Chapter Three
For a few moments after stepping outside, Rhys stood on the lodge’s back deck, his gaze unfocused as he mentally reviewed the changes he’d had to make within the last ten minutes. Something nagged his conscience, like he’d overlooked an important feature. He hated being rushed. That’s when mistakes were made—mistakes that sometimes resulted in team members getting hurt. Unwilling to rehash the incident that plagued his nightmares, he paced a few feet away and then returned.
Yesterday, he’d spent ninety minutes analyzing the best angles for the microphones he’d placed in the ground level of the Gallatin Cabin. The open layout and Tilda’s assurance that Caitlyn would be assigned the single bedroom helped his placement. But this last-minute change to place the listening devices in the double-wide modular containing three bedrooms stretched both his abilities and his supplies.
As the warm mid-day breeze wafted over him, he rolled his shoulders and walked toward the bunkhouse. A scan to check broadcast strength needed to be run before he could relax with the knowledge the coverage was complete. The known threat against the named subject occurred more than a thousand miles away. Probably he’d been assigned to maintain situational awareness solely to assuage the worries of a fat-cat CEO somewhere in the Midwest. The equipment he’d placed would get the job done.
Approaching the rough-planked building, he fished out the door key from his jeans pocket. From the sideways glances he received at morning chow, he suspected someone had been booted from a private room to the upstairs dormitory to accommodate his need for privacy. Or maybe the regulars were suspicious of the newest hire being tasked with transporting guests. As long as no one got in the way of him performing his duties, he’d put up with their stand-offish attitudes for the remaining eighty-four-hour duration.
Rhys opened the door to the bunkhouse common area and paused to listen for anyone else’s presence. Hearing nothing, he turned right toward his room. Giving the immediate area one more visual check over his shoulder, he unlocked the door and slipped inside. Every inch of the built-in desk and a small table he found in the garage storage were covered with his array of laptops, tablets, and receivers for the microphones he’d hidden.
He scanned the room to make sure everything looked the same as when he’d left. Satisfied nothing was amiss, he pulled on a headset and activated the program collecting the audio feeds, hitting the back arrow until he heard his own voice test. On another laptop, he noted the time in the microphone spreadsheet that the devices were verified as active, and then settled back to listen.
Glancing at the laptop clock, he figured the women would move to the modular soon to get the new arrival settled. As he waited, he reflected on the scene in the airport. Having the thin beautiful woman dressed in flowing clothes that hugged her curves approach his location had thrown him. This poised woman who looked like she belonged in a fashion magazine only vaguely resembled the photo in the client file. The way her reddish-blonde hair floated in waves around her face and shoulders distracted him. Then, like a fool, he’d blurted out his first thought uncensored.
The city girl’s surprised reaction was almost worth having to cover his gaff. Her cool blue eyes shot wide, and her pink lips pursed in a kissable pout. Even hours later, the memory of that pout was enough to set his blood thrumming double-time.
A clatter sounded in his earphones. He sat forward, staring at the tip of his scuffed boot as he heard a burst of conversation. Four women talking over each other’s words picked up from the four corners of the common space didn’t allow for discerning much of what they actually said.
Then the chatter slowed as they called out who had claimed what living space.
He analyzed the cadence, breathing pattern, and vocabulary of each so he could readily identify Caitlyn when she spoke. At first, the task was easy because questions were tossed her way. Then he didn’t hear her voice but instead heard the slide of drawers being opened and closed. Unpacking. The swish of clothes and clinking rattle of something unidentifiable felt like a shared personal experience.
“So, Caitlyn, I saw you couldn’t drag your gaze from the dreamy hand’s butt.”
“Oh, Jude, you’re seeing things. Probably because of your new friend, Gabe.”
Rhys sat up, a grin spreading his lips. The lanky blonde had checked him out? Interesting.
“Don’t go changing the subject. Whoa, you are tense. What’s going on?” The bed springs squeaked.
“Jude, I appreciate your concern, but really, I have nothing to share. I expect a good long ride on my favorite horse will reduce my tension. I was up at the crack of dawn and fought cross-town traffic to get to the airport in time to board the early flight.”
“Yeah, right. I’ll ask again after you’ve had a couple glasses of wine.”
“Okay.” A sigh sounded. “But now I can’t wait to gallop across the prairie.”
This city girl on a horse? He bet her jeans were brand new, and her boots didn’t have a single scuff mark.
“Hey, sis, give Caitlyn a few minutes to herself. We need to get back to the lodge.”
A chorus of goodbyes sounded followed by a few seconds of quiet. Then just a soft lyrical humming and the swishing of cloth came through the earpiece.
Rhys imagined the white silky blouse and flowered skirt slipping across her body. He closed his eyes and wondered what her skin felt like. In the photo, the color had looked pale but, in real life, her skin appeared creamy. A few freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. Would she have freckles in other places? The front of his jeans bulged, and he straightened his leg to relieve the pressure. That thoughts of freckled skin got him hot was a sign he’d been too long without a woman. One nighters with females met in New Mexican cantinas didn’t count, because only his body had been involved in those encounters.
Breathy gasps, throaty grunts, and a steady buzz drew his attention to the audio monitor. He adjusted the volume which only confirmed what he heard was the thin blonde using another method to relieve her tension. A pleasurable way that was always better shared with another. His conscience warred with his work ethic. Did he give her privacy, or did he ensure her safety?
Safety won, and he had to grit his teeth as he paced the restricted length of the earpiece cord and back. Because he was primed and aching—and knew his focus would not be sharp if this condition continued—he ripped off the earpiece and stalked to the bathroom. Holding the image of the strawberry-blonde’s face in his mind, he needed only a dozen firm strokes along his rock-hard cock to come with a muffled shout.
Giving the small sink a quick rinse, he splashed water on his face and over his hair. A quick cold shower was what he really needed. But that relief would have to wait until his subject was bedded down for the night. A groan emitted through his clenched jaw. Why did he have to put that image into his still-aroused thoughts?
After checking the equipment, he straightened his clothes, set his hat back on his head, and left the bedroom. He pocketed the key and double-checked the door was locked. Moments later, Rhys entered the shadowy barn and inhaled the earthy scents of hay and animals. Sunbeams slanted across the interior from the windows high in the hay loft. Walking down the middle aisle, he passed several empty stalls—each with a name placard. His boots crunched against stray pieces of straw on the concrete floors.
At the far end near the tack room, a few of the stalls were occupied. He stopped and looked over the backs of three horses—a roan with black tail, a creamy buckskin with long mane, and a dappled gray who changed position and stuck its head over the gate.
“Curious, are you?” He reached out a hand and scratched under the mare’s whiskery chin. “Hang tight. I need to get a brush.” With quick moves, he moved a free-standing stand near the stall gate and topped it with a saddle and blanket. Standing next to it, he judged the stirrups were a close fit.
Then, he collected the tools to curry and brush the horse. Long strokes of the brush over the horse’s shoulders and back soothed him probably more than they did the horse. Sliding the hoof pick from his back pocket, he made quick work of cleaning the gray’s hooves and checking the horseshoes. His mellow state of mind continued as he grabbed a pitchfork and wheelbarrow before starting to muck out the stall.
On the lobbyist assignment, he’d been on the clock during fourteen- to fifteen-hour days. The grueling schedule hadn’t allowed enough time for the type of comprehensive workouts he preferred on the hotel’s exercise equipment. He leaned the pitchfork against a nearby stall and rolled up the sleeves on his shirt. What he’d really like was to shed his shirt entirely but suspected employees here didn’t work bare-chested like he had in New Mexico. Moving to the next stall, he scooped and pitched, enjoying the strain on his shoulders, slowing only when his scar ached.
From the corner of his eye, he caught movement at the doorway. Instinct took over. His chest hitched, and he dropped to a crouch, reaching toward his left ankle. Before he cleared the Glock 23 from the holster, he heard a sweet voice crooning, “Aren’t you a big beautiful boy?”
After lowering his pant leg over the compact weapon, Rhys straightened and rested a forearm along the top rail of the stall. “Why, thank you, ma’am. You’re right pretty yourself.”
The city girl gasped and whirled, her reddish-blonde braid whipping over her shoulder. Under a beige Stetson, her eyes narrowed to a slit. “I’m talking to Big Red here.”
Seeing her cheeks blush pink conjured thoughts of what she must have looked like while satisfying her intimate needs. How he wished he’d been inside that tidy bedroom. He would have handled the situation to wring satisfaction from them both. Unable to stop the gesture, he gave her a wide grin. “Anything I can do to assist you, ma’am?”
“Yeah, stop calling me ‘ma’am’.” She scratched the roan’s nose and shot Rhys sideways glances. “I keep remembering that’s how you addressed Mrs. Greenville.”
He dipped his chin, taking the opportunity to gaze at her long legs accented by faded slim jeans. Her boots held plenty of scuff marks. At his error in judgment, he bit back a smile. The lady had just displayed some interesting contrasts. “Do you prefer Miss Auliffe or Caitlyn?”
“I hear Miss Auliffe enough in my professional life. Besides, I suspect we’re only a couple years apart in age.” She looked up and met his gaze. “You may call me Caitlyn.” She reached toward a post at the edge of the stall and removed a lead rope from a hook. After unlatching the gate, she led the horse into the aisle and over to the tack room.
“Right.” He collected the grooming tools he’d been using and approached the roan horse. “Allow me.”
Shaking her head, she held out her hand. “I enjoy grooming.”
Unwilling to give up this opportunity, he passed them over then retrieved another set from the tack room. “Can’t be caught letting a guest do all the work.”
“But I’m family.” She ran the brush over the roan’s dark mane.
He pressed a hand on his chest and widened his gaze, affecting an affronted air. “But you wouldn’t want me to put my job at risk, would you?” He watched as her brows wrinkled and she flicked her gaze at him and then away several times.
“Surely, Tilda wouldn’t…Oh, of course, I don’t.” Shaking her head, she waved a hand at the big gelding and continued brushing.
Her capitulation was quicker than he’d imagined, and he’d have to remember that excuse for future situations. Several minutes passed as they finished the grooming together. On his way to saddle the gray, he handed her the hoof pick. Best keep her occupied, or he’d turn his back and she’d be gone. Saddling the horse was easy enough, but he’d barely put the cinch through its ring when he spotted her grabbing a saddle blanket from a tall stack. He moved to the back wall where rounded supports stored a collection of saddles in several sizes. After a quick perusal, he lifted one down that looked the right size and carried it to the roan.
“I can do—“
“All part of the guest services here at Dream Vistas.” As he hefted the saddle onto the roan’s back, he brushed against her side, hearing her quick inhale. Where had he come up with this customer-first attitude? An aura of crisp citrus surrounded her, and he breathed it in as he secured the cinch. “Let me help you up, and I’ll adjust the stirrups.” He turned, ready to cup his hands as a step, and caught her staring. Their gazes tangled, and his pulse beat a crazy tattoo.
“You don’t move like a cowhand.” Her head tilted, and she ran her teeth over her bottom lip.
Caught. He stilled. What had given him away? He forced a grin and gave her what he hoped was a bad-boy, heavy-lidded look. “Been watching me that closely, huh? Can’t say that I mind.”
Her lips pursed, and her eye narrowed to a slit. She turned to grab the saddle horn.
Rhys stooped to capture her rising boot before she slid it into the left stirrup and gave her enough push so she could mount easily. He couldn’t resist cupping her calf to hold her foot in place. “How’s the length?” Firm muscles flexed under his fingers, and he fought the urge to caress them. Was she responding to his words or his touch?
“Down one hole, please.”
“Sure enough.” After the adjustment, he counted the empty holes and circled the front of Big Red to fix the other stirrup. As he worked, he analyzed why this woman was getting under his skin. If he’d seen her again in her sophisticated clothes, he probably could have maintained more distance. But this down-home woman who entered the barn possessed qualities that drew him.
“Thanks.” She clicked her tongue.
The roan trotted off down the aisle.
“Shit.” As quickly as he could, he finished cinching the gray—a glance at the stall informed him this mare was Stormy—and swung into the saddle. He couldn’t let the subject get out of sight.