Riley's Retribution. Rebecca York

      “My truck is stuck. But I have a ride. I’ll be home soon,” she said, then hung up before he could ask any more questions. Half turning, she saw that Watson was looking at her, tension stiffening his face.

      “That’s one of your men?”

      “Yes.”

      “And you don’t want to tell him that someone took a shot at you?”

      “I prefer not to worry him.”

      “Don’t you want him on his toes—looking for trouble?”

      “I hope there won’t be any.”

      He looked as if he was going to argue about that. Before he could make some kind of point, she said, “I need to go back to town. Right away.”

      “If someone used you for target practice, you should go to the ranch where you’ll be safer.”

      “What do you mean—if?” she demanded.

      “You could be mistaken.”

      “I’m not. I saw a man up on the bridge with a rifle.” She reached into her coat pocket and pulled something out, then flattened her hand, watching his eyes narrow as he saw a rifle slug lying in her palm.

      “You thought I dreamed it up, didn’t you?”

      “Where did you get that?” he asked.

      “From the floor of the truck.”

      “Who do you figure might have wanted to hurt you?”

      “I have no idea.” She wanted to hear him say he believed her. But that wasn’t the important issue at the moment. “I have to get back to town. It’s urgent.”

      Chapter Three

      Riley struggled to hold his temper. This woman had fought with him, cuddled with him, argued with him. Now she was telling him she wasn’t going to her ranch where she’d be safe. Or relatively safe, given the inconvenient fact that Montana Militia leader Boone Fowler was out there doing Lord knew what.

      Since his assignment was to get a job working for her, he stayed where he was and kept his voice low and even. “Do you mind explaining your thinking to me?”

      Her expression turned fierce. Standing up, she turned to face him, hands on her hips. “I have to go back to town and see the doctor.”

      His throat tightened. “Were you hurt when the car went off the road?”

      “I don’t think so.” She stopped and swallowed hard. “But I have to make sure the baby is all right.”

      He literally felt his jaw drop open, then managed to ask, “What baby?”

      He saw color come into her cheeks. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m pregnant.” She kept her gaze steady. “I’m almost seven months along.”

      “Seven months?” he wheezed. His gaze dropped to her middle, where he detected a small bulge under her man’s shirt.

      She took in his question and his doubtful look. “I’m carrying small,” she said.

      “Oh,” was the best he could dredge up.

      “I have to make sure the baby is okay.”

      “Yes, right,” he answered briskly. He wasn’t going to ask her how she’d happened to get pregnant. Instead, he started rushing around the room, collecting outerwear. He had been lying in bed with her, entertaining carnal thoughts, if he were honest about it. And now he found out that she was pregnant.

      Damn. He felt like a prize fool. She’d seemed small and fragile in his arms. Well, except for that bulge he hadn’t noticed at her middle. And her breasts. They were large. Probably because they were full of milk. No wait, not milk. She wouldn’t have milk yet, would she?

      He kept his lips pressed together so he wouldn’t say anything stupid, and his face turned down because he didn’t want her to see the red stain spreading across his cheeks.

      She’d been separated from her husband for a year before he’d died. Had she had an affair with one of her cowhands?

      When she disappeared into the bathroom, he breathed out a small sigh, then retrieved her gun from the drawer and put it with her coat.

      “Jerk,” he muttered to himself. He’d been letting himself get turned on by a pregnant woman. That just showed how bad off he was.

      Before she could emerge, he pulled on his coat, went out and started furiously clearing the snow from the windshield.

      It was less than he’d expected. While he’d been holed up with the little mother, the weather had changed. The storm had abated, leaving the sky a dark blue. And much of the snow on the ground had blown away, the way it could in this part of the state.

      Ms. Rogers came out while he was doing the side windows.

      “Can I help you?” she asked.

      “Almost done,” he mumbled, wondering if he’d blown his chances for getting the job. If he had, what the hell was he going to say to the colonel—that he’d screwed up before he ever got to the ranch? On the other hand, his commander hadn’t exactly given him sterling information.

      The background papers hadn’t mentioned that Ms. Rogers was pregnant. What other surprises was he going to encounter?

      When he’d cleared off the snow, they climbed into the SUV, and he started back toward town. Since most of the snow was gone, the road was fairly clear.

      He split his attention between the driving and his own thoughts. Maybe because he didn’t know what the hell he was going to say to Ms. Rogers when they finally discussed the ranch manager situation.

      She damn well needed him. But given her previous behavior, he could believe that she might not admit that. And he couldn’t tell her that this assignment was of vital importance to the national security of the United States. Big Sky wasn’t just on the trail of domestic terrorists. They needed to nail down the connection to King Aleksandr of Lukinburg—then arrest Fowler and his gang.

      And he’d better keep reminding himself that no matter how sweet and vulnerable this woman looked, she was sheltering Fowler. And he didn’t have a clue about her motives.

      He brought himself up short. Vulnerable? Oh, sure.

      She would have drilled him if he hadn’t gotten the gun away from her. He stole a glance at her, seeing the set line of her mouth and the tightness of her jaw.

      Probably his expression was similar—to avoid giving anything away while he sorted through logic and emotion.

      His job was to cozy up to her and get information about her relationship with Fowler. Her pregnancy had suddenly made the assignment more difficult. His own mother had been a single mom, and he knew how hard that would be for Courtney—especially on a horse ranch that was barely making it.

      He slid her another look. She had said nothing since they’d started back toward town. Now he felt tension radiating from her.

      He turned his head toward her, then followed her gaze. She was staring at the bridge ahead of them—and her vehicle, which was in the field where they’d left it.

      Riley slowed, scanning the overpass. “This is where he shot at you?”

      She nodded tightly.

      While she was feeling off balance, he probed at her with a question. “If the attack was directed at you, who do you think would do it?” he asked.

      Her face contorted. “I…don’t know.”

      “Does one of your neighbors have a beef with you?” he probed.

      She sighed. “People out here are big on conventional morality. Since I’m pregnant and unmarried, I’m the target of more than