Riley's Retribution

“I won’t hurt you,” he said, shifting so that he could meet her panicked gaze.

“Who are you?”

“Riley Watson.”

As the full impact of the situation hit her, she moaned. “Oh, Lord.”

“And you are?” he prompted.

“Courtney Rogers.”

His complexion went gray, and he was out of bed and halfway across the room before she could blink. “Sorry, ma’am. Wrong bed.”

They stared at each other across eight feet of charged space.

“You are the Riley Watson who applied for a job at the Golden Saddle Ranch?” she clarified, knowing she must sound like an idiot. How many other guys named Riley Watson would there be in this part of Montana?

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It’s not going to work out. I can’t hire you.”

He stood up straighter. “Why? Because I stopped you from shooting me?”

She felt her face heat.

“Or because I got into bed with you?”

“That part.”

“You were calling me honey. You were half out of it, and you asked me to hold you.”

“So you took advantage of me.”

“Took advantage?” he sputtered. “You’ve still got all your clothes on, haven’t you?”

She watched him consider how that must have sounded.

“And you needed me to help warm you up,” he added, then looked as if he wished he hadn’t stuck his foot further into his mouth.

She honestly hadn’t remembered the part about asking to be held, but when he said it, an embarrassing image filled her brain. How far had she gone in cozying up to this guy that she didn’t even know?

Well, as he said, she still had her clothing on. That was good. And Mr. Watson looked like he wished he could sink through the floor and into the center of the earth. That was good, too.

“You found me in my truck—after someone shot at me and I ran off the road?” she asked, struggling to change the subject.

“At you specifically? Is there someone using random motorists for target practice around here?”

It was an interesting question. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. Then she looked at her watch and puffed out a breath. “But I do know I’d better call the bunkhouse. My hands have to be worried about me.”

Glad of the chance to turn away from him, she climbed out from under the covers and sat on the side of the bed, then picked up the phone from the bedside table and dialed.

Jake, one of her ranch hands, answered immediately. “We were worried about you. Are you stuck in town?”

She hesitated for a moment, wavering between truthfulness and the need to make sure her ranch hand wasn’t worried. “No. I had some trouble on the road.”

“The storm?”

“Um,” she answered, thinking that she wasn’t going to tell him about the shooting now. Maybe not at all.

“My truck is stuck. But I have a ride. I’ll be home soon,” she said, then hung up before he could ask any more questions. Half turning, she saw that Watson was looking at her, tension stiffening his face.

“That’s one of your men?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t want to tell him that someone took a shot at you?”

“I prefer not to worry him.”

“Don’t you want him on his toes—looking for trouble?”

“I hope there won’t be any.”

He looked as if he was going to argue about that. Before he could make some kind of point, she said, “I need to go back to town. Right away.”

“If someone used you for target practice, you should go to the ranch where you’ll be safer.”

“What do you mean—if?” she demanded.

“You could be mistaken.”

“I’m not. I saw a man up on the bridge with a rifle.” She reached into her coat pocket and pulled something out, then flattened her hand, watching his eyes narrow as he saw a rifle slug lying in her palm.

“You thought I dreamed it up, didn’t you?”

“Where did you get that?” he asked.

“From the floor of the truck.”

“Who do you figure might have wanted to hurt you?”

“I have no idea.” She wanted to hear him say he believed her. But that wasn’t the important issue at the moment. “I have to get back to town. It’s urgent.”

Chapter Three

Riley struggled to hold his temper. This woman had fought with him, cuddled with him, argued with him. Now she was telling him she wasn’t going to her ranch where she’d be safe. Or relatively safe, given the inconvenient fact that Montana Militia leader Boone Fowler was out there doing Lord knew what.

Since his assignment was to get a job working for her, he stayed where he was and kept his voice low and even. “Do you mind explaining your thinking to me?”