Had he really invited her to spend a week under his roof?
Sure, he had. And why not?
Weren’t guests the entire point of having this big damned house?
She dabbed her lips with her napkin, her gaze averted. “Thanks for the invitation, but I really couldn’t impose. It was kind of you to help me out and give me a place to stay the night, but tomorrow I’ll call a towing company and get out of your hair.”
It was on his tongue to tell her that he kind of liked having her in his hair, but that felt like tipping his hand. “Suit yourself.”
This is what he got for acting in such a charming manner the first time they’d met.
Well, hell.
She set her napkin down, her gaze traveling from her bowl to the dishes in the sink. “I’ll help you clean up.”
“No, ma’am, absolutely not.” He stood, piled her bowl onto his, carried them to the sink. “I’ve got it. You go and rest. I’ll have dinner ready at about six, barring any bovine or equine catastrophes. You can join me or sleep, whichever works for you.”
She reached for her cane and carefully got to her feet. “Thanks so much. It really was delicious.”
“You’re welcome. Get some rest.”
He set the dishes in the sink and watched as she slowly walked away.
CHAPTER THREE
Janet opened her eyes, glanced around, tried to remember where she was. The Forest Creek Inn? No, she’d never made it there. She’d gone off the road and...
She was at the Cimarron.
Jack West of all people had found her and brought her here.
She sat up, rubbing her hip, her mind sluggish from hours of deep sleep and the single Percocet she’d allowed herself to take. Outside, it was still light. She pushed the illuminator button on her watch and saw that it was just after five PM.
She reached over, turned on the bedside lamp, and looked at her surroundings. She’d been so exhausted earlier that she hadn’t really noticed how beautiful the guest room was. Someone had clearly put effort into making it cozy and comfortable.
The sleigh bed she was lying in was almost certainly an antique, leaves and scrollwork carved into a headboard and footboard of polished cherry. The white quilt that had kept her warm was covered with colorful appliqué flowers, delicate vines and leaves curled artfully around the blossoms—violets, roses, tulips, irises, daffodils. She didn’t have to look closely to know it was hand-pieced like the quilts her grandmother used to make. A stone fireplace stood against one wall, its wooden mantle decorated with family photos. Deep red draperies framed a single wide window, the white blinds lowered, diffusing what little daylight remained. A baker bench sat at the foot of the bed, upholstered in velvet the same color as the draperies. An antique chest of drawers that matched the bed sat beneath a watercolor painting of snow-capped mountains.
The room was every bit as lovely as anything she might have gotten at the bed and breakfast. Then she remembered the bathroom.
She reached for her cane, got out of bed, her hip and thigh stiff but no longer hurting. She crossed the room, reached inside the bathroom, and flicked on the lights, a little sigh leaving her at the sight.
The heated stone floor was warm against her feet as she stepped inside, taking it all in—the marble counters, the two oval sinks, the multi-head shower surrounded by glass walls. But what delighted her most was the soaking tub. Deep and wide, it sat beneath a delicate chandelier, a little piece of paradise.
She had to take a long, hot bath before she left the ranch.
That’s when she remembered that Jack had invited her to stay for the week. The offer was tempting—and not only because of the tub. The man himself had more than his share of appeal.
She found it hard not to forgive him for their first encounter after he’d done so much for her today. Good lord, he’d actually scooped her off her feet and carried her to his pickup. No man had ever carried her. At five-foot-nine, she was tall for a woman, but Jack was taller. Beneath his down parka, he was all muscle. Being held like that had made her feel small, feminine.
Stop it, Killeen.
The man wasn’t interested in her. He’d carried her because he’d known she was exhausted and because they’d needed to cross the highway quickly, not because he found her irresistible. Even if he did, she didn’t want to complicate her already complicated life any further by getting involved with a man right now.
She looked in the mirror. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, and her hair was a tangled mess. She reached for her brush, ran it through her hair, then retrieved her makeup bag. She did her best to conceal the dark circles and make herself look alive—a little eyeliner, some mascara, a touch of blush.
Then again, it didn’t matter how she looked. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone—or she shouldn’t be.
She put on the same clothes she’d worn at lunchtime and, remembering that dinner would be ready at about six, left her room and walked back down the hallway, the sound of classical music drifting toward her from the kitchen. But when she reached the end of the hallway, she stopped and stared.
Jack West’s home was stunning, with timbered, vaulted ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the mountains, an enormous fireplace of rounded river stones in the living room, a formal dining area with a table that could easily seat a dozen people, and a wide stairway that led to more rooms upstairs.
“Want a tour?” Jack stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching her, a denim apron over a black turtleneck and jeans. “We don’t need to go upstairs. There’s not much up there besides bedrooms.”
“I’d like that.” She followed him while he showed her his office, with its masculine leather furniture and neat bookshelves; the gym with its sauna and the hot tub they’d just installed; a breathtaking two-story library that had its own fireplace; the home theater; and, last but not least, the wine cellar.
Janet struggled not to look amazed by it all. She’d had no idea cattle ranching could be so lucrative. Or maybe it wasn’t the cattle. Maybe it was the horses. Regardless, the Cimarron was like no place she’d ever seen.
Jack turned toward the wall of wines. “This reminds me. We need something for dinner. How about a nice cru Beaujolais?” He drew a bottle from the rack and read off the name in French. “Côte de Brouilly from Château Thivin. This ought to do.”
“You’re an oenophile?”
He frowned. “Does that surprise you?”
Janet’s mind was still muddled by Percocet. That’s the only explanation for the words that came out of her mouth next—and the flirty tone of voice she used when she said them. “A lot of things I’ve learned about you today surprise me.”
Jack’s lips curved slowly into a smile that made her pulse skip. “Is that so?”
# # #
Jack poured wine into Janet’s glass, fighting to ignore what felt suspiciously like nerves. “Bon appétit.”
What the hell did he possibly have to be nervous about?
Absolutely nothing. That’s what.
This wasn’t a date or some damned romantic liaison. He was having dinner with an acquaintance who’d gotten stranded near his property—and who just happened to be a beautiful woman. She probably had a boyfriend or, hell, maybe a girlfriend.
She smiled, those dimples appearing again. “It smells delicious.”
Not sure what she liked, he’d decided to keep dinner simple—a roast chicken, buttered new potatoes with parsley, an arugula salad, green beans, and rolls.
“Thanks.” He sat, spread a cloth napkin on his lap. “We trade with a friend of ours—organic free-range beef for organic free-range birds.”
She raised her glass. “Cheers.”
He raised his. “Cheers.”
They drank.
“This is very good.” Janet looked at the wine, took another sip. “I don’t know as much about wine as I should, but I do appreciate a good wine when I taste it. My mother’s parents made their own wine from gra
pes they grew themselves. They grew most of what we ate.”
“You grew up on a farm?” Now it was his turn to be surprised. He’d had her figured for a big-city type.
“My grandfather grew apples, so it was really more of an orchard than a farm, though they did have a big vegetable garden. My grandmother canned everything. We had chickens and beehives, too. I helped her with the chickens—when I wasn’t too busy running wild.”
While they ate, Jack listened to Janet talk about her childhood, her voice smooth and melodic, her green eyes taking on a sparkle. He tried to envision the woman who’d shown up at the ranch last February wearing a stiff pantsuit, a gun, and a badge as a little girl who’d eaten fresh honey from a hive, helped her grandma gather eggs, played hide and seek in the barn, and climbed into apple trees to read books.
“They had sugar maples on the property, so every spring we’d tap the trees to gather the sap and then boil it down to make maple syrup, maple butter, and maple candy. I miss that here. No one in Colorado has even heard of maple cream pie.”
“I can’t say I’ve heard of it myself.” But Jack would damned well look it up. He liked a challenge. “Is that where you learned to ride?”
She took a sip of her wine, nodded. “They had two dressage horses—Hanoverian geldings. I was riding horses before I could walk, or so I’ve been told.”
As a rule, Jack didn’t go in for woo-woo, but he’d swear there was a spiritual connection between women and horses. He’d seen it often enough to believe it was real. He’d always thought women were more in tune with their bodies and with nature than most men. Maybe there was an earthiness in women that connected with the wildness in horses. Hell, how should he know?
“My Nate was sitting in a saddle when he was still in diapers.” Jack set his fork aside, his plate clean. “I’ll show you the stables tomorrow—unless you’re dead set on getting out of here.”
She smiled, a warm flush in her cheeks from the wine. “I think I can stay that long. I would love to see your horses.”
“So how did a farm girl from upstate New York end up becoming an FBI agent?” He poured the last of the wine into their glasses.
Her smile faded, and the sparkle left her eyes. “My parents were murdered.”
Her words hit Jack square in the face. “Murdered?”
She nodded, drank the last of her wine. “They put a classified ad in the paper to sell their old car. A man called and said he wanted to come by and see it. When my dad went outside to show him the vehicle, the bastard shot him in the chest. My mother was making supper. She heard the shot and ran outside to help my dad. The SOB shot her, too, then backed over her while she was still alive and drove off with the car. I was five. Melodie, my sister, was three. I’m not sure what we were doing—playing in our bedroom or something. A neighbor saw the whole thing and called the police. It was the FBI who tracked him down and brought him in.”
“Was he convicted?”
She shook her head. “They found him dead in his cell. Apparently, he picked a fight with the wrong people and got shanked.”
The bastard had damned well deserved it.
“I’m sorry.” Jack reached over, took her hand, held it. “I can’t imagine how hard it was for you and your sister.”
He couldn’t imagine how difficult it had been for her grandparents, either—losing their daughter and son-in-law and then having to explain death to two tiny children who suddenly depended on them for everything.
“Thanks.” Janet gave him a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes, drew her hand away. “The FBI agents who came to speak with my grandparents seemed like heroes to me. I knew that I wanted to do what they did when I grew up.”
“Catch bad guys?”
She nodded. “Catch bad guys—and keep good people from being hurt.”
“I hope it brings you some peace to know you’ve managed to do exactly that.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to you.”
“Thanks.” She smiled again, but he could see the sadness in her eyes. “That’s kind of you to say.”
“Nonsense.” Jack didn’t have a kind bone in his body. “It’s the truth.”
As he finished his wine, he found himself wishing he’d been a little more cooperative and a little less brusque the first time she’d been here.
# # #
After dinner, they moved into the living room, where Jack lit a roaring fire in the fireplace and opened a second bottle of wine.
“Oh, I couldn’t.” Janet shook her head. Then again, why shouldn’t she? The Percocet she’d taken after lunch had worn off, and it had only been a single pill. Besides, it wasn’t often that she got to taste wine of this quality. “Okay, but just one more glass.”
Jack filled their glasses, then carried his to the other end of the sofa and sat. “You warm enough?”
“Yes. Thank you.” She took another sip, savoring the vibrant, earthy fruit taste of the Beaujolais. “You know a lot more about me than I know about you.”
He shrugged. “There’s not a lot to know.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “I thought you didn’t believe in false humility.”
“Okay, but don’t blame me when your eyes glaze over. I grew up on the ranch, an only child. I married my high school sweetheart after graduation, then joined the army and served six years with the Army Rangers—long-range reconnaissance patrol, Company H, 75th Infantry.” His eyes took on a far-away look. “I did two tours of duty in Vietnam. We lost a lot of good men. That was a long time ago. Most Americans don’t know anything about it.”
Janet hated to admit it, but she knew very little about Vietnam. She would make a point of rectifying that. “What did you do when you got back?”
“I came home to Theresa and the Cimarron. Nate was born a few years later. He was our only child. That’s not what we wanted, but it’s what happened. Theresa had a few miscarriages after he was born, and then it just became too difficult for her. We stopped trying.”
Janet could understand that. “I’m sorry. That must have been very hard.”
“Life is what it is. We had a lot of good years together, and I’m grateful for that.”
Even though he sat at the other end of the sofa, she was keenly aware of him, the deep, soothing sound of his voice, his masculine scent.
“Why haven’t you remarried?” The moment the words left her mouth, she wished she could take them back. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. You loved your wife very much. I realize you can’t just turn that off.”
Stop while you’re behind, Killeen!
“I loved her very much.” He looked down at his wine glass, then into her eyes. “I might remarry—if the right woman were to come along. But what are the chances? An old guy like me? I’m sixty-three, past the age for dating.”
“Give me a break!” Janet laughed. “You helped me up that embankment today without breaking a sweat, then carried me to your truck like I weighed nothing. Those are hardly the actions of an ‘old guy.’”
His gaze was fixed on hers, his blue eyes dark. “That’s kind of you to say.”
“It’s not kind at all. You’re a very handsome man, Jack West. I think any woman would look at you and think that.”
It dawned on her that perhaps she was giving too much away, but the wine and the look in his eyes made that worry unravel.
“So, tell me, SA Killeen, do you have a significant other? That’s the term in modern parlance, isn’t it?”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “Yes, it is, and, no, I don’t.”
She found herself telling him about Byron and the way he’d left her, only leaving out the part about her torn vaginal muscles. “I was told I needed to avoid sex for a while, and that was just too much for him in the end. That’s not the excuse he gave me, but I’m sure that was the last straw.”
Usually when she thought about that last conversation with Byron, she found herself fighting tears, the pain almost as fresh as it had been the day he’d left. But at thi
s moment, she was more aware of the anger that flashed in Jack’s eyes.
“What a goddamned asshole! He did you a favor by getting the hell out of your life.” Jack frowned, his expression turning apologetic. “Sorry. My mouth gets ahead of me. I talk before I think. I’m sure it was very painful to lose him on top of everything else you were dealing with at the time.”
It had been, but somehow Jack’s rage on her behalf helped her feel better.
“It’s okay, and you’re right. He really did do me a favor.” She hadn’t thought of it that way before.
“Nate faced a similar situation.” He told her how Nate had been badly burned in an IED explosion in Afghanistan and then flown to San Antonio, where he’d spent weeks fighting for his life. “I flew down to be with him. His fiancée came to visit, too. I thought she was there to show her support. Instead, she broke it off. He was lying there, suffering ungodly pain and facing dozens of surgeries, and she broke off their engagement.”
Janet didn’t hold back. “What a bitch!”
It wasn’t a word she used lightly.
Jack nodded. “You’ve got that right. But, in the end, she did him a favor. He’s got a good woman now, one who loves him because of the man he is—not despite his scars, but because of them.”
“He’s a lucky man.” The sharp edge of loneliness cut through the warm buzz of the wine.
“What I’m saying is that you’ll find a man who loves you like that—a man who loves and respects you because of your courage, not despite your injury and the physical challenges you face.”
She liked what he’d said, sweet words she wished she could believe, but she had to be honest. “I’m not as brave as you think I am. I haven’t been able to pick up a firearm since the day I was shot.”
“Anyone who tells you you’re not brave because you won’t pick up a gun hasn’t experienced a fire-fight first hand.” There was understanding in his eyes.
She’d needed to hear that so very badly, but his compassion didn’t change the rest of it. “The kind of men I’m attracted to—athletic, outdoorsy guys—want women who can keep up with them. Besides, I’m forty-five.”