- -
- 100%
- +
His eyes beamed warmth and sympathy, making him all but irresistible. Her stomach flip-flopped just as it had the day she’d first met him in person and seen how his high-wattage grin caused the corners of his eyes to crinkle.
All right, she was attracted to him, had fallen a little in love with him three years ago. At the time, she’d stupidly thought he felt something, too. Ha. She’d quickly realized that any interest Clay had shown her was short-lived. He didn’t really want to get to know her for who she was—or any other woman, for that matter.
It hadn’t taken long for her to discover that, aside from bull riding, Clay Hollyer specialized in playing the field. No doubt, he probably still did.
Which was why she wasn’t going to pay any attention to the feelings flirting with her insides. She was only drawn to Clay because, for one thing, he was gorgeous, and for another, she hadn’t been with a man since she and Matthew had broken up over a year ago. Between caring for her mother and her freelance magazine work, Sarah simply hadn’t had time for a boyfriend and had ended the relationship.
She wasn’t about to let Clay’s charm and good looks affect her pulse rate—even if she did dream about him from time to time. Steamy dreams that led to restless nights.
The past few months, she’d all but banished him from her thoughts. And now here she was, standing in his house, fighting those same feelings. “Shall we continue with the tour?” she asked in a far cooler tone.
In a blink, the warmth disappeared from his eyes and his expression blanked. He nodded toward the hallway beyond the kitchen. “Head back down the hall.”
As she turned and exited the room, she swore she felt his gaze on her rear end. Resisting the urge to tug her blouse over her hips, she gestured for him to lead the way. Instead, he fell into step beside her. The hallway was barely wide enough to accommodate them both.
Familiar smells she thought she’d forgotten teased her senses—the clean soap Clay used, and underneath, his masculine scent. Edging closer to the wall, she trained her gaze on the worn carpet.
“There isn’t much to this house—just the kitchen, living room, bathroom and two bedrooms,” he said.
Struggling with herself to pay attention to the house instead of the man beside her, she managed an interested nod.
What was the matter with her? She’d come here to find out what she could about Tammy Becker and her parents, not dredge up the one-sided emotions she’d once felt for Clay Hollyer.
“This is where I sleep,” he said, pointing to a bedroom. The bed was unmade, the covers thrown back. “The house came furnished, but I brought my own king-size bed. I like to stretch out and get comfy.”
Sarah just bet he did. Images of wild sex all over that bed filled her head. She glanced around the room without really taking in the furnishings. “May I see the other bedroom?”
“Sure. It’s right across the hall.” He opened the closed door of the second bedroom and stood back for her to pass.
This room was smaller, and the air smelled stale. A twin bed stood against the wall, much like the one still in Sarah’s bedroom at Ellen’s house. Judging by the yellowing striped wallpaper that curled along the seams, the flowery bedspread and lacy pillows that looked as outdated as the faded pink curtains, the decor hadn’t been changed in ages. No wonder Clay kept the door closed.
Obviously, this had been a girl’s bedroom. A white desk and wicker chair, the kind a teen might use to do homework, faced a window that overlooked the backyard.
Sarah sucked in a breath. “Do you think this room is the same as it was when Tammy lived here?”
“I wouldn’t know, but why would the family leave the furniture behind when they moved?”
Sarah had no idea. “It’s awfully girlie and really dated. I wonder why Mr. Phillips never stripped the wallpaper, or at least replaced the bedding and curtains.”
“Maybe he likes pink. Tour’s over.”
Sarah wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but she hadn’t anticipated even more unanswerable questions. She let out a disappointed sigh. “Thanks for letting me come in.”
In the hallway, something made her glance up. A short pull rope hung from a door in the ceiling. “Is that an attic?”
“Probably.”
“You haven’t been up there?” When Clay shook his head, she said, “Could I take a peek?”
“Some other time.” His mouth settled into a grim line.
He wanted her gone. Sarah understood—she was uncomfortable around him, too. Yet some sixth sense told her that she might find something important in the attic. If only she could talk with Mr. Phillips...
“I’d like to ask Mr. Phillips about the Beckers,” she said. “Would you mind giving me his number?”
Clay shrugged one shoulder and supplied it as she input the information into her phone. “You won’t be able to reach him, though,” he said. “He doesn’t own a cell, and right now he and his wife are someplace in Europe.”
That explained why he hadn’t answered her letters. “Does he have an email address?”
“Nope.”
“When will he be back?”
“In the fall.”
Her hopes plummeted. “If he contacts you, will you let him know I’d like to talk? Here’s my contact information.” She handed Clay her card.
Without a glance, he slid it into his hip pocket. “How long are you in town?”
“Two weeks.”
“That’s a long time to search for your biological mom who probably lives someplace else. Besides ranching, there isn’t much to do around here. If I were you, I’d leave a lot sooner.”
He really wanted her gone.
Not about to let him intimidate her, she pulled herself up tall. “Actually, I’m also here to research and write an article on ranching life in Montana. I only hope two weeks is enough.”
Clay’s face was unreadable. “Interviewing anyone in particular? I’ll warn them to watch out for you.”
“What does that mean?” Sarah asked, though she knew.
“It means that you act all sweet and caring about a guy and then you trash him in a magazine story.”
She had cared, and thought he cared, too. Especially when, a few days before she was leaving, he’d kissed her. Not just a little peck, but a long, heady kiss filled with feeling and promise. Even now she remembered the hot flare of desire inside her, and the certainty that standing in the warmth of his arms was exactly where she belonged.
Some scant hours later, while sitting in the bleachers, watching a crew set up for an upcoming rodeo, she’d overheard two buckle bunnies nearby.
“I had sex with Clay last night,” said the one with the fake red hair and size double-D breasts.
“Way to go.” Her friend had high-fived her. “Is he as good as they say?”
“The best I’ve ever had. But don’t trust me, knock on his door tonight and find out for yourself.”
Sarah raised her chin. “Everything in that article was true.”
Clay’s expression darkened, and he swore. “I’m not shallow and my ego isn’t that big. You spent ten whole days with me, Sarah. You know that.”
He was and it was, but she wasn’t going to stand there and argue. She wanted to get far, far away from Clay, and forget all about him. If he would just let her look around the attic...
She glanced up. “Let me see what’s up there, and then I promise I’ll go.”
Clay checked his watch. “We agreed that you’d leave after ten minutes, yet you’ve been here for over thirty.”
That long? “I can’t shake the feeling that there might be something up there of Tammy’s,” she said. “Please.”
Clay blew out an exasperated breath. “Don’t tell me you’re going to pull that again.”
Having no idea what he meant, she frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Making your eyes extra big and biting your bottom lip.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. One look around the attic is all I ask. Then I’ll go, and you’ll never see me again.”
“Is that a promise?”
Sarah bit back a retort, which wouldn’t help. “You won’t have to do a thing. Just point me to a stepladder and I’ll take care of the rest.”
He muttered something about her stubbornness.
“You’re right,” she said. “When I want something, I am stubborn.”
“Will you quit doing that?”
She was biting her bottom lip again, she realized. She rolled her eyes and forced a smile. “Is this better?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
He advanced toward her with an intent expression she felt clear to her toes.
Swallowing, she stepped back. “The stepladder?”
“I think there’s one in the utility room,” Clay said, moving closer still.
Her heart pounding, Sarah retreated another step, but the wall stopped her. “I-is it off the kitchen?”
“You’re driving me crazy,” he said in a low voice, and leaned in even closer.
“Clay, I don’t—”
He silenced her with a kiss.
* * *
CLAY DIDN’T TRUST Sarah, didn’t want her there and sure as hell shouldn’t go near her. But there was something about her he couldn’t resist.
Her eyes were huge and a little scared, but as soon as he brushed his mouth over hers, the look in them softened and her eyelids drifted closed.
Clay also closed his eyes. Her perfume, flowery and as fresh as a spring day, was different from before, but every bit as seductive. She’d cut her hair short, but it felt just as silky as when it had reached her shoulders.
If there were other differences, he didn’t sense them. She felt good in his arms, tasted sweet.
Just as he remembered.
With the little sigh he’d been waiting for without realizing it, she gave in and kissed him back. Her hands slid up his arms and wrapped around his neck, bringing her soft breasts tight against his chest.
Wanting to get closer, he shifted his weight. Wrong move. His leg screamed, snapping him out of his haze of desire.
What was he doing? Was he nuts? He dropped his hands and stepped back.
Looking slightly unfocused, Sarah tugged at her blouse. “Why did you do that?”
Because he hadn’t been able to stop himself. “I wanted to find out if you tasted as good as I remember,” he drawled. “And you do.”
Good enough that for a brief time he’d forgotten the searing pain in his knee. He needed to pop four extra-strength aspirin now, and then prop up his leg.
Not in front of Sarah. It was only out of sheer willpower that he managed to stay on his feet.
She as good as ran for the door.
Gritting his teeth, he strode after her and banged it open in time to let her out. “Goodbye, Sarah Tigarden.”
She left without a backward glance.
* * *
MRS. YANCY, THE sixty-something grandmotherly widow Sarah had rented a room from, seemed glad for the company. When Sarah returned from putting her things in the bedroom up a narrow set of stairs, her temporary landlady showed her around her colorful house, pointing out treasures she’d collected. She liked primary colors and flowers, and the fabrics of the drapes and furniture were filled with both. An eclectic selection of pictures and wall hangings decorated most of the wall space, and knickknacks crowded every available table and windowsill.
The woman herself was just as bright and energetic, and a whole lot friendlier than Clay.
But Sarah wasn’t going to think about him—even if she was still reeling from that kiss. A kiss every bit as potent as the ones she remembered.
What really rattled her, though, was that she’d enjoyed every moment of it so much. The hard strength of his arms, the delicious press of his mouth...
“The washer and dryer are behind those corded doors,” Mrs. Yancy said just before they entered a modest but homey kitchen. “You’re on your own for lunch and dinner, and if you want to cook your own meals, feel free to use the kitchen. You will get breakfast every morning. I hope you like eggs and biscuits. I didn’t know if you drank coffee or tea, so I stocked up on both.”
She clasped her hands at her ample waist, as if anxious for Sarah’s approval.
No one had cooked for Sarah in ages, and she relished the thought. “Eggs and biscuits sound delicious, and I’m a coffee drinker.”
“So am I, but if you decide you want tea, there’s a sampler box in the cabinet above the stove. Which reminds me—for groceries, head to Spenser’s General Store, about seven miles up the highway. You’ll find just about anything you might want there, including prepared food. If you’d rather eat out, Barb’s Café is right next door to Spenser’s. It’s our only real restaurant, and the food is excellent. We also have pizza and fast-food places.”
Sarah mentally stored away the information.
“If you have questions about anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask,” Mrs. Yancy continued.
Maybe the woman had known the Beckers. “Have you lived in Saddlers Prairie long?” Sarah asked.
“Almost twenty-five years. After John and I married, I moved here from Ely, Nevada. He was my second husband. The first one didn’t work out.” Briefly, her smile dimmed. “I’ll bet you’ve never heard of Ely.”
The woman jumped subjects like a leaping frog. “No, I haven’t,” Sarah said.
“It’s on the east side of the state. I met John when he came through town, offering insurance policies to ranchers. His home was Saddlers Prairie, so this is where we settled.
“At first, it seemed awfully small—even smaller than Ely. I didn’t know a soul besides my husband, and with him out and about, selling insurance to ranchers all over the West, I was afraid I’d get homesick. But the folks around here reached out to me, and in no time, I felt as if I’d lived here all my life. John’s been gone eight years now, and my friends here treat me like family. I’ve never spent a birthday or holiday alone.”
Now that Ellen was gone, Sarah wondered how she’d spend the holidays. Not that she didn’t have friends, but they had their own families.
“This sounds like a very special place,” she said. Even though Mrs. Yancy had arrived in Saddlers Prairie after the Beckers had sold their home, you never knew. “Did you by chance ever meet a family named Becker?”
The widow glanced at the ceiling, thinking, and then shook her head. “Not that I recall. But why don’t you join me over coffee and the oatmeal cookies I baked this morning, and I’ll think on it some more.”
At the mention of food, Sarah salivated. In the anxiety and excitement over seeing the house where the Beckers had once lived, her appetite had all but vanished, and she hadn’t eaten much breakfast or lunch. “That sounds wonderful,” she said.
Minutes later, she was sharing the kitchen table with her talkative landlady, two steaming mugs of coffee and a plate of chewy cookies.
“You never said why you’ve come to Saddlers Prairie,” Mrs. Yancy said.
“One reason is to do research for an article on ranching in eastern Montana.”
“I had no idea you were a writer.” She looked impressed. “It’s about time somebody sang the praises of Saddlers Prairie. I enjoy reading magazines. Which one do you write for?”
“I freelance for several.” Sarah listed them. “One of the editors who buys my pieces thought an article on ranching would appeal to her readers. I love the idea, and since I wanted to look around here, anyway, I happily accepted the assignment. I hope to meet with successful ranchers, but also those who are struggling, so that I can paint a realistic picture. Anything you can share about Saddlers Prairie will be a big help.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. You say you also want to look around town?”
“That’s right.” Sarah saw no reason to hide the truth. “I was adopted, but I recently learned that I was born in Saddlers Prairie.”
“No kidding. I know just about everyone. Who are your kin?”
“They don’t live around here anymore, but their last name is Becker—Bob and Judy.”
“The people you asked about.”
Sarah nodded. “They may have left the area before you arrived. I know they sold their house here about twenty-nine years ago.”
“There are folks in town who’ve been here longer than that. Someone will surely know the family you’re looking for.” Mrs. Yancy sipped her coffee. “I’ll ask around and see what I can find out.”
“Would you?” Fresh hope bubbled through Sarah. “I really want to know the kind of people I come from.”
“I understand.” The landlady looked thoughtful. “Over my sixty-six years of living, I’ve learned a few things.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice, as if she were about to divulge a secret. “One of the most important, which my John taught me, is that who you are matters more than your people or where you came from.”
Sarah wasn’t sure she agreed. “I still need to know,” she said. “If you were standing in my shoes, wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose so. I wish I could help.” She looked genuinely sorry.
“You already have,” Sarah said. “By listening to my story.”
Clay had listened, too, with just as much interest.
She wished she could stop thinking about him. When she’d dated Matthew, she’d all but managed to forget Clay, and she wasn’t about to waste her time pining for him again.
If only he hadn’t kissed her.
A long and very thorough kiss that had stolen her breath and chased away her common sense. For those few moments, she’d been right back where she was three years ago, caring too much, too quickly for a man who couldn’t be trusted.
“—know a few ranchers around here who fit what you’re looking for and would love to be interviewed for your article,” Mrs. Yancy was saying. “If you want, I’ll give you names. There’s a pen and paper in the catch-all drawer under the phone.”
As soon as Sarah returned with the writing supplies, the woman rattled off the names, addresses and phone numbers of two ranchers. By heart.
“You’ll definitely want to contact Dawson Ranch,” she said. “Adam and Drew Dawson own about the most successful ranch around. Now the Lucky A Ranch isn’t as profitable, but Lucky Arnett is a good man with plenty of stories about his life as a rancher. I don’t want you to get writers’ cramp so I’ll save the rest for later.”
Smiling at the little joke, Sarah flexed her fingers and traded the pen for her mug. After months of grief and anger, Mrs. Yancy’s warmth and friendliness were like a balm to her parched soul.
“Wait—there is one more person you might want to talk with,” the older woman said. “He’s a celebrity with star power the world over, and he’s chosen Saddlers Prairie as his new home. I’m sure you’ve heard of him—his name is Clay Hollyer.”
Sarah almost choked on her coffee. “As a matter of fact, I know Clay. I interviewed him for an article a few years ago.”
Mrs. Yancy looked both impressed and curious. Not about to answer any questions about that time, Sarah hurried on. “Funny thing. Earlier this afternoon, when I first arrived in town, I stopped at the house where the Beckers used to live. The man who bought it from them still owns it, and I hoped to talk with him. It turns out, he doesn’t live there. He rented the house to Clay.”
“I know that place, and I know Ty Phillips. He runs the lumber company outside town, and has for years. I don’t think he lived in that house for long. Shelley wanted something brand-new, and after they married, he custom-built her a real nice home. Right now, they’re in Europe, taking a long-overdue vacation.”
“That’s what Clay said. So that house has always been a rental?”
“Since I’ve lived here. Mind you, Ty hasn’t always been able to find a renter. From time to time the place has stood empty. Even so, he’s managed to keep it in pretty decent condition.
“Back to Clay. He just bought the old Bates Ranch, a neglected ranch on the other side of town, and renamed it Hollyer Ranch. The main house there was in particularly bad shape, and he had it torn down. Now he’s building his own custom house and working on plans to start up a stock contracting business.”
Clay had mentioned building a house but hadn’t said a word about buying a ranch or beginning a new career. But then, Sarah hadn’t asked. His life seemed to have changed drastically from the spotlighted fame of before.
“I’m not sure I know what a stock contractor is,” she said.
“Those are the folks who supply stock—bulls, steers and horses—to rodeos around the country. A good business for a man who knows his bulls, as Clay does, wouldn’t you say? You should probably interview him, too.”
Oh, that would go over well. He’d probably slam the door in her face—or worse. Sarah managed a smile. “Thanks for the lead, but I’ll stick with ranchers who’ve been in business for a while.”
Chapter Three
As always, Clay awoke around 4:00 a.m., a good hour and change ahead of the birds. He’d had a bad night, and rolled over and tried to fall back into dreamland. But his mind wouldn’t cooperate, and thoughts buzzed in and out of his head like pesky gnats.
Groaning, he flipped onto his back. Before the accident, he’d always slept like the dead. Now, no matter how late he turned in or how tired he was, he woke up at this ungodly hour.
Propping his arms behind his head, he stared up into the darkness. And thought about Sarah. That kiss.
He still couldn’t believe she’d shown up at his door with her story and those big eyes, or that he’d let her in. If she’d just gone away when he asked her to. She’d had to ruin everything by stubbornly insisting she wanted to see the attic.
He wasn’t about to let her up there and wasn’t about to check it out himself, either. Not even to erase her pleading look. With his leg in the sorry shape it was, climbing a ladder would be agony.
Did she have a boyfriend? Probably, and if he found out about that kiss, he’d go ballistic. Clay would.
In any event, it had done its job, chasing her away. There was only one little problem—Clay hadn’t figured on the restless energy and hunger that kiss had stirred up, making him want what he had no business even thinking about. Sarah, naked under him, flushed and passionate.
He scoffed. Like that would ever happen. She thought he was a player.
“I’m no player,” he insisted into the silence. “I’m a straightforward guy who likes women.” What the hell was wrong with that?
Before he’d started winning bull-riding contests and making serious money, he’d even worked at building a solid relationship with the thought that it might lead to marriage. Denise had been too impatient, though. She’d wanted to get married right away, and when Clay wasn’t ready to commit, she’d walked. Same issue with Hailey, and a couple of years later, with Cara.
After striking out three times, Clay had finally figured out the problem. He’d been infatuated with his girlfriends, but nothing more. Not counting his mom, sister, aunt and grandmothers, he’d never loved a woman, and probably never would.
So he dated casually. He never led a woman on, always admitted up front that he was interested in having a good time, period.
“If that makes me a player,” he muttered, “then so be it.”
Sarah hadn’t even paid him the courtesy of checking out the facts. God knew where she’d gotten the cockeyed idea that he went around lying to women and breaking hearts.
Her article had brought a whole host of women to his door, most of them interested in grabbing some of his fame and money for themselves. Jeanne had been the worst of the bunch. She was cute and seemed nice enough. Clay had dated her on and off, making sure she understood that their relationship was casual and that he was dating other women, as well. She didn’t seem to mind.
Then a few hours before what turned out to be his last rodeo, after they hadn’t seen each other for a good six weeks, she’d shown up and announced that she was pregnant and he was responsible. Having always used protection, Clay had his doubts, but Jeanne swore that he was the only man she’d been intimate with.
It was not the kind of news a man needed to hear before a nationally televised bull ride with a six-figure purse. As upset and distracted as Clay was, he should’ve backed out of the event. He didn’t. Not because of the money, which he didn’t need, but because of his fans. He hadn’t wanted to disappoint them.