Texas Fierce (The Tylers of Texas 4)

“Look around you,” he said. “If you want to spend your life mucking stables and herding cows and sharing your bed with a dirty, sweaty, cash-poor rancher, I’m your man!”

She laughed. “Don’t tempt me. It doesn’t sound all that bad, especially the dirty, sweaty part.”

Their eyes met in a breathless pause, as if they’d both revealed too much. Susan dropped her gaze, the color creeping into her face. “I don’t suppose you have any cold beer in the house, do you?”

Bull took off his hat and raked his damp hair back from his face. “There might be a bottle or two of the Mexican stuff in the icebox. The back door’s open. Don’t look at the kitchen. It’s a mess. The icebox is probably sprouting mold.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll just grab the beer.” Standing, she took off at a run toward the house. Bull watched her go, admiring her easy grace and the way her hips curved inward to her narrow waist. Too bad the house hadn’t been cleaned since Jasper left. Even clean, the place was a dump. But it was what it was. He had nothing to hide, and no reason to hide it.

Moments later she came striding back across the yard, a single, open brown bottle in her hand. “There was only one,” she said, thrusting it toward him. “Here, at least it’s cold.”

“That’s all right. You can have it,” he said.

“Don’t be silly. We can share.” She swigged from the mouth of the bottle and passed it to him. He felt the fleeting warmth of her mouth on the ring of glass as he tipped it to drink. The chilled liquid flowed down his parched throat.

“Thanks.” He lowered the bottle and passed it to her to finish. “That felt good. It’s hotter than hell out here.”

She took a sip, then handed the bottle back to him. “Here, take the rest. And you could use some shade.” She tugged his arm. Bull had no cause to resist as she pulled him toward the nearby barn and through the open doorway.

After hours in the searing sun, the barn’s interior was like a cool, dark cave. Susan looked up at him. Her eyes were soft in the shadows. A golden droplet hovered on her lower lip.

“You know why I came,” she whispered.

“I know.” The bottle dropped from his hand as he caught her close. She melted into him, their kisses wild, hungry, and desperate, burning with need. They devoured each other, a fierce heat rising between their bodies. His hand found the honey of bare skin beneath her shirt—the small, firm breasts, nipples that hardened at his touch. The press of her hips against his rock-hard arousal fired rocket bursts through his body. He thought of the darkness, the soft hay . . . She was wearing Ferg’s ring, but he didn’t give a damn about that. He wanted her. And he knew she wanted him.

She was tugging at his shirt buttons when they heard the dogs outside in the yard. He recognized their happy, eager bark. The boys were back from town, and the two mutts were hoping for a treat.

Susan had pulled away at the first sound. Bull caught the flash of fear in her eyes. Was she thinking that Ferg had set a trap and caught her?

“It’s all right,” he said. “My hired hands just pulled in. They’re only boys.”

“I need to go,” she said.

“Yes, you do.” He picked up the hat she’d dropped and walked her out of the barn. The boys were carrying the grocery bags into the house, fending off the excited dogs. No male with eyes in his head could fail to notice Susan, but they gave her little more than a quick look as she mounted her horse and rode back toward the Prescott Ranch.

Aching, Bull cursed as he watched her go. Damn the woman. Wanting her was driving him crazy. All he could think of was having her.

But there was more involved here than Susan. Stealing Ferg’s girl would be the ultimate satisfaction—and the ultimate revenge. But what if he managed to make it happen? What then?

He sure as hell couldn’t ask her to join him on this run-down ranch. And her father, who could barely bring himself to shake hands, would never welcome him into the family.

The only sensible action would be to walk away. Susan was a beautiful woman. If she didn’t marry Ferg, there would be other men in her life. With luck she’d have the wisdom to choose the right one.

Taking Susan away from a brute like Ferg would be doing her a favor, Bull told himself. But he was rationalizing now—making excuses for the only thing that really counted.

He wanted her. He wanted her in his arms. He wanted her in bed, her long legs wrapping around his hips, his kisses muffling her little cries as he pushed deep inside her.

He wanted her. And having her was all that mattered.

* * *

Ferg had disappeared outside after supper and driven off in his Thunderbird. When he hadn’t returned by ten, Susan decided to wait up for him. It was time they had an honest discussion about his behavior, and what she expected of him as her fiancé. If he didn’t come clean and promise to take their engagement seriously, it would be time for a talk with her father. Sick as he was, Cliff Rutledge would never force her to wed a man who didn’t respect her.

She settled onto the couch with a paperback mystery novel she’d found in her bedroom nightstand—probably left behind by a houseguest. The Prescotts didn’t seem to be much for reading.

By midnight, she was halfway through the book and had already figured out the ending. She’d even peeked at the last page to make sure she was right. With a weary sigh, she laid the book down on the coffee table. Her mind was beginning to wander forbidden paths, back to her ride that afternoon and the moments she’d spent in Bull’s arms.

Shameless—that’s what her mother would have called her. She’d thrown herself at him in a manner that wasn’t the least bit ladylike. The worst of it was, she didn’t care. Bull touched a place inside her—a place that was deep and wild and true. His kiss had taken her to that part of herself where s