The Marriage Pact (Hqn) (27 page)

He bent, gathered up the mound of lace and silk and netting and seed pearls in both arms and shoved the whole works into the front seat of the truck. If Hadleigh hadn’t already been half out of her mind with wanting him, she might have been puzzled by that. Instead, she watched, amused, as Tripp battled yards of fabric, which seemed bent on escape.

At last, though, he managed to get every scrap of skirt and bodice and sleeve into the truck and close the door.

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to put it in the backseat?” Hadleigh asked, as Tripp returned to her.

“I have other plans for the backseat,” he replied. With that, he opened the rear door, hoisted Hadleigh onto the seat, sideways, and slowly relieved her of both stockings and her garter.

By the time he’d bared her legs, she knew what he was going to do, and she lay down on her back, moaning as he slid the petticoat down over her hips and thighs, which were already parting for him. She’d delighted in teasing Tripp over the past couple of weeks, telling him she wasn’t planning to wear panties under her wedding finery, and she hadn’t.

It was payback time.

Tripp eased her legs apart, trailing whispering kisses along the tender flesh on the insides of her thighs, first one, then the other.

Frantically, Hadleigh undid the hook that fastened her camisole together, between her breasts, and shimmied out of it. She needed to be naked for Tripp
now,
and for herself, too.

She wriggled free of the last shred of clothing, and then she felt his breath on the most intimate, most sensitive part of her body. When he caressed her with his mouth, she arched her back and cried out with all the lust of the wild creature she became whenever Tripp made love to her.

She buried her hands in his hair, feverish as the pleasure mounted, already begging, wanting him inside her, deep inside her.

Instead, Tripp went right on savoring her, teasing her, driving her to a shattering climax, and then another. By the time he’d finished, Hadleigh was spent, so thoroughly satisfied that she could hardly move or speak. Soon enough, though, he would arouse her again, have her writhing and moaning beneath him or straddling him, or both. That was how it went on the rare nights when they hadn’t already exhausted each other.

Right now, it was the latter.

Tripp got into the truck, arranged a crooning Hadleigh on his lap, alternately suckling and fondling her bare breasts until she bucked with need. Only then did he enter her, in a smooth, powerful thrust that brought her to instant orgasm.

She collapsed against Tripp when the climax subsided, resting her forehead against his shoulder while, gently gripping her hips, he raised and lowered her, murmuring soothing words, letting the tension build for both of them.

Soon enough, Hadleigh was rocking and groaning again, and Tripp drove deeper, moving faster and faster. When he came, it was with a throaty cry—her name—and that was when she reached the final orgasm, the most powerful one of all.

For a long time afterward, neither of them moved.

Tripp’s hands moved idly up and down Hadleigh’s back. “Somehow,” he said, on a ragged breath, “it never crossed my mind that we’d end up consummating our marriage in the backseat of a pickup.”

Hadleigh grinned impishly. He was still inside her and, if she had her way, there would be at least one more go-round before they went home. “Good thing you made an honest woman out of me today,” she said, making slow revolutions with her hips, delighting in Tripp’s groan. “Otherwise, I would definitely be compromised.”

He moaned.

The revolutions continued.

“Damn it, woman,” Tripp gasped, surging inside her. “Have a little mercy on a man.”

Hadleigh bent to nibble at his neck, then his earlobe. “Not a chance, Cowboy,” she replied, as he began to move beneath her. “This is going to be one long,
long
rodeo.”

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from BIG SKY RIVER by Linda Lael Miller.

“Linda Lael Miller creates vibrant characters and stories I defy you to forget.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

If you loved
The Marriage Pact
by #1
New York Times
bestselling author Linda Lael Miller, be sure to catch these epic Western romances in her Parable, Montana, series:

Big Sky Country
Big Sky Mountain
Big Sky River
Big Sky Summer
Big Sky Wedding
Big Sky Secrets

Looking for more tales from the West? Then discover fan-favorites The Creeds and The McKettricks, available in ebook format everywhere, as well!

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Chapter One

S
HERIFF
B
OONE
T
AYLOR
, enjoying a rare off-duty day, drew back his
battered fishing rod and cast the fly-hook far out over the rushing,
sun-spangled waters of Big Sky River. It ran the width of Parable County,
Montana, that river, curving alongside the town of Parable itself like the crook
of an elbow. Then it extended westward through the middle of the neighboring
community of Three Trees and from there straight on to the Pacific.

He didn’t just love this wild, sprawling country, he reflected
with quiet contentment. He
was
Montana, from the
wide sky arching overhead to the rocky ground under the well-worn soles of his
boots. That scenery was, to his mind, his soul made visible.

A nibble at the hook, far out in the river, followed by a
fierce breaking-away, told Boone he’d snagged—and already lost—a good-sized
fish. He smiled—he’d have released the catch anyway, since there were plenty of
trout in his cracker-box-sized freezer—and reeled in his line to make sure the
hook was still there. He found that it wasn’t, tied on a new one. For him,
fishing was a form of meditation, a rare luxury in his busy life, a peaceful and
quiet time that offered solace and soothed the many bruised and broken places
inside him, while shoring up the strong ones.

He cast out his line again, and adjusted the brim of his
baseball cap so it blocked some of the midmorning glare blazing in his eyes.
He’d forgotten his sunglasses back at the house—if that junk heap of a
double-wide trailer could be called a “house”—and he wasn’t inclined to
backtrack to fetch them.

So he squinted, and toughed it out. For Boone, toughing things
out was a way of life.

When his cell phone jangled in the pocket of his lightweight
cotton shirt, worn unbuttoned over an old T-shirt, he muttered under his breath,
grappling for the device. He’d have preferred to ignore it and stay inaccessible
for a little while longer. As sheriff, though, he didn’t have that option. He
was basically on call, 24/7, like it or not.

He checked the number, recognized it as Molly’s, and frowned
slightly as he pressed the answer bar. She and her husband, Bob, had been
raising Boone’s two young sons, Griffin and Fletcher, since the dark days
following the death of their mother and Boone’s wife, Corrie, a few years
before. A call from his only sibling was usually benign—Molly kept him
up-to-date on how the boys were doing—but there was always the possibility that
the news was bad, that something had happened to one or both of them. Boone had
reason to be paranoid, after all he’d been through, and when it came to his
kids, he definitely was.

“Molly?” he barked into the receiver. “What’s up?”

“Hello, Boone,” Molly replied, and sure enough, there was a
dampness to her response, as though she’d been crying, or was about to, anyhow.
And she sounded bone weary, too. She sniffled and put him out of his misery, at
least temporarily. “The boys are both fine,” she said. “It’s about Bob. He broke
his right knee this morning—on the golf course, of all places—and the docs in
Emergency say he’ll need surgery right away. Maybe even a total
replacement.”

“Are you crying?” Boone asked, his tone verging on a challenge
as he processed the flow of information she’d just let loose. He hated it when
women cried, especially ones he happened to love, and couldn’t help out in any
real way.

“Yes,” Molly answered, rallying a little. “I am. After the
surgery comes rehab, and then more recovery—weeks and weeks of it.”

Boone didn’t even reel in his line; he just dropped the pole on
the rocky bank of the river and watched with a certain detached interest as it
began to bounce around, an indication that he’d gotten another bite. “Molly, I’m
sorry,” he murmured.

Bob was the love of Molly’s life, the father of their three
children, and a backup dad to Griff and Fletch, as well. Things were going to be
rough for him and for the rest of the family, and there wasn’t a damn thing
Boone could do to make it better.

“Talk to me, Molly,” he urged gruffly, when she didn’t reply
right away. He could envision her, struggling to put on a brave front, as
clearly as if they’d been standing in the same room.

The pole was being pulled into the river by then; he stepped on
it to keep it from going in and fumbled to cut the line with his pocketknife
while Molly was still regathering her composure, keeping the phone pinned
between his shoulder and his ear so his hands stayed free. Except for the boys
and her and Bob’s kids, Molly was all the blood kin Boone had left, and he owed
her everything.

“It’s—” Molly paused, drew a shaky breath “—it’s just that the
kids have summer jobs, and I’m going to have my hands full taking care of
Bob....”

Belatedly, the implications sank in. Molly couldn’t be expected
to look after her husband
and
Griffin and Fletcher,
too. She was telling her thickheaded brother, as gently as she could, that he
had to step up now, and raise his own kids. The prospect filled him with a
tangled combination of exuberance and pure terror.

Boone pulled himself together, silently acknowledged that the
situation could have been a lot worse. Bob’s injury was bad, no getting around
it, but he could be fixed. He wasn’t seriously ill, the way Corrie had been.

Visions of his late wife, wasted and fragile after a long and
doomed battle with breast cancer, unfurled in his mind like scenes from a very
sad movie.

“Okay,” he managed to say. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Are
you at home, or at the hospital?”

“Hospital,” Molly answered, almost in a whisper. “I’ll probably
be back at the house before you get here, though.”

Boone nodded in response, then spoke. “Hang on, sis,” he said.
“I’m as good as on my way.”

“Griffin and Fletcher don’t know yet,” she told him quickly.
“About what’s happened to Bob, I mean, or that you’ll be coming to take them
back to Parable with you. They’re with the neighbor, Mrs. Mills. I want to be
there when they find out, Boone.”

Translation:
If you get to the boys before
I do, don’t say anything about what’s going on. You’ll probably bungle
it.

“Good idea,” Boone conceded, smiling a little. Molly was still
the same bossy big sister she’d always been—thank God.

Molly sucked in another breath, sounded calmer when she went
on, though she had to be truly shaken up. “I know this is all pretty
sudden—”

“I’ll deal with it,” Boone said, picking up the fishing pole,
reeling in the severed line and starting toward his truck, a rusted-out beater
parked up the bank a ways, alongside a dirt road. He knew he ought to replace
the rig, but most of the time he drove a squad car, and, besides, he hated the
idea of going into debt.

“See you soon,” Molly said, and Boone knew even without seeing
her that she was tearing up again.

Boone was breathless from the steep climb by the time he
reached the road and his truck, even though he was in good physical shape. His
palm sweated where he gripped the cell phone, and he tossed the fishing pole
into the back of the pickup with the other hand. It clattered against the
corrugated metal. “Soon,” he confirmed.

They said their goodbyes, and the call ended.

By then, reality was connecting the dots to form an image in
his brain, one of spending a whole summer, if not longer, with two little boys
who basically regarded him as an acquaintance rather than a father. And it was a
natural reaction on their part; he’d essentially abdicated his parental role
after Corrie had died, packing off the kids—small and baffled—to Missoula to
stay with Molly and Bob and their older cousins. In the beginning, Boone had
meant for the arrangement to be temporary—all of them had—but one thing led to
another, and pretty soon, the distance between him and the children became
emotional as well as physical. While his closest friends had been needling him
to man up and bring Griffin and Fletcher home practically since the day after
Corrie’s funeral, and he missed those boys with an ache that resembled the
insistent, pulsing throb of a bad tooth, he’d always told himself he needed just
a little more time. Just until after the election, and then until he’d gotten
into the swing of a new job, since being sheriff was a lot more demanding than
being a deputy, like before,
then
until he could
replace the double-wide with a decent house.

Until, until, until.

Now, it was put up or shut up. Molly would need all her
personal resources, physical, spiritual and emotional, to steer Bob and her own
children through the weeks ahead.

He sat there in the truck for a few moments, with the engine
running and the phone still in his hand, picturing the long and winding highway
between Parable and Missoula, and finally speed-dialed his best friend, Hutch
Carmody.

“Yo, Sheriff Taylor,” Hutch greeted him cheerfully. “What can I
do you out of?”

Married to his longtime love, the former Kendra Shepherd, with
a five-year-old stepdaughter, Madison, and a new baby due to join the outfit in
a month or so, Hutch seemed to be in a nonstop good mood these days.

It was probably the regular sex, Boone figured, too distracted
to be envious but still subliminally aware that he’d been living like a monk
since Corrie had died. “I need to borrow a rig,” he said straight out. “I’ve got
to get to Missoula quick, and this old pile of scrap metal might not make it
there and back.”

Hutch got serious, right here, right now. “Sure,” he said.
“What’s going on? Are the kids okay?”

Though they’d only visited Parable a few times since they’d
gone to live with Molly and Bob, Griffin and Fletcher looked up to Hutch,
probably wished
he
was their dad, instead of Boone.
“The boys are fine,” Boone answered. “But Molly just called, and she says Bob
blew a knee on the golf course and he’s about to have surgery. Obviously, she’s
got all she can do to look after her own crew right now, so I’m on my way up
there to bring the kids home with me.”

Hutch swore in a mild exclamation of sympathy for the world of
hurt he figured Bob was in, and then said, “I’m sorry to hear that—about Bob, I
mean. Want me to come along, ride shotgun and maybe provide a little moral
support?”

“I appreciate the offer, Hutch,” Boone replied, sincerely
grateful for the man’s no-nonsense, unshakable friendship. “But I think I need
some alone-time with the kids, so I can try to explain what’s happening on the
drive back from Missoula.”

Griffin was seven years old and Fletcher was only five. Boone
could “explain” until he was blue in the face, but they weren’t going to
understand why they were suddenly being jerked out of the only home and the only
family they really knew. Griffin, being a little older, remembered his mother
vaguely, remembered when the four of them had been a unit. The younger boy,
Fletcher, had no memories of Corrie, though, and certainly didn’t regard Boone
as his dad. It was
Bob
who’d raised him and his
brother, taken them to T-ball games, to the dentist, to Sunday school.

“Not a problem,” Hutch agreed readily. “The truck is gassed up
and ready to roll. Do you want me to drop it off at your place? One of the hands
could follow me over in another rig and—”

“I’ll stop by the ranch and pick it up instead,” Boone broke
in, not wanting to put his friend to any more trouble than he already had. “See
you in about fifteen minutes.”

“Okay,” Hutch responded, sighing the word, and the call was
over.

Boone stayed a hair under the speed limit, though just barely,
the whole way to the Carmody ranch, called Whisper Creek, where he found Hutch
waiting beside the fancy extended-cab truck he’d purchased the year before, when
he and Kendra were falling in love for the second time. Or maybe just realizing
that they’d never actually fallen
out
of it in the
first place.

Now, Hutch was hatless, with his head tilted a little to one
side the way he did when he was pondering some enigma, and his hands were wedged
backward into the hip pockets of his worn jeans. Kendra, a breathtakingly
beautiful blonde, stood beside him, pregnant into the next county.

“Have you had anything to eat?” Kendra called to Boone, the
instant he’d stopped his pickup. Dust roiled around her from under the truck’s
wheels, but she was a rancher’s wife now, and unfazed by the small stuff.

Boone got out of the truck and walked toward them. He kissed
Kendra’s cheek and tried to smile, though he couldn’t quite bring it off. “What
is it with women and food?” he asked. “A man could be lying flat as a squashed
penny on the railroad track, and some female would come along first thing,
wanting to feed him something.”

Hutch chuckled at that, but the quiet concern in his gaze made
Boone’s throat pull tight like the top of an old-time tobacco sack. “It’s a long
stretch to Missoula,” Hutch observed, quietly affable. “You might get hungry
along the way.”

“I’ll make sandwiches,” Kendra said, and turned to duck-waddle
toward the ranch house. Compared with Boone’s double-wide, the place looked like
a palace, with its clapboard siding and shining windows, and for the first time
in his life, Boone wished he had a fine house like that to bring his children
home to.

“Don’t—” Boone protested, but it was too late. Kendra was
already opening the screen door, stepping into the kitchen beyond.

“Let her build you a lunch, Boone,” Hutch urged, his voice as
quiet as his manner. Since the wedding, he’d been downright Zen-like. “She’ll be
quick about it, and she wants to help whatever way she can. We all do.”

Boone nodded, cleared his throat, looked away. Hutch’s dog, a
black mutt named Leviticus, trotted over to nose Boone’s hand, his way of saying
howdy. Kendra’s golden retriever, Daisy, was there, too, watchful and wagging
her tail.