Into the Arms of a Cowboy

All rights reserved.
 
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This book is a work of fiction.
 
Any similarities to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
 
All characters and events in this work are figments of the author’s imagination.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE
             
3

CHAPTER TWO
             
13

CHAPTER THREE
             
21

CHAPTER FOUR
             
30

CHAPTER FIVE
             
40

CHAPTER SIX
             
48

CHAPTER SEVEN
             
56

CHAPTER EIGHT
             
64

CHAPTER NINE
             
72

CHAPTER TEN
             
80

CHAPTER ELEVEN
             
88

"My God, I just killed somebody."

Even as Cassandra Carlisle whispered the words, her mind rebelled. She was a good person. A gentle person. When she found spiders in her bathroom, she nudged them into Mason jars and later set them free in Golden Gate Park. So how was it possible that she’d taken a human life? 

Cassie pulled onto a side street and eased her Mazda Miata up to the curb. She tugged the parking brake into place, then braced her forehead against the cool steering wheel. The cut above her right eye burned and stung. Her bruised cheekbone throbbed to the frantic rhythm of her heartbeat, but she ignored the pain.

She considered herself basically optimistic. Upbeat. Energetic. Cheerful in the face of adversity. At this moment, however, her good humor had reached its lowest ebb.

Murder had no silver lining.

Okay, maybe “murder” was an exaggeration. She hadn’t meant to kill anyone. Still, she couldn’t deny one simple fact: Andrew J. Chabot III was dead. Stone cold dead. And the blood caked under Cassie’s fingernails was not her own.

She lifted her head and glanced around the deserted city street. It was late, sometime after midnight. In the glow of the streetlights, she made out a row of narrow Victorian houses, a lone cyclist whizzing by in a blur of reflective gear, and one black-and-white squad car just beginning a slow crawl in her direction.

As the squad car neared, Cassie slumped in her seat, her heart in her throat. Terrified as she was, she had to admire the SFPD’s efficiency. They’d come for her already. Now it was too late to do what she should have done in the first place: call 911 and tell the police her side of the story. Instead, she’d run away. In the eyes of the law, she looked as guilty as sin.

Who would believe her story now? She was a freelance photographer with a juvenile record and all of $139 in her checking account. A young woman who’d just fled the scene of her crime, leaving behind the cooling corpse of the handsome, well-liked heir to one of the country’s largest publishing houses.

Cassie held her breath as the police car passed her by and turned back onto the main street. Safe, at least for now. But they would find her, sooner or later. Unless she got her butt in gear and figured out how to save her own hide. Because if she didn’t help herself, who would? At 24, she was too old to believe in knights in shining armor.

She swore softly, a habit she thought she’d broken the day she traded some of the East Coast’s meanest streets for art school in San Francisco. Her California dream, her new start, her bright future--all gone. Gone in a moment.

Where to now? Her first impulse was to escape the City. Park Presidio Boulevard to the Golden Gate, then north on the stretch of 101 called the Redwood Highway. Lots of open space there, cool, shady forests she’d visited a couple of times on her days off. Maybe she could hide somewhere in the woods. She could survive on roots and berries, couldn’t she? Yeah, sure. A city girl all her life, she’d never so much
as
been on a camping trip.

She glanced in her rearview mirror. Again, her heart thudded a terror-stricken tattoo. The squad car was back. Adrenalin
e and fear made her head swim. Was it a
routine patrol, or had they noticed something suspicious? Did she look odd, just sitting there in her car?

She raised her fingers and touched her aching cheek. Dried blood crumbled under her fingertips. Rust-red flakes speckled the black cashmere dress she’d charged on her Macy’s card the previous afternoon. Cassie fumbled through the chaotic mess of odds and ends in her oversized black leather handbag, drew out a compact, and studied her face in the small oval mirror.

God, what a disaster! She dove back into her handbag, located an antiseptic wipe, and mopped at the crusted blood. She drew a sharp, pained breath as the
towelette
touched her cut. Damn that bastard Andrew and his Princeton ring!

She checked the rearview mirror again. No police car. But they would find her, sooner or later. Her sporty little Mazda didn’t exactly blend in. Why hadn’t she picked a nice charcoal gray vehicle? Or beige, plain old white, even midnight blue?

Because I’m a hot pink kind of person, that’s why. I hope prison uniforms come in assorted neon colors.

So she’d ditch the car. Not without a pang of regret, but it wasn’t
really hers, not with two years and
seven
months worth
of payments still to go. Her hands shook as she caked powder over her already purpling bruise.

As she pulled out her butterfly clip and tidied her hair, she grew increasingly aware of urgent signals from her bladder. All right. She’d find a nearby diner first, use the facilities, and maybe treat herself to a nice cup of hot cocoa. With double whipped cream, of course. After that, she’d come up with a plan.

Cassie took a deep, steadying breath and opened her car door. She could handle this. No problem. She had a history of getting herself out of jams.

Of course, she’d never been in this much trouble before.

Steaming coffee and warm apple pie might not solve all the world’s problems, Jess Logan reflected, but they came pretty damn close. Simple pleasures for a simple man. His first gulp of coffee left a satisfying brand on his tongue, a near-scalding sensation tempered to perfection by a forkful of cinnamon-tinged apples. Just what the doctor ordered. A few more bites and maybe he’d forget his frustration at getting lost in a maze of San Francisco streets.

Jess didn’t think much of big cities. He couldn’t wait to get back on the freeway and head north again. He’d been driving for hours already, and he had miles to go before he slept.

He was on his way back from a small rodeo in a town south of San Jose, a town whose name he’d forgotten already. Worth the trip, though. He’d placed second in the saddle
bronc
event, but redeemed himself with a flawless eight seconds on the back of a bull called Devil’s Helper. Sure, the ride ended with a bone-jarring encounter between Jess’s body and hard-packed arena dirt, an encounter he could still feel in every taut muscle, but that was all part of the game.

At 29, Jess was already considered an old-timer on the circuit. Rodeo was a young man’s sport. In fact, Jess wasn’t sure why he bothered anymore. He’d already taken home a trunk full of championship buckles, including a couple from the National Finals Rodeo
in Las Vegas. He had nothing left to prove. Maybe it was just about time to quit. He had a full-time job. He didn’t need the money.

Jess tossed back another mouthful of coffee strong enough to take the rust off his pickup. Nope, he wasn’t going to quit, not when weekend rodeos were the only bright spot in a life that, when he wasn’t looking, had grown pretty damn lonely.

Funny, but he’d never felt that creeping sense of emptiness, that hollow in the pit of his stomach, until about a year ago. Up until then, he’d loved the life of a rodeo cowboy. He’d thrived on the freedom, the money, the crowds and applause, and the buckle bunnies, too--the women who watched from the front row and always seemed so ready and willing to reward a good ride.

Women like Danielle.

Jess’s fingers tightened around his fork. He stabbed a sugar-glazed chunk of apple with so much force that the plate clattered and danced against the Formica countertop. The waitress, a bony platinum blonde, sidled over to refill his coffee cup. She shot him a look of concern mingled with predatory interest. “Everything okay here?”

“Fine, thanks,” Jess mumbled.

She crossed her arms across her skinny chest. “You sure, fella? My name’s Tricia, Trixie to my friends. If there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all, all you
gotta
do is--”

The bells above the door jangled. Trixie sighed, threw Jess a wink, and moved off down the counter to take the new customer’s order. Jess hunkered down over his pie, ignoring the flirtation. His days of brief encounters were over. Long over. The fleeting moments of pleasure rarely outweighed the inevitable feelings of emptiness and gloom.

Not that he didn’t enjoy looking at women. He did. Especially the one who’d come through the door just now. He felt the sharp ache of arousal as his eyes travelled up a pair of long, sleek legs encased in silk stockings, a curvaceous figure emphasized by a little black dress that clung in all the right places, and a mass of honey-colored hair.

And her face . . . he let out an involuntary gasp as she turned toward him. An angel. A bruised and battered angel. Rage curdled in his belly. Any man who struck a woman didn’t deserve to live. If Jess ever got his hands on the bastard who’d done this, who’d damaged that sweet, round little face and put stark terror into the most dazzlingly clear set of gray eyes he’d ever seen--well, Jess wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.

Her eyes met his. She stared at him for a long moment, fearfully, then flinched and turned back to the waitress. Jess realized with a start that this glamorous stranger must have misread the fury playing across his rough features. He’d never been any good at hiding his emotions. Jess opened his mouth to say something reassuring, but Tricia beat him to it.

“Well, now, somebody’s been whaling on you but good,” the waitress exclaimed. “Let me tell you,
hon
, I been there, done that. Get rid of the man before he does you in, that’s my advice. Otherwise, mark my words, you’ll end up in the morgue.”

“I’ll just use your restroom, if you don’t mind,” the woman said, with another sidelong glance at Jess. She spoke coolly, but Jess caught the slight quaver in her voice.

Tricia nodded. “Sure, hon. Go on through that door to the right there. I’ll take your order when you get back.”

“Thank you.” The woman shot one last nervous look in Jess’s direction, then turned away.

He frowned and wished he’d spoken to her. He wanted to help this woman, a natural instinct given the nature of his weekday work. But didn’t just want to comfort her and keep her safe. He also felt an urge to reach around and tug at whatever foolish female thingamabob kept her hair piled up on the back of her head, just so he could watch her silky hair spill over her shoulders. He wanted to pull that lush body close to his own, run his fingers over that smooth, pale skin, kiss the bow-shaped lips until they grew swollen and feverish.

Watch it, he scolded himself. This woman clearly has problems. Complicated problems.

Besides, she was a damn sight too classy for a guy like him. His idea of heaven was a cold beer and a rare steak. She looked like sushi and sake, lobster and champagne, caviar and. . .what the hell did people drink with caviar? Not that it mattered. He had a major rodeo in the morning. No time for damsels in distress. Not tonight. And by late tomorrow he’d be home in the mountains, where he meant to enjoy a little well-deserved R & R.