Tracker's Sin. Sarah McCarty

was lying.

      “Why?”

      She blinked and licked her lips again. The plates again rattled on the tray. He took a step forward and removed his breakfast from her grasp.

      He smiled. “My stomach might cut my throat if a second breakfast lands on the ground.”

      Her gaze flicked to his before retreating back to the floor. Shit, it was always a mistake to smile.

      “I’m sorry.”

      It was a common statement, expected even, considering what had happened. He hated hearing it from her. As he placed the tray on the small pine dresser to the right of the door, he took the opportunity to study Ari from the corner of his eye. She wore a pink calico-print skirt, with a white, buttoned-down blouse. Nothing was out of place. Every button was buttoned; her shirt was evenly tucked inside the waistband. Her shoes were freshly polished. It was almost as if, through impeccable grooming, she’d tried to erase the craziness of earlier. Hell, she’d even managed to tame the intriguing wildness of her hair, corralling it into a neat braid, coiled up in a tight bun anchored at the base of her neck.

      A few rebellious tendrils tickled her nape, bringing his eye to the long, elegant line of her throat and the daintiness of her ears. He didn’t normally notice a woman’s ears, but Ari’s were cute, with lobes that just begged to be nibbled. His gaze naturally traveled down the side of her neck, following a tempting path to the pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. He wanted to sprinkle kisses along that path, touch that too-fast pulse with his tongue, take her in his arms and promise her again that everything would be all right. Son of a bitch, what was it about the woman that made him think in terms of suicidal acts? He wasn’t some sort of knight in shining armor. He was a fucking outlaw turned lawman. No better than he had to be in any situation. He had nothing to give a woman like her.

      Tracker straightened. Ari’s glance cut to the rifle, to his face, then his hands. He knew how they looked to her. Sun darkened and scarred, they were as ugly as his visage. About the time the urge to tuck them out of sight got overwhelming, she looked away. Even her embarrassed blush was pretty.

      “My parents told me…”

      The flush on her cheeks became fiery. He waited for her to continue. She cleared her throat and smoothed her palms down her skirt. He wondered if they were sweating. She tried again.

      “My parents said I had an…episode with you.”

      Her uneasiness was rubbing off on him. He took a step back toward the bed, giving her some room to breathe. “That’s one way to put it.”

      She kept giving the pistol wary glances. “Did I hurt you?”

      He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re wiggly but not lethal.”

      She went still, blinked. He could almost see the wheels turning in her mind, see her searching for a memory. Saw the moment she gave up searching. “Oh, good.”

      He could let it go or bring it out in the open. He opted for the latter. “You don’t remember what happened?”

      She shook her head. Her gaze left his and her lip slid between her teeth. She looked very young right then. Too young and too innocent to have been through what he knew she had. “No.”

      “Did Vincente and Josefina fill you in?”

      Her hands, which had been smoothing her skirt, now clutched it. “No. They used to try, but I’d go craz…” She shook her head, took a breath and started over. “I’m sorry. I thought I was getting better.”

      “This has been going on awhile?”

      “Yes.”

      “How often?”

      This time when she looked at him, it was with resentment. With a snap, she shook out her skirt. As if snapping material snapped her spine into place, she stood up straight and looked him dead in the eye. This was the Ari who haunted his dreams.

      “I owe you an apology, Mr. Ochoa, not an explanation.”

      “Sorry. I kind of take it personal like when a pretty woman tries to shoot me.”

      The color left her face and she swayed. He grabbed her arm. Christ, she didn’t have enough bulk to keep his fingers from meeting.

      “I tried to shoot you?” she whispered.

      “Whispering doesn’t change the fact.”

      Her fingers touched his. “I won’t faint.”

      “I’m not convinced.”

      “It’s just a shock.” She licked her lips. “Hearing what I do when I get like that.”

      He studied the paleness of her cheeks, the shadows darkening her blue eyes. He considered saying something outrageous just to get the blush back.

      “You really don’t remember what you do, do you?”

      “No.”

      He released her arm. “That has got to be as scary as he—heck.”

      Her right hand moved to cover the spot he’d touched. To remove or to hold on to the sensation? Tracker shook his head, disgusted with himself for the weakness that had him hoping it was the latter.

      “It can be.”

      “And that’s your explanation?”

      She shrugged and gathered handfuls of her skirt with her fingers, gathering her composure as she did so. She was obviously humiliated. “I’m sorry I behaved oddly, and I’m sorry if it scared you.”

      The last was said in a rush. She turned on her heel and headed out the door.

      “I wasn’t scared,” he called after her. Ari could leave him many ways, angry, happy, but not humiliated.

      Her footsteps stopped. There was a swish of skirts as she turned, and then the sound of her footsteps coming back. And damned if they didn’t sound angry. She stopped in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. He wondered if she would still stand that way if she knew how uncertain it made her appear. Maybe she wouldn’t even care. Compared to crazy, uncertainty was quite a step up.

      “You weren’t?”

      “Nope.”

      “Why not?”

      “I could say because you were scared enough for the both of us.”

      Her eyelids lowered. At her left temple, a curl was working loose, he noted absently. “But you won’t.”

      It was an order. A rather intriguing one, considering how scared she’d been before.

      “No, I won’t.”

      “Then why weren’t you afraid?”

      He gave her the truth. “Because I’m one mean son of a bitch.”

      She didn’t blink at the curse or the declaration. “I see.”

      Did she? He doubted it. He waved her to the lone chair in the room. “So now that I’ve come clean, why don’t you?”

      “About what?”

      About how she’d ended up here. About how she’d kept her name. About how in a part of the state where lawlessness was rampant and blond women were money on the hoof, she existed peacefully with only an old man for protection.

      “How about starting with how long you’ve been here.”

      “A little over a year. Ever since my husband was murdered.”

      Pretending nonchalance he didn’t feel, Tracker slid the tray off the dresser and onto his lap. There were beans, rice, scrambled eggs sausages and tortillas on the plate. He forked a bit of each into a tortilla. “You were there?”

      “Yes.”

      “What happened?”

      She