his room. It wasn’t her fault his imagination already had them all but experiencing the throes of passion. But her eyes had perused his body like a lover’s caress, and heaven help him he’d loved every minute of it.
Jenna watched Flint walk down the hall to his room. When he turned on the light, it had taken all of her strength to keep from staring at his perfectly sculpted chest and washboard stomach. A thin coat of dark-brown hair covered muscles made hard by years of physical labor, and from his tan she would bet he often removed his shirt while he worked.
She swallowed hard when she remembered the narrow, dark line arrowing down below his navel to draw attention to the open snap at the waistband of his well-worn jeans. Jeans that hung low on lean hips and emphasized the fact that he was all male and thoroughly aroused.
She was only seconds away from having to fan herself when he walked back into the hall, jamming the tail of his shirt into the waistband of his jeans.
“Put this on,” he ordered, shoving a robe into her hands.
The fabric caught on a large splinter protruding from her palm, causing her to wince.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Let’s go see to your hand.”
“What about Ryan?” she asked, belting the robe.
Flint took her by the elbow to usher her toward the stairs. “His room is on the other side of the house. I was checking on him when you screamed. He’s so active during the day, by bedtime he could sleep through an all-out war.”
When they entered the office, Jenna sat in the chair across from Flint’s desk and held her hand out for his inspection. “It’s just a splinter. No big deal.”
He whistled low. “It looks like a log.” Retrieving the first aid kit from his desk, Flint took her hand in his. He examined the wound, his large hand dwarfing hers. She knew she shouldn’t, but she liked the contrast.
“Have you had a tetanus shot recently?” he asked, his attention on her hand.
“I make sure I keep all my immunizations current.” His hands engulfed hers as he worked to remove the splinter and she wondered how they would feel caressing her—
“Ouch!” Her erotic thoughts shattered when he continued to probe for any traces of wood he might have missed. “What are you trying to do, McCray? Drill for oil?”
He poured hydrogen peroxide over the area, applied an antiseptic ointment, then wrapped her hand in gauze. “I think I got it all, but it’ll probably be sore for the next few days.”
Jenna glanced up when he continued to hold her hand. Their gazes locked and the charge of excitement coursing between them took her breath. When he took an antiseptic pad and sponged the blood from her cheek, she wondered if she’d ever breathe again. Shaken by the feel of his hand caressing hers, the gentleness he displayed wiping her face, she jerked her hand from his.
“Why do I get the idea you wouldn’t have been surprised if someone had fired shots at us?” she asked, cursing her breathless tone.
Jenna settled back into the armchair to focus her attention on Flint. She wasn’t going anywhere until she had an explanation. Besides, at the moment, she seriously doubted her legs would support her.
“You might as well tell me what’s going on. I have a right to know.”
“It’s none of your business.”
She jerked her thumb toward the door. “What happened upstairs just made it my business. You weren’t altogether sure I hadn’t seen someone. If I’m going to have to be looking over my shoulder, I’d like to know why. It’s something I don’t take lightly.” She gave him a pointed look. “And I don’t think you do, either.”
Flint slumped into the chair behind his desk and ran a weary hand over his face. If their positions were reversed, he’d be pounding on the desk, demanding an explanation.
But her calm demeanor unsettled him, and suspicion began to cloud his mind. Could Jenna already be familiar with the situation? Was she somehow involved in stealing his cattle? Why hadn’t she been hysterical when she thought someone was shooting at her? Nicole would have been. Hell, his ex-wife went off the deep end when she broke a fingernail.
“We’ve had some trouble with rustlers,” he stated, watching for her reaction.
“Spreads the size of the Rocking M will always be targets of cattle thieves,” she said. “But rustlers usually steer clear of a ranch headquarters. Besides, stealing cattle is one thing. Prowling around an occupied house is an entirely different matter. And that’s exactly what you thought had happened.”
“It’s just been the past couple of days that things have started getting ugly.” He searched for any indication she might be aware of the situation. When he found none, he continued, “Last night they castrated a twenty-five-thousand-dollar bull.”
She sat forward, her eyes wide. “Why wasn’t an animal that valuable closer to the house?”
“He was. Somehow he managed to get through two locked gates and across a six-hundred-acre pasture.”
“He had help,” she said flatly. “Have any other ranchers had similar problems?”
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
“This is more than just a case of cattle rustling,” she stated. “It sounds like someone is trying to seek revenge.”
“But I’ll be damned if I can figure out who it is or why they’re doing it,” he agreed. He wasn’t used to talking with a woman about his ranching problems. Nicole had never cared what went on as long as the money kept rolling in.
“Have you checked with the state brand inspectors?” she asked. “They should be able to tell you who brought the cattle into the stockyards. Maybe you could catch them that way.”
Flint propped his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his hands in front of him. She certainly knew enough about the workings of the cattle industry to implicate her, but then so did most people used to being around livestock. And her shock at the mutilation of the bull seemed genuine.
Jenna Adams was either a damned good actress or innocent of any involvement. One way or the other, he’d know for sure when the investigator finished running a check on her background.
“Of course I’ve notified the authorities,” he answered. “But the only cattle with the Rocking M brand that have gone through any of the yards are the ones I’ve sent.”
She arched a brow. “Then where are they? They didn’t just vanish into thin air.”
“The sheriff found some hides bearing our brand in a remote area about seventy-five miles from here,” Flint answered. “From all indications, the rustlers are butchering the cattle in the back of a refrigerated trailer. By the time they reach the packing house, the beef is dressed out.”
“No hides. No evidence,” she said, nodding. “But what about the USDA? Why haven’t they caught the uninspected beef?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? It could be an inspector on the take or a packing house with a counterfeit stamp.”
He
