Her kiss was a tender expression of gratitudeâ¦
But Prestonâs reaction to it was fierce and swift. He pulled her close and deepened the kiss. She didnât resist. Giving in to temptation, she melted into him.
With each heartbeat, his touch became rougher, his kiss burned hotter. Then to her complete surprise, he eased his hold.
Abby looked into his eyes and saw the iron-willed control he held over himself.
âIâm sorry,â she said. âYou didnât start this, and I can see you donât want toâ¦â
âI donât want to?â He laughed, a dark, edgy sound. âI want you, Abby. I care about you more than I should. But you need to be protectedâeven from me.â
âYou want meâ¦â she said slowly, savoring the words. âThen show me.â
Armed with her favorite guilty pleasureâa caramel vanilla cappuccinoâAbby Langdon left Sunny Perk in the distance and navigated the long gravel road that led to her ranch. Later, sheâd put on a pot of coffee, but for now, her fix was complete.
Already she was anticipating the hard work and long day ahead. Sitting Tall Ranch and its special mission had always been her dream come true. Young victims of illness, poverty and abuse came to her ranch daily for a respite from their challenges. Her guests had witnessed the worst life could hand out, but Sitting Tall Ranch was the haven where they could forget their troubles and just be kids.
Abby slowed as she neared the abandoned pickup parked alongside the road. Sheâd seen it earlier when sheâd left the ranch. Somebody had probably run out of gas then gotten a ride.
Abby drove through the gates, parked and headed to her office, a separate casita behind the main house. She was holding her to-go cup in one hand and reaching for her keys with the other when she heard a familiar voice to her left.
âAbby! Wait up!â
Ten-year-old Bobby Neskahi, hands down her favorite guest, was struggling up the sidewalk. Juvenile rheumatoid arthritis had damaged most of his joints and left him to rely on braces, but whatever had caused the panicked look on his face was urging him to move fast.
He stopped in front of her, catching his breath. âCarlâs hurt! Heâs not moving.â
âWhere is he?â Her heart suddenly beat overtime. Carl Woods was her caretaker, animal handler and all-around right-hand man on the ranch.
âHeâs inside Tracker and Missyâs turnout area. Heâs on the ground, and he didnât move or answer when I called him.â Bobby grabbed her hand. âHe might be dead. I couldnât see him breathing. Come on! You gotta help!â
Abby touched Bobby firmly on the shoulder, then handed him her keys. âBobby, I need you to go into my office, call 911 on the desk phone, then stay here until the police arrive. Youâll have to show them the way. Iâll go check on Carl.â
Bobby nodded and Abby took off running toward the stalls.
Jogging around the corner of the barn, Abby nearly collided with a wheelbarrow stacked with bales of alfalfa hay. Stopping just in time, she began inching between the wheelbarrow and the fence. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of movement.
As she turned to look, a large figure leaped up from behind the stack and forced an empty feed bag over her head.
âHey!â Sputtering from the debris in her eyes and mouth, she fought to pull the bag off.
Strong arms grabbed her wrists, yanked them down to her sides, then lifted her off the ground.
Abby tried to kick her captor, but he just grunted, hauled her several steps, then flung her violently onto the ground.
DARK, ANGRY CLOUDS were building over Copper Canyon. âStormâs heading our way.â Hot from exertion despite the cool, early hour, Detective Preston Bowman had already shrugged off his shirt as he continued working alongside his brother, repairing gaps in the fence line. Their late foster fatherâs place belonged to all of them now.
As the wind from the downdrafts intensified, Preston could feel the force of the approaching storm. The sky continued to darken quickly, turning the new day into near twilight.
Kyle, taller than his brother by one inch and just as muscular, wiped his eyes with a dirty hand. âRain I like. Sand-storms, not so much, bro.â
Preston was tired, though heâd never admit it. His sore muscles were a constant reminder of why heâd chosen city life instead. As a cop, Preston was more used to wielding a gun rather than a shovel, axe or sledgehammer. Even though he was six feet tall and in excellent shapeâpolice work demanded itâhe was ready for a break.