Cowboy to the Max. Rita Herron

stronger, she opened the door and slid down from the truck seat. Carter still had her derringer. She had to get it back.

       At least with a gun in her hand she might have a chance at protecting herself from Carter. Or from the man who’d stolen her life and her sanity for the past five years with his constant threats.

       Her mind warred with her Navajo beliefs, but she had to stand her ground. This man was evil, had scarred her and had destroyed too many lives.

       She’d kill him before she allowed him to touch her again.

      CARTER SCANNED THE PROPERTY, in case someone had followed them, then grabbed his duffel bag and led Sadie into the house. He hadn’t seen the place in years, and the shabby, run-down conditions were worse than he’d expected.

       At one time, he’d had lofty dreams like Johnny and Brandon. He’d known one day his old man would get locked up or killed by someone he pissed off, and he’d thought this land would be his. He’d planned to bring in cattle, some horses, work it from the ground up and have something to be proud of.

       Hell, he didn’t even care if he was rich like his buddies. He just wanted something of his own. A piece of land. Freedom. To earn a respectable living.

       To be able to walk the streets without people calling him a murderer.

       Bitterness welled inside him at the irony that he’d hated his old man and his violent tendencies but that he’d ended up in jail just like him.

       And when his old man had been released from prison, he’d come back to the ranch to live out his last days. Had he hoped Carter would show up so he could pound his fists into him one more time before he died?

       Or had the bastard mellowed?

       A sardonic chuckled bubbled in his throat, riddled with disgust. No, his father hadn’t had a decent bone in his body.

       And judging from the peeling paint, rotting porch, cobwebs and dirt streaking the farmhouse, he hadn’t done anything to improve the place once he was released. Of course, he had been dying…

       Served him right for all the pain he’d inflicted on others.

       Sadie tried to flick on a light, but the bulb popped. Hell, he was surprised the power was still on at all.

       “I know it’s a rattrap,” Carter said. “But at least we can get some rest and regroup in the morning.”

       Sadie nodded, and he showed her up the stairs to one of the bedrooms. The faded blue paint of his little brother’s room had turned a dingy gray, dust coating the old dresser and iron bed in the corner.

       “Was this your room?” Sadie asked, as she glanced at a yellowed poster of a country rock group taped on the wall.

       “No, it was my brother’s.”

       “Where’s he now?” Sadie asked.

       Carter swallowed hard. “He killed himself. Couldn’t take my old man anymore.” And I had already cut out and deserted him.

       The familiar guilt plowed through him. He should have taken his brother with him.

       Sadie gave him a sympathetic look, but he didn’t deserve it. Besides, she looked dead on her feet. Realizing they’d left her place with no time for her to pack anything, he unzipped his duffel bag, yanked out a denim shirt and tossed it to her. “Here, you can sleep in that. Now get some rest. If you need anything, I’ll be down the hall.”

       She worried her lower lip with her teeth. “Carter?”

       He turned to go, but paused at the sound of her voice. “Yeah?”

       “Can I have my gun back?”

       He studied her for a long moment, then his gaze fell to her trembling hands, and he removed it from his jacket and laid it on the nightstand. “Just don’t shoot me with it, okay?”

       Relief softened her face. She’d probably slept with that gun since her attack. He understood about the demons that emerged at night and wished he’d had a damn gun in prison.

       “I won’t,” she said in a strained voice. But a small smile curved her mouth, reminding him of how beautiful she was, and lust hit him hard.

       Dammit, he had to leave or he’d haul her up against him.

       What in God’s name was wrong with him? Every night in jail on his cot, he’d thought of her, remembered her seductive eyes and body. Remembered the soft curve of her breast, the dusky ripe brown of her nipples, the creamy skin of her hips, the damp invitation between her thighs…

       Then he’d start sweating and shaking and wake up nearly howling like an animal. Because he remembered how she’d used him.

       For five years, he’d considered her his enemy.

       But now, he suddenly wanted to protect her and make love to her again.

       He was damn crazy.

       Hadn’t prison taught him he couldn’t trust anyone?

       He balled his hands into fists and strode down the steps, his boots pounding out his frustration on the rickety wooden steps. Hell, yeah, it had.

       He had escaped for one reason and one reason only. To clear himself. Not to get laid or hook back up with the woman who’d put him in jail.

       He’d keep them both alive long enough to find the real killer, then they’d part ways.

       Steeling himself, he stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He heard the door close and lock upstairs, and a bitter laugh escaped him.

       Why the hell would Sadie or any woman want to be with him anyway? He had nothing to offer.

       His boots clicked as he strode through the downstairs searching for more weapons. He found a shotgun and rifle and carried them back up the stairs and down the hall toward his old room. Tomorrow he had to make a plan. Figure out a way to find the man who’d framed him.

       But it was late and his adrenaline had waned, so he yanked off his clothes and fell onto the metal bed he used to call his, wearing only his boxers.

       Even though he was worn out, he couldn’t sleep for the troubling memories crashing down on him. Memories of things that had happened in this house. A house that had been filled with daily horrors.

       The brutal tongue-lashings. The physical beatings. The night his old man had broken Carter’s nose when he’d thrown him against the wall.

       The day when he was ten and his father had stripped his clothes, tied him to a tree and beaten him with a switch until his legs had been bloody. His brother had been terrified and had hidden in the woods.

       Brandon and Johnny had found him, untied him and carried him to the creek to clean his wounds. He’d been half unconscious, spitting blood and feeling humiliated.

       But both of them had admitted that their daddies were just as mean, their houses just as sick and twisted, then they’d shown him their scars. The moment had bound the men together forever.

       Carter had vowed to stand by them after that, and the three of them had protected each other.

       Another memory splintered through the haze, this one even more painful. The day his daddy had killed his mother.

       Carter had run away as fast as his legs could carry him.

       He shouldn’t have been so selfish. Should have taken his brother with him.

       But his brother had been the golden boy, the one his father loved. It hadn’t occurred to him that his father would vent his rage on him.

       And in the end, he hadn’t had to. His brother had killed himself.

       And here he was back in the same crummy house he’d started in. Only his life had gone to hell. He had a criminal record, the law on his tail and a man who was determined to kill him breathing down his neck.