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
