River's Edge (Unlikely Gentlemen, Book 1) (5 page)

River gasped for breath and shook so hard she thought she might fall down. She ignored the splinter in her palm and flexed her fingers, making certain nothing was broken. The biggest sliver of wood imbedded in the fleshy part of her palm came out easily. But the spot of red oozing from her torn skin made her lightheaded.

“River, you alright?” Belatedly, Hank remembered he was sheriff, calling his question, from his office door, where he’d retreated.

“Charlie, shoot the bastard,” Emmett yelled to the other man, using the sheriff’s question as a distraction.

“Charlie, put your gun away or I’ll blow a hole in your boss.” Edge’s words, coated in icy threat, bore no resemblance to the previous gruff humor River had heard in his voice.

Calm as could be, Edge aimed his shotgun at Emmett’s stomach and said, “Mister, I’ve gotten the drop on you twice now. I figure you might want to pursue a life other than crime.”

Without looking at River he said, “Ma’am, you’d be best served inside with the sheriff.” When she remained frozen in place, he put his free hand on her shoulder, gently tucking her behind him.

She resisted the urge to lay her head against his back. River felt safer standing behind Edge than hiding with the sheriff in his office. Her hand tingled, aching. Fear and rage magnified her senses making her heady with relief.

She realized she’d been holding her breath and inhaled deeply, drawing in the aroma of Edge’s male musk along with necessary air. Pine, gun oil, soap, leather… she memorized his scent, trying to control the outrageous thumping of her heart.

My hand is not broken. My fingers will still hold a brush.
As she recognized the magnitude of Emmett’s threat, a second wave of horror swamped her. The sound of harsh breathing cut through the stillness of the day.

Realizing the noise came from her, she stifled herself, breathing shallow, trying to dispel her dizziness. She reached for support and touched Edge’s belt. Need took over. Her fingers curled around the leather, not stopping until they were hidden inside the waistband of his pants.

Some primal instinct made her hold on. She could see the heat shimmers rising in the air around them. Her brain narrated her experience as she fought to stay upright.

Steady yourself.
She blinked hard, clasping the belt in front of her tighter.
Concentrate, focus on the form before you—worn boots, frayed denims, buffalo check design
.

His clothes molded to his body, revealing muscular thighs, a firm rump, strong arms filling out his worn shirt. Methodically, she counted boxes in the faded plaid, letting her gaze crawl upward.
The fabric is thin with age, stretching to cover his broad shoulders.

The sight of said shoulders made her pause and she came crashing back into awareness. River couldn’t see more than Emmett’s boot, but it was enough to show him still on the ground. Apparently her almost-swoon had lasted no more than moments as she’d cowered behind Edge Grayson like a child, drawing strength from him. She knew the face-off had ended when Hank Simpson stepped to her side.

“You can turn loose now, River,” Hank said dryly.

She had no idea how long she’d been clinging to Edge Grayson’s belt but suddenly another fact became apparent.

I’m touching his skin.
“I beg your pardon,” she murmured. Reluctantly, she freed her fingers from his waistband, the back of her hand brushing against his warm skin as she withdrew. The frightened drumbeat of her heart changed to a throbbing awareness in her core.

Edge picked up her hand, studying it with a concerned look on his face. “He did this on purpose.” She nodded agreement and his expression changed, his eyes burning hot for a moment. “Best clean it good and dab some alcohol on it.”

He released her and stepped away to retrieve his horse from the hitching post. Once mounted, he rode close to where she stood next to Hank. “You won’t have to ask around now, Sheriff. Those are two of the men who visited my spread and threatened me.”

Then he looked at River, tipped his hat, and said, “Ma’am,” before nudging his horse into motion.

“It’s Miss, Mr. Grayson,” she suddenly became energized and called after him, but she didn’t think he heard as he trotted away. Belatedly, she realized she hadn’t thanked him.

Emmett and Charlie had already ridden out of town before Hank decided to do his job. But his feeble show of interest in law enforcement flickered and died when he stood next to her looking down at the twisted frame of her Rover.

“I want to press charges against Emmett Price.”

“Did you witness him step on it?” Hank clearly wasn’t going after Emmett.

“He threatened me, you saw him. Heard him.”

“Nope. I saw him hand you something. Didn’t hear a word of what he said.”

“I heard him. I saw him.” Beth arrived, glaring at Hank as she picked more broken pencils from the ground. “River, come with me while the sheriff looks for his spine.”

Within the safety of her friend’s kitchen, River collapsed on a chair while Beth tweezed splinters from her palm.

“Emmett Price is a plague on this town,” Beth muttered as she applied alcohol to the wounds.

“Yes,” River agreed, grimacing as the sting reminded her of not only what she could have lost, but of Edge Grayson’s touch as he’d inspected her hand. Her expression must have changed because Beth chuckled.

“And the cowboy’s name is?”

“Edge Grayson, the model for my latest commission—and my new neighbor.”

Beth grinned, murmuring, “And have you invited him to supper yet?”

“I haven’t even introduced myself yet,” River admitted glumly. “Uh, there are extenuating circumstances.”

“Like what?”

Beth whooped with laughter when River confessed her days of voyeuristic enterprise, especially her foray in the willow tree.

CHAPTER SIX

Sprockets and chains…

Edge had a lot on his mind as he rode home. First and foremost was a pair of eyes in a shade of such lush green they rivaled the willow tree. That was the second thing on his mind. He had no doubt whatsoever that he’d just rescued his willow tree spy.

“She’s a little thing,” he murmured, patting Sandy absently. “Had I not heard her, I might think her a kid.” He grinned. “And, it’s Miss, not Missus, Sandy.”

Edge was unaccountably pleased by both the message and the messenger’s husky voice when she’d called after him. She’d wanted him to know her marital status. He couldn’t hold back his chuckle. Dire as the situation had been, she’d tagged his britches and held on for dear life, trusting him more than the useless fool they had for a sheriff.

The thought of Hank Simpson led him to the third item on his mental list of things to worry about. The sheriff had been real vague, declaring he had no idea who could have been on Grayson property threatening Edge. He was so busy avoiding Edge’s gaze, he’d looked out his window and cursed at what he’d seen.

“Dammit to hell, River’s in for it now,” the sheriff had muttered, hurrying to the window. Simpson had stood peering through the glass instead of leaving the safety of his office to deal with the jackass tormenting a woman in the middle of the town street.

When the sheriff didn’t offer the woman named River any aid, Edge intervened. As soon as he’d walked outside, and asked if she needed help, she’d looked over her shoulder and no power on earth could have kept him from answering the plea in those big green eyes. Besides, he already knew the man deviling her was a sonofabitch.

All in all, it had been an eventful second trip to Isaca. For a sleepy little town without much action, it had been bouncing today. He mulled things over, riding halfway home before he remembered the nails he still needed. He’d already wasted half a work day and the store wouldn’t be open again until Monday. It pained him to do it, but he turned Sandy around and rode back to Isaca.

It surprised him to see the woman in his thoughts, sitting on a stool outside the store, fiddling with a mechanical contraption. He sat on Sandy, not sure whether to say hello, belatedly apologize for trespassing, or climb down and look at the contraption she was worrying over. Considering hours earlier she’d had her hands in his pants, it did seem as if they knew each other already.

His hesitance cost him the opportunity to speak. A horse drawing a wagon trotted briskly down the street. When the driver reached the store, he stopped, turned and backed the wagon bed tight up next to Sandy. Edge didn’t know the old man but, he knew when he was being crowded.

“Amos, help me put this into the wagon.” Her words came out rough with emotion.

If Edge had to guess, he’d say it was rage he heard. Instead of going inside to buy his nails, he divided his gaze between the woman and the machine.

“River, can it be fixed?” the store clerk asked, coming outside to stand by Edge.

“What happened to it?” he asked, staring
into the prettiest green eyes he’d ever seen and not at the wreck on the ground.

“Emmett Price broke it,” the clerk volunteered when River didn’t answer.

“Naw,” Edge disagreed, bending to take a closer look. “Straighten the frame and tighten the spokes. That’ll probably do it.” It looked to him like someone had given it a good stomping.

“Emmett Price would be the man you had words with in the street?” he asked Miss Green-eyes. She’d been a little woozy for a spell out there, but she seemed recovered now.

“Yes,” the clerk answered for her again.

“You work on bicycles?” Finally River spoke, directing her question at him. The store clerk opened her lips but didn’t know the right word to say.

”Never worked on anything exactly like yours, but I know a chain from a sprocket.” Edge cut the clerk from the conversation and answered for her.

“Amos, this is Edge Grayson, our neighbor. Mr. Grayson, Amos Butler is foreman of the Prescott ranch.”

So she’s River Prescott.
He looked his fill, while the foreman wore an expression men folks wear when they’re guarding decent women from riffraff like him.

Edge bent his head in acknowledgement but when no handshake was offered, he went into the store to buy his nails, leaving Miss Prescott and her foreman staring at the two-wheeler. The clerk followed Edge inside.

When he came back out, thinking about visiting the saloon before he left town, the old man had loaded the bicycle on the wagon and climbed onto the wagon bench, ready to start for home. Instead of sitting on the bench beside him, River sat in the bed of the wagon with her back turned to the bench. She immediately called to him and he had the distinct feeling she’d been waiting for him to emerge from the store.

“Mr. Grayson, since you know how to work on a bicycle, perhaps you’d have Sunday dinner with us tomorrow. After, our meal, I’d appreciate it if you’d inspect my Rover and determine if it can be repaired.”

Amos Butler’s shoulders were stiff and Edge didn’t need to see his face to know the invitation didn’t come from him. But considering the beans he’d be eating tomorrow if he stayed at home—home being a cookstove in front of a barn—he ignored the old man’s dislike.

“That would be the spread on the other side of the willow tree?” He drawled his question, enjoying the way a blush crawled up her neck. Nevertheless, it didn’t prevent her from having the last word in their secret exchange.

“Come through the back gate. You know the way. When you’re invited, it’s not trespass.”

“I’d be pleased to stop by, Miss Prescott. About what time?”

“Meal’s served at two. Don’t be late,” the old man growled, giving a gentle twitch of the lines, urging the horse into slow motion—real slow motion.

Edge stood, sack of nails in hand, watching Miss Prescott’s journey out of town. With the wagon moving at the pace it was traveling, he figured even climbing off Sandy and walking backward, he still might beat River to her house for Sunday dinner.

* * * * *

All dressed up in Sunday finery though she was,
Miss Prescott knelt in the dirt by her porch when Edge rode into her ranch yard the next afternoon. Before he’d reined Sandy to a stop, Amos Butler came out of the barn and pointed at the hitching post downwind from the house and in the shade of a tree.

Edge dismounted, loosened the saddle, slipped on a halter, and left Sandy munching oats from a feedbag.

“Mind if I take a look?” Edge crossed the tidy yard to where she inspected her machine.

He could already see she didn’t have the strength to straighten the crumpled metal. She tilted the frame his way, signaling her consent and he hefted it, making sure it was as heavy as it looked.

“Want me to have a go at it?”

“Yes.”

Edge set the two-wheeler on the ground and retrieved a hammer and a cloth from his saddle bags. She cringed when he found a block of wood, slipping it between the bent frame and the wheel.

He thought she might cry when he struck the first blow, but by the time he’d pounded out the dent and straightened the metal so it didn’t scrape the back tire any longer, she was smiling.

He sat back on his heels, gazing up at her. He figured it would be neighborly to tighten, grease, and oil her contraption while he was at it.

“Do you have wrenches for it?”

She handed him a leather tool kit, looking sheepish. “I don’t know exactly how to use these.”

He squatted next to the bicycle and began his lecture. “A machine is made up of a bunch of moving parts.”

She leaned over his shoulder, staring where he pointed. Yep, she wore the scent of lilac flowers. Now he knew for certain it had been her perfume he’d smelled the first day. He wasn’t sure she should be leaning that close since her aroma acted like fingers, massaging his groin.

Instead of backing off, Miss Prescott squatted next to him, her narrow skirt molding to her hips and her thigh molding to his leg.
Jesus.
No, no, no… Edge tensed as his cock twitched. His hand slipped off the pedal, the force of the thrust sending the back wheel spinning.

“Guess I got it freed up.” Overwhelmed by lilac scent and green eyes, Edge swallowed back lust as the wheel stopped spinning. He stood up. That was a mistake. She remained on the ground next to her bicycle at eye level with his crotch.

“What keeps the parts from grinding against each other?”

Goddammit, it was an innocent question and she was an innocent woman—on her knees in the dirt with her head level with his groin.

“Grease,” he croaked, staring at the bicycle. Clearing his throat and willing his dick to behave, he made the mistake of meeting her gaze.

Edge’s breath stalled, his heart jumped, and regardless of the iron control he prided himself on, when her pink tongue flicked out tracing a line across her bottom lip, his cock unfurled.

Desperate to redirect her attention from the swell in his pants, he pointed at the bottom bracket.

“What you need to do is grease the chain to keep it from rubbing the brakes when it passes over the pivot points—”

“Like so?” She interrupted him, poking her finger in and out of the tight circle she’d made with finger and thumb. “I see—carrying the oil with it keeps it gliding smoothly over the sprocket.”

He stared at her, unable to speak around the useless club in his mouth his tongue had become. A blush crawled up his neck.
Miss Prescott stood and brushed off her skirts as if nothing untoward had just happened.

“Thank you for your instruction. I shall have to learn its parts if I am to keep it in working order.”

He shifted his stance, discreetly trying to accommodate that which would not abate. He figured she was more aware of his state than she let on, because she seemed a mite flustered herself when she turned from him and pointed at his horse, placidly eating grain by the hitching post.

“Animals will soon have to make room on the roads for mechanical modes of transportation. I’m planning to smooth the thoroughfare from here to town next spring.”

“Gadgets are fine for play,” he said gruffly, his momentary ardor doused. “But herding cattle’s not a game.”

“I do not use my Rover for recreation. Until I obtained it, I rarely left this ranch. Now I have the whole county to explore.” River straightened, her glare challenging him.

“You could ride in a buggy or get yourself a good horse,” he answered. Her exaggerated defense irked him.

“I don’t like horses.”

No shit.
Her expression filled with such loathing, Edge resisted the urge to protect Sandy.

“The Rover suits me fine. It doesn’t eat, leave smelly droppings in the yard, require saddling and preparation, or necessitate space in a barn.” Miss Prescott had definitely made up her mind. But regardless of their disagreement about mechanical rides versus warm-blooded ones, she invited him inside.
“It’s past time for dinner.”

Amos followed hard on their heels when his boss led Edge through the front entrance. He wondered if the old man had been peering at them from the barn. Maybe everyone on the ranch went around spying on people.

“Come along,” River told him. “Amos and I use the kitchen on Sundays. It’s easy to wash up before we eat and easy to clean up afterward.”

The dress she wore, tailored to fit her diminutive size, tapered in at the waist and flared out again over the gentle curve of her hips. Paying too much attention to her form and not where she led, he bumped into a massive table in the dining room.

He felt like a lumbering ox but followed her into the kitchen, a room filled with light, warmth, good smells and much more to his liking than the darker rooms they’d passed through.

She’d already set plates and silverware on the round oak table by the wall. He scrubbed at the sink, standing shoulder to shoulder with her and watched her use soap and water revealing the bruise beneath the dust and grit. Without permission, he picked up her hand and studied the injury. Her fingers were swollen but the punctures were clear of infection.

“Anybody ever consider beating the sh… daylights out of that fella we tangled with yesterday?”

“You came as close as I’ve seen.” Her eyes sparkled and she beamed obvious approval at him.

“Might he be one of our neighbors?” It felt good, making the jackass a problem they both shared.

He held her dainty hand in his as he asked. Calluses marked her fingers and palm but her bones felt fragile as a bird’s wing.

“I’m afraid so,” she sighed, taking her hand back and handing him a drying towel finer than the linens in the fancy Fort Worth hotels. “I don’t want to talk about that cretin.”

Neither did Edge. He felt like a kid at Christmas when she urged him toward the table and the meal. He pulled her chair out but she waved him away.

“Sit. Tell me how you know about fixing mechanical transportation. I have dishes to put on the table.”

He sat. The old man sat across from him. Miss Prescott bustled around the kitchen, happy as a bee in a field of pollen.