How to Handle a Cowboy (3 page)

The woman grabbed Ridge's arm again, nearly pulling him to the floor. She couldn't seem to make up her mind. Half the time she was running away from him, and the other half she was clinging to him like he was the last floating oar from the
Titanic
.

She was claustrophobic, apparently, and afraid of the dark too. She also seemed to be a little afraid of him.

It was a shame those three things had to come together in one small room, because she didn't seem to be afraid of much else. Before the door had locked, he'd noticed that she carried herself with a lot of confidence. And when she talked about the possibility of the ex-con parents coming after the kids, she seemed totally in control.

But now? Scared to death.

With horses, the first step in fighting fear was to identify the source. The second step was touch—a touch and a promise.

The promise he made to horses was that he'd never hurt them, but he couldn't make that promise to Sierra Dunn. The last time he'd had anything to do with a woman, he'd screwed up so badly, he wasn't sure either of them would ever recover. Shelley had told him the best thing he could do for her was to stay away, and he'd followed her orders with a sense of failure mixed with relief.

He'd stay away from this woman too, once they got out of here. But right now, he needed to calm her down. He could hear her scrabbling her way around the room, feeling her way toward the door. When she found it, she hammered it with her fists.

“Hey.” He crossed the room in a single step and took her wrists in his hands. “It's all right. You're all right. Shh. Shh.”

She hammered on him like she'd been hammering on the door and then attempted to stomp on his instep. Fortunately, it was tough for her to aim in the dark, and all she managed to do was lose her balance and fall against his chest.

“Shh. Easy.”

The darkness that stole his sight heightened all his other senses, and he could feel her pulse fluttering in her wrists like hummingbird wings thrumming against his fingers. He could smell her again too—that tantalizing combination of sage and violets. Unfortunately, it was combined with his own scent—leather and horse, hay and probably sweat. He did most of his work in the morning, and he worked hard. Today had been no exception.

“Breathe,” he said anyway.

She inhaled, exhaled. Her breaths were choppy at first, but gradually they lengthened and slowed. He was starting to wonder who was sniffing who. She seemed to be inhaling his scent the way he'd inhaled hers earlier.

“Mmm.” She made a little sound that hummed against his chest. A sexy little sound that upped his pulse till it probably matched hers.

“Caress,” she said.

Well, that was direct.

He wasn't used to women giving orders, but if that's what she needed, it was okay with him. Releasing her wrists, he stroked her hair, surprised to notice that his hand was trembling.

She caught her breath suddenly, almost choking.

“Come on, honey. Breathe.” She was so close now that his own breath must be tickling her ear. After a while, the soft tempo of her breathing matched his own.

“That's good,” he murmured as if he was speaking to a fractious colt. “That's good. Nothing's going to hurt you. Nothing, ever.”

He felt her draw in a quick, startled breath. Still afraid.

He held her tighter, rubbing one hand up and down her back in a slow, soothing motion.

“Nothing,” he repeated. “Not while I'm here.”

He could feel her muscles giving and relaxing, one by one. He'd apparently calmed her down. Unfortunately, the situation was having the opposite effect on him. If she stood any closer, she'd know exactly how he felt.

This wasn't some animal he was calming. This was a woman, with breath as sweet as her scent and skin so soft he couldn't resist running his thumbs over the smoothness of her wrists. He didn't know how it had happened, but it felt as if the two of them were wrapped in a warm, fragrant cocoon. The world faded away as they swayed in a soft dance as old as time.

And then she stiffened and jerked away like a startled colt.

Whatever had just happened between them was over, but she didn't run away. Instead, she stood perfectly still, the way a horse does when it's deciding whether to give in or spin off and run.

It was then he realized that the office wasn't completely dark. There was a transom above the door, a narrow window of frosted glass that allowed in enough light for her wide, frightened eyes to glint in the dark.

“What do you think you're doing?” she asked.

“I have no idea.” He cleared his throat. “You said caress, so I—well, I did.”

She started to shake. Dang it, was she getting all scared again?

But then she let go and laughed. And laughed. Her laugh was crystalline and bright, the agile notes rising in the still air of the closet.

“I was talking about soap.
Caress
,” she stuttered through her laughter. “That's what you
smell
like. It wasn't an
order.
”

He had no idea what kind of soap he was using. Something Shelley had left behind. He pictured the box—pink with a flower on it. Yeah, it was probably called
Caress
or something like that.

“It just surprised me that you smelled so good, so I said it.” She was still struggling to get control of her laughter. “Caress.”

“What did you think I'd smell like?”

“What did I
think
?” She was laughing again. “Have you
seen
yourself? Your jeans are torn, your boots look like you dipped 'em in horse hooey, and your hat…” She struggled to catch her breath. “I'm sorry, but you look like you've been rolling around in a barn. Best-case scenario, I figured you'd smell like the front end of a horse. Worst case, the back end.”

She leaned against the wall beside him, her tension dissolving into unfettered laughter. Most women tittered or giggled. This woman let loose with happy whoops. He wondered what she sounded like when she…

No. He gave himself a mental smack. Then he gave himself another one, because he was still thinking about what a woman that uninhibited would sound like in bed.

She finally ran out of laughter and clutched her stomach, struggling for control of her breathing. At least it was for all the right reasons this time.

Well, not
all
the right reasons. The rightest reason of all…

He wasn't going to think about that.

In the hazy light from the transom, he could just make out her face. He hadn't noticed before how delicate it was. With her slanted cheekbones, big eyes, and pointed chin, she reminded him of a fairy in some old kids' book. Although fairies didn't wear black skirts and leather jackets.

He realized he was staring and looked away. They had a problem to solve, and big eyes and cheekbones weren't going to help.

In fact, Tinker Bell herself was starting to be a bit of a problem. Whatever had just happened might have been a mistake, but it felt important somehow. He'd made her that promise—the promise he made to his animals.
Nothing's going to hurt you. Not while I'm here.

He'd never broken that promise, and that meant he needed to do his best to help her. But he also needed to stop thinking about how good she smelled and how pretty she looked and how he'd felt when she'd rested her head against his chest. Because this was not the time for him to take up with another woman.

He was still worn out from the last one.

He struggled to think of something to defuse the situation, but he'd never been good with words. In fact, he'd said more to this woman in the last half hour than he'd said in the past month.

Fortunately, Tinker Bell took over.

“Okay, listen,” she said. “We need to straighten this out.”

There was a time when he'd have been relieved to have a woman take charge of the situation, but he knew better now. He'd let Shelley take charge, and suddenly she'd started going on about weddings and babies. Now would be a good time to walk away, but he was locked in a danged closet.

“I'm sorry about the
Caress
thing,” she continued. “I can see how you might have misinterpreted it. Although…” She cocked her head and gave him a curious look. “Do women often order you to caress them when you've only known them for half an hour?”

“No,” he said. Actually, he'd had some pretty direct requests from strange women. But caressing? Not exactly.

“Anyway,” she said, “let's just forget that happened. You're not my type and I have a feeling I'm not yours, either.”

“Right.” All he could do was agree, but why did he feel like a liar? Worse yet, why did he feel disappointed? He should be relieved, but it was kind of a letdown to hear her say it.

How did she know he wasn't her type?

One thing was for sure: he wasn't in nearly as much of a hurry to get out of the closet.

If Ridge had learned anything from ranching, it was to be adaptable. When you couldn't fix something with barbed wire, you tried duct tape.

But there was no barbed wire in Sierra's office and probably no duct tape either. Squinting into the dark recesses of the closet, he took in the sparse furniture.

“Maybe if I stood on the chair, I could reach the transom.”

“And do what?”

He eyed the narrow window over the door. “Open the transom. Push you through it.”

“So I could break my head open on the floor on the other side?”

“You have a better idea?”

Instead of answering, Sierra grabbed the chair and hoisted it in the air, shoving it at Ridge legs-first, like a lion tamer at the circus. Taking it from her, he set the chair down in front of the door and placed one booted foot on the seat.

“Wait,” Sierra said. “Maybe this isn't such a good…”

Crack.

It was too late. He'd already shifted his weight and launched himself up toward the transom. There was another sharp crack as the chair leg closest to the bookcase collapsed.

Good thing he had a lot of experience with dismounts. Hopping nimbly backward, he grabbed a shelf for balance. The bookshelf tilted ominously, swayed, then slowly returned to its upright position.

“I forgot,” she said. “I use that chair because it's broken.”

“Right. And you like broken chairs because…”

“Well, I don't want one of the boys getting hurt. Sorry.”

“Fine.”

She stepped toward him and the light from the transom slanted across her face. The woman sure knew how to smile. The glow of her lit up the room, and the moment seemed to draw out a little, as if there'd been an extra couple of seconds added to that particular minute.

Maybe that was why he stood there, transfixed, as the bookcase groaned and tilted away from the wall in slow motion, vomiting its entire contents onto the floor like a messy drunk who'd downed too many psychology texts.

Standing knee-deep in books, he could hear Tinker Bell trying to stifle her laughter. Darn it, the woman was always laughing at him. The worst thing was, he didn't blame her. He felt like he was in the middle of some old silent comedy, where the intrepid hero tried to save the girl and met with one disaster after another.

The only way to save his dignity was to actually save the girl.

“Here.” He bent at the waist, cupping his hands and lacing his fingers together. “I'll give you a leg up. See if you can get that transom open.”

Cautiously, she set one foot in his interlaced hands. Her heels were liable to skewer him if he didn't concentrate, but he couldn't help moving his gaze upward, taking in the shadowy outline of ankles, calves, knees, thighs—and the little black skirt that topped it all off.

His gaze paused at a tattoo peeping out between the waistband of her skirt and the hem of her top. It was a curving tendril that might have been anything from the stem of a flower to the tail of a dragon, and he wished he could hoist the top a little higher and check it out.

Combine a mysterious tattoo with blond hair that somehow managed to be short and gloriously unruly at the same time, and green eyes that gave away every nuance of her changing moods, and you had one intriguing package. Better yet, she'd let him caress her and hadn't asked for anything in return. In fact, she'd even insisted they forget the whole thing. He wondered what else she'd let him forget about.

“Will you quit checking me out?”

“Sorry.”
The
foot, the foot, the foot. Only look at the foot.
“Ready?”

She nodded. Estimating her weight, he hoisted her into the air with what he hoped was just the right amount of gusto.

And bonked her head on the ceiling.

“Ow.” She slid down, landing on a book that had ended up facedown on the floor. Executing a brief version of the Charleston, she wound up standing in the only clear place on the floor—which put her practically on the toes of his cowboy boots.

They were standing toe to toe, with Sierra's hands clutching his shoulders. The position brought her body right up to his, and he could feel the soft, warm give of her breasts. When she twisted against him, he wasn't sure if she was trying to get closer to him or get away.

That was the trouble with women. You could never tell what they were thinking. With men, there were obvious physical signs of attraction.

Physical signs he needed to get control of right now.

“Hold on.” She popped up on her toes and nearly bopped him in the face with the top of her head. “I'm sure I can get up there if I…”

The sentence ended in a grunt as she gripped him around the neck and wrapped one long leg around his waist. Good Lord. She was going to climb him like a tree. He felt like he was going to pass out.

“Can you maybe help a little?” She had one foot still around his waist, while the other still stood tippy-toe on his boot, grinding his toes into bonemeal.

“Sure. How?”

“I don't know. Give me a boost.”

“Is that the name of a soap or anything?”

“No! I mean it.”

“All right.” Reaching down, he palmed a butt cheek in each hand and hoisted her up toward the transom. All he succeeded in doing was bringing the panties under that little black skirt to face level.

“This isn't going to work.” She seemed totally oblivious to his arousal as she slid slowly down the front of his body, clinging to him like a very attractive monkey as she went. Finally, she stepped away, scratching her head and looking from him to the transom.

“Maybe you should bend over and put your head between my legs.”

“
What?
” At this point, he couldn't tell if she was trying to get out of the closet or act out the first five chapters of the
Kama
Sutra
.

“Like in the swimming pool.” She spoke slowly, as if he was stupid. “As if we're playing chicken.”

She picked her way carefully over the fallen books to her desk and hopped on top.

“Come on. Hurry.” She jigged impatiently from one foot to the other. Either she was one impatient woman, or she needed to get to the ladies' room.

Well, he sure wished
that
thought hadn't crossed his mind. Now he had more needs than he knew what to do with.

Pushing his physical troubles out of his head, he edged through the narrow pathway then turned around so she could clamber onto his shoulders.

“Okay.” He started to straighten his back and she gave a little screech. He didn't realize what was wrong until he heard the now-familiar
thunk
of her head against the ceiling.

“Oops.” He bent his back and struggled through the pathway to the door. “You okay?”

“Sure,” she said. “I'm locked in a closet with a total stranger, riding around on his shoulders and clonking my head repeatedly against the ceiling.” She waved her arms, struggling to balance on his shoulders without hitting her head again. “Who wouldn't be okay?”