Legally Binding Read online

  The table in the little alcove lay on its side. The mail she’d gotten from her box was scattered upon the floor. The telephone lay next to her cell phone. And judging from its broken casing, her answering machine was history.

  Her briefcase. It was gone. The intruder had hit her with it and taken it with him. Was that what he was after? Was that why he’d broken into her apartment? She didn’t buy for a moment that this was a simple burglary. He hadn’t gone near the television or expensive stereo equipment her brothers had given her for a passing-the-bar gift. He’d sneaked into her apartment for something specific. And as far as she could tell, the only thing he’d taken was her briefcase.

  Hands shaking, she picked up the cell phone. She needed to call the sheriff’s office, tell them someone had broken into her apartment, attacked her, stolen her briefcase. But somehow she couldn’t force her fingers to punch 9-1-1. She couldn’t deal with Hurley Zeller’s cruel laugh and mind games. Not when she was feeling so vulnerable. Not when she was feeling so weak.

  Bart.

  He’d told her to call if she needed him. And she needed him now. Needed to hear his voice, needed to see the strength in his eyes, needed his warm arms to fold around her and stop her from shaking.

  She found his number in the Mustang Valley directory and punched in his number with trembling fingers. The line rang, pulsing in her ear.

  Finally his sleepy voice answered. “Hello?”

  “Bart—” A frightened sob stuck in her throat and cut off her breath.

  “Lindsey? What’s wrong?”

  Her mind whirled with relief, with fear, with confusion. She struggled to find the words to tell him what had happened—struggled and lost. “I—I need you.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  BART HADN’T HIT ninety on the highway leading to Mustang Valley since he was seventeen and driving his dad’s old Ford pickup. But he buried the needle now.

  The fear in Lindsey’s voice when she called had hit him like a kick to the gut. Her voice had sounded so small, so vulnerable, so afraid. His first response had been to get to her as fast as he could, to pull her into his arms and make her safe. His second was to kill whomever had made her sound that way.

  He roared onto Main Street and checked his speed. Thank the good Lord, the town’s sidewalks rolled up by nine o’clock during the work week. Once he passed Hit ’Em Again, the street was clear until he made the turn that led to Lindsey’s apartment complex.

  The street outside her building was quiet. No deputy in sight. Damn that Hurley Zeller. If he’d been protecting Lindsey like he’d promised—

  Bart shook his head, cutting off the thought. It didn’t matter what Hurley was up to. Bart was here now. And he’d damn well make sure Lindsey was okay. And that she stayed that way.

  He pulled to the curb, switched off the engine and threw open the door. Boot heels echoing on pavement, he dashed to the front door and hit the doorbell button next to her last name.

  “Bart?” Lindsey’s shaky voice filtered through the speaker.

  Relief tumbled through him. “It’s me, darlin’.”

  “Second floor, apartment B.” She buzzed him in.

  He raced to the top of the stairs and found her door. She opened it before he had the chance to knock.

  Her face was pale and she clutched the doorjamb for support. But she wasn’t bleeding. She wasn’t hurt.

  Bart stepped into the apartment and gathered her into his arms.

  Her body trembled against him. Her arms tightened around him. She felt as substantial as a flower, as delicate as a petal. Her lips pressed against his neck, right above his shirt collar. “I know I should have called the sheriff, but I just couldn’t.”

  “I’m here. I’ve got you.” He rubbed his hand over the length of her back and kissed her hair. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Someone broke into my apartment. When I spotted him, he hit me with my briefcase and ran.”

  Rage twisted in Bart’s gut. What kind of a coward would hit a woman? If he got his hands on the son of a bitch— He forced himself to take a deep breath. “All I know is, I’m awful glad you’re okay. You could have been killed.” His voice cracked. His chest tightened. Even hearing those words come from his own lips was too much.

  Lindsey pulled back and looked up at him. Her eyes locked with his.

  He smoothed her satin cheek with his fingers, wanting to reassure himself she was all right. Wanting to feel her, to smell her, to draw her in. Tilting her head back, he lowered his head and fitted his mouth to hers.

  She tasted like warm honey and smelled like roses. He pulled her closer, joining his tongue with hers, soaking in the feel of her, the heat of her, until he was drunk with the contact.

  He’d wanted this so much. Ever since she’d walked into the county jail with that classy lift to her chin and raw determination in her eyes. She was his lawyer. He was accused of murder. Nothing could ever come of this, but he wanted it all the same. Wanted the heat of her, the taste of her. Wanted to hold her in his arms and be her hero.

  He wanted Lindsey.

  And she needed him. She circled his neck with her arms, pulling him closer, deeper into the kiss. Her thighs brushed against his.

  Heat shot straight to his groin. What he wouldn’t give to carry her to bed, strip her clothes off and run his hands over every inch of that smooth skin. He stepped farther into the apartment, pulling her with him. Something crunched under his boot.

  He drew back from the kiss and looked down. A smattering of letters and a mail-order catalog were strewn across the floor. A battered answering machine lay on the tile, its plastic casing in shards under his feet.

  A groan of pleasure died in his throat. What was he thinking? Lindsey was attacked here tonight. She could have been hurt. She could have been killed. She needed him, all right. But not to kiss her, not to make love to her. She needed him to keep her safe.

  He looked up, peering into the intense blue of her eyes. “Pack your things.”

  A little crease formed between her elegant eyebrows. “My things?”

  “You’re moving out to the ranch.”

  THROUGH THE ARDUOUS process of filling out a police report about the break-in and the long drive to the Four Aces Ranch, Lindsey tried to silence the nagging voice of doubt whispering in her ear.

  The effort was a waste of time.

  She’d moved to Mustang Valley to be self-sufficient, to build a career and a life on her own, and she’d already blown it. Big-time. She might be able to take care of herself when her life was well ordered and predictable, but as soon as something out of the ordinary happened, she needed a big strong cowboy to save her.

  And Bart Rawlins was definitely the man who fit that bill.

  She stared at the lines of fence and juniper groves whizzing past the truck window, drew in a deep breath of fresh country air and tried to purge memories of his strong, safe arms and passionate kiss from her mind.

  It was no use.

  But even though his arms had sent a thrill through her body as strong and jolting as an electric shock, and his kiss had caused her whole system to overheat, she couldn’t let the sensations short-circuit her mind. She was a lawyer. A professional. And Bart was her client. She had fallen into the role of damsel in distress tonight, but that didn’t mean it would happen again. And even though she’d agreed out of fear to stay at the Four Aces Ranch, nothing had changed. She wanted to kiss him. Heck, she wanted more than a kiss. But she hadn’t gotten where she was by giving in to sexual attraction every time it heated her blood. She would handle her attraction to Bart the way she’d always handled the appeal of sexy men. By ignoring it.

  The truck passed under the archway proclaiming the Four Aces Ranch and rattled through the open gate designed to keep cattle inside. Lindsey glanced at Bart, his face illuminated in the dashboard’s glow, his head bobbing slightly in time with Merle Haggard on the CD player. She looked ahead at the sprawling white house and ranch building
s crowning the top of the hill. The ranch was as quiet as the last time she’d visited. All the lights in the apartments, barns and the bunkhouse were dark. The only sign of life was a single light blazing from the main house.

  As if following her gaze, Bart’s eyes flicked over the house before landing on her. “Someone must be up.”

  “Your father?”

  “Or Beatrice.”

  “The nurse?”

  Nodding, he swung the truck into the driveway leading to the house and pulled in front of the garage. Switching off the ignition, he turned to her. “It’s been a rough day. Let’s get you settled so you can get some sleep.”

  He climbed out of the truck and circled behind. When he joined her at the passenger side, he was carrying her suitcases. She held out her hand for them.

  He looked down at her open palm. “Don’t be ridiculous. What kind of a man would I be if I let a lady carry her own bags?”

  “I can do it.”

  “I know you can. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you.” He strode away, leaving her to catch up.

  The main house was a rambling affair, the kind she’d seen on television westerns. The long roofline was broken by half-a-dozen dormer windows. On the main floor, double-hung windows peered out on a wood porch that ran the length of the structure.

  Bart led her to a side door instead of continuing down the porch to the main entrance. “I’d bring you through the front door, but around these parts, the only people who use them are the politicians.”

  “The only thing worse than lawyers.”

  “Damn straight.”

  She followed him inside, smiling. She liked that he took her through the door he regularly used himself.

  The door opened into a utility area connected to the kitchen. As soon as they stepped inside, a rough voice echoed through the dark hall. “Where’s my money?”

  Lindsey followed Bart into the kitchen. Although a light glowed from somewhere deep in the house, this room was dark. He flicked on the light. At the table sat a man almost as tall and probably once as strapping as Bart. But time had obviously taken its toll on his body, leaving him bony instead of lean, worn instead of vital. He frowned at Bart, confusion pinching his bushy gray brows. “Who the hell are you? Did you steal my money?”

  Bart walked over to him and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Your money is in the bank, Daddy. It’ll always be there, whenever you need it.”

  “Then give it to me. I can’t even buy a newspaper around here.”

  Bart glanced at Lindsey. She remembered him mentioning he hadn’t told his father about Jeb’s death. He probably didn’t want him to see a newspaper, either. The last thing the older man needed was to read in a headline that his brother was dead and his son was accused of his murder. Especially if he was confused in the first place.

  “I’ll get you a newspaper, Daddy.”

  Bart’s father looked at him with blank eyes, as if his demand for a newspaper had already slipped away. “Where’s Abby?”

  Bart’s lips tightened with obvious pain. “Mama is gone.”

  “When she gets back, tell her I need more socks.”

  “I will.” He smiled and patted his father’s shoulder. “Daddy? This is Lindsey. She’s a friend of mine.”

  The older man squinted at her.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Rawlins.” She held out a hand to shake.

  He stared at it, as if he didn’t know what the gesture meant. “This morning Abby made me scrambled eggs. I love scrambled eggs.”

  “That was Beatrice,” Bart corrected, his voice patient.

  “Who?”

  “Beatrice. Your nurse. She’s the one who made you the scrambled eggs.”

  “Abby makes the best scrambled eggs.”

  Bart sighed. “Mama always knew just how to take care of you, didn’t she?”

  “I’m tired.”

  “Why don’t you go back to bed then? What were you doing sitting in the dark anyway?” Bart looked down a long hallway on the other side of the spacious family room. “Is Beatrice here?”

  His father stared at him. “Who the hell is Beatrice?”

  “Somebody has to get you to bed.” Bart let out a heavy sigh and glanced at Lindsey, as if asking her to excuse him.

  She nodded her go-ahead.

  He helped his father up from the table.

  “I’ll take him, Bart.” A soft Southern accent drifted through the room. Standing at the mouth of the hallway was an equally soft-looking woman. Pleasantly plump, with gray hair framing a wide face, the woman shuffled into the room in a blue housecoat. Her sharp blue eyes focused on Lindsey.

  “Lindsey, this is Beatrice.”

  Lindsey returned the woman’s smile. As soon as they exchanged introductions and pleasantries Beatrice looped her arm around Bart’s father and ushered him down the hall.

  Bart turned to Lindsey. “Now let’s get you upstairs.”

  “It must be tough for you.”

  He looked at her like he had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Him not remembering you. It must be tough.”

  “Sometimes. Truth is, he hasn’t remembered me for a long time. I’m kind of used to it.”

  “He has Alzheimer’s disease, doesn’t he?”

  A muscle in Bart’s cheek flinched. He lowered his eyelids and nodded.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He swallowed hard and shook his head. Stepping to the table, he picked up the suitcases. “Let me show you where you’ll be staying.”

  She could understand his reluctance to talk about his dad. Just seeing Hiriam Rawlins tonight, she could get a sense of the man he used to be. The man who was fading away bit by bit. But she couldn’t truly understand the pain of watching that horrible disease ravage someone she loved. She hoped she would never truly understand that.

  She rose from her chair and followed Bart up the stairs to the second floor. The hallway ran the length of the house, at least a half-dozen doors opening onto it. “This house is huge. How many bedrooms are up here?”

  “Five bedrooms, two baths. And there are two bedroom suites downstairs.”

  “Do you have a lot of brothers and sisters?”

  “Nope. Just me. My parents wanted a whole houseful, but after I was born, my mama couldn’t have any more. I always hoped I would fill these rooms with kids someday.” A bittersweet smile flickered over his lips before he turned and walked halfway down the hall.

  Lindsey followed, Bart’s yearning and regret ringing in her ears.

  He halted at a closed door. Using his elbow, he pushed the door open, then stepped to the side so she could enter. The room was spacious and airy. The yard light streamed in through two oversize dormer windows dressed with a pretty chintz fabric. Between the windows, a wide bed stood, piled with pillows and covered with a handmade quilt of the same chintz. Sweet and comfortable and just a little feminine. Even though the room was worlds apart from the sleek, contemporary house she grew up in, it felt like home. “It’s beautiful.”

  “My mama. She could have decorated for one of those fancy home magazines, I swear.”

  “I bet she could have.”

  Bart shifted his feet, boot soles scuffing on the hardwood floor. There was pain in his mother’s memory, too. So much sorrow.

  “How did she die?”

  “Doctors say it was heart failure.”

  “And you don’t believe the doctors?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “What do you think it was?”

  “It might sound sappy, but I’d say her heart broke.”

  Her own heart pinched. “Your father’s illness?”

  He set her suitcases down and plucked his hat from his head. He ran his fingers over the brim as if intent on checking its shape. “She always believed he’d get better. Like if she waited long enough and loved him hard enough, the disease would give up its hold. I think when it became clear he was never going to improve, she lost the will to go on.”
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br />   The sadness in his voice seeped into her soul. She ached to wrap her arms around him, to hold him, to kiss him, to make his pain go away. The way he’d held her earlier tonight until she’d stopped shaking. The way he’d kissed her until his strength had made her whole. She barely stopped herself from reaching out to touch him. “I’m sorry about your parents,” she whispered lamely. “I’m so sorry.”

  He pressed his lips together in a sad smile. “Me, too.”

  “I wish I could do something.”

  “You can’t. No one can.” Leaning forward, he fitted his hat on his head and peered at her from under the brim. “I’m glad you’re here, Lindsey. And I’m glad you’re safe. If you need me, I’ll be in the next room.”

  The next room. Images bombarded her. His broad chest naked. His long, bare legs tangled in the sheets. His strong arms open and waiting for her to crawl into them. She took a deep breath and ruthlessly pushed the visions from her mind.

  But she couldn’t push away his quiet anguish over his father’s illness and his regret for the empty bedrooms he’d hoped to fill with children. Nor could she banish the ache she’d seen in his eyes as he told her of his mother’s death. And his mother’s love.

  She might be able to fight her physical desire for him. She might even be able to ignore it. But she couldn’t ignore his vulnerability. His decency. The real man with secret dreams and secret pains. She closed her eyes and willed herself to stay rooted to the spot.

  “Good night.” His low drawl washed over her like a warm Texas breeze.

  She summoned a deep breath. “Good night.”

  She didn’t open her eyes, not when she heard his footfalls move into the hall, not when he closed the door softly behind him. It was only when he was safely on the other side of that oak barrier that she allowed herself to stare at the door.

  Staying at the Four Aces was going to be harder than she’d ever imagined.

  Chapter Eight

  The morning sun stretched through the kitchen window and fell on the side of Lindsey’s face, making her skin and hair glow with the soft light of an angel. “More coffee?” She held up the pot.