cupped in worn denim, and placed a check-in call to Lou, her agent. To her disgust, Rio Blaylock’s backside and long legs fascinated her.
Rio slowed the horses, hushing the uneasy mare. Frisco, his saddlebred gelding, settled with the touch of Rio’s gloved hand and the Appaloosa mare quieted. He waited until the bear, awakened from his winter nap and foraging for food, crossed the path leading to Boone’s cabin. Rio pushed down the panic that the bear had already found Paloma, alone and unprotected. He’d given the stubborn woman two weeks, two long weeks of wondering if she were alive, if she needed him. He grimaced, unsettled by his admission that he needed her—his woman. Irritating, mule-headed woman...
May sunlight dappled the thick pines, and animals scampered in the forest’s thickets. The mountain blueberries would be thick and sweet this year. Waxy yellow buttercups would soon rise, and he hungered for her, this woman who softly haunted his sleepless nights, blending with the nightmares of the boy he couldn’t save....
“Perverse...contrary...maddening,” he muttered, beginning his journey again after glancing at the mare, packed with supplies. Why should he care if the obstinate woman had food? Would she be safe? Why did he care? Why had he promised himself after that first meeting that he’d come for her—if she didn’t return to Jasmine?
That shy dimple on her left cheek created the whole problem, he decided stormily. He couldn’t wait to see it again, that bit of magic on her smooth cheek.
It was her hands, he corrected as he watched deer move through the thicket, heading for lush summer grazing meadows on higher ground. He wanted those lovely, active, slender hands on him, touching his face, his hair, tethering him. He wanted that angular feminine body to be a part of his. He wanted to hold all that silky river of hair in his fists and kiss that—
He almost smiled. Paloma would bite.
Rio shook his head, not understanding his need for her, his need to keep her safe. She wouldn’t like his visit, of course, his checking up on her. He released his smile. Those sky-blue eyes would darken, slashing at him—His heart leaped at the thought, the excitement of seeing Paloma respond to him, almost vibrating under his touch, shocked as he’d kissed her palm, stunned as he’d touched her hair. Hell, he’d been stunned at the feel of her skin beneath his, the widening of her eyes, so blue a man would think he was floating in the sky.
He whipped the reins through his fingers. He should be at home, tending his Corriente and Hereford cattle, plowing and seeding and keeping his accounts. The beefy Herefords were a practical choice, but the contrary Corrientes matched Rio’s Spanish heritage—edgy, dark, dangerous. He smiled; the cattle reminded him of Paloma’s fire and the excitement she gave him; his heart raced just looking at her.
His remodeled house—an old barn—always needed work, and he was behind on his ranger and deputy rounds. He’d taken time away from his duties to see about Paloma, and to explore his shocking hunger for her. He scoffed at himself, now thirty-seven, desiring a woman who wasn’t sweet-natured, cuddly or curved. He recognized the age-old instinct to capture and claim her for his own-he’d known it the moment he’d seen her left hand, her third finger barren.
The Appaloosa mare was his first gift—she’d need the horse; that injured leg wouldn’t like the mountain hike. And Rio had just discovered that he liked the traditions of his Apache ancestors—like the bridal gift. A tracker and a hunter by nature and by Blaylock blood, Rio had followed Paloma to the cabin, watched her struggle, laden with a backpack. She had begun limping just before she’d reached the cabin, but she had reached it. He’d smiled when she’d let out that victorious whoop. Then he’d slid away into the forest; she wouldn’t have appreciated his concern.
“The ride with her won’t be easy,” he muttered as he moved into the clearing. Boone’s rough-hewn log cabin stood as it had for years, frequented now by Roman, Kallista, their adopted daughter, Cindi, and soon their new baby. Roman’s new family had nudged Rio’s nesting urges—okay, he wanted Paloma in bed, under him, over him. The savage need to mate with her, a primitive fire that would create new life, awoke him and he blamed her—that exotic scent, those agile pale fingers.
When he managed to stop staring at the lacy underwear hung to dry across the porch, Rio swung to the ground and tethered the horses to the old hitching post. He quickly unleashed the supplies from the mare’s saddle and tossed them on the board porch, expecting Paloma to come out, temper blazing. She didn’t, and the house was too quiet. Rio scanned the pines circling the house and slowly walked up the steps—at any moment, Paloma would rush at him and he didn’t care to sprawl in front of his lady—his ladylove, he corrected grimly. After all, he’d come to court her, hadn’t he? The admission went down uneasily.
Everything about her was expensive and classy. Exactly what did he have to offer a woman who had traveled around the world? He liked to carpenter, to smell the wood and work with his hands. He liked good hard work, he liked his ranger and deputy duties, because he felt he was helping preserve the land Other than a few sound financial investments, he bad a barn he’d remodeled, part of the original Blaylock homestead, his cattle and a deep need to love Paloma as she’d never been loved before. He wanted to protect her—no woman should have to awake in terror, protecting herself.
Rio’s jaw tightened. A relationship with a woman as strong and independent as Paloma might take time to craft, but he would. His first priority was to prevent a boutique from replacing half of Jasmine’s feed store. Part of the man-woman sorting process was that a man’s century-old gathering place stayed intact.
When she didn’t respond to his knock, Rio opened the door and entered the cabin. The shelves were lined with canned and dried foods, the cabin neat. Too neat—as if Paloma was ready to move easily, quickly. Boone’s big bed was littered with women’s magazines, all with one theme—country collectibles and crafts. A quick glance at her lists—Rio ran his thumb over her large, loopy feminine handwriting-said she was going through with her plans. “Boutique makings,” Rio heard himself mutter. “No way.”
He wondered who had dropped the supplies. An old boyfriend? He didn’t like the sudden unfamiliar surge of jealousy. One hand on the old woodstove said that she’d burned a fire at night and let it die in the morning. Where was she?
She could be anywhere on the mountain, and in danger. He inhaled sharply, remembering the trees clawed by a cougar and a bear, each marking their territory. There were timber wolves on the mountain, and coyotes and bobcats, none of them friendly. There was that old mine, where he’d finally found the boy—
He pushed down his leaping fear and hurried outside; panic wouldn’t help find Paloma. He glanced-at the old avalanche, the rock slide now covered with moss, and just over that hill was a cliff, a sheer drop to the bottom that no one could survive. Visions of Paloma’s mangled body terrified him. Rio quickly unsheathed his rifle from his saddle and looped a circle of sturdy rope across his shoulder. Minutes later, he shook his head—Paloma’s footprints led to the cliff. She’d broken a pile of sticks, the stacks small and neat as though she’d been placing her thoughts in order. “The footprints are a few days old. Contrary, mule-headed...”
At a run, he headed for the old mine—that killer mine—the timbers rotting and treacherous, and if she were lying at the bottom, unconscious...Rio pushed away the fear clawing at him. He’d failed to save the boy; maybe he was too late to save Paloma, too. The vise around his heart tightened, and then he saw the gold mine’s fresh cave-in. “Paloma?” he called, bracing himself for her call—he prayed she would be alive. “Paloma?”
Silence echoed his fears. He took one step, moving toward the tree that would hold his rope as he eased down into the opening. Suddenly the crumpling sound
