Rio: Man Of Destiny. Cait London
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ride with her won’t be easy,” he muttered as he moved into the clearing. Boone’s rough-hewn log cabin stood as it had for years, frequented now by Roman, Kallista, their adopted daughter, Cindi, and soon their new baby. Roman’s new family had nudged Rio’s nesting urges—okay, he wanted Paloma in bed, under him, over him. The savage need to mate with her, a primitive fire that would create new life, awoke him and he blamed her—that exotic scent, those agile pale fingers.
When he managed to stop staring at the lacy underwear hung to dry across the porch, Rio swung to the ground and tethered the horses to the old hitching post. He quickly unleashed the supplies from the mare’s saddle and tossed them on the board porch, expecting Paloma to come out, temper blazing. She didn’t, and the house was too quiet. Rio scanned the pines circling the house and slowly walked up the steps—at any moment, Paloma would rush at him and he didn’t care to sprawl in front of his lady—his ladylove, he corrected grimly. After all, he’d come to court her, hadn’t he? The admission went down uneasily.
Everything about her was expensive and classy. Exactly what did he have to offer a woman who had traveled around the world? He liked to carpenter, to smell the wood and work with his hands. He liked good hard work, he liked his ranger and deputy duties, because he felt he was helping preserve the land Other than a few sound financial investments, he bad a barn he’d remodeled, part of the original Blaylock homestead, his cattle and a deep need to love Paloma as she’d never been loved before. He wanted to protect her—no woman should have to awake in terror, protecting herself.
Rio’s jaw tightened. A relationship with a woman as strong and independent as Paloma might take time to craft, but he would. His first priority was to prevent a boutique from replacing half of Jasmine’s feed store. Part of the man-woman sorting process was that a man’s century-old gathering place stayed intact.
When she didn’t respond to his knock, Rio opened the door and entered the cabin. The shelves were lined with canned and dried foods, the cabin neat. Too neat—as if Paloma was ready to move easily, quickly. Boone’s big bed was littered with women’s magazines, all with one theme—country collectibles and crafts. A quick glance at her lists—Rio ran his thumb over her large, loopy feminine handwriting-said she was going through with her plans. “Boutique makings,” Rio heard himself mutter. “No way.”
He wondered who had dropped the supplies. An old boyfriend? He didn’t like the sudden unfamiliar surge of jealousy. One hand on the old woodstove said that she’d burned a fire at night and let it die in the morning. Where was she?
She could be anywhere on the mountain, and in danger. He inhaled sharply, remembering the trees clawed by a cougar and a bear, each marking their territory. There were timber wolves on the mountain, and coyotes and bobcats, none of them friendly. There was that old mine, where he’d finally found the boy—
He pushed down his leaping fear and hurried outside; panic wouldn’t help find Paloma. He glanced-at the old avalanche, the rock slide now covered with moss, and just over that hill was a cliff, a sheer drop to the bottom that no one could survive. Visions of Paloma’s mangled body terrified him. Rio quickly unsheathed his rifle from his saddle and looped a circle of sturdy rope across his shoulder. Minutes later, he shook his head—Paloma’s footprints led to the cliff. She’d broken a pile of sticks, the stacks small and neat as though she’d been placing her thoughts in order. “The footprints are a few days old. Contrary, mule-headed...”
At a run, he headed for the old mine—that killer mine—the timbers rotting and treacherous, and if she were lying at the bottom, unconscious...Rio pushed away the fear clawing at him. He’d failed to save the boy; maybe he was too late to save Paloma, too. The vise around his heart tightened, and then he saw the gold mine’s fresh cave-in. “Paloma?” he called, bracing himself for her call—he prayed she would be alive. “Paloma?”
Silence echoed his fears. He took one step, moving toward the tree that would hold his rope as he eased down into the opening. Suddenly the crumpling sound of rotted wood enveloped him; the earth gave way beneath his feet and he slid into the cold musty darkness.
Returning from her walk and furious with herself for think ing of Rio Blaylock, Paloma had heard the earth rumble. She paused, frowning at the two horses in front of the cabin. Then Rio’s shout sounded in the vicinity of the old mine. At a run, she made her way through the red-barked pines and found a new cave-in. “Rio?”
“Stay back.”
“Are you hurt?” Her body frozen in terror, she prayed he wasn’t.
“A few bruises. Get my horse over here and—” A coil of rope surged up out of the cave-in and landed at her feet. “Tie this to Frisco’s saddle horn. He’ll pull me out. He is the gelding, the other is a mare,” he added very carefully. “He’s bigger and—”
“I know the anatomical difference,” she muttered, nettled by his male arrogance, and just that little need to torment Rio slipped out again. “You say you’re not hurt?”
“Uh-huh. I don’t exactly feel like wasting time chitchatting,” he answered daddy, returning her comment to him when they first met.
“You don’t? You say you’re not in any danger now?” She had to be certain before she set about provoking Rio, about making him pay for disturbing her thoughts and dreams and for her wanting that brush of his mouth to deepen into a very warm, hungry kiss. His silence provoked her and she grabbed a tree limb, easing closer to the cave-in.
He swore tightly, efficiently, as a small rock, dislodged by her foot, fell into the mine. “You’re a contrary woman. Muleheaded—”
“You don’t sound like a man who wants to be rescued, sweetie.” She eased closer, she had to see him to make certain he was safe, and to enjoy her upper hand at the moment,
“Just get the horse and—”
“Who invited you to my party? Don’t you know that this is private property? Stop ordering me—” The branch broke and the earth gave way. She slid on her bottom down to land at Rio’s feet. She scrambled to stand, terrified of the small dark space closing in on her, taking her breath away. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw Rio, hands on hips, his Western hat tipped back on his head, his chap-covered legs braced wide.
“You’re not hurt. You slid down all the way on that beautiful butt. Well, this is just great, Ms. Forbes,” Rio muttered in disgust. “My rope is upstairs and it’s a long way up. If for once, you could act like any other normal woman and—what’s wrong?” he asked urgently as she hurled herself against him.
She clung to his strong, warm male body, anchored herself to him, her arms locked around his shoulders, her head tucked into the safety of his throat. “Don’t let me go,” she whispered shakily as his arms enclosed her. “Just hold me.”
He stood too still, not moving, and terror clawed at her. If he didn’t hold her, she’d shatter into tiny pieces. Against her cold, damp temple, Rio whispered, “I won’t let you go. Honey, your heart is facing, you’re shaking and you’re perspiring. You’re terrified.”
She closed her eyes, holding on to Rio, listening to the safe solid thump of his heart. She wasn’t alone in the dark. She had to cling to that comfort. “You’re here...with me.”
“Yes. We’ll get out.” His voice was even, confident, wrapping around her like a warm safe cloak. His hands robbed her back, comforting her.
“You promise?” As a woman, she regretted the childish plea. But she couldn’t stop shivering, haunted by visions of the locked closets she’d been in as a child—cold, alone...but she wasn’t alone. Rio was here, his hands smoothing her hair, his body rocking hers, his murmur comforting.
“I promise, honey. Take a deep breath. That’s tight. Take another. That’s my girl. Don’t be afraid. I’ve got you and we’re getting out of here. But first tell me—”
That’s my girl. Boone had said that and she’d