Into the Arms of a Cowboy

  Into the

  Arms of a

  Cowboy

  STARFISH PRESS

  Copyright © 2012 by Isabella Ashe

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters and events in this work are figments of the author’s imagination.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE 3

  CHAPTER TWO 13

  CHAPTER THREE 21

  CHAPTER FOUR 30

  CHAPTER FIVE 40

  CHAPTER SIX 48

  CHAPTER SEVEN 56

  CHAPTER EIGHT 64

  CHAPTER NINE 72

  CHAPTER TEN 80

  CHAPTER ELEVEN 88

  CHAPTER ONE

  "My God, I just killed somebody."

  Even as Cassandra Carlisle whispered the words, her mind rebelled. She was a good person. A gentle person. When she found spiders in her bathroom, she nudged them into Mason jars and later set them free in Golden Gate Park. So how was it possible that she’d taken a human life?

  Cassie pulled onto a side street and eased her Mazda Miata up to the curb. She tugged the parking brake into place, then braced her forehead against the cool steering wheel. The cut above her right eye burned and stung. Her bruised cheekbone throbbed to the frantic rhythm of her heartbeat, but she ignored the pain.

  She considered herself basically optimistic. Upbeat. Energetic. Cheerful in the face of adversity. At this moment, however, her good humor had reached its lowest ebb.

  Murder had no silver lining.

  Okay, maybe “murder” was an exaggeration. She hadn’t meant to kill anyone. Still, she couldn’t deny one simple fact: Andrew J. Chabot III was dead. Stone cold dead. And the blood caked under Cassie’s fingernails was not her own.

  She lifted her head and glanced around the deserted city street. It was late, sometime after midnight. In the glow of the streetlights, she made out a row of narrow Victorian houses, a lone cyclist whizzing by in a blur of reflective gear, and one black-and-white squad car just beginning a slow crawl in her direction.

  As the squad car neared, Cassie slumped in her seat, her heart in her throat. Terrified as she was, she had to admire the SFPD’s efficiency. They’d come for her already. Now it was too late to do what she should have done in the first place: call 911 and tell the police her side of the story. Instead, she’d run away. In the eyes of the law, she looked as guilty as sin.

  Who would believe her story now? She was a freelance photographer with a juvenile record and all of $139 in her checking account. A young woman who’d just fled the scene of her crime, leaving behind the cooling corpse of the handsome, well-liked heir to one of the country’s largest publishing houses.

  Cassie held her breath as the police car passed her by and turned back onto the main street. Safe, at least for now. But they would find her, sooner or later. Unless she got her butt in gear and figured out how to save her own hide. Because if she didn’t help herself, who would? At 24, she was too old to believe in knights in shining armor.

  She swore softly, a habit she thought she’d broken the day she traded some of the East Coast’s meanest streets for art school in San Francisco. Her California dream, her new start, her bright future--all gone. Gone in a moment.

  Where to now? Her first impulse was to escape the City. Park Presidio Boulevard to the Golden Gate, then north on the stretch of 101 called the Redwood Highway. Lots of open space there, cool, shady forests she’d visited a couple of times on her days off. Maybe she could hide somewhere in the woods. She could survive on roots and berries, couldn’t she? Yeah, sure. A city girl all her life, she’d never so much as been on a camping trip.

  She glanced in her rearview mirror. Again, her heart thudded a terror-stricken tattoo. The squad car was back. Adrenaline and fear made her head swim. Was it a routine patrol, or had they noticed something suspicious? Did she look odd, just sitting there in her car?

  She raised her fingers and touched her aching cheek. Dried blood crumbled under her fingertips. Rust-red flakes speckled the black cashmere dress she’d charged on her Macy’s card the previous afternoon. Cassie fumbled through the chaotic mess of odds and ends in her oversized black leather handbag, drew out a compact, and studied her face in the small oval mirror.

  God, what a disaster! She dove back into her handbag, located an antiseptic wipe, and mopped at the crusted blood. She drew a sharp, pained breath as the towelette touched her cut. Damn that bastard Andrew and his Princeton ring!

  She checked the rearview mirror again. No police car. But they would find her, sooner or later. Her sporty little Mazda didn’t exactly blend in. Why hadn’t she picked a nice charcoal gray vehicle? Or beige, plain old white, even midnight blue?

  Because I’m a hot pink kind of person, that’s why. I hope prison uniforms come in assorted neon colors.

  So she’d ditch the car. Not without a pang of regret, but it wasn’t really hers, not with two years and seven months worth of payments still to go. Her hands shook as she caked powder over her already purpling bruise.

  As she pulled out her butterfly clip and tidied her hair, she grew increasingly aware of urgent signals from her bladder. All right. She’d find a nearby diner first, use the facilities, and maybe treat herself to a nice cup of hot cocoa. With double whipped cream, of course. After that, she’d come up with a plan.

  Cassie took a deep, steadying breath and opened her car door. She could handle this. No problem. She had a history of getting herself out of jams.

  Of course, she’d never been in this much trouble before.

  Steaming coffee and warm apple pie might not solve all the world’s problems, Jess Logan reflected, but they came pretty damn close. Simple pleasures for a simple man. His first gulp of coffee left a satisfying brand on his tongue, a near-scalding sensation tempered to perfection by a forkful of cinnamon-tinged apples. Just what the doctor ordered. A few more bites and maybe he’d forget his frustration at getting lost in a maze of San Francisco streets.

  Jess didn’t think much of big cities. He couldn’t wait to get back on the freeway and head north again. He’d been driving for hours already, and he had miles to go before he slept.

  He was on his way back from a small rodeo in a town south of San Jose, a town whose name he’d forgotten already. Worth the trip, though. He’d placed second in the saddle bronc event, but redeemed himself with a flawless eight seconds on the back of a bull called Devil’s Helper. Sure, the ride ended with a bone-jarring encounter between Jess’s body and hard-packed arena dirt, an encounter he could still feel in every taut muscle, but that was all part of the game.

  At 29, Jess was already considered an old-timer on the circuit. Rodeo was a young man’s sport. In fact, Jess wasn’t sure why he bothered anymore. He’d already taken home a trunk full of championship buckles, including a couple from the National Finals Rodeo in Las Vegas. He had nothing left to prove. Maybe it was just about time to quit. He had a full-time job. He didn’t need the money.

  Jess tossed back another mouthful of coffee strong enough to take the rust off his pickup. Nope, he wasn’t going to quit, not when weekend rodeos were the only bright spot in a life that, when he wasn’t looking, had grown pretty damn lonely.

  Funny, but he’d never felt that creeping sense of emptiness, that hollow in the pit of his stomach, until about a year ago. Up until then, he’d loved the life of a rodeo cowboy. He’d thrived on the fre
edom, the money, the crowds and applause, and the buckle bunnies, too--the women who watched from the front row and always seemed so ready and willing to reward a good ride.

  Women like Danielle.

  Jess’s fingers tightened around his fork. He stabbed a sugar-glazed chunk of apple with so much force that the plate clattered and danced against the Formica countertop. The waitress, a bony platinum blonde, sidled over to refill his coffee cup. She shot him a look of concern mingled with predatory interest. “Everything okay here?”

  “Fine, thanks,” Jess mumbled.

  She crossed her arms across her skinny chest. “You sure, fella? My name’s Tricia, Trixie to my friends. If there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all, all you gotta do is--”

  The bells above the door jangled. Trixie sighed, threw Jess a wink, and moved off down the counter to take the new customer’s order. Jess hunkered down over his pie, ignoring the flirtation. His days of brief encounters were over. Long over. The fleeting moments of pleasure rarely outweighed the inevitable feelings of emptiness and gloom.

  Not that he didn’t enjoy looking at women. He did. Especially the one who’d come through the door just now. He felt the sharp ache of arousal as his eyes travelled up a pair of long, sleek legs encased in silk stockings, a curvaceous figure emphasized by a little black dress that clung in all the right places, and a mass of honey-colored hair.

  And her face . . . he let out an involuntary gasp as she turned toward him. An angel. A bruised and battered angel. Rage curdled in his belly. Any man who struck a woman didn’t deserve to live. If Jess ever got his hands on the bastard who’d done this, who’d damaged that sweet, round little face and put stark terror into the most dazzlingly clear set of gray eyes he’d ever seen--well, Jess wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.

  Her eyes met his. She stared at him for a long moment, fearfully, then flinched and turned back to the waitress. Jess realized with a start that this glamorous stranger must have misread the fury playing across his rough features. He’d never been any good at hiding his emotions. Jess opened his mouth to say something reassuring, but Tricia beat him to it.

  “Well, now, somebody’s been whaling on you but good,” the waitress exclaimed. “Let me tell you, hon, I been there, done that. Get rid of the man before he does you in, that’s my advice. Otherwise, mark my words, you’ll end up in the morgue.”

  “I’ll just use your restroom, if you don’t mind,” the woman said, with another sidelong glance at Jess. She spoke coolly, but Jess caught the slight quaver in her voice.

  Tricia nodded. “Sure, hon. Go on through that door to the right there. I’ll take your order when you get back.”

  “Thank you.” The woman shot one last nervous look in Jess’s direction, then turned away.

  He frowned and wished he’d spoken to her. He wanted to help this woman, a natural instinct given the nature of his weekday work. But didn’t just want to comfort her and keep her safe. He also felt an urge to reach around and tug at whatever foolish female thingamabob kept her hair piled up on the back of her head, just so he could watch her silky hair spill over her shoulders. He wanted to pull that lush body close to his own, run his fingers over that smooth, pale skin, kiss the bow-shaped lips until they grew swollen and feverish.

  Watch it, he scolded himself. This woman clearly has problems. Complicated problems.

  Besides, she was a damn sight too classy for a guy like him. His idea of heaven was a cold beer and a rare steak. She looked like sushi and sake, lobster and champagne, caviar and. . .what the hell did people drink with caviar? Not that it mattered. He had a major rodeo in the morning. No time for damsels in distress. Not tonight. And by late tomorrow he’d be home in the mountains, where he meant to enjoy a little well-deserved R & R.

  “A touch more coffee, hon?” Jess glanced up to see Tricia slanting a bold smile his way.

  “No, thanks,” he said. “I’m fine.” Or he would be, once he got back on the road. The sooner, the better.

  Once she got herself cleaned up, Cassie felt almost human again. Her sense of humor reasserted itself. Either that, or she was sliding into hysteria. She eyed her reflection in the mirror over the sink. “I’ll end up in the morgue, the waitress says.” She stifled a nervous giggle. “Little does she know.”

  Her edgy smile faded as she remembered the man who’d watched her from the far end of the counter a few minutes ago. An undeniably attractive man, compactly built, sinewy rather than slender, with dark hair in need of a trim. In mud-spattered jeans, leather cowboy boots, and a chambray work shirt, he stood out like a sore thumb. His black Stetson sat on the counter next to him.

  He had a rugged face, sun-bronzed, weathered, memorable if not handsome. It was the face of a man who spent most of his time out of doors. A face that had known some wear and tear, to judge by the slightly crooked angle of his nose. But it was his eyes that had riveted her. Chocolate-brown eyes blazing with anger, devil-dark eyes that seemed to look right through her as if he knew what she’d done.

  Cassie shivered as she popped her favorite raspberry lip gloss back into her handbag. With luck, he’d be gone by the time she came out of the restroom. She didn’t want to face him again, or feel that unsettling flutter deep in her abdomen.

  She rummaged in her bag again and drew out her wallet. She’d keep the cash, but her American Express and ATM cards had to go, along with her driver’s license and any other ID. From now on, she’d be incognito. Cassie snipped the cards in half with a pair of toenail scissors, then wrapped them in toilet paper and dropped them in the garbage can She bit back a hysterical giggle. Did it really matter if someone used her credit card? It wasn’t as if she’d be home to open the bill.

  Next she fished out her iPhone. This made her hesitate and bite her lip, but it had to go, too. They could trace her location if she kept it. Cassie dropped it in the trash as well, with a sigh of deep regret.

  It was time for that hot cocoa. If a shot of sugar couldn’t jolt her brain back into working order, nothing could. She needed all her faculties to figure out her next step. Her options were limited. Her parents were gone, her string of foster parents three thousand miles away. She had a few casual friends in the City, but no one she could ask to take the risk of hiding a fugitive.

  Stay calm. Remember your meditation exercises. Relax. Focus. Deep breaths.

  She pushed open the bathroom door. A patch of dark blue caught her eye. A uniformed cop--no, two cops--stood talking to the waitress. Cassie’s meditation exercises failed her. In fact, her deep breaths became short, ragged gasps for air as she began to hyperventilate. Her knees felt weak as water. Her vision blurred.

  With lightning speed, she ducked back into the bathroom, locked the door, and leaned against it, hard.

  Okay, forget the hot cocoa. No whipped cream, either.

  “Come on, Cassie,” she whispered, through gritted teeth. “How are you gonna get out of this one?”

  Probably they’d just come in for coffee and donuts. Did San Francisco cops eat donuts? Make that bagels, or maybe croissants. Something slightly more sophisticated.

  Another high-pitched giggle escaped her throat. She had definitely crossed the line into hysteria.

  Cassie believed in making lists. Whether she followed through or not, they made her feel more organized and in control. So--start with Step One.

  Step One, get out of the restroom.

  She’d have to brazen it out. Cassie unlatched the door, lifted her chin, and marched out into the diner. One of the cops turned to glance at her, then looked away. So far, so good. Maybe they weren’t after her yet.

  But the man at the end of the counter, the one with the cowboy boots, was definitely watching her. She could feel his eyes boring a hole in her back as she pushed open the front door and stepped out into the cool air. San Francisco weather was always a few degrees colder than the rest of the Bay Area, and this May night was no exception.

  Cassie threw a fearful glance over her sh
oulder. No one had followed her--not the policemen, not the cowboy. Now for Step Two. Except that she didn’t have the foggiest idea what Step Two might involve.

  She couldn’t drive away in her own car. Too obvious.

  A guy she’d known in the old neighborhood had once offered to teach her how to hot-wire a vehicle. Unfortunately, she hadn’t taken him up on the offer. Unless someone had left their keys in the ignition, she was out of luck.

  Muni? Caltrain? BART? In the movies, fugitives rarely escape on public transit. Besides, she had the grand sum of $13 in her wallet, plus the assorted change at the bottom of her handbag. With that kind of cash, she’d be lucky if she made it to Fremont.

  Walking wouldn’t take her far, either. She grimaced and glanced down at her shoes, Ferragamos she’d found at 40 percent off. A real steal. Unfortunately, the only pair left on the rack had been half a size too small. She’d already sprouted a monstrous blister on her big toe. So much for bargain hunting.

  The clock was ticking. She scanned the parking lot. In the glow of the diner’s neon sign, she made out only three or four nondescript passenger cars, plus a battered baby-blue Chevy with a camper on the back. Nowhere to hide, unless--of course. She scurried across the asphalt toward the pickup truck and grabbed the metal handle above the tailgate.

  Let it open. Please, let it open.

  She tugged. It opened.

  Cassie pulled herself up over the metal barrier and slithered ungracefully into the pickup. Her knee slammed against the tailgate, and she swallowed a pained exclamation as she landed on something soft. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness inside of the camper, she realized she was sitting on a mattress. Someone had fixed a bed back here, complete with an old patchwork quilt and a couple of pillows.

  She crawled across the bed and peered into the cab of the truck. Something slammed into the glass. Cassie let out a shriek. The creature let out a series of short, sharp sounds, then shoved its dark face against the glass.