Into the Arms of a Cowboy (3 page)

Confusion flitted across her even features. She wrinkled a cute little snub of a nose that turned up just a tad at the end. Then, as if she’d just remembered something, dawning horror replaced the confusion. “Oh. Oh, dear. Step Three--” She broke off and pursed her lips into a kissable bow. “Are we still in the City?”

“San Francisco? Nope. About a hundred, hundred twenty miles north.”

To Jess’s surprise, she smiled. “Oh, that’s just perfect.” She squirmed in a way that stimulated every nerve ending in Jess’s body. “Um, could you lend a hand? I think I’m stuck.”

Sure enough, she was wedged tight between the wheel and the bed. Jess chuckled and reached for her hand. Damn, but her fingers were soft. He gave her a good tug, and she popped out like a cork from a bottle.

“Thanks bunches,” she said in a perky but faintly breathless voice. “Really. Thank you. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just be going. Bye, now.”

Struck speechless again, Jess could only stare as she inched nervously past the still-tense Harry, swung one shapely leg over the tailgate, balanced precariously for an instant, then hopped out of the truck.

Jess shook his head. Unbelievable. What a crazy lady. But he was choking back laughter, too, as he trailed his pretty stowaway out into the parking lot.

Jess caught up with her as she hobbled away across the asphalt, limping slightly. He grabbed her arm and spun her around. The top of her head came about even with his shoulders. “It’s nearly three in the morning,” he growled. “We’re in the middle of nowhere. Where exactly do you think you’re headed?”

She shook off his hand and, in the light of the full moon, squinted up at his face. “You!” she said, almost accusingly. “You’re the cowboy from the diner!”

Jess gave her a mock salute. “Jess Logan at your service, ma’am. Now, why don’t you come on back and tell me why you were hiding in the back of my pickup?”

She glanced around at the empty rest area, as if she hoped a taxicab or a Hertz Rent-a-Car might appear out of the night. Then she eyed Jess again, warily. Again, his heart went out to her. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you. Scout’s honor.”

She studied his face, her eyes wide and doubtful. “Were you really a Boy Scout, or is that just an expression?”

Jess laughed. “An Eagle Scout. Really. Plus 4-H and Future Farmers of America.”

“Oh.” She seemed to relax as he led her back to the pickup. “And are you really a cowboy?”

“That, too. I’ve got a rodeo tomorrow morning, bright and early.” And he ought to be resting, but he had a feeling it was going to be a very long night.

“Really? Where at?” She leaned against the driver’s-side door, brushed a stray lock of shining hair from her face, and cocked her head to look at him. The moonlight cast intriguing shadows under her eyes and in the hollow of her throat.

Jess shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced away before she caught him staring. “Redding,” he muttered.

“Where’s that?”

He glanced at her again. “Shasta County.”

“Huh.” She ran the pink tip of her tongue over her lower lip, a gesture that heated Jess’s blood. It also jolted him into the realization that she hadn’t answered a single solitary question about herself, while he’d fielded half a dozen.

He shifted from one foot to another. “You haven’t told me your name,” he said. She was silent, her expression suddenly wary. “It isn’t such a hard question, is it?”

“Cassie. My name’s Cassie.”

No last name, but it was a start. He cut to the chase. “You’re on the run.”

Her eyes slid away from his. Her strained laughter broke the night’s stillness. “On the run?” she repeated. “Why, what in the world makes you say that?”

Instinctively, his fingers sought the bruise on her cheek. Before he could actually touch it, she turned away, her jaw tight. He drew back his hand. “Your husband do that?”

“I’m not married.” She still refused to meet his eyes.

Why did that please him so much? “Boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Please,
darlin
’,” he drawled, “don’t tell me you walked into a door. It’s a cliché, and it just won’t wash.”

“No, it--I can’t say.” She clamped her lips together and shot him a defiant look.

Jess shrugged. He’d seen it before. Women so often protected the bastards who abused them. He’d never understand that, not in a million years. “Look,” he said, “I’ll take you back to San Francisco if you want.” He could still make it to Redding in time, barely. If he forgot about sleeping tonight, and he probably would anyway. He was wide awake now. “I know some people who can help you out. Restraining orders, temporary shelters. . . .” She was shaking her head. “Fine. Okay. How about family?”

“No. There’s no one. You don’t understand.”

Jess sighed. He didn’t mind playing the Good Samaritan, but this woman--Cassie--wasn’t cooperating. “What
do
you want?” he asked, frustration adding a rough edge to his voice.

“What’s that town where you’re riding a bull tomorrow?”

“Redding?”

“Yeah, there. I’ll go there, with you.” She was staring up at him with a trusting look now, the same expression he’d once seen in the eyes of a rescued baby possum. “If that’s okay.”

Jess felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Why did he feel like this pretty lady was about to turn his life upside down? Still, he could hardly abandon her here at a rest stop, miles from the nearest town.

He sighed. “Get in the truck, Cassie. We’ve got a long drive ahead.”

Jess turned out to be a man of few words. As they sped north through the moonlit night, Cassie stole another glance at him out of the corner of her eye. Obviously the strong, silent type, with an emphasis on “strong”. His shoulders strained the fabric of his faded shirt. Even through the blue cloth, she could see the outline of work-thickened biceps. He’d rolled up his sleeves to reveal sinewy forearms lightly dusted with dark hair.

His large hands, wrapped tight around the steering wheel, were another source of distraction. They actually made her breath catch in her throat. Those were powerful, callused hands, hands capable of inflicting damage or giving pleasure, of wrestling a steer or caressing a woman’s body with infinite tenderness. Plus he smelled good. Like leather and horses and strong coffee, along with something indefinably masculine and compelling.

Cassie bit her bottom lip and forced herself to look away. She couldn’t afford to confuse gratitude with stronger emotions. In fact, she probably shouldn’t even feel so safe in Jess’s company. Her intuition told her to trust him, but she’d been wrong before. In Andrew’s case, her bad judgment had proved fatal.

A sudden scrabbling noise from behind her head nearly made her jump out of her skin. “What was that?” she asked, as her heart thumped painfully in her chest.

“It’s only my dog.” Jess let go of the steering wheel with one hand and rapped his knuckles against the glass. “Cut it out, Harry,” he hollered.

“I don’t think Harry likes me much. I guess I took his seat.”

Jess shrugged his massive shoulders. “No problem. He’s kind of a one-man animal.”

“Well, I have to admit, I don’t know much about dogs. Not that I don’t like them--it’s just that I’ve never had a dog. I’ve never had a pet of my own, actually. Not even a goldfish.” She stopped, suddenly aware she was rambling.

Jess made no response. Cassie wracked her brain for more conversation starters. Preferably something neutral. Something that wouldn’t lead back to her own situation. “So,” she said brightly, “tell me a little more about yourself, Jess. Are you married? Kids?”

“No. Neither.” He snapped the words in a voice like the blade of a hunting knife, razor sharp and utterly final.

Cassie folded her hands in her lap and frowned. So much for that line of inquiry. Obviously a touchy subject. Maybe some small talk. Sports, current events, the weather?

“I love springtime,” she blurted. “Everything just comes alive, doesn’t it? The hills turn from gold to green, and the wildflowers . . . I’ve always loved wildflowers more than roses or anything fancy. Spring is just such a time of hope and rebirth. For me, it’s the absolute best time of the year.” She broke off. Jess was staring at her like she’d just stepped off an alien spacecraft. “Well, it is nice,” she added lamely.

He made a noise in his throat that might have signaled agreement. Either that, or he’d just decided to pull over and dump her out of the truck. Cassie swallowed a sigh, which somehow turned into a yawn.

Jess watched her. “You want to ride in the back again? Get some sleep?”

“Oh, no. I’m fine.”

They lapsed back into silence. Cassie watched the fields and trees zip by, bucolic scenery broken occasionally by the lights of small towns in the distance. She still needed to formulate a plan, but her exhausted brain refused to cooperate. Her cheek throbbed again, too. In the window glass, she could see the dark stain on her reflection, the place where Andrew had hit her.

Cassie leaned her forehead against the cool window as sudden tears welled in her eyes.  Up to this moment, she’d been afraid to relive that night, the most traumatic night of her life. Now she let herself see the bloodstain slowly spreading on the carpet, and the corpse stretched out in front of the fireplace.

How could an evening begun in high spirits end in complete disaster, even death? Cassie squeezed her eyes shut and tried to pinpoint the exact moment when everything had gone wrong. Maybe it was the day she met Andrew, in the offices of
SF Style
. It was her first major freelance job, and a real boost to her struggling career.

Cassie loved photographing weddings and new babies. Who wouldn’t feel privileged to share so many joyful family moments? Once she’d dreamed of opening her own studio to do just that on a regular basis.

But, recently, the promise of more money and prestige had lured her in another direction. Magazine shoots were in a whole different league. They offered not just money to pay the rent, but also a stepping stone to professional success. Cassie craved the recognition, and the respectability.

She’d met Andrew in the magazine’s office, though at first she hadn’t realized who he was. Andrew, so clean-scrubbed and all-American, like the Ken doll who’d courted Barbie during Cassie’s childhood games. His attention flattered her. His dinner invitation set giant Monarch butterflies to dive-bombing in her tummy. She could just imagine what her old neighbors would say if they knew.
Imagine, poor little Cassie--you know, Nancy’s kid. Fatherless and with a drunk for a mother, but it looks like she’s made good after all.

And, at first, the date was all she imagined. Andrew brought her African violets. He took her to one of those really nice restaurants, a place with snowy tablecloths and waiters in tuxes. They drank white wine. They talked. Andrew was sweet and attentive, the perfect gentleman. Then, before they went out to dance at a hot
new
nightclub, he asked if she minded stopping by his place for a minute. He needed to make a call, he said, and he’d left the phone number on his desk. She’d agreed without a second though--naively, as it turned out.

His house on Russian Hill dazzled her with its view of the Golden Gate Bridge. But Andrew’s rough embrace and bruising kisses took her by surprise. She pulled away, chided him gently, and tried to make a j
oke of it. Andrew wouldn’t take
no for an answer, though. He grabbed her breast. She pushed him away again, angrily. He called her a tease, and other names Cassie preferred to forget. He shoved her down onto his immaculate white living room carpet. That’s when she realized she was in serious trouble.

With Andrew on top of her and panic clawing at her chest, her instincts took over. Cassie had hoped a knee in the groin would bring the man to his senses, but it only enraged him. Luckily, while he was doubled over and groaning, she found the chance to scramble away. He came after her, and struck her with his closed fist. The impact snapped her head back. His ring gouged a bloody groove into the skin above her
eyebrow. She barely remembered picking up the fireplace poker, but she must have hit him, because--

A muted sob broke from Cassie’s throat. She clapped her hand over her mouth, too late.

“You all right there?” Jess asked, in a voice that mingled gruffness with compassion--a unexpected combination, like tree bark and raw silk, or gravel and clear water.

The warmth and gentleness in his words proved the last straw. Tears slid down her cheeks, big fat tears of fear and loss. She brushed them away with the back of her hand. “I’m fine,” she said, not very convincingly.

Jess’s tentative fingers touched her leg. When she didn’t protest, he laid his palm over her thigh. Just a light touch, not demanding, not even sexual. It was a kind gesture, one human being communicating sympathy to another, and as they sat together without speaking Cassie’s tears dried up as quickly as they’d begun. When it came to self-pity, she strictly enforced a “no wallowing” rule.

Jess palm and fingers radiated heat through the thin fibers of her dress. A pleasurable shiver passed through her body. Jess, apparently misunderstanding, drew his hand away. Cassie immediately missed the warmth of his touch.