“Calves.” His gaze moved to the underbrush. “You haven’t seen ’em, have you?”
“No.” She tugged on her second boot and told herself the guy was okay. “But . . . I did see vultures up over the ridge.”
“Damn.”
Still nervous, she glanced behind him. No horse. No ATV, which of course she would have heard approach. All-terrain vehicles were usually pretty loud. “How’d you get here?”
“Horseback, like you.” He was moving closer to her and making her more nervous.
She wished she’d left five minutes earlier.
He hitched a thumb to the ridge. “I left Diablo to check the stream myself.” He frowned. “No calves here? You’re sure.”
“Yeah. I mean, no. No calves,” she said, unable to contain her case of nerves. Did she know him? He was kinda familiar. A dad of someone, or uncle maybe? Or maybe not. “Uh. I’ve been here a few minutes . . . maybe fifteen. I haven’t seen any cows.”
He was still approaching, his gaze wandering over the surrounding terrain as if he were searching the umbra for the missing livestock, but still, it was weird. Unsettling.
She stood quickly.
“Look, I gotta go.” Why was she explaining anything to him? And why did she feel she knew him? That she’d seen him before?
“Well, if you see a couple of Herefords on your way out, give a whistle, would you?”
“Yeah, sure.” She had the reins in her hands and one boot in a stirrup. She started to hoist herself into the saddle.
He pounced. Leapt on her like on prey, strong arms binding her, her back pressed hard against him.
She screamed.
Falconer spooked, rearing and neighing.
The man’s muscles clenched around her.
No! No! No!
With a snort, her horse jumped forward, yanking her with him.
The attacker held fast, digging in, but the heel of her boot caught in the stirrup, dragging her forward.
Pain ripped up her leg.
Squealing, she thought she was going to be ripped in two as her hip was yanked from its socket.
The man holding her sat back on his heels, and the horse reared again.
Terrified, Addie clawed wildly, trying to free herself, agony tearing through her muscles and tendons. She nearly passed out.
“Son of a bitch,” the man swore.
Suddenly her foot slid from her boot, and the horse bolted. Leaving her. No, no, no! Her leg was on fire, but she fought and clawed. “Let me go, you bastard! Let me—aaarrrggh!”
A new searing pain shot through her.
Her entire body jolted.
Her muscles spasmed uncontrollably.
Oh. God.
She couldn’t focus, her eyes seeming to jiggle in their sockets.
What had happened, she wondered wildly above the pain, but she caught a flash of something in his hand. A weapon. Like a stun gun or a compact cattle prod or something horrible.
She tried to fight and failed, her body jerking spasmodically of its own accord.
How had this happened?
Why?
All of her parents’ warnings rattled through her brain in quick bursts that didn’t connect. She felt herself being hauled, twitching, onto his back. Every effort she made was useless.
Though she didn’t know she was crying, tears filled her eyes.
The only thing she knew for certain was that she was doomed.
Chapter 10
Shiloh rolled over, opened a bleary eye, and realized she’d fallen asleep in the attic space over the garage. In a sleeping bag. Naked. With Beau Tate.
Oh. God.
She hadn’t been drunk. She’d just been out of her mind. After the wild lovemaking in the creek, she and he had thrown on their clothes, hers relatively dry, his wet, and ridden back to the house where, after opening a bottle of wine, they had ended up here and made love until after midnight.
Now, as morning sunlight streamed through the open windows, she noticed an empty wine bottle and stained glasses that sat on a scarred side table that had once been her grandmother’s. Her clothes were strewn over the old braided rug that had been rolled up on the attic floor when she was just a child. The oversized sleeping bag had been centered in the room, but over the course of the night of lovemaking, it had shifted and now was wedged against a bookcase of forgotten paperbacks.
Lying on the floor, they were surrounded by leftover furniture, books, records, and boxes filled with the detritus that had been part of Faye Tate’s life.
Shiloh closed her eyes for a second and let out her breath.
What had she been thinking?
That was the trouble, she hadn’t been.
She looked down at Beau, still sleeping, eyes closed, breathing slowly and evenly. His hair was rumpled, his jaw even darker with beard shadow, his naked chest exposed as a corner of the sleeping bag had flipped back.
Images of the night before played inside her mind. His lips on her neck. His hands sliding down her spine to cup her buttocks, his tongue running along her skin, the taste of wine in her throat, and the earthy smell of him in her nostrils. He’d brought her to a climax more than once, and just thinking of him propped on his elbows, thrusting inside her made her tingle in places she’d nearly forgotten.
He’d seen the scar on her shoulder, the remnant of the wound from Ruthie’s rapist’s blade all those years ago.
“What’s this?” he’d asked, touching the scar.
“Nothing.” No reason to confide in him. “Happened long ago.”
His lips had flattened. “Who did this to you?”
“It was an accident.”
“You’re sure?” he’d asked.
“I should remember.”
“But Larimer. He didn’t . . .”
“Oh, hell no.” She’d wrapped her arms around him and kissed him to stop the interrogation. He hadn’t been able to resist as she rubbed against him, and she still remembered how her nipples had tightened and the juncture between her legs had pulsed with desire as he’d begun stroking her.
“Oh God,” she whispered, wondering what would happen now.
He opened an eye and gazed at her. “Mornin’, sunshine,” he said, and part of her melted. There was a tenderness in his voice she didn’t expect, a familiarity that touched her.
She started scooting from the bag, working her way out. “This . . . this was a mistake.”
“Umm. Can’t argue with you there.”
“We have to forget it happened.”
He cocked an amused eyebrow.
“Okay, that is not going to happen. We can’t forget. But . . . but this . . . whatever this is, is never going to work. I mean, I’m only here because of Morgan and you too . . . Oh God.” She flung herself back onto the floor. “Morgan.” If their half sister ever got wind that they were . . . what? That they had . . .
“What about her?”
“She can’t find out that you and I were . . . together.”
“She’s not going to find out anything,” he said and chuckled.
“I’m serious, Beau.”