His mouth covered hers—hungry, searching. His Stetson dropped to the ground as his arms encircled her shoulders, and he pulled her tight against his chest.

This isn’t prudent. She should squirm free so she could tell him what she needed to tell him, but she had no inclination to resist. She wanted only to float in the pleasure.

His heated tongue requested entrance past the barrier of her teeth. His eager fingers stroked her throat. He growled low and insistent, the rough, masculine sound igniting a wildfire deep in the recesses of her aching abdomen.

“Oh, Savvy,” he exclaimed, letting go of her just long enough to breathe in a gulp of air. “It’s been too long.”

She surrendered. Fully, unconditionally, without a fight.

Her weak body was as starved for him as he was for her. She tilted her head back to give him easier access, welcoming his tender invasion, heralding his long-anticipated return, savoring his delicious taste—a provocative combination of peppermint and lemonade.

A dizzy giddiness swept through her. Time halted, reversed. She felt twenty-three again—young, ripe, ready for his loving.

Her fingers threaded through his hair as she tugged his head down, down. How had she survived without him, without this, for two lonely years? Unshed tears collected in her throat. She’d made so many mistakes.

One of Matt’s hands slipped beneath her blouse, caressed her bare stomach.

Torture, pure torture. She wanted him so desperately, yet she knew she couldn’t have him. Not until she told him the truth, and when she revealed her secret, would he still want her?

Savannah moaned.

A sound pricked her ears. A muffled whimper, then a full-blown cry.

Cody.

She placed both hands on Matt’s chest and pushed. “No.”

Matt blinked, disoriented as if he’d been dragged from a heavenly dream into the harsh reality of daylight. “What is it?” he rasped, his dark hair askew.

“Cody.” She hurried toward the playpen.

Bending over, she picked up her son, their son, and tried to ignore the throbbing of her kiss-blistered lips.

Matt came up behind her. “Savvy?”

She refused to turn around. If she met his gaze, she feared she might burst into tears.

“I’m sorry, I was completely out of line,” he said.

She shook her head, unable to speak. No, she’d been the one out of line. She should have told him about his son when she’d first got pregnant. But he’d been gone, and her mother was so sick, and Gary had been there, offering her comfort and support. And when she had gone to see him, he’d been with Jackie Spencer.

“I didn’t come here to kiss you.”

“I know,” she squeaked. “It just happened. We best forget it.”

Matt stuck his hands in his front pockets and focused his attention on the tips of his boots. Why had he succumbed to the temptation of her full, lush mouth? He’d sworn he wouldn’t kiss her again and look what had happened. He was a law enforcement officer. He’d been taught strength, restraint, self-control, yet one look into Savannah’s gold-green eyes, and he’d crumbled like a cookie in a glass of warm milk.

Dammit.

He yearned to comfort her, to tell her everything was going to be all right, but they weren’t kids anymore. They both knew such words smacked of mindless platitudes. Life just didn’t work that way.

“Savannah, if you could get me Gary’s ranching records, I’ll conclude my business and be on my way.”

She nodded and held her shoulders stiff. “They’re in the house. In Gary’s desk.”

He followed her, feeling woefully inept. They needed to talk, but Matt could not adequately articulate his feelings.

What had he expected when he’d kissed her? That she would ask him to take her back? That she would renounce her past mistakes, beg his forgiveness, tell him she loved him?

He snorted. Fairytales.

Cody smiled at him over Savannah’s shoulder. Such a cute kid. That grin affected him viscerally. Like a penny dropped into a bottomless well, Matt felt himself falling for the little scamp.

Matt grinned back, his spirits buoyed.

Savannah led Matt to a bedroom in the back of the house. He glared at the queen-size bed in the corner. Was this the bed she’d shared with Markum? Was this where they’d created Cody? That thought exploded in Matt’s mind like a rocket blast.

Why was he torturing himself? Forcefully, he pried his gaze from the quilt-covered bed to the slender young woman standing in front of him.

She burrowed through a scarred, antique, roll-top desk sitting off to one side. It was piled high with scraps of paper.

“I’m afraid it’s a mess.” Savannah cradled Cody’s head in her palm. “I even filed for an extension on my income tax because I couldn’t summon the courage to go through it.”

She sounded sad. Matt swallowed hard. Had she really loved Gary? Or had she married him on the rebound? Had she experienced with Gary the same wild passion he and she once shared?

His gaze strayed to the third finger of her left hand. Unexpected joy floated through him. Her ring finger was bare. She’d stopped wearing her wedding band.

Savannah stepped to the desk, her gently swaying hips causing a stir inside Matt. He had to stop this agonizing self-torture. Averting his gaze, he forced his mind onto the investigation and reviewed the evidence while he waited for her to find the papers.

One—his prime suspect, Julio Diaz, had been exonerated.

Two—he’d arrested the three men in San Antonio accused of stealing Kurt McNally’s belt buckle, and they’d readily confessed to robbing the other five ranches, but all four denied knowing anything about the missing Santa Gertrudis herd at the Circle B.

Three—two local scumbags, Brent Larkins and Hootie Thompson, had been slinging money around Kelly’s and bragging about their sudden wealth. Although the two men might not have burglarized the Circle B, Matt’s instincts told him they’d been up to no good.

Four—some unknown Santa Gertrudis cattle had turned up in Midland with their brands altered.

“I think this is what you need.” Savannah’s voice broke into his thoughts as she handed him a thick manila folder.

“Thank you,” he said, fingering the brim of his Stetson.

“You’ll let me know when you hear something about my cattle?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

Matt stood there, feeling awkward. Savannah studied her son, evidently as discombobulated as he.

“Listen,” they both said at once.

“Go ahead.” Savannah emitted a nervous chuckle. “You first.”

“I’m sorry about that kiss.”

“Are you really?”

“No.”

“Me, either,” she said, giving him a shy grin from beneath lowered lashes.

At her words, he felt like a helium balloon let loose to soar into the clouds—free, unfettered, floaty. Did he stand a chance of winning her back?

Cody, his face nestled against Savannah’s breast, peeked sideways at Matt.

“Thanks for the paperwork.” He held up the manila folder. “I’ll return it as soon as I can.”

“No hurry.”

Savannah walked him to the front door, his heart pounding with the remembered promise of her soft lips. Common sense told him to proceed with caution, but something stronger, something intense, tempted him to throw discretion to the wind.

To keep from saying more than he should, Matt turned without a backward glance, got into his Jeep, and drove away.

Wanting to touch base with his most reliable contact, Matt stopped by Kelly’s on the way home. The heavy wooden door creaked in protest as Matt walked into the smoky room. He blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the darkened interior.

“Hey, Jimbo.” He waved at the bartender and plopped down on a stool. At four o’clock in the afternoon, the place was almost deserted.

“What’ll you have, Detective Forrester?” Jim placed a napkin on the bar in front of Matt.

“Water will do me just fine. And a little information.”

“I’m beginning to think you only come in here to pump me for secrets,” Jim said, filling a glass with ice and water from the tap.

Matt narrowed his gaze and stared at the two men at a corner table, hunched down in their chairs, their eyes trained on their beers. Brent Larkins and Hootie Thompson.

“Those two been around a lot lately?” Matt asked Jim, inclining his head in the direction of the unsavory duo.

Brent’s and Hootie’s rap sheets went way back to adolescence for shoplifting. They’d graduated to hot-wiring cars, illegal gambling, fencing stolen goods, and had eventually moved on to breaking and entering. Both had done a series of short stints at the state prison in Huntsville.

Jim nodded as he polished water spots from a glass with a hand towel. “And throwing lots of money around.”

“Any explanation for it?”

“Claimed they won a bundle on the ponies last Saturday.”

Matt ran a hand along his five o’clock shadow. Time to have a talk with Rascal’s resident thugs. He picked up his water glass, thrust out his chest, and sauntered over to their table.

“Howdy, fellas,” he greeted, pulling up a chair.

Hootie grunted and pulled a red cocktail straw through his unattractive teeth. Something about the gesture tugged at Matt’s memory.

“Whatcha want?” Larkins snarled, a trail of beer foam clinging to his scraggly mustache.

“I hear tell you men found yourselves some extra cash.” Matt kept his eyes on them. These two had a reputation for carrying concealed weapons. Matt noticed three mugs and at least a dozen empty beer bottles cluttering the table. Who had been keeping them company?

“Yeah,” Larkins challenged. “We scored big at the track last week. That ain’t illegal yet, is it?”

Hootie hee-hawed like a donkey and continued chewing the straw.

“I don’t suppose you two know anything about the cattle thefts out at the Circle B, do you?” Matt arched an eyebrow.

Brent Larkins made a face. “Why, Detective, are you accusing us of something?”

“Not at all. Just thought you might have some information.”

“We didn’t even know about it.” Larkins’s dirty fingers curled around his beer mug. “Till just now.”

The door to the nearby men’s room opened, and an old man stumbled out. Matt looked up to see Clement Olson swaying in the doorway, his eyes rounding in surprise when he spotted Matt.

“Hello, Clem,” Matt greeted him, a bad feeling snaking through his gut. This whole situation smelled mighty fishy. What was Savannah’s hired hand doing drinking with riffraff like Larkins and Thompson?

Clem stood frozen for a second. Then suddenly he bolted for the front door.

“Aw, hell,” Matt swore, getting to his feet and taking off after Clem. He pushed outside in time to see Clem disappear behind the Dairy Diner next door.

“Clem,” Matt shouted, sprinting to catch up to the panicky old man. “Wait.”

Clem halted next to a trash Dumpster. His whole body trembled as he raised both palms defensively. “I didn’t do nothing!”

“I just want to talk to you, Clem. What were you doing hanging out with those two?” Matt stepped closer, adopting a tough stance, feet wide apart, hands on his hips.

“They bought me a beer.” Clem wheezed, slightly short of breath.

“Is that all?”

Clem hung his head. “Yeah.”

“Savannah know you’re here?”

“No. You won’t tell her, will you?”

Matt sighed. “Only if you promise to go home and quit wasting your time hanging around those two.”

“I swear it.”

Placing his hand on Clem’s shoulder, Matt squeezed firmly. “See that you do.”

“I will. I promise.”

As he walked back to his Jeep, Matt turned the events over in his mind. The whole thing was suspicious. Clem passing the time of day with Larkins and Thompson. The old man worked for Savannah, and her livestock had come up missing at a time when cattle were conveniently disappearing all over the county. Hootie Thompson liked to chew up red cocktail straws, and Matt had found such a straw at the scene of the thefts. Matt didn’t like the scenario one bit. What he needed now, however, was solid evidence.

Gary Markum’s papers might hold the key. That and the Santa Gertrudis cattle with the altered brands that had turned up in Midland.

He sat in his Jeep, watching Clem meander back into the bar. Rolling his window down for air, Matt sighed. He picked up the manila folder and leafed through it. Gary Markum’s leisurely scrawl recorded cattle purchases, weather reports, feed bills.

Branding records, that’s what he needed. Something, anything to tie Clem, Larkins, and Thompson to the thefts. Matt kept searching.

Vaccination lists, calving times, notes on fencing repairs. He dampened his fingertip with the tip of his tongue, flipped the pages quicker. Invoices, bank statements, an insurance policy.

Insurance policy?

He extracted the six-page document underwritten by Texas Farmers Insurance, Todd Baxter, agent. A tight knot wadded in his throat as he clutched the paper in his fists. What he read sickened him.

Suddenly everything made an ugly, logical kind of sense.

A seventy-five-thousand-dollar insurance policy issued for twenty-four head of purebred Santa Gertrudis cattle.

Listed as sole beneficiary was one Savannah Markum.