekbones as she caught the towel and draped it around herself. “I didn’t ask you to come barging in here like a rodeo bull. And for your information, Mr. Preston, it isn’t exactly a picnic for me to see you parading around at all hours of the day and night in just your skivvies.”

  “What—” Her counterattack made Sam splutter. “Hell, I live here.”

  Her chest heaved with righteous anger. “Well, so do I.”

  Frustratingly, there was no argument to that. “Just tell me what you did with my chair,” he growled.

  “Your—? You mean that old plaid relic taking up space in front of the hearth?”

  “You know perfectly well which one.”

  Something devilish glinted in the depths of her brown eyes. “What if I told you Angel took it to the dump?”

  “What?” Sam squawked, and his face went dark as thunder. “How long ago? Hell, now I’ll have to go after it—”

  Roni crossed her arms and gave him a bland look. “Only as far as the back porch.”

  Halfway to the door, Sam’s head snapped around. “Huh?”

  “Jessie wet the seat, so I pushed it out there to sun.” Exasperation and anger sparked her voice with acid. “Don’t you think I know what that stupid, ugly chair means to you, you lunkhead?”