Tracker's Sin. Sarah McCarty
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Tracker’s.
“Anybody ever tell you that staring at a strange man will get you into trouble?”
“But I’m not staring at you.”
The look he shot her was hot enough to make her toes curl. Hate her or resent her, Tracker Ochoa desired her. That was an exciting thought. She was a widow, but she was almost at the end of her mourning. And he was a very virile individual.
“I warn you, sweets, I’m not a nice man.”
She tried to remember all that she’d ever heard of him, and he was right, no one had ever said he was nice. She nodded. “I understand.”
He flipped the stirrup down off the saddle horn. The light of the barn slashed across his face, highlighting the set of his chin, the fullness of his lower lip, the hint of muscle she could see through the open neck of his shirt. His skin, the color of cinnamon coffee with just a touch of cream, stretched tight over his collarbone. There was a scar just to the right of his throat. Rather than detracting, it emphasized the sheer virility of the man. Beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes watched her admire him. Narrowed as they were, he should have looked scary, but beneath the hooded lids, she could see heat simmering. Desire. For her.
“Do you?”
She nodded again.
“What do you think you understand?”
There was something so…alive about flirting with Tracker. Even when it was a bluff. It made her feel so far away from that void, so far away from her troubles. It was stimulating. “That you want me.”
The swear word he uttered was vile and not one she was used to hearing. But instead of being repulsed, she was intrigued. It was the first break in Tracker’s control, and she’d caused it. She couldn’t help a small, proud smile.
“You’re playing with fire.” He gathered up the reins and hooked them over the saddle horn. “I’m a dangerous man.”
She’d be more afraid if his voice wasn’t so softly enticing, with dark notes that stroked along her nerves in a provocative lure. “I’m a crazy woman.”
“You’re a mother.”
What did that have to do with anything? “You’re a lawman.”
“I was an outlaw before that.”
Interesting. But not as scary as it should be. Excitement hummed in her veins. She should be afraid. She wasn’t. She was actually a bit exhilarated. “You couldn’t have been much of one if you ended up a Ranger.”
“I was a damn good outlaw.”
He stopped fussing with the saddle and turned his full attention on her. His mouth quirked up in a smile that, twisted by the scar, seemed to give his expression a cruel edge. Until she looked into his eyes, and then she saw the sensuality waiting to be unleashed.
A shiver went down her spine. “And now you’re a damn good Ranger.”
“Don’t curse.”
She didn’t recognize the woman who retorted, “Then don’t talk nonsense,” but she liked her.
So did Tracker, if the softening of his lips was to be believed.
“I told you I’d help you.” He gave the saddle a tug, testing the girth. “You don’t need to seal the deal with your body.”
All right, that was embarrassing. She took a breath as heat seared her cheeks. But she didn’t retreat and didn’t back down. She’d sworn when she’d woken up to nothing that she’d face her new life with courage. Courageous people didn’t run from the truth.
“I’m sorry about that.”
Tracker swung up into the saddle. “It doesn’t matter.”
But it did. She’d insulted him. He was a lawman. He lived his life doing right, and she’d taken in his size, the vicious scar cutting his cheek, the darkness of his skin, and judged him to be amoral. “It does.”
She took a step forward. He watched. She took another. His eyes narrowed. She took a third. She couldn’t take the fourth. The sleeping demon coiled behind the blank wall of her memory stirred. There was something wrong with the way he sat the horse. Something familiar and horrible in his long hair, flowing from beneath the hat. Something wrong with the illusion of power when she had none. She took a breath, desperate for the memory to continue, but terrified that it would. The horse shifted, leaving Tracker backlit by the sun pouring in the doorway. The sense of danger increased. Dear God, she didn’t want to know.
“Please.” Please make it go away. Please make it go away. Make it go away.
She blinked and Tracker was there, studying her with that intentness she didn’t like. As if he could see what she couldn’t. As if he knew what she didn’t. Suddenly, flirting with him wasn’t fun anymore.
“You really don’t remember anything, do you?”
“No.”
“And you’ve asked?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure you got the right answers?”
No. “Yes.” She motioned with her hand, hurrying him along. “I thought you were going to get a drink?”
“I thought you were trying to seduce me.”
She blinked, the last of the darkness fleeing before the outrageousness of the statement. All she had to defend herself with was a bluff. She wasn’t a confident woman. She didn’t think she ever had been, but she wanted to be, and with the birth of her son, she’d decided she would be. Vincente and Josefina were wonderful, but they were old and they had lives of their own to live. She’d heard them talking at night about wanting to move back to Mexico and live with Josefina’s sister and her family. They just couldn’t take her with them. She was too white to be safe, and they were too old to protect her. They’d saved her life, and never made her think they begrudged her, but she was their son’s responsibility, not theirs. She had to learn to make her own way and find a place where she and her own son would be safe.
“Was I?” she asked.
“Might have been my mistake.”
No, the mistake had been all hers. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually so…” She waved her hand. “It’s just been so long.”
“Since you’ve been with a man?”
She blinked at the bluntness. She hadn’t even thought of that. “No.” She looked at him and answered with dawning comprehension, “I think it’s just been a long time since I felt alive.”
“Son of a bitch.” He walked his horse forward the two steps it took to tower over her. “Screwing me won’t keep you alive. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re white and I’m Indian.”
He was doing it on purpose, trying to intimidate her. Using crudity to push her away. Was this the real man? Did it even matter? He was right: she was a mother. She was right: she was crazy. Whatever she did to feel alive, it couldn’t involve using this man. He wore the pain of his life on his person and in his eyes. It wasn’t her place to add to it.
“I’m sorry,” Ari said, hearing Josefina call to her from the house. “Miguel is awake. I have to go.”
Tracker backed up the horse. “So do I.”
Her stomach dropped to her toes. Was he leaving? Panic must have shown in her face because he swore and the horse shifted.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back. I haven’t forgotten what I promised.”
She felt guilty at the relief that flooded her. Helping her meant putting his life on the line. It was wrong to ask someone to do that, but she had no choice. She needed him. Without him she had no way to protect those she loved. And to save those she loved, she needed