Truth be told, she’d known that fact since the moment she’d signed on for the temporary, seasonal stint at the ranch. Spotted it the instant her gaze met his, and that undeniable crackle of electricity traveled between them. She’d been fresh out of the service, traveling around South Texas taking odd ranch jobs, when she’d heard that Wildewood was hiring.
She’d had no idea of the fringe benefits that would go along with the position, and now she seemed more drawn to Trace than was safe. Attraction to the boss might have compelled her to leave other places she’d worked. Especially considering she’d spent so much of her life yearning to be judged by her actions and the job she did rather than on her appearance.
Now Carter said, “God, I wish I’d have known you in the sandbox.”
She bit his bottom lip and then kissed him restlessly. “If you’d known me in Iraq, you would never have gotten next to me.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
“Oh, I’m positive,” she said. “The last thing you want to do with someone who’s supposed to be protecting your six is give them a reason to be preoccupied with it.”
“Six” was military speak for “ass.”
Carter chuckled and then groaned when she ground her hips against his.
The two of them had met two years ago on a transport back from the Middle East. They’d both been on leave, and Jo had ended up staying with him for a couple of days of intense R & R in Dallas before heading down to see her parents in Beaumont…late. The welcome-home cake had been stale. The punch gone. And her mother so inconsolable she’d taken to bed with one of her “spells”, as her father called her bouts of depression.
It had ended up being one of the best leaves Jo had ever had. Partly because she’d met Carter. Mostly because she’d gotten to spend uninterrupted stretches of time with her father.
Which made her feel guilty just thinking about it. Another emotion she wanted to squash with physical activity.
She shrugged out of her denim shirt, revealing the tank she wore underneath. Carter immediately palmed her right breast, squeezing through the cotton and her bra. She batted his hand away and gave his belt buckle another go.
“Jesus, Carter, what is this? The male equivalent to a chastity belt?”
His chuckle tickled her ear, along with his tongue.
Her exasperation boiled over.
“Oh, just forget it,” she said, starting to put her shirt back on.
“Aw, baby, don’t be like that,” he said, reaching for her.
She picked up his hat and tossed it to him. It hit the area of his anatomy that disappointed her most. He trapped it there with his hand.
“Hey,” he said, pushing himself off the wall. “I ate three hours of road to see you, Jo. What’s up?”
“I’m not in the mood anymore.”
If she were being honest, she’d admit that wasn’t the only factor. Being so close to Beaumont, and the complicated problems that existed with her parents, seemed to wreak havoc with her emotions in a way she didn’t quite understand. It wasn’t as if the difficulties were new. She’d pretty much grown up with them, even if they had become more serious.
Still, a good sack session had always been enough to chase away the shadows of the past, if not shine a fresh light on the future.
Carter did up the buttons on his jeans. A horse neighed and poked its nose out of the stall, and he stepped aside to avoid it.
“That’s funny. I was just thinking that you haven’t much been in the mood since you took this damn job. You call, tell me you want to see me, then I get down here and you find some reason to be pissed at me.”
She started buttoning her shirt, surprised to find her hands trembling.
“Since the moment I pulled up you’ve done nothing but bitch.”
She said quietly, “Yes, well, if you’d give me the attention I want when I want it, maybe I wouldn’t be so upset.”
His grin reminded her of times past, when they’d shut themselves up in a seedy motel room on the outskirts of Dallas for days on end, leaving only to get beer and burgers.
The problem now was that it hadn’t been his grin she’d been seeing when she closed her eyes moments ago; it had been Trace’s.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but we were working toward getting you what you wanted just now.” He shrugged and checked his belt buckle, which was still firmly fastened. “I was fine with waiting until we got back to the bunkhouse.”
“Yes, well, now neither one of us has to worry about waiting.” She turned and stalked away. “Don’t let the barn door hit you in the ass on your way out, Marine.”
Chapter Two
WELL, THAT WAS QUICK.
Trace watched as Jo emerged from the stables, her shirttails trailing like a cape behind her, she was moving so quickly.
Her visiting boyfriend followed, and grabbed her by the arm. Trace snapped upright. But Jo promptly shook the guy’s hand off her and he stumbled backward. They exchanged words Trace couldn’t hear, and then Jo stalked toward her rusty old truck. She got in and headed down the long gravel driveway that would take her to the road, spitting up dust in her wake.
The ex-marine kicked at the dirt and then went to his bike, disappearing right after her.
“Lovers’ spat?” the sheriff mused.
“Looks that way.”
Brody chuckled and downed half his beer, careless of the droplets spotting the front of his uniform.
“I’m going to head back to the house to catch a shower,” Trace told him. “I can’t barely stand myself.”
Brody straightened. “Before you go, I wanted to ask if you’ve hired on any new hands lately.”
Trace frowned at him. “A couple of regulars we take on when we need extra help. And Jackson and Milford, sitting over there.” He nodded to the two new men who’d begun work on the ranch around the same time Jo had. “But Vernon would be the man to ask about that.” Vernon Burnett was the ranch’s longtime foreman and the go-to guy when it came to dealing with the hands. “Why?”
The sheriff shrugged and leaned against the railing. “There was a rape over in Strade. I’m making the rounds to see if there are any new faces in the area.”
Trace shook his head. “None that I can think of.” He glanced over his shoulder at the guys beginning to drift away, having had their fill of barbecue and beer. Some would go inside to the main room to catch some TV or play pool, others would head to their bunks for the night, knowing another early morning would soon be staring them in the face.
“Who was attacked?” he asked.
“One of the Johnson girls.”
“Art Johnson?”
“That would be the family. It was his youngest, Penny. Someone was in the back of her car when she left the honky-tonk the night before last.”
“She get a look at him?”
The sheriff shook his head. “Nope. Covered her head with a pillowcase.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. Her daddy’s pretty torn up. Fit to be tied.”
“I