Keegan: The Texas Rascals Series Book One Read online

  Welcoming him like a long-lost lover, Wren opened her mouth, anxious to increase their intimacy. Despite her doubts, despite what was good and smart and rational, her instincts urged her to deepen the kiss, to consume this man.

  His tongue dipped past hers, and she felt as if she’d swallowed heaven. Sensations quite unlike anything she’d ever experienced exploded inside her. Heat and sweet. Tangy and tart. His kiss was far more incredible than her fantasies.

  She was in heaven.

  Keegan moaned as she pressed herself intimately against him, unsure exactly of her own intentions, simply knowing that she wanted more from this man. His mouth left hers, trailing hot kisses behind her ear.

  “Wren...oh sweet, little Wren...” He sighed into her hair.

  His hands moved up and down her back, at first softly, then gradually with more pressure. She rolled back her head, allowing his mouth tender access to her exposed throat. She gasped as one of his hands moved from her back, around her ribs, just below her breasts.

  It had been so long since Wren had felt wanted and desired. It felt so good to be held in masculine arms, to feel the beat of his heart mirroring the frantic pace of her own pulse. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that the pleasure was not in being held in any masculine arms, but in Keegan’s. When Blaine had kissed her, it had all been lies, but with Keegan it felt so real, so right.

  But was it the real thing? her subconscious nudged. Hadn’t Blaine tricked her, at least for a while? How could she be sure she wasn’t fooling herself with Keegan, too?

  He’d warned her about himself. Had told her emphatically that he couldn’t be trusted, and yet, she was stubbornly denying his words, seeking to prove her instincts correct.

  Or was it more? Was she ignoring the facts, purposely blinding herself to his faults, intentionally creating excuses for his lifestyle simply because she was starting to fall in love with him?

  In that instant, Wren knew it was true. Somehow, in some way, over the course of the last three days, she’d managed to lose her heart to this man. An unusual man, and one she knew absolutely nothing about.

  * * *

  Keegan disentangled her arms from around his neck and set her firmly on the ground. “I know you’re attracted to me, Wren, but your affections are misguided.”

  “Misguided?” she repeated.

  “I can’t return your interest.”

  Wren gave a nervous laugh. “I don’t know what you mean, Keegan. I don’t expect anything from you. Nothing at all. You were just standing under the mistletoe.” She gestured at the green sprig sporting white berries dangling over their heads.

  Who did she think she was fooling? Certainly not him. That kiss had been special and as potent as dynamite. And if he weren’t involved in tracking down Connor Heller, if he weren’t so angry and embittered, if revenge didn’t dominate his very soul, he might have allowed himself to wonder where that kiss could have led.

  “Just a friendly Christmas Eve kiss?” he asked.

  “Surely you didn’t think it was anything more than that?” Her bottom lip trembled, belying her breezy denial.

  “No.” He shook his head, but inside he felt hot and shivery. “Of course not.”

  Wren forced a smile, but Keegan could tell tears hovered below the surface. He hadn’t meant to lead her on, to hurt her. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d purposely kept himself isolated for the last six months, avoiding people, living within himself, concentrating on his mission to the exclusion of everything else. He had no right to encourage her interest in him, even though his own interest kept growing stronger.

  If only the storm hadn’t hit. If only he hadn’t gotten sick and prolonged his stay. If only he hadn’t stumbled upon Wren’s dairy in the first place.

  One thing was perfectly clear. He had to get out of here, and fast. Before anything further happened between them. Because next time, he might not be so satisfied with a kiss.

  “Thank you again, Wren, for the sweater and the scarf. It was very thoughtful.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m feeling tired,” he said awkwardly. “I haven’t really recouped from that fever.”

  She nodded.

  “Think I’ll hit the sack early tonight.” He stretched his arms over his head and faked a yawn.

  “Sure.”

  “Good night, then.”

  “Good night.”

  Keegan headed for the bedroom, guilt weighting his conscience. He stopped in the hall and turned back to gaze at Wren.

  She was an angel against the starry backdrop of the twinkling Christmas tree lights. A lump rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down.

  “I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning.”

  She said nothing to dissuade him, and for that Keegan was grateful.

  “Could I have my Magnum back? Please.”

  She hesitated a moment then said, “All right.”

  Retrieving a key from the rack mounted on the wall above her landline, Wren opened the cabinet and withdrew his gun. She walked over to him and pressed the weapon into his hand.

  “Good luck, Keegan Winslow,” she whispered. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  * * *

  Wren picked up the telephone receiver. It was still as dead as it had been on the night Keegan arrived. She sighed. If the phone had been working, she would have called her fellow teacher, Mary Beth Armand, just to hear a friendly voice.

  Perhaps it was a good thing. Did she really want to tell Mary Beth what a fool she’d been, and risk having that gossip spread about the schoolyard?

  Wren sat in the rocking chair by the fireplace, gently rocking back and forth, her fingertips lightly caressing her lips. Why on earth had she kissed Keegan, and what had she expected it to solve? Had she really believed she could get through to this man? What did she want from him?

  A shoulder to lean on.

  That thought floated through her mind. It had been so long since she’d experienced love, since she’d had someone to depend on.

  But wasn’t it more? The urges roiling through her lower abdomen suggested her needs went much deeper than a simple shoulder to lean against.

  Sighing, Wren got up and went to the kitchen to wash the supper dishes. To cheer her glum spirits, she turned on the radio before starting her work. “Joy to the World” played. In an effort to fight the sadness growing within her, Wren began to sing along.

  She’d learned something important. Although Keegan wasn’t hers to keep, his appearance in her life had taught her a valuable lesson. She had been living in the shadows for too long, hiding from life, avoiding people and using her injury as an excuse not to trust.

  And then Wren had met someone with fears and needs greater than her own. A man who carried a heavy burden. A man too fearful to let anyone under his skin and into his heart, no matter how badly he needed human contact.

  Without meaning to, Keegan had raised a mirror to her soul and allowed her to peer into her destiny. If she stayed on her current path, reclusive and shy, she would end up just like him. Bitter and alone, with no one to care for her. In time, like Keegan, she would come to accept that fate.

  Perhaps even to prefer it.

  Thank heavens he had turned up on her doorstep. He’d brought her an important message. Get involved with life. Start caring about people. Think of something besides your own sorrow.

  In the course of caring for him, Wren’s whole outlook had been altered, and she approved of the changes. It was past time to start loving again.

  Probably not Keegan Winslow, but someone. She was eternally grateful to him for the unknowing gift he’d bestowed upon her this Christmas.

  “Now for the ten o’clock news,” the radio announcer’s voice cut in as the last chords of the song ended.

  Wren dragged the dishrag across a plate and halfheartedly listened to the broadcast. She knew the deejay would be talking about Santa. She didn’t need any reminders that this was the holiday
season and she had no family, no children or husband to spend it with.

  “We have some rather unpleasant news to report this Christmas Eve,” the announcer said.

  What happened? Santa have a sleigh wreck?

  “A report has come in that an escaped felon has been spotted in the Rascal area.”

  Wren cocked her head. What?

  “The man, one Connor Heller from Chicago, Illinois, was seen three days ago hitchhiking in rural central Texas.”

  Wren’s blood froze.

  “Heller escaped from Joliet Prison last June. Despite an all-out manhunt, the convict has eluded capture for the past six months. Heller was in prison for setting fire to the home of a prominent Chicago police officer, whose wife and young daughter were killed in the blaze. Heller set the fire as an act of revenge against the officer, who shot Heller’s half-sister in the course of an undercover drug sting.”

  No! Fear seized her. She recalled her initial terror that night three days before, when she’d found Keegan standing on her porch. She’d been afraid of him then.

  She was terrified of him now.

  “In order not to alarm the public, police did not release information about Heller until his appearance in the area was confirmed. However, officials are now urging extreme caution if this man is encountered. Heller, thirty-five, is approximately six one and weighs two hundred and ten pounds.”

  Heller was from Chicago. So was Keegan.

  Wren paced, her bad leg thumping clumsily against the floor.

  Heller was thirty-five. Keegan was about the same age.

  She balled her hands into fists, sucked air into her lungs in thick, ragged gulps.

  Heller was six foot one. Keegan was, too.

  But the voice in the back of her mind disagreed with the conclusion she was close to drawing. Keegan wasn’t anywhere near two hundred and ten pounds.

  “He could have lost weight,” she spoke out loud. “He’s been sick, on the road. It wouldn’t be hard to drop twenty-five pounds.”

  “Connor Heller has one distinguishing mark,” the announcer continued as if witness to Wren’s internal debate. “He suffered burns on his neck and back as consequences of the fire he set.”

  The news punched her in the gut. Pain shot through her abdomen. Wren sank to her knees.

  “No,” she whimpered. “It can’t be.”

  But no matter how she might long to deny the facts, Wren couldn’t ignore the truth staring her in the face. Keegan Winslow was Connor Heller, and she’d stupidly given him back his .357 Magnum.

  12

  Keegan lay on the bed, listening to the radio whisper Christmas music. He had a lot of thinking to do. About Maggie and Katie, about Heller, about Wren.

  Wren Matthews.

  His body trembled at the thought of her and that kiss. She’d kissed him so boldly, so bravely, as if by pressing her lips to his, she had the power to change both their wretched lives.

  He admired her courage. Applauded her determination. But he could not embrace her efforts to comfort him, no matter how much he might long to find love in her welcoming arms.

  Still, her scent lingered on his skin. Sweet as springtime and twice as nice.

  After Maggie’s death, he’d sworn there would never be another woman. How could he have a moment’s peace as long as the scar on his back served as a vivid reminder of all he had lost?

  How could he hope again when his heart had been ripped from his chest and scorched to cinders?

  How could he take a risk on love when he was incapable of feeling anything but rage and revenge and hatred?

  Yet, what was this softening he felt deep inside his chest whenever he thought about Wren?

  No!

  He could not, would not, let himself feel anything for her. Keegan hardened his heart and told himself lies.

  Wren Matthews was nothing but a scared little schoolteacher. Crippled and clumsy, naive and foolish. So foolish, in fact, she’d given him back his Magnum. She trusted him.

  He grunted out loud. In her naiveté, it was a wonder she’d survived this long. He reached his hand under the pillow and curled his fingers around the gun. The dead weight of it calmed his fingers.

  Yes.

  That’s what he needed to remember. The satisfying vengeance of hard steel. He refused to think about tender kisses, warm embraces, and the smell of home-baked cookies.

  But his conscience refused to be dammed up any longer. For six months, he’d managed to keep his doubts and guilt concerning his mission at bay, but no longer. He didn’t have to do this. He could allow the police to bring Heller in. He could simply stop the chase. He could drop his anger, lay down his weapon, and welcome love into his life once more.

  Love brings pain, his dark side reminded him. Lots and lots of pain. If he dared love again, then he was risking loss again.

  Keegan shuddered. He could not live through another experience like the one that robbed him of his wife and child.

  Wren wasn’t Maggie, something in the back of his mind persisted. She’s stronger, tougher, a survivor.

  Closing his eyes, Keegan fought against the memory that flared in his brain. In a hissing blue burst, he was back there.

  Eighteen months ago. At the scene of the fire. He clenched his fists and groaned, his whole body rigid as his mind flashed back.

  Four a.m.

  He’d just gotten off duty after a wild double shift. It was still dark. He had walked home because he’d left his car for Maggie to use while hers was in the shop, the station house only a mile and a half from their home.

  Keegan caught a whiff of something and crinkled his nose.

  Smoke.

  He remembered frowning and wondering who had a fire in their fireplace so late in the season. Then he saw the flames licking high above the neighborhood rooftops, and he started to run, praying that the fear building inside him was a lie.

  It wasn’t his house, his home, it simply couldn’t be.

  But it was.

  He recalled the wail of fire trucks, the bright-orange blaze. The firemen had held him back from rushing into the house.

  Keegan twisted in agony at the memory, but he couldn’t shut it out. He was there again, breathing in the filthy air, feeling the heat, tasting the acrid burn.

  Nothing could have restrained him at that point. He jerked free of the fireman pinning him to the ground and threw himself into the inferno, screaming Maggie’s name.

  He’d fought the smoke and the flames to find her. She was in their bed, curled into a ball, her head under the pillow.

  “Maggie,” he’d sobbed her name.

  His wife hadn’t even tried to run, to shield their daughter. She’d simply given up. He hadn’t been there to guide her, and Maggie had not known what to do without his leadership, so she’d done nothing.

  Keegan had gathered his wife into his arms, then turned to leave with her cradled to his chest, wood burning and crackling all around them. His grief had been so great, he hadn’t heard the movement behind him.

  In the blink of an eye, he found himself sprawled on the floor. A shadowy figure sprinted from the room.

  Connor Heller.

  The roof had collapsed then. His shirt had caught fire, burning his neck, shoulders, and back. The firemen had pulled him from the wreckage, although he had tried to fight them, howling that he wanted to die.

  But he’d lived.

  Keegan bit down on the inside of his cheek. Hard. That suffering was the reason he could not encourage Wren, nor stay one day longer at her dairy. The respite had served its purpose. He had no business thinking of Wren, her kiss, and what it really meant.

  He didn’t deserve her. He was a horrible protector, an awful husband. It was his punishment that he must spend the rest of his days in loneliness and regret.

  You’re damned lucky to have the opportunity to grab a second chance with Wren. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

  Second chance! Who was he kidding? There was no such thing as a secon
d chance for a man like him.

  It’s Christmas. A time for miracles.

  Except he didn’t believe in miracles, not anymore. Keegan shifted restlessly on the bed, reached over, and clicked on the bedside radio.

  “Now for the ten o’clock news.”

  Groaning, Keegan got to his feet. The last thing he wanted to hear was a report of another Santa Claus sighting, but the announcer’s next words stopped him cold.

  Connor Heller had been seen in the area. His blood ran cold while at the same time he smiled to himself in the darkness.

  Yes! As of three days ago, Heller was still here, trapped like himself by the ice and cold. Keegan had planned on waiting until morning before leaving Wren’s hospitality and going to stake out the Markum Ranch, but this latest turn of events convinced him he needed to depart right away.

  It was now or never. The road he’d been traveling for so long was finally at its end. Determined, Keegan pulled on his boots and strapped the Magnum to his body.

  He had to hurry. Sooner or later, Heller would hear the report and get out of Rascal as quickly as possible. Keegan couldn’t afford to lose him. Not again.

  The sound of glass breaking in the other room drew his attention. Keegan cocked his head and listened. What the hell?

  “Wren?” He pushed open the door and stepped out into the hallway. “Are you all right?”

  He saw her standing in front of the gun cabinet, shattered glass around her feet.

  “Hands up!” Wren said, raising the shotgun to her shoulder and peering down the barrel. She aimed at his heart, a grim expression on her face. She wore an ankle-length flannel nightgown and fuzzy, pink slippers.

  The sight was so incongruous, he almost laughed. “What’s going on?”

  “Why don’t you tell me, Mr. Heller?” Her hands trembled, but the tone of her voice was pure granite.

  Heller? Wren had obviously heard the news report and assumed he was Connor Heller.

  “Wait a minute, Wren, I can explain.”

  “I don’t want to hear any more lies!” Her eyes were wide and startled. It killed him that he’d caused her so much fear.