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“In Mexico, some people, especially men, called me a witch. They said I had the devil’s mark on my face. And before that—” She broke off as if facing a closed door that she didn’t want to open.
“You’re beautiful, Rose.” Tanner couldn’t help saying it. “A man would have to be out of his mind not to want you.”
“Oh, some of them wanted me. Just not in the right way.” She fell silent, her delicate profile outlined against the rain-specked window. “I was raped, along with other women and girls, when the cartel took over the town. And long before that, there was my mother’s boyfriend, and the caretaker in the group home where I was sent after she died . . .”
“Rose—” Tanner checked the impulse to pull her close and cradle her in his arms. Right now, he sensed, the last thing she’d want was to have a man’s arms around her.
“I tell myself I’ve been luckier than most, because I’ve known some decent men who never touched me. There was my grandfather, and Don Ramón in Mexico, who treated me like his own daughter. And my friend, Jasper Platt—and even Bull.”
But never a man who loved you the way a woman should be loved? Tanner knew better than to ask that question.
“There are other good men, Rose.”
“None that I’d care to trust. I’m better off on my own.” Pausing, she glanced in his direction and changed the subject. “What about you? Do you have a family back where you came from?”
“A brother. He lives on our family ranch in Wyoming, with his wife and kids.”
“And you? Do you have a wife, or maybe a sweetheart waiting for you back in Wyoming?”
“No.” Tanner felt the familiar tightening of the knot in his stomach. “But that’s a story for another time,” he added.
“We all have stories for another time.” Rose fell silent. In the warm darkness, Tanner could hear the low sound of her breathing. He imagined how it would feel, reaching out to her, pulling her close and holding her trembling body against his. He imagined laying her on the bed and loving her, kissing those small, perfect breasts, stroking her with gentle fingers until she opened to him like a moist flower in the rain . . .
But what was he thinking? Tanner’s arousal was threatening to push through his jeans, proving to Rose that he was one more man she couldn’t trust.
He stood, his head brushing the ceiling of the camper. “I need to go,” he said.
“Fine. The rain seems to be letting up.”
“Will you be all right? Promise you’ll lock the door after I leave. You can’t tell what—or who—might happen along.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got a gun, and I know how to use it.”
“The idea of locking the door is that you won’t have to use your gun.”
“Stop mothering me, Tanner. That’s not your job.”
“Somebody needs to do it.” And somebody needed to snatch her up and kiss her smart little mouth. But that wasn’t going to happen tonight.
“Just go,” she said. “If I see any rustlers prowling around, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“You be careful. Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Fine. I’ll stop by later and check on you.” He stepped out the door, closing it behind him.
He heard the snick of the door bolt as he strode away. At least the little hellion was taking his advice. But he couldn’t help being worried about her. A lone woman like Rose, so independent, so damnably sure of herself, and yet so vulnerable, would be easy prey for any man who set eyes on her—transients, roving cowhands, and even that sissified son of Ferg Prescott who’d already tried to cross the line with her.
It wasn’t his job to protect her, Tanner reminded himself as he climbed into his truck. But whether he liked it or not, Rose had become important to him. The thought of her coming to harm was more than he could stand.
But he wasn’t Rose’s only friend. Others would be concerned about her, too. He would keep an eye on her for the night. In the morning, it would be time for a visit to the Rimrock.
* * *
Turning on her flashlight, Rose opened the cheese and crackers she’d bought in town, fashioned bite-sized sandwiches, and washed them down with a swig of cranberry juice. Tanner had left her less than fifteen minutes ago, but she was already feeling his absence. She’d tried to convince herself that she could manage entirely on her own. But she’d felt protected while he was here. His strong, male presence had given her a feeling of safety. When he’d warned her to keep the door locked, she’d pretended to be annoyed. But it had felt good, knowing that he cared enough to worry. Did she like him? Maybe, Rose conceded. But she couldn’t afford to trust his motives—or to trust the warm, tingling sensations that his nearness had awakened.
The rain was already letting up—a good thing, because she really needed to pee, and there were no facilities inside the camper. Tomorrow she would make it a top priority to find a secluded spot and dig a latrine, with plans to build an outhouse. For now she would just have to make do.
