Rebel's Claw (3 page)

Since she’d committed to helping keep the stranger alive, she’d see it through. Come morning, she looked forward to sending him on his merry way. Maybe then, Yellow Barrel Ranch would return to normal.

Her hand shook so much the spatula she held slipped out of it. She dropped so many things lately, it was a wonder the floor wasn’t pocked with more dent marks.

Normal
. Whatever that was anymore.

Roark sat at the pine kitchen table, which was set with two plates and cups of coffee. At least Annie Oakley had leaned the damn rifle in the corner. What was her name, anyway? He felt pretty defenseless with nothing but a towel hooked around his waist.

The dryer in the next room hummed with his wet clothes. He’d dried his hair a little with an electric dryer in the bathroom and created a half-assed ponytail with a rubber band. The steam from the steak and beans made his stomach grumble.

“This looks damn good.” He picked up the fork and steak knife. Rare, exactly the way he liked it. “Thanks for the hospitality.”

“Didn’t have much choice in this weather.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Carrie.” She dropped her gaze to cut a piece of steak too small to keep a bird alive.

First-name basis, huh?
He was down with that.

“Roark.”

“Your clothes should be dry soon.”

She wasn’t exactly a conversationalist, but he didn’t care. Most women yacked too much. The steak melted in his mouth, and the view across the table wasn’t bad either. Though hard to tell from the man-sized shirt she wore over her long granny nightgown, she had a sexy little body. Not skinny, like some emaciated model, but wiry and agile.

Her straight, caramel-colored hair looked softer than silk. He’d love to feel it sliding across his dick one time.

And her scent…. Holy buffalo crap. It grabbed him by the balls and didn’t let go. He’d never smelled anything so good. What was it? Apples ripening in the sun, running deer, and…what else…innocence?

Your mate?

Hell, no. He cast the thought from his mind. If he had a mate somewhere, it would be another Wolf. She sure as hell wouldn’t be a gun-toting rancher. The girl was hot, though, and it had been a while since he’d had a good fuck.

Although he practically swallowed the steak whole, he noticed her quick glances at his bare chest. She shifted in her chair a lot, too. Steak and a lay. Not bad rewards for freezing his ass off in the rain and nearly getting shot.

Except for the cow-motif curtains at the kitchen window, the house had a man’s feel and working-farm scent. At least it didn’t have wolf heads mounted on the wall like Tyler Brooks’s ranch. Lara had told him all about it when she’d gone after her mother’s killer.

“Do you run this place by yourself?”

She sipped some coffee, sloshing it over the rim of the cup. “Mostly.”

“What does that mean?” And why was she so jumpy? She’d practically dropped the steaks on the way to the table.

“I hire hands at roundup time,” she replied. “The ranch is small.”

Still, how could such a little scrap of a woman handle running a cattle ranch herself?
Ranch
. He hated ranchers, so why was he sitting here making small talk with one? She wasn’t like the typical assholes he’d met, either. None smelled so good. Despite her solitary state, she’d taken a chance letting him in. Of course, she had no idea what he was, and he intended to keep it that way.

“Where are you from, Roark?”

He stared at her pink lips, liking the way his name sounded on them. She didn’t wear cosmetics and didn’t need them. Her eyes reminded him of loping through grass, feeling it swish against his paws. She would be even prettier if she smiled, though.

“Around the park.”

He sure wasn’t ready to say he was from Hellhole, South Dakota, yet. Besides, he’d been sworn to some big vow of secrecy. Whatever.

“Yellowstone is nice.” She dabbed her sexy mouth with a cloth napkin. “Do you work there?”

“Odd jobs,” he said with a shrug. “I’m supposed to move some people out of state. The moving truck ended up in the ditch.”

Her hunched shoulders lowered a bit. Apparently, she believed he was just a strong, dumb truck driver passing through. No threat to her. They should discuss the weather or something safe because the more he asked about her, the more she’d ask about him. For some reason, he wanted to learn everything he could about her. He’d never met such a nervous rancher. She almost acted like she was hiding something.

His gaze wandered over the kitchen, taking in the large and small boots under the masculine coats hanging on the wall. Beside the advertisements and reminder notes, her refrigerator sported a big photo of a stern-looking, gray-haired man in a cowboy hat. He looked old enough to be her father. Maybe she dug older men. Why wasn’t he here, whoever he was?

“Who’s the guy on the fridge?”

She dropped her fork. “What?”

“Relax.” Without thinking, he gripped her slim, tanned wrist. “I was just curious about the photo.”

Shutters slammed down in her green eyes but not before sadness darkened them. “My father.”

Damn, her husky voice was sexy. With reluctance, he let go of her. What would her moans sound like? He supposed he’d find out soon enough.

“Is he traveling?”

She took a breath as if wondering whether or not to answer him. “He died a few years ago.”

Then why hadn’t she removed his boots? It was as if she expected him to return. With a Wolf’s intuition, he viewed her life. Rising early every morning, making coffee, working until sundown, and dropping into bed each night, exhausted and alone. No wonder she didn’t smile much.

How did she stand it? He couldn’t imagine not having a pack. That was what scared him so much about the number of Lamar who’d died, especially after losing Jared. What if he ended up alone, too?

He polished off the steak and chewed thoughtfully. Their conversation was getting too heavy.

“Sorry to hear about your loss.” He eyed the gun in the corner. “Nice rifle. Do you hunt?”

“Sometimes, for food,” she said. “I love beef, but small game is a nice variety once in a while.”

Maybe guns weren’t a safe subject, either, but he had to remember she was the enemy no matter how pretty and alone she was.

He leaned back in his wooden chair, loving how solid and homey it felt. “You seem awfully attached to it.”

“Daddy taught me to use it for protection, mostly.” She sipped her coffee. “You never know when you might stumble across a rattlesnake or—”

“A wolf?”

Her half-full cup clattered to the table, spilling hot coffee everywhere.

“Oh, Lord, I’m sorry.” She rushed to the counter and carried two dish towels to the table.

“No problem.” He swabbed the brown puddle flooding toward him before it could roll off and scald his balls. The chick definitely needed to be laid. “Ranchers shoot wolves. It’s a common fact.”

She frowned as she helped wipe the spill. “Are you one of those wildlife fanatics?”

He paused, catching himself before he revealed too much. “In a way.”

“I take it you haven’t run a ranch before.” She tossed back a lock of hair as she wiped. “Wolves can wipe out cattle.”

“Maybe a sick or young one. Not a whole herd.”

“It doesn’t take a lot to nudge a small outfit into the red.” She turned and squeezed her dishtowel out in the sink. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to live in fear of losing your home?”

“Yeah, I know all about it.” He tossed the other dishtowel onto the counter. “The moving van out there? I’m not just the driver. It’s personal.”

She paused and fixed him with a curious green stare. He clamped his lips together. The injustice of his friend’s death and slaughter of his pack burned inside him, but he had to keep it hidden.

Apparently, the little rancher didn’t hunt wolves for sport. Watching her slim hips twitch while she rinsed out his dishtowel doused his anger.

“I use wolf deterrents,” she said.

“Really?” The surprise of it slammed him against the cabinets, almost knocking off his bath towel. “Isn’t it expensive?”

She avoided his gaze. “Not too bad for a small ranch like this one.”

“Good for you, Carrie.” He frowned. “So, why did you call me a wildlife fanatic earlier?”

“No reason.” She returned to the table to clear the plates.

Roark’s head ached with confusion as he helped her. What side was she on? If she didn’t dig saving wolves, why bother with nonlethal deterrents? Most ranchers didn’t give a rat’s ass about anything but their bottom line.

Maybe the truck had broken down outside her place for a reason. And discovering she wasn’t a wolf killer had sent her from the tempting to the must-fuck-her-now category.

After she delivered the last dirty dish to the counter, he gripped her shoulder. “You can’t stop there. You’ve got to convince your competitors to do the same.”

She shrugged off his hand with surprising strength. “What I do is my own business.”

“I get it.” He raised his hands. “You’re a recluse, but surely you bump into other ranchers in your business dealings.”

“I believe your pants are dry by now.”

“Do I need them?” His cock spoke for him. As usual, it had more sense than he did. Once he’d relaxed her with a good orgasm or two, she’d be more agreeable.

“I don’t get your meaning.”

After she left the room, he leaned against the counter. As he’d suspected, it would take a lot of time and patience to coax her into bed—more than he had. He needed to forget about the peculiar woman and do his duty, moving part of the pack to its new home in the Black Hills.

The idea of plowing into Carrie’s cunt was a hell of a lot sweeter than mixing his blood with Drew Tao’s, though. A fantasy would be better than nothing. Watching her bare calves and ankles under the hem of her nightgown had made his balls ache. Damn flannel thing was sexier than a negligee—on her, at least.

Time to jerk off when he bedded down for the night.

While Roark changed into his dry clothes and brushed his teeth in the bathroom, Carrie wiped her feverish brow. The temperature in the house had increased several degrees since he’d arrived. Seeing him in the towel had made her panties so damp, she ought to throw them into the dryer, too.

Her opinion of him had improved throughout the meal. What she’d first thought was cockiness turned out to be self-assurance. He was the type of man a woman could lean on. She wished he wouldn’t ask so many questions, though. He certainly didn’t answer too many.

No need to fret. He’d be gone the next day. The thought carved an empty spot in her middle, but how could it? She’d only known him a few hours.

He emerged in jeans but no shirt. She ought to install brighter lights down here. The existing ones bathed his muscled flesh in a tawny glow.

“Where would you like to sleep?” she asked him.

His black eyes glittered, and his full lips turned up on a half smile. “I’m not picky.”

A hot blush spread across her face. She’d have to pick her words with more care. If she’d said the same thing to a hired hand, the man would probably throw her into the hay. Despite the wild look of him with his long, dark hair and ripped jeans, Roark was a gentleman.

Would Daddy approve of him? His spirit had dimmed to nothing over the past three years. She longed to chat with him during the lonely night hours. The only consolation for the loss was knowing he’d passed on to wherever spirits go.

“The guest room is upstairs.” She crossed the kitchen and picked up the rifle.

He frowned. “What’s that for? Do you plan to shoot me in my sleep?”

The thought of killing made the metal slip out of her hand. Luckily, it bumped harmlessly against the wall. Her clumsiness didn’t usually include firearms.

“I-I usually keep it in my room at night.” She turned away from it to face him. “I reckon I don’t need it tonight, though.”

If the stranger planned to attack her, he would have done it by now. For some reason, he made her feel safe. So, why was her belly so unsettled? She couldn’t blame it entirely on eating steak late at night.

While she headed up the narrow stairs, he followed with heavy, masculine footsteps. Something about him reminded her of…the face, the lightning flash image of the creature who rested in her field. She’d never forget what it looked like or any detail about the awful night. Never stop wondering what in the heck she’d buried. At least once a week, she had a nightmare about it and awoke drenched in sweat. It was nice to have company even if she was probably a fool for allowing it.

When he gripped the banister from behind, she noticed the fingernail was missing on his left pinkie.

“What happened to your finger?”

He pulled it away. “Just a little tangle with a buffalo.”

Her mouth opened in surprise, but she closed it again. Obviously, he made it up. The imperfection made him more appealing. They passed the master bedroom first. Except her, Roark was the first person who’d seen it since her father’s death.

She hoped he wouldn’t think she was strange for keeping Daddy’s things the way he’d left them—his leather pipe pouch, cowboy hat, and even a half-empty bottle of aftershave. When so many things had changed, why not keep something the same?

“Your father’s room?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“It’s nice. Why don’t you move in there?”

She fingered the buttons on her shirt. “I like my room fine. I’m used to it.”

When they passed it, he glanced inside. She hadn’t changed it much from her girlhood. Posters of horses, faded now, still adorned the walls. He’d probably think they were silly, too. Why on earth was she sharing the sacred privacy of her home with a stranger? There was something special about him she couldn’t explain. It felt as if she’d known him an entire lifetime.

Did he sense it, too?

“Here’s the guestroom.” She scurried to the bed to beat the dust off the pillows.

He tossed his wallet and keys on the nightstand. Then he laid his warm hand on her shoulder, too lightly to offend. Instead of shaking it off as she had earlier, she rotated under his touch, secretly craving more.