Clay: Armed and Dangerous (2 page)

That hat.
She’d met him several times at local events for ranchers—rodeos and dances, that
sort of thing. He was big on “supporting his community,” or so he liked to pretend.
Even if she hadn’t been forced to shake his hand a dozen times, she’d know him anywhere
just because of that stupid hat. It was an O’Farrell, a Cheyenne Pinch, black—pure
beaver with a beaded edge.

I could sell the damned thing on eBay and pay my hands and the ranch expenses for
a month.

Francisco Guerrero actually smiled at her when she opened the glass doors and marched
onto his fancy adobe tile floor. His blacker-than-black hair peeked out from beneath
his overpriced headgear, and his dark eyes appraised her with something like respectful
amusement as she approached him. He had on a black silk suit, no doubt Armani, and
diamonds twinkled in his cuffs, his ears, and from a diamond ring on his pinky.

Rylie pulled up short a foot or two away from him, aware of chicken-shit salesmen
scrambling to their feet. Guerrero dismissed them with a quick wave of his fingers,
all the while smiling at her like a cat eying a sweet bowl of cream.

Rylie felt her frown deepen to epic proportions.
It’d be a lot easier to kill the bastard if he didn’t look like a movie star doing
charity work for orphans.

“Ms. Thorn. Wonderful to see you again.” His gaze flicked to the ancient, battered,
and smoking truck marring the landscape of his dealership, then back to her. “I can
assure you, you’ve come to the right place to replace that eyesore.”

Oh, how she’d love to slap that smile right off of Guerrero’s too-handsome face. “The
rest of my trucks were stolen last night. All the good ones.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Guerrero’s smile faded. “Do the police have any leads?”

“Would I be here if they did?” Rylie gestured at the lavish surroundings. “I don’t
get it, Francis.” She emphasized the bastardization of his given name, hoping to irk
him. “You have all this and more money than God himself, but you still want more?
You have to shake down ranchers barely making it to line your pockets and to buy your
stupid hats and diamonds?”

His dark eyes narrowed, all hints of his megawatt smile gone now. “You think
I
stole your trucks?”

“Hell, yes!” She propped her hands on her hips and kept her eyes fixed on his. “You
had something to do with it, I’m sure.” Rylie expected something along the lines of
denials, threats, or getting tossed out of the dealership on her ass. She didn’t expect
Guerrero to throw back his head and laugh like she just told him the best joke ever.
The sound seemed to bounce off the shiny showroom trucks and cars, echoing against
the vaulted ceiling.

She glared at him, ignoring a handful of vehicles pulling up outside. At the very
least, she might cost the arrogant jerk a few sales, right? Not that he seemed concerned,
even a little bit.

She hated to admit it, but the longer he laughed, the sillier she felt. He was so
relaxed, seemingly so impossible to offend. Almost like a man who really didn’t have
anything to hide—at least not about the trucks.

When Guerrero finally finished his belly-guffaws, she did her best to keep hold of
the menacing rage she felt when she first drove up to the dealership. “I’ll take that
for a denial: ‘I swear, Ms. Thorn, I don’t know a thing about all your pretty trucks—and
half the pretty trucks in Douglas—going missing.’ ”

Guerrero let out another chuckle, then raised his right hand. In the smoothest, sexiest
voice she’d ever heard him manage, he said, “I swear, Ms. Thorn, I don’t know a thing
about all your pretty trucks.”

He was playing with her. Had to be. No way he was clean on these thefts. Douglas didn’t
have an abundance of criminals, so who else would it be? “What kind of crime lord
are you?” Rylie grumbled. “I thought you assholes knew everything about what went
down in your territory.”

Sunlight glinted through the showroom window as people moved around outside. Rylie
was glad humans were in close proximity, because Guerrero’s expression finally changed
from lamb to wolf. Pissed-off wolf.

Werewolf, maybe?

Uh-oh.

“Crime lord.” His voice came out low and cool, and his new smile was anything but
friendly. “That’s a rude thing to say to a successful businessman who gives back to
his community at every available opportunity.”

Rylie had a moment to think that his accent got worse when he was furious, and another
moment to wonder what a man like Guerrero did when he got enraged and couldn’t just
shoot the person who ticked him off.

Maybe she should have thought this through another five seconds.

Guerrero flexed his fingers but kept his body relaxed. “Such insults, they’re beneath
a beautiful woman.”

For another handful of long moments, Rylie was sure the man was about to hit her.
A knot tied tight in her belly and she stood very still, ready to do whatever she
had to do to defend herself, but Guerrero never raised his hand or made any aggressive
move.

Unsmiling, but obviously regaining control of himself, Guerrero said, “May I show
you a truck, Ms. Thorn? I’d be happy to loan you one of our showroom prizes at no
charge until your insurance company settles with you.”

Rylie was just about to tell the slick bastard exactly what he could do with his showroom
trucks when the glass door opened and she found herself facing Guerrero and the tall,
handsome sheriff, Clay Wayland.

The sight of him took her breath away all over again. He seemed to tower over Guerrero,
but his gaze was fixed firmly on her—and he looked worried.

She guessed she should give the man a few points for figuring out she planned to have
a word with Guerrero, and extra points for worrying about that enough to show up and
make sure she hadn’t done any real damage.

For some reason, she couldn’t hold the sheriff’s gaze.

Like, maybe you just made a total fool of yourself and him, too?

What had she been thinking? That a major player in organized crime would just roll
right over and confess because she challenged him?

Driving the wreck had given her heat stroke, or something. Or maybe it was the gorgeous
new sheriff that had addled her mind so completely.

“Sheriff Wayland.” Guerrero nodded at his new guest. “I haven’t seen you since the
Christmas party at Navaeh’s Bed-and-Breakfast in Bisbee.”

Rylie winced. Every rancher in Douglas was supposed to attend that charity dinner,
but she’d blown it off this last year. She had to. Not enough money to buy a ticket,
much less afford any of the drinks. Everybody in town knew it, too, and Guerrero probably
knew his little jab had struck home. He didn’t so much as glance at her to gloat over
it.

“Mr. Guerrero.” Clay Wayland’s deep voice boomed through the big showroom, sending
chills up and down Rylie’s spine. “Is, ah, everything okay here?”

Guerrero’s expression turned patient, even long-suffering, and Rylie had to work not
to clench her fists. “Ms. Thorn and I were just discussing a loan of a vehicle for
her until her insurance settles. I hope you’ll find the people responsible for robbing
our local ranchers. Times are hard enough without them losing property they’ll have
difficulty replacing.”

Clay said nothing. The lines of his face stayed tight, and his green eyes seemed way
too intense as he glanced from Rylie to Guerrero.

Rylie had no words. This level of blow-up-in-her-face hadn’t been in the plans when
she motored onto the car lot. All she could do was stand there and look at the fancy
showroom trucks, the ceiling, the adobe floor tiles—anything but either man in the
room.

“You’re right, of course, Ms. Thorn. I should do more than I have to help with this
local crisis.” Guerrero relaxed completely again, falling back into his affable posture
and firing up his smile. “Sheriff, please inform the theft victims that Arizona Motors
South is happy to arrange rental vehicles, new or used, for any Douglas rancher hit
by these thefts. Five dollars per day, and we’ll cover the first tank of gas.”

Clay Wayland’s eyebrows shot up.

Rylie’s did, too.

Before she could recover, Guerrero gazed at her like a saint waiting for approval
from God. He looked so innocent she wanted to throw up on his pricey hat and his shiny
black boots, too. “Does that help your trust level, Ms. Thorn, me taking a loss like
that on a daily basis?”

No.
Rylie wanted to tell Guerrero off all over again, but she was afraid he’d take back
the offer, and her friends and neighbors would suffer.

“Yes,” she made herself say. Damn, but that felt like pulling a tooth with no anesthetic,
never mind the sweet smile she felt obligated to tack on to the end of the lie.

The worst part was, Guerrero wasn’t quite finished yet. “Leave it to Ms. Thorn to
remind me of my civic duties, but to refuse my charity herself. Are you certain you
won’t let me send you out of here in something other than that?”

He pointed to the wreck still taking center stage outside his showroom window.

“Thanks, but no.” Rylie kept her sweet smile pasted on her face, hoping he could pick
up the hefty dose of fuck-you behind all the teeth she showed. “Just help out the
other ranchers who have taken hits. That’s good for now.”

“Fine.” He gave her a little bow. “Come back any time. Lovely women are always welcome
in my showroom, Ms. Thorn.”

Clay Wayland’s expression darkened, but Rylie could tell he didn’t know what to say
any more than she did.

Holding her head up and keeping her chin forward, she managed to make it to the door
without ever looking at Guerrero or Clay Wayland in the face again. When she got outside,
she realized she’d been sweating in the showroom. So much for bold investigative techniques.

At least the heap had the good graces to let her in and start on the third or fourth
try. Somehow, she managed not to hit any of the bright, shiny trucks as she hiccuped
and bucked out of the lot, heading for the safer ground of home.

Rylie checked the grandfather clock in the hallway. Nearing sunset. She needed to
change into her jeans, grab a sweater, and do a quick walk of her inner boundary.
Damned if the truck-stealing assholes would get the wreck, or the few cars the hands
kept stored in the back of the barn.

As for the Guerrero debacle earlier today—never mind. Just never mind. She wouldn’t
be thinking about that, or how incredibly sexy the sheriff’s green eyes had been,
or what he probably thought of her right about now. The good thing about honest hard
work was, it got your mind off all kinds of troubles.

Wood floorboards creaked under her bare feet as she hurried to her bedroom. The old
ranch house smelled of dust, lemon oil, and the single-serving lasagna she’d nuked
in the microwave earlier. Unlike the modern MacKenna ranch house down the road, Rylie’s
home was well over a century old and looked every bit of it. But it was home and people
had to stand up for home. Her mother should have, and as for her father ... Well,
that bastard wouldn’t have known home if it had bit his ass cheek and given him a
great, big friendly shake.

When she reached her room, she closed the door in case her older brother Levi happened
to come home early. The two had been running the ranch together since Levi got back
from his stint in the army, and their father and his wife—number six—had been killed
in a car accident, some ten years ago.

And of course they hadn’t seen their “real” mother since they were in elementary school.
The woman had run off with a muscle-bound Mr. Arizona. Apparently that fling hadn’t
lasted, but good old Mom had enjoyed her freedom too much to get around to coming
back home.

Rylie pulled her pocketknife out and tossed it on her chest of drawers. She shimmied
out of her jeans, her thoughts turning to the only person who’d even been close to
being like a mom to her. Mrs. Karchner, who’d given Rylie that pocketknife, used to
own the ranch down the road from the Thorns. Mrs. Karchner had been the one stable
person in Rylie’s wild youth. But the woman passed away a few years ago, breaking
Rylie’s heart.

She sighed as she yanked her T-shirt over her head and tossed it onto the bed. She
sure missed that woman.

After growing up in a broken family and witnessing too many failed marriages, Rylie
didn’t believe in commitment. But she sure as hell believed in having as much fun
as possible with the opposite sex.

Maybe she was too much like her mother.

Forcing the thoughts from her mind, Rylie removed her bra and hot pink panties and
then pulled on her softest pair of work jeans. Stupid things had holes just about
everywhere, but she couldn’t give them up. She didn’t bother with panties, enjoying
the soft scrub of cotton against her bare skin. She loved the feeling of being naked
in these jeans, and what the hell? It would make the walk more exciting.

Not that she needed exciting. Since she set eyes on Clay Wayland this morning, she’d
had a hard time getting away from the whole excitement thing. Too bad she’d been pissed
about the stolen trucks when she met that sex god of a cowboy, and too bad she’d made
an ass of herself flying off half-cocked over Guerrero. Or she’d have been tempted
to jump the man. Well, for now she was putting aside any thought of truck theft, money
woes, and lack of a man with a physique as pleasing as the sheriff’s.

She had a ranch to protect. It wasn’t like anybody would do it for her.

Once she had put on her leather moccasins, white T-shirt, and favorite blue sweater,
Rylie slipped into the moonlit night that smelled crisp and clean from the rains of
the past couple of days. Her heart beat a little faster as she picked her way through
the tumbleweeds and mesquite bushes, walking the fence row, and squinting at any lump
or bump that looked out of place.

The thieves could have come in from the east. That was her weakest flank. Or maybe
they came from the south, straight up from the border, or from the west. Guerrero’s
men—and she still thought it had to be Guerrero—they’d have some preplanned route
to get the trucks over the border as quickly and quietly as possible.