Multi-award-winning, bestselling husband-and-wife duo LORI AND TONY KARAYIANNI are the power behind the pen name TORI CARRINGTON. Their more than thirty-five titles include numerous Blaze® mini-series, as well as the ongoing Sofie Metropolis comedic mystery series with another publisher. Visit www.toricarrington.net, www.sofiemetro.com and www.myspace.com/toricarrington for more information on the couple and their titles.

We dedicate this book to fellow bad girls everywhere. Remember, being strong also means allowing yourself to be vulnerable. And, as always, to our extraordinary editor Brenda Chin, who tries to convince us all that she’s a good girl, but ah, those bad-girl tendencies give her away every time!

Branded
Tori Carrington

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Forteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Copyright

Chapter One

WILDEWOOD RANCH LAY an hour and a half outside San Antonio and had been in the Armstrong family for four generations. It boasted over twenty thousand acres of rich southwest Texas land, twenty-six ranch hands and five thousand head of Angus cattle.

And twenty-nine-year-old Trace Armstrong was the successful manager and half owner of the whole operation.

Or, rather, had been for the past six years. But with his older brother, Eric, a marine, coming home for good this weekend…well, Trace expected everything would be thrown into a state of flux.

“Now that’s the type of filly stallions will stand in line to service.”

Trace tilted his cowboy hat back on his head and stared at the town’s sheriff, who stood beside him on the bunkhouse porch. Had the old son of a bitch just said that about one of his ranch hands? Yes, he had. Trace knew this not because he’d followed John Brody’s line of vision—even though it had been his own moments before—but because Jo Atchison was the only “filly” currently on the premises.

A couple of cowboys chuckled behind him.

Trace grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck, which the day’s drive had coated with dust and grime in the June heat. He was born to this land, so he supposed he should be used to the often explicit nature of the men’s exchanges. But for reasons he preferred not to identify, Sheriff Brody’s commentary didn’t sit well with him.

“Too bad she’s already got one,” another of the ranch hands said.

Trace squinted into the bright orange ball that was the setting sun, watching Jo talk to her sometimes boyfriend, who had just pulled up on his Harley outside the stables. She was some two hundred yards away, so Trace could make out little more than her silhouette, but oh, what a silhouette it was. Legs that went on forever, full breasts and long, flowing dark hair. Jo was one of the ranch foreman’s more recent hires. She’d started six or seven months ago, and had become the guys’ favorite topic around this time of day, if only because of the absence of any other female on the ranch, and Jo’s lack of response to their interest.

Trace turned away and leaned against the porch railing of the modern bunkhouse, ignoring his own desire to watch her. He told himself he wasn’t like the other men, but in the end he was no different. Despite Jo’s considerable talents as a wrangler—she bested a lot of the guys on a bad day, and on a good day bested them all—he caught himself staring after her more times than he’d care to admit.

“I don’t think you came all the way out here to drool after one of my ranch hands, did you, Sheriff?” he said quietly, taking a couple of beers from the nearby cooler, which had been set out with the barbecue dinner for the two dozen cowboys. He handed the older man a bottle.

“Hell no.”

Trace found his gaze wandering back to Jo, his gut tightening at the sight of the biker reaching out for her, and her swatting his arm away. She’d never given Trace cause to think she needed protection from anyone. On the contrary, she went out of her way to prove she was capable of taking care of herself.

He rubbed his chin, hiding his grin as he recalled his exchange with her earlier in the day. They’d been four hours on the range when he’d found his steed steering toward hers. He knew a few details about her. Some were on the form the ranch required all hands to fill out, others the result of an official background check they ran as a matter of course. She was from Beaumont, an only child. She’d had a few run-ins with the law in her teens—assaulting an officer, disturbing the peace and public intoxication—but her record had been clean since.

She had also been a U.S. Marine for six years, honorably discharged the month before she came to work on Wildewood Ranch.

This morning, he’d watched as she took her hat off, piled her black hair on top of her head and put the hat back on, the result making her look not one bit less feminine.

“In the service…where’d you serve?” he’d asked her.

Her blue eyes had registered surprise. But only for a split second, before she recovered her trademark grimace. One of the guys had said she always looked as if she’d just gone for a dump behind a tree and had used poison ivy for cleanup because there was nothing else around.

“He speaks,” she’d said, rather than answering his question.

Trace had grinned. “Fair enough.”

He hadn’t said more than a handful of words to her since she’d hired on, and he remembered all of them—“Welcome” and “See you back at the ranch” the most prominent. His reticence was partly because the other hands had been within earshot, but mostly because he was attracted to her in an awful way.

And it seemed like that wasn’t going to change anytime soon. In fact, it was worsening. Just last night he’d woken up with a hard-on the size of Texas…and she had been the dream girl responsible.

Which meant he needed to try another tactic to battle the attraction. It wouldn’t stand for him to demonstrate anything but professional courtesy to their only female ranch hand. Forget sexual harassment; it just plain wasn’t smart.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

She’d given him a small smile, her full lips turning up at the corners. “No, I didn’t, did I?”

They’d ridden in silence for a couple of minutes, Jo darting out to force a couple of wayward steers back into the herd, then returning to his side.

“My brother, Eric, is in Iraq now,” he said. “A member of your family as much as mine.”

She’d looked at him from under the rim of her hat. “I met him briefly when I hired on here six months ago. He was home on leave.”

Trace had figured she might have. “He’s being honorably discharged this week.”

She’d nodded. “I heard that.”

He hadn’t been surprised. There wasn’t much else to do on these long drives except gossip and wait for the sun to set. Besides, there was a big welcome-home barbecue planned for Eric. Most of the hands were looking forward to it.

Trace had squinted at Jo, thinking that she wouldn’t be one of them. She didn’t strike him as a party girl.

“What made you sign up for the military?” he found himself asking.

She didn’t say anything for a long moment, then asked quietly, “What made you not?”

He’d shifted his weight in the saddle. Then shifted again as she took off her shirt and tied it around her waist, revealing the snug white cotton tank she wore underneath. It scooped low on her tanned skin and clung to her breasts and narrow waist. Trace leisurely drank his fill of her fine form, then looked up to meet her gaze, finding a knowing look in her eyes even as she pulled her nicely toned shoulders back and readjusted her gloved hands on the reins.

“Look,” she said, “I appreciate your effort to be cordial, but if you think you understand anything about me because I was a marine, you’re driving your truck down the wrong road.”

“I didn’t realize I was driving down any road.”

She gave him a long look, her eyes raking down his torso and then back up again. She seemed to know exactly where he wanted to put his truck. And for a moment he got the feeling she might open the gate for him to pass.

Instead, she dug her spurs into her horse’s sides and galloped ahead.

He hadn’t had another opportunity to speak to her since.

Oh, yes. Miss JoEllen Sue Atchison presented what his father might have called a quandary. She had to rate among the most beautiful, sexiest women Trace had ever come across. And was stubbornly determined to prove herself more than the sum of her comely parts.

He focused on her again now, watching as her boyfriend rocked his Harley up onto the stand and climbed off, following her into the stables.

“There she goes again,” a ranch hand said.

Trace frowned, took off his hat and then dragged his bandanna out of a back pocket and across his forehead. There she goes again, indeed.

He had the feeling this was going to be another long, sweaty night imagining what exactly she did in that stable whenever her guy visited.

Trace idly wondered if he should trade in his truck for a bike…

“COME ON, COME ON,” Jo said breathlessly, fumbling to unbutton Carter Southard’s jeans, only to be blocked by his belt buckle.

She shifted from where she leaned against a stall door and pushed him against it instead, pulling and tugging, kissing and hissing, desperate to fill the emptiness that gaped within her.

“Whoa, hold on there, Marine,” Carter managed to mumble between assaults on his mouth. “Where’s the fire?”

Jo looked into his ruggedly handsome face, taking in his five o’clock shadow, the slight crow’s-feet that fanned out from his gray eyes, his dark hair, tousled from the motorcycle ride to Wildewood from Dallas.

She wanted to tell him that the fire was everywhere. It roared through her veins, under and over her skin, threatening to consume her if she didn’t find a way to douse it. Now.

“I’ve been on the road for three hours in the summer heat,” Carter grumbled. “I could use a shower and a cold beer.”

Jo closed her eyes to shut out him and his words. If she was also trying to banish the image of one very striking ranch owner by the name of Trace Armstrong, she wasn’t copping to it. She saw his suggestive grin every time she blinked, as if the image had been branded on the back of her eyelids.

Her mother’s soft voice filled her head. If you’re ever to be a proper Texas lady, JoEllen Sue, you’re going to have to master patience.

Jo had heard the words when she was three and was stuffing the pink tutu her mother had bought her into the garbage disposal after a disastrous ballet lesson.

“Screw patience,” she whispered now, pushing Carter against the stable wall.

Her muscles were tight, and her entire body seemed to vibrate with an energy she needed to release.

Truth was, she’d been hot in a way that had nothing to do with the summer heat ever since Trace Armstrong had sidled up beside her earlier in the day, resting his brown eyes on her and making no secret of the fact that he found her physically attractive.

Truth be told, she’d known that fact since the moment she’d signed on for the temporary, seasonal stint at the ranch. Spotted it the instant her gaze met his, and that undeniable crackle of electricity traveled between them. She’d been fresh out of the service, traveling around South Texas taking odd ranch jobs, when she’d heard that Wildewood was hiring.

She’d had no idea of the fringe benefits that would go along with the position, and now she seemed more drawn to Trace than was safe. Attraction to the boss might have compelled her to leave other places she’d worked. Especially considering she’d spent so much of her life yearning to be judged by her actions and the job she did rather than on her appearance.

Now Carter said, “God, I wish I’d have known you in the sandbox.”

She bit his bottom lip and then kissed him restlessly. “If you’d known me in Iraq, you would never have gotten next to me.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

“Oh, I’m positive,” she said. “The last thing you want to do with someone who’s supposed to be protecting your six is give them a reason to be preoccupied with it.”

“Six” was military speak for “ass.”

Carter chuckled and then groaned when she ground her hips against his.

The two of them had met two years ago on a transport back from the Middle East. They’d both been on leave, and Jo had ended up staying with him for a couple of days of intense R & R in Dallas before heading down to see her parents in Beaumont…late. The welcome-home cake had been stale. The punch gone. And her mother so inconsolable she’d taken to bed with one of her “spells”, as her father called her bouts of depression.

It had ended up being one of the best leaves Jo had ever had. Partly because she’d met Carter. Mostly because she’d gotten to spend uninterrupted stretches of time with her father.

Which made her feel guilty just thinking about it. Another emotion she wanted to squash with physical activity.

She shrugged out of her denim shirt, revealing the tank she wore underneath. Carter immediately palmed her right breast, squeezing through the cotton and her bra. She batted his hand away and gave his belt buckle another go.

“Jesus, Carter, what is this? The male equivalent to a chastity belt?”

His chuckle tickled her ear, along with his tongue.

Her exasperation boiled over.

“Oh, just forget it,” she said, starting to put her shirt back on.

“Aw, baby, don’t be like that,” he said, reaching for her.

She picked up his hat and tossed it to him. It hit the area of his anatomy that disappointed her most. He trapped it there with his hand.

“Hey,” he said, pushing himself off the wall. “I ate three hours of road to see you, Jo. What’s up?”

“I’m not in the mood anymore.”

If she were being honest, she’d admit that wasn’t the only factor. Being so close to Beaumont, and the complicated problems that existed with her parents, seemed to wreak havoc with her emotions in a way she didn’t quite understand. It wasn’t as if the difficulties were new. She’d pretty much grown up with them, even if they had become more serious.

Still, a good sack session had always been enough to chase away the shadows of the past, if not shine a fresh light on the future.

Carter did up the buttons on his jeans. A horse neighed and poked its nose out of the stall, and he stepped aside to avoid it.

“That’s funny. I was just thinking that you haven’t much been in the mood since you took this damn job. You call, tell me you want to see me, then I get down here and you find some reason to be pissed at me.”

She started buttoning her shirt, surprised to find her hands trembling.

“Since the moment I pulled up you’ve done nothing but bitch.”

She said quietly, “Yes, well, if you’d give me the attention I want when I want it, maybe I wouldn’t be so upset.”

His grin reminded her of times past, when they’d shut themselves up in a seedy motel room on the outskirts of Dallas for days on end, leaving only to get beer and burgers.

The problem now was that it hadn’t been his grin she’d been seeing when she closed her eyes moments ago; it had been Trace’s.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but we were working toward getting you what you wanted just now.” He shrugged and checked his belt buckle, which was still firmly fastened. “I was fine with waiting until we got back to the bunkhouse.”

“Yes, well, now neither one of us has to worry about waiting.” She turned and stalked away. “Don’t let the barn door hit you in the ass on your way out, Marine.”

Chapter Two

WELL, THAT WAS QUICK.

Trace watched as Jo emerged from the stables, her shirttails trailing like a cape behind her, she was moving so quickly.

Her visiting boyfriend followed, and grabbed her by the arm. Trace snapped upright. But Jo promptly shook the guy’s hand off her and he stumbled backward. They exchanged words Trace couldn’t hear, and then Jo stalked toward her rusty old truck. She got in and headed down the long gravel driveway that would take her to the road, spitting up dust in her wake.

The ex-marine kicked at the dirt and then went to his bike, disappearing right after her.

“Lovers’ spat?” the sheriff mused.

“Looks that way.”

Brody chuckled and downed half his beer, careless of the droplets spotting the front of his uniform.

“I’m going to head back to the house to catch a shower,” Trace told him. “I can’t barely stand myself.”

Brody straightened. “Before you go, I wanted to ask if you’ve hired on any new hands lately.”

Trace frowned at him. “A couple of regulars we take on when we need extra help. And Jackson and Milford, sitting over there.” He nodded to the two new men who’d begun work on the ranch around the same time Jo had. “But Vernon would be the man to ask about that.” Vernon Burnett was the ranch’s longtime foreman and the go-to guy when it came to dealing with the hands. “Why?”

The sheriff shrugged and leaned against the railing. “There was a rape over in Strade. I’m making the rounds to see if there are any new faces in the area.”

Trace shook his head. “None that I can think of.” He glanced over his shoulder at the guys beginning to drift away, having had their fill of barbecue and beer. Some would go inside to the main room to catch some TV or play pool, others would head to their bunks for the night, knowing another early morning would soon be staring them in the face.

“Who was attacked?” he asked.

“One of the Johnson girls.”

“Art Johnson?”

“That would be the family. It was his youngest, Penny. Someone was in the back of her car when she left the honky-tonk the night before last.”

“She get a look at him?”

The sheriff shook his head. “Nope. Covered her head with a pillowcase.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. Her daddy’s pretty torn up. Fit to be tied.”

“I can imagine. Maybe I’ll go over there tomorrow, see if I can’t help out.”

“Art would appreciate it.” Brody shook his finger at him. “But you be sure to let me know if he tries to sign you up for a lynching party.”

“How can there be a lynching if there isn’t a suspect?”

“You know these hotheaded cowboys. One nod in the wrong direction and they’re ready to unload their frustrations and their ammunition on the closest available target.”

Unfortunately, Trace did know. All too well.

He watched as the sun sank below the horizon. Funny how it seemed to hang mercilessly in the sky all day long, then within seconds it was gone.

He looked at Brody. “Wasn’t there a similar attack, say, six months or so ago?”

The sheriff finished off his beer and dropped the bottle in the case of empties nearby. “Yeah, there was. Out in Barncart. Same MO.”

“Think it’s the same guy?”

Brody shrugged and put his hat back on. “Hard to tell. Word of the first one got around, so this might be a copycat.”

“My father used to tell me there was no such thing as coincidences.”

Brody grinned. “Which is why a copycat would have a greater chance at success, seeing as everyone out this way feels the same.” He hiked up his pants. “Your father was a wise man, but matters like these are better left to professionals.”

Trace tightened his grip on the railing. “Hope you get the guy soon.”

“Oh, I will. You can rest assured of that.” The sheriff navigated the stairs. “Thanks for the beer. Tell Vern good-night for me.”

“I will.”

THE MAIN HOUSE had pretty much remained unchanged since Trace’s parents had been killed in a flash flood almost seven years earlier. Neither he nor Eric had ever issued orders to maintain it, but Alma, their longtime housekeeper, seemed content to keep everything the way it was. Sometimes Trace thought the older woman missed his parents almost as much as he did. He’d catch her dusting the picture frames on the large stone mantel above the fireplace, a sad look on her soft, brown face. He supposed it was only natural, since she had known his parents longer than he had. She’d hired on at the house when his older brother was born, to help his mother take care of the growing family. And had become much like family herself, even though she lived in a small house a couple of counties away, where she’d raised her own family.

She’d left lights on in the front room and the kitchen tonight, and a plate of TexMex food for him in the refrigerator. Trace looked it over as he reached in for a beer, fresh from his shower. Though he had clean jeans riding low on his hips, his T-shirt was draped over the back of the couch in the main room. Despite the heat, he hadn’t turned on the air conditioner, preferring open windows and ceiling fans and the sound of cicadas over the hiss of the machine and the feeling of being shut off from the world around him.

Still, he lingered in front of the open refrigerator for a few moments.

He finally closed the door and walked toward the main room, sitting down on the couch and switching on the large screen television. He flipped through the channels and then settled on the news out of Odessa. Weatherwise, it was more of the same, with a chance of isolated thunderstorms late tomorrow. He and the men would have to keep an eye to the sky while they were out. Thunderstorms were nothing to be casual about, not in this neck of the woods.

He took a long pull from his cold bottle and then reached over to check his answering machine, which was blinking three messages.

“Hey, little bro, it’s Eric.” Trace rested his head against the back of the couch. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about wanting to expand…and, well, I’m sorry for going off on you.” There was noise at the other end of the line. “That’s it. Hopefully I’ll get a chance to call again before I come home this weekend.”

The apology did little to ease the knot of tension that had formed between Trace’s shoulder blades. The ranch had been left to them equally, and although Eric had run off and joined the marines post 9/11, Trace had left things the way they were on paper. Which meant he needed his brother’s okay whenever he made any changes. An okay that was always slow in coming. Despite being over five thousand miles away in the Middle Eastern desert, Eric liked to think he was in charge, simply because he was a year older. But the truth was he hadn’t run the ranch in any capacity for the past six years, no matter how much he wanted to think differently.

And while Trace was glad his brother was coming home from a dangerous war, his feelings were mixed about what would happen when Eric’s boots hit the Texas dirt again. This time for good.

The next message was from Alma, telling him his dinner was in the refrigerator, and reminding him that she had an appointment in the morning and wouldn’t be there until after eleven.

He wondered if it was a doctor’s appointment. Alma wasn’t exactly a spring chicken anymore. He made a note to return early from the range tomorrow so he could talk to her, see how she was doing.

The third was from the woman who should be starring in his wet dreams instead of the hardheaded Jo.

“‘Evening, Trace. It’s Ashleigh. I just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you. If it’s not too late, give me a call. It would be nice to hear your voice before your brother’s welcome-home barbecue Saturday night.”

He glanced at the clock. Ten wasn’t too late, but he didn’t feel like calling Ashleigh just now.

He reached for the remote and surfed ESPN. Baseball. He left it on a Rangers game and settled back into the couch. He no sooner got comfortable than a knock sounded on the front door.

Damn. Vern, the foreman, would have come around back. And Trace hadn’t heard a car pull up.

He frowned, hoping it wasn’t Ashleigh. Not that she was known for showing up unannounced, but lately she’d been doing some strange things. Like popping up a couple of Sundays ago with a packed picnic basket, and enticing him out for brunch.

Another knock sounded.

He put his bottle on the table as he got up, grabbing his T-shirt as he went. He pulled it over his head and then opened the door.

But it wasn’t Ashleigh standing on his front porch. It was Jo.

“No need putting any clothes on for me, cowboy.” She opened the screen door and came in without being invited. “You’re just going to have to take them off again in a minute…”

Chapter Three

TRACE ARMSTRONG LOOKED better than any man had a right to.

Jo stood in the open doorway, gripping the jamb. The sexy ranch owner towered over her by at least five inches, which was saying a lot, since she topped out at five foot eight. She wondered if the rest of him was in proportion, and smiled, taking in the snug cotton of his faded navy-blue T-shirt, checking out the swell of muscles as she went. Her gaze drifted down to his jeans. No belt buckle. Just a handful of metal buttons.

Yes.

She moved to step inside and then hesitated, surprising herself. But just for a moment. For two hours she’d been building up momentum to come over to the house. She wasn’t about to turn tail and run back to the bunkhouse now.

She finally brushed past Trace, breathing in the scent of something tangy. His soap? Seemed likely. It sure wasn’t cologne.

He looked out the door and then closed it.

“Nobody saw me,” she said. “I hiked here from the bunkhouses, and most everyone is either asleep in front of the television or in their bunks.”

“Vern?”

“Left a little while ago. Probably running into town for something.”

Trace turned toward her and crossed his arms over his impressive chest. “What can I do you for, Jo?”

His best boss impression amused her as she went to the couch and sat down, propping her boots up on the table and grabbing his beer. “Just craving some company, is all. Oh, the Rangers are playing. Who’s winning?”

She took a pull from the beer bottle, half expecting him to tell her to get her irreverent ass up and head back to the bunkhouse. She pretended to pay attention to the game, not realizing she was holding her breath until he budged from his statuelike stance and moved toward the couch to take the seat next to her.

She lifted the bottle back to her lips, but he caught it midway. “This is mine. You want one, there’s plenty in the fridge.”

She rested her head against the back of the couch and grinned at him. “Is that so?”

He eyed her warily as he took a swig from the bottle. “Mmm-hmm.”

“Is there more of that in there?” she asked, gesturing toward his food. “I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch.”

“Nope.” He moved the plate so that it was sitting in front of him instead of her. “You should have caught dinner at the bunkhouse with everyone else.”

“And eaten Vern’s rubbery barbecue with warm beer? No thanks.”

Trace shrugged his shoulders. “Go without then.”

Jo made a face, staring at the TV screen, although she saw none of it. Instead, she was hyperfocused on the man next to her. Inches separated them, but she swore she could feel his heat.

As a rule, she wasn’t the type of woman who went from one man to the next within the blink of an eye. In her twenty-six years, she could count the guys she’d slept with on one hand. Carter included.

Carter…

She winced inwardly, not liking the way things had ended between them now that she had a better handle on her emotions. And ended was the word, wasn’t it? He’d gone back to Dallas, and she didn’t expect to see him again. But somewhere down the line she’d learned that when the game was over, it was over. No sense in dragging things out. They weren’t married, and they weren’t committed to each other, although she certainly didn’t go around sleeping with other guys while seeing someone.

She also wasn’t one to pull her punches when she’d made a decision to go after someone full out.

So what if her growing attraction to Trace had caught her unawares? She was a woman. And he was a man. And right now that was all that mattered.

She slid a glance his way. Well, mostly, that’s all that mattered.

“You always spend the evenings alone?” she asked.

“Hmm?” He looked at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. She knew better. He appeared just as distracted by her as she was by him. “Mostly,” he answered.

“And that pretty woman that sometimes comes over?”

“Who? Oh, you mean Ashleigh.” He shrugged and offered nothing more.

That was good enough for Jo. If he wasn’t concerned enough to indicate he was taken, then he was free game.

Besides, she wasn’t looking for marriage. She was looking for sex. A physical connection that would chase unwanted thoughts from her mind. Make her feel human. Release the pent-up tension that coiled her muscles and prevented her from sleeping at night.

And if it was just the same to him, she’d prefer to keep any possible illicit liaison under wraps.

She cleared her throat. “This probably isn’t a very good idea, is it?”

She half expected him to play dumb. She was pleasantly surprised when he didn’t.

Instead, he grinned, causing his tanned skin to crinkle around his brown eyes. “Probably not.”

Jo’s breathing hitched. “But you’re not kicking my brash behind out onto the front porch.”

He shook his head slightly as he downed the rest of his beer. “No. I’m not.”

Jo swung her boots off the table and sat up straight. “So tell me, Boss, what exactly does that mean?”

He put his bottle down. “You want me to spell it out for you?”

“Uh-huh.”

His gaze raked over her face and then down the front of her tank. “I’m saying that I like your brash behind right where it is at the moment.”

“That’s all I needed to hear…”

TRACE WASN’T THE KIND OF guy who leaped without looking. He hadn’t had that luxury. Not for a long time. But when Jo’s boot heels had thudded against the wood floor when she’d come inside, he’d known he was going to sleep with her, no two ways about it. He’d spent too many nights wondering what it would be like to follow her into the stables and take her on one of those hay bales to even think twice when she launched herself into his arms. The assault she executed on his mouth left him wondering how long she’d been thinking about the same thing.

Jo tasted like beer and lavender. A combination that was surprising and intriguing. Obviously, she’d caught a shower sometime during the evening. Still…

He captured her hands, which were plucking at the buttons of his jeans. “I’m not one for sloppy seconds.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “No worries. There would have to be a first to be a second.”

He believed her. Partly because she had no reason to lie. Mostly because she hadn’t been insulted by his words.

He eyed her mouth, already swollen from his kisses, and groaned, kissing her again.

While Jo was all grit and gristle on the range, now she was soft and pliant, straddling his hips on the couch, barely breaking contact with his mouth as he helped her strip off her shirt and tank. That left only her lacy white bra, a scrap of material so delicate, so sexy, Trace found it momentarily difficult to concentrate on what he was doing.

He didn’t know what he’d expected. One of those stretchy sports bra thingies he’d seen some women jog in, maybe. But this…

He curved his fingers under her right breast, marveling at the way she filled the cup and his palm. Of course, he’d always been superaware that Jo was a female, but he’d never expected her to be so feminine. The effect on him was mind-blowing. The contradictions of the woman even now tugging off his T-shirt were fascinating.

He pulled his mouth from hers in order to fasten his lips over the stiff peak of her breast under the lacy material. He was rewarded with her soft gasp and her momentary stillness.

The power of making love to a woman never ceased to amaze him. Giving, taking, surrendering to the moment in search of sensations that went well beyond what you’d anticipated.

He reached around her and unhooked her bra, watching as the material sprang away from her breasts, causing them to bounce slightly. His mouth watered as he lowered his head to finally taste a nipple without anything in between.

Jo sat up tall and proud, pressing her pelvis against his as her eyes drifted shut. Trace grasped her slender hips, feeling her hair tease his fingers as it cascaded down her bare back.

Sweet Jesus, but the woman was beautiful. Considering they didn’t come any tougher than Jo Atchison, the juxtaposition was a potent one.

Even as he laved her left breast, giving the pouting flesh the same attention he had the right one, he reached for the catch to her jeans, reveling in the way her stomach muscles trembled against the backs of his fingers as he worked.

Soon they were both stripped down, boots discarded, clothes flung aside, skin to skin.

And how soft her skin was. Trace couldn’t seem to get enough of touching her, running his hands over her bare back, her plump thighs, her smoothly rounded behind.

His fingertips scraped against something on the back of her hip. A scar? A birthmark?

She wrapped her fingers around his erection and he hissed. Okay, she was soft almost everywhere but her hands. Just like any cowboy, she had calluses that no amount of scrubbing and lotion could hope to soften.

Strangely, though, he found the sensation tantalizingly different than what he was used to. It helped that she wasn’t hesitant or shy. She openly looked at his stiff member, as if memorizing every ridge, every vein, rubbing the rough pad of her thumb over the top and then massaging the droplets of semen she found there down his throbbing shaft.

“Condom,” he said under his breath, the image of his bedside drawer coming to mind.

Jo produced a foil packet and smiled. “A girl should never leave home without them.”

Trace chuckled and kissed her, and then froze as she tore open the packet and smoothed the lubricated latex over his hard-on with quick efficiency.

She was all business. And he couldn’t be happier. It was nice knowing exactly what she wanted. Especially since he had every intention of giving it to her.

She straddled his hips again and began to position herself above him. But he grasped her silky bottom and pressed her back against the cushions at his side, nudging her knees farther apart, making room for himself as she gasped and grabbed his shoulders, her dark lashes casting shadows beneath her blue, blue eyes.

He held himself aloft, giving her the opportunity to change her mind. Instead, she linked her ankles behind his back and lifted herself against him, restlessly reaching for his sheathed member and positioning him against her slick portal.

Trace groaned and entered her. She was much tighter than he’d expected. He ground his teeth, fighting the desire to thrust in to the hilt, and instead withdrew, watching as her mouth bowed open and her breasts trembled from need. He entered her again, sinking another inch into her honeyed depths. He was about to pull back out when she used the power of her legs to force him the rest of the way down, until her pelvis met his.

All coherent thought fled from Trace’s crowded brain…

Chapter Four

JO HAD IMAGINED this moment in a thousand different ways. But she hadn’t anticipated the little details that combined to blow her mind. Like the way Trace looked down at her, his expression reflecting an internal battle—ride her like the wild mustang she was, or try to tame her with soft whispers.

She wanted to be broken.

More, she wanted to break him.

Guessing that the intimacy of being face-to-face was what held him back, she shifted until she was free, and then rolled over and raised herself up on all fours, lifting her bottom and reaching between her legs to reestablish the connection.

His groan told her he approved of the new position. Within seconds, he was filling her to overflowing, thrusting into her with an urgency she’d been seeking but hadn’t been free to express until now.

Oh, yes…

The restless yearning she’d felt earlier pooled low in her belly, robbing her of breath, seizing her every muscle, propelling her every move as she pushed back against him, taking every inch of him in, holding tight when his deep thrusts increased in speed. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, his pelvis slapping against hers, the scents of latex and her juices and his sweat teasing her nostrils as her vision slowly darkened to a small circle of light. Until her entire body shivered and shuddered, awash in golden sensation.

This, oh yes, this, was what she had been seeking. And she now realized that only Trace Armstrong could have given it to her…

SOMETIME JUST BEFORE DAWN, Trace awakened to the sound of Alma making a racket in the kitchen, most likely in an effort to rouse him. He lay across the rumpled sheets, staring through the window at a bruised sky that the sun would soon heal. He didn’t have to look to the other side of the bed; he knew Jo was gone. Had felt her slip away an hour or so earlier to sneak out of the house, disguised by shadows, likely to head back to the bunkhouse. And then he’d finally dropped off to sleep himself, exhausted yet strangely exhilarated.

The image of her perfectly rounded bottom rose in his mind. Or rather, the raised outline of a mustang that had been burned into her skin. Obviously, the mark had been made long ago. And must have caused her a lot of pain, given the thickness of the pale, twisted scars he’d first felt with his fingers, then later visually examined.

She’d been branded.

Trace rubbed his eyelids with his thumb and index finger, trying to remember a time when he’d felt so…strange. Lighter, somehow. As if he’d just gotten a straight eight hours of sleep rather than a few stolen minutes here and there between bouts with Jo.

Alma banged a pan. He grinned and looked at the clock.

Shit. He was late.

He sprang from the bed, just then remembering that he’d left his clothes downstairs. He began to get a fresh pair of jeans from the drawer when he discovered that his discarded duds were draped over a nearby chair. Alma? He didn’t think so. Had Jo done it? Seemed likely, since Alma would have left the clothes there just so she had an opening for what would likely be a lengthy interrogation to find out who he’d had over the night before.

Definitely not a conversation he planned on having with her. Or with anyone else, for that matter. What happened last night…

Well, what happened last night was a one-shot deal. Two adults looking for a little recreational sex.

He grimaced as he dressed. Who was he kidding? He didn’t do one-night stands. All right, he didn’t do them anymore.

So what did that mean, exactly?

“It means you’re going to have to keep your fly buttoned hard, and your stupid-fool grin buttoned even harder so that no one figures out that you’re having an affair with your only female ranch hand.”

He went downstairs to grab a handful of whatever Alma was cooking up, then head out the door to where the guys were already gathering at the stables.

AS WAS USUAL every third day, Trace wouldn’t be going out on the range with the men. Instead, he would stay around the ranch offices, seeing to business and catching up on paperwork. He noticed that Jo was hanging around the fringe of the crowd, not quite out of sight, but not making her presence obvious, either. And Trace couldn’t exactly single her out to see how she felt about what had transpired between them the night before.

Vern followed him into the stables. “What’s the plan, Boss?” the older man asked, matching his stride.

“Like we discussed yesterday?”

“Yeah, the back nine.”

Trace looked at him. “Sheriff Brody catch up with you last night?”

“Yep. I told him I’d get information about the latest two hands we hired on a couple months back.”

“Jackson and Milford?” Trace asked.

“That’d be them.”

“Miss Dorie can probably see to that for you.”

“Which is why I’m coming in with you.”

Trace chuckled as they reached the “offices” at the back of the stables, a couple of glass-enclosed rooms. He held open the door for Vern, but the older man motioned for him to go in first.

“Miss Dorie can see to what?” a voice demanded.

“Good morning, Miss Dorie,” Trace said to his office manager. He was long past being shocked by her teased orange hair and thick, catlike eyeliner. She was easily old enough to be his mother, but she dressed like she was ready for a night on the town instead of a day in the office, with her tight knit pants and brightly colored blouse. “You’re in early.”

“I’m in at the same time I’m in every day.”

A couple of years back Trace had heard one of the men wonder if she spent her nights out, and came straight to work after, which would explain why she was dressed the way she was. Trace hadn’t wanted to pursue the line of thought. He knew she was a widow of ten years, and had grown children that had been raised pretty much as Trace and Eric’s brothers. Beyond that, he didn’t care to speculate what she did with her time.

If he noticed that Clinton West, the stable manager, hung around the office more than he should, well, that was their business, not Trace’s. So long as the obvious flirtation didn’t interfere with their work, it was no never mind to him.

Vern had taken off his hat in deference to her, and wished her a good morning.

“So you must be the one with the request,” she said with a smile. “What can I do for you, Vern?”

Trace leafed through the messages on her desk while the two talked about the latest hires and getting the information to the sheriff’s office.

“I can see to that before lunch,” Miss Dorie promised.

Vern expressed his appreciation, then began backing toward the door, part of a generation that didn’t cotton to a man turning his back on a woman.

“I’ll walk you out,” Trace said, putting the messages down again.

“You want me to get Doc Nelson on the line?” Miss Dorie asked.

“I’ll see to it when I get back.”

“Remember, we’ve got the barbecue this weekend and need to nail down the odds and ends,” she called after him.

Trace closed the door behind him. While it wasn’t possible to completely prevent the stable smell from permeating the offices, there was no sense in letting in more of it than he could help.

“What do you know about Jackson and Milford?” he asked Vern.

The foreman put his hat back on and positioned it as they walked. “Not much. They’ve both worked for Johnson, and they’ve been doing good since hiring on, but beyond that, I couldn’t say.”

“Art Johnson?” he asked, recalling that it had been one of Art’s daughters who had been raped.

“That would be the one.”

Trace frowned. “Isn’t Jackson the hothead?” He remembered an incident about a week or two back. The younger man had nearly charged one of the regular ranch hands when he asked Jackson to clean up after himself.

“That’s him. But he only gets that way after he’s knocked back a couple.”

“He go out at night by himself?”

“Not as I can tell. Pretty much sticks around the place even on his nights off. Says he’s got a wife and couple kids up in Abilene, but doesn’t make much of an effort to go see ‘em.” Vern shrugged. “I’m thinking maybe family problems.”

“Maybe.” They stopped walking just outside the stable doors. “You might want to keep a closer eye on him.”

The foreman nodded. “Will do. Anything else?”

Trace’s gaze took in the hands as they finished saddling up. He spotted Jo. If his extra attention to the new men and the sheriff’s words had anything to do with their one female ranch hand, he wasn’t owning up to it. He was a concerned citizen and boss, nothing more, nothing less. And it wasn’t good business to have a rapist on the payroll.

“No, no. You go on ahead. Give me a yell on the satellite phone if you run into any problems.”

“Yes, sir.”

THE DAY OUT ON THE DUSTY, hot range had seemed longer than most. Jo took off her hat and dragged the cuff of her shirt across her sweaty forehead. Never had she been so glad to spot the Wildewood Ranch on the horizon. It was all she could do not to prod her horse into a gallop and run full out for the man who had occupied her thoughts throughout the day.

Instead, she dropped back, taking up the right flank of the herd and shouting for Scout to nip at the heels of a stubborn steer that had veered out of line.

The black-and-white border collie did his job and then came back to her. Was he favoring his back leg? It appeared so. She’d have to see if maybe he had a stone lodged in his paw.

Minutes later, the herd was in the paddock, and she was turning her horse over to a stable hand for cooling down and feeding.

Jo stripped off her gloves and called for Scout to come to her. He ran back and forth in front of the stables, pretending to direct operations, then darted toward her. She crouched down and gave him a hearty scratch behind the ears.

“Good boy. You did a great job today.” She smoothed her hand down his side and reached for his back leg. He fought her. “Whoa, easy there. Let me just have a look.”

His panting filled her ears as he reluctantly allowed her to play doctor. She ran her thumb over the pad, checking for tenderness. There was no reaction.

She released him and patted him again, accepting a single lap to the chin before he scrambled back toward the stables, where one of the hands had filled his water bowl.

“Arthritis.”

Jo slowly got up, the sound of Trace’s voice behind her making her instantly aware of everything that had passed between them the night before. “Pardon me?”

He was standing with his hands on his hips, his gaze on the dog. “The best Doc Nelson can figure is that Scout has a touch of arthritis in his back right hip.” Trace’s eyes slid to her and she caught her breath. The setting sun caught him at just the right angle, turning his brown eyes to gold. “Scout’s going on twelve years old. Most dogs his age are already retired.”

She smiled, smacking her gloves against her palm to rid them of dust before tucking them into her back jeans pocket. “But not Scout.”

“No, not Scout. Vern thinks he’ll just up and disappear while out on the range one day, and we’ll never see him again.”

Jo knew some animals were given to that wild behavior. A sort of long, final walk to the next incarnation.

“I’ve thought about putting a leash on him and keeping him at the stables…” Trace murmured, as if thinking aloud.

“No. No, don’t do that. That’ll kill him even quicker.”

“That’s what I thought, too.”

The dog in question finished slurping up water and headed back, wildly wagging his tail. Trace crouched down and Scout instantly flipped over for a thorough belly rub. Jo’s own belly suddenly felt warm. What she wouldn’t give to throw herself at Trace’s feet and have him rub her tummy…

He looked up at her from under the rim of his black hat. Hell if she didn’t think he knew exactly what was on her mind.

“Hey, Boss, you coming out to the bunkhouses for dinner?” Jackson asked as he passed.

Trace rose to his feet. “Not tonight. I have a couple of things to finish up before I call it a day.”

Jo took that as her cue to head off with the other hands, pretending she wasn’t disappointed that she wouldn’t be seeing him again that night.

Chapter Five

JO STEPPED OUT OF the small bathroom connected to her room at the far end of the bunkhouse, rubbing a towel over her wet hair. She was fully dressed, in jeans and a T-shirt, her bare feet making soft sounds against the bare wood of the floor. Once a week a cleaning person came through, but being tidy herself, she couldn’t be sure when, because she never saw her or him, only detected the scents of pine cleaner and bleach.

She picked up her watch from the dresser. Half past nine. Despite the previous evening’s activities, she wasn’t anywhere near tired. She put the watch back down and tossed the towel over the back of the desk chair.

As far as lodgings went, her room was one of the best in the long bunkhouse. It had probably been built with visiting clients in mind, and was more spacious than the others. She had little doubt that she’d been put here to keep her separate from the guys at the other end. She’d seen their rooms, and near as she could tell, they were assigned two to a room, with either twin beds or bunks. The large community room with pool tables, a fireplace and a large-screen TV divided their rooms from hers.

She had her own television, in a small sitting area with a love seat and coffee table, at one end of the room, a queen-size bed at the other. And the space was decorated in a way the others were not, with flowery curtains over the miniblinds, a matching bedspread, and contrasting striped upholstery on the furniture. A bit like a nice suite in a hotel rather than a typical bunkhouse room with shared bathroom.

Jo knew she was being given preferential treatment because of her sex, but at least she didn’t have to worry about a snoring cowboy sleeping in the bunk above hers.

And she didn’t have to worry about anyone noticing her coming and going.

She opened the door and leaned against the jamb, looking at the brightly lit main house nearly a quarter of a mile away. The house she’d left early that morning.

Should she head up there again?

Her answer came by way of her chirping cell phone.

She sighed and stepped back to the dresser. While she didn’t get great reception out on the range, Trace had set up a tower near the stables to ensure access on the ranch.

She glanced at the caller ID.

Her mother.

Lately, it seemed if it wasn’t her mother, it was Carter, who presumably had stayed in the area with the hope that she’d change her mind and invite him over again. She had no intention of doing that.

Jo frowned and considered letting the call go to voice mail. But she knew that ignoring Miss Daisy Mae’s call now would make it doubly worse the next time she talked to her.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Oh! You startled me, JoEllen. Dear me, I’ll never get used to that caller ID. What happened to the good old days when someone didn’t know who you were?”

Jo didn’t bother to point out that she would know the call was from her mother regardless. She was the only one who phoned her outside of Carter.

“How was your day, dear?” her mom asked.

“I’ve ridden worse.” Jo picked up her towel from the back of her chair and hung it on the bathroom door handle, as if her mother could see that she wasn’t keeping her room tidy. “How’s Pa?”

“Your father is well. He finished that birdhouse he’s been working on for me this evening.”

“That’s nice.” Since he’d retired from ranch life himself, her father’s days were filled with being at his wife’s beck and call, catering to her every whim. And her whims could be doozies. Constructing multistoried birdhouses was one of the tamer requests. “Give him a hug from me.”

“I don’t see why I should. You’ll be here tomorrow to give him one directly.”

Jo sat down on the bed and ran her fingers through her damp hair. Tomorrow was one of her two days off, the second being Saturday. Some of the hands stuck around the ranch on their off days, others went to wherever they called home.

Jo went to her parents’ place.

“You’re right. I’ll give him a hug myself tomorrow.”

She sensed her mother’s sigh of relief. Could she have somehow picked up on Jo’s intention to cancel the visit, as she had the past two times? More than likely. Of course, it didn’t exactly take a NASA astrophysicist to work out the odds.

“I was hoping that you could stop at that little doughnut shop downtown on your way over tomorrow, sweetie. You know, to pick up one of those bourbon pecan pies I like so much.”

Jo fixed the right cuff of her jeans. “Sure, Mother.”

“That’s a good girl.”

She swallowed hard and looked up at the ceiling. “Is there anything else? It’s been a really long day and I’m beat.”

“No. No, that’s all. I just wanted to make sure you were still coming, so I don’t have your father get out the good china for nothing.”

Jo didn’t bother telling her that she didn’t have to get out her good anything, that she wasn’t coming over to drink tea out of tiny teacups, but to see how they both were doing. She knew her words would only fall on deaf ears.

“I’m coming. Good night, Mother.”

“Good evening, JoEllen Sue. Sleep well.”

Jo slowly took the cell from her ear and pressed the disconnect button, sitting for long moments staring at the piece of technology that had allowed her mother to follow her all over the world, when all Jo wanted to do was escape.

There was a sound outside the open door. She immediately slid her hand under her pillow, her fingers molding over the cool, hard metal of her M9 Beretta. The instant the shadow appeared, she pulled the gun and held it on the unexpected visitor.

Trace held up his hands and grinned. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think shooting the boss is a good idea.”

Jo blinked once. Then twice. Had the man who’d occupied so many of her thoughts all day just materialized in her doorway? Or was she imagining things? Her gaze flicked down his tall, muscular frame and then back again. She licked her lips. He had to be there. Because her imagination wasn’t nearly this good.

She slid the safety back into place and put the firearm on the bedside table. “Yes, I’d say it rates right up there with sleeping with the boss.”

“Regrets?”

She shook her head. “Merely stating facts.”

Jo met his heated gaze, feeling the same sizzle she’d come to expect every time their eyes met. Damn, but he had an effect on her that she couldn’t cool down with any size bucket of cold water.

Trace glanced around. “Mind if I come in?”

“You own the place.”

“I meant, am I welcome?”

She held his gaze.

He came in and shut the door.

Jo immediately felt the heat ignite into a full-out fire. She got up from the bed and moved toward the bathroom. “Pour yourself a drink if you’d like. Fix one for me while you’re at it.”

“What’ll you have?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

Jo closed the bathroom door behind her and leaned against the smooth wood, surprised to find herself out of breath, as if she’d just run an eight-minute mile rather than walked five feet.

She caught her reflection in the mirror, grimacing at her faded purple high school varsity T-shirt and loose-fitting jeans, her regular bedroom attire. No silky nighties for her.

At least her undergarments were one hundred percent pure Victoria’s Secret. Yes, while even she bucked falling into the traditional roles, she wasn’t without her wicked interest in sexy underwear. A passion that Trace had seemed to appreciate last night.

Of course, she couldn’t exactly walk back into the bedroom in nothing but her bra and panties. Well, she could, but she wasn’t going to. Instead, she stepped to the sink, took out a hair dryer she rarely used, and applied scant makeup that she rarely wore. A citrusy lotion was about as close to perfume as she got.

Minutes later, she stared at her reflection again. Was it her, or did her eyes look a little bit brighter? Her lips a little bit plumper? Her gaze dropped to the front of her shirt, finding her breasts high, her nipples clearly visible. She ran her palms over them and shivered in response, anticipation coursing through her veins.

She hadn’t had an inkling that Trace would show up at her room tonight. In fact, she’d pretty much accepted that if there was going to be a repeat of last night, it would come at her doing. The fact that he appeared to want her as much as she wanted him made her hot in areas she normally didn’t pay a great deal of attention to.

Jo finally exited the bathroom, to find him sitting on the edge of the small sofa, sifting through her selection of CDs.

“Interesting collection.”

She smiled. “Find anything you like?”

He looked at her over his shoulder. “I see a lot I like.”

She was a Southern rock kind of girl, the louder the better. But somehow she got the impression that he wasn’t talking about her taste in music.

He raised a CD case. “Do you mind?”

“Go ahead.”

He fed the disc into the player located under the TV, and within moments strains of the Eagles filled the room. He switched off the television, then sat down on the love seat and held up a glass in her direction.

Jo rounded the coffee table and sat down next to him, accepting his offering. She coughed when she got a mouthful of plain soda. She lifted a brow.

“You told me to get you what I was having,” he stated.

“So I did.”

He stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossing his boots at the ankle. Jo watched the move, appreciating the hard line of his thighs, the way his jeans bunched at his crotch. Damn, but he was a tall glass of sweet tea. She could climb on top of him right now and not want for a single thing for the next six hours.

Instead, she stayed right where she was, allowing her right arm to brush against his left, the only sounds those of the CD and the ice clinking in their glasses.

“Is this a date?” she asked, staring at their reflection in the blank TV screen.

“Date?”

She shifted on the cushion, folding her right foot under her other knee and resting her elbow on the back of the sofa. “Yeah, you know, those things that people go on or schedule in order to talk or eat before they screw.”

His grin was as filthy as her words. “Anyone ever tell you that you have a crude mouth?”

She smiled back. “Just about everybody I come across.”

She rubbed her eyebrow with the pad of her thumb, remarkably satisfied to be sitting there looking at him. Just looking at him.

She’d never been a girl given to mooning over a man. She was either attracted to someone or she wasn’t. And things pretty much escalated after that. Even in high school, she hadn’t been the hand-holding, meandering-down-the-hall-and-staring-up-into-her-beau’s-eyes type. She had too little time on her hands, so she’d figured out pretty quickly that she’d have to learn how to put those same hands to good use with the time she did have.

She glanced at her knee. Of course, there were other reasons for her actions. Mostly, she’d been needed at home. And when she hadn’t been home, she’d been thinking about what she’d have to do when she got there.

“Uh-oh. No filthy words now?” Trace asked.

“Huh?” She looked at him. “Oh.” She offered up a smile. “What, do you want to hear me say the word screw again?”

He chuckled.

“I don’t know what it is with men. You’d think women never used profanity, the way y’all react.”

“Tell me, is it something that you and your girlfriends do frequently?”

“Cuss? Hell yeah.”

Of course, she really didn’t have any girlfriends. She’d learned a long time ago that it was better to fly solo than to face uncomfortable explanations.

“But enough about me,” she said. “I want to hear more about this brother.”

His eyes darkened. “I didn’t realize we were talking about you.”

Jo got the impression that his change in expression had everything to do with her mention of his brother.

She held up her hand. “I don’t need to know all that,” she said. “So what’s say we keep it simple.”

He cleared his throat and reached for his soda. “Fair enough. Just so long as you know that I’m going to be asking a few questions of my own…”

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