Cait London - Blaylock's Bride

He’d been rawhide rough that day, a six foot three cowboy with leather gloves tucked in the back pocket of his jeans, raw with dust and sweat and leather chaps, tracking down his petite wife and calling her out.

Debbie had been managing Kallista’s shop—began on impulse and on the advice of Hannah Blaylock, an interior decorator and a friend. While Kallista did not often visit Jasmine, she’d created the shop to please Boone, and he’d backed her financially. It pleased him to help her, and the Bisque Café in Jasmine was more his dream than her own. He’d once said it was like having her near—but she wasn’t finished seeking a sense of belonging that had always eluded her.

Boone had kept the books on the café, pleased that it made a small profit, and through the years, various managers had taken care of the daily business. Kallista had built the shop six years ago, and Debbie, Roman’s wife, had run it until four years ago, when Roman Blaylock had torn it apart in a brawl with his wife’s defender.

On one of her infrequent visits to Jasmine, Kallista had come out of the back room just in time to see Debbie’s wide-eyed horror and the smaller, slender man punch Roman’s rock-hard stomach. Roman had easily shoved him backward, blocking the next punch. The whole shop had seemed to pop and crackle as all the shelves, laden with unpainted bisque, quivered and toppled.

The other man had reached for Debbie, huddling over her, protecting her as would a lover. Roman’s burning black eyes didn’t flinch as pieces tumbled down upon him, hitting his head, his broad shoulders and bouncing off as if nothing could hurt him. He’d ignored the thin trickle of blood from his forehead as he’d said one word to Debbie and the man, “Go.”

The word sounded like a whip cracking and an icy shiver had shot up Kallista’s spine, instantly followed by rage. His head had snapped back from her slap, more from pride than from the blow and she’d remembered the fiery hell in his black eyes. Then that quiet, solemn cloak had ripped away and he’d looked like his Mescalero Apache and Spanish conquistador ancestors—untempered by civilization—jutting, blunt bones pressing against his taut dark skin, black brows drawn into a fierce scowl, gleaming black hair dusted with bisque chips.

“You’re not keeping Boone’s land, Mr. Blaylock. Not while I am drawing breath,” Kallista promised, tearing away her memory of Roman four years ago. She leaned against a wall, years of traveling lodged in her body, draining her. She dropped her flight bag to the floor and freed the tears burning her lids. Boone was gone. The man who had always been her anchor.

Through her childhood, she hadn’t known her father and her mother had dropped her on Boone Llewlyn, the man she’d come to love for a lifetime. A big rangy man, with a huge heart, an ugly face and gentle hands, Boone had shadowy ties with her mother, lit by thunderous emotions that young Kallista couldn’t understand. He was always there, waiting for her with a bear hug. She was safe then, in Boone’s strong arms, while her mother met yet another lover, married again, and came to collect Kallista once more. Fury had raged between Boone and her mother; violence and hatred sprang from her mother, while Boone’s emotions ran to frustration and pain. As a girl, Kallista understood none of it—only the safety that her mother would repeatedly rip away. As a restless adult, she’d always come to Boone, salving herself against the world until she was ready to seek again.

She should have come back more... taken care of the only man she’d loved, who had shown her that men had hearts and loved. She should have come back sooner... now Roman Blaylocks, as executor, had his big, greedy hands on Boone’s ranch.

Kallista moved through the shadowy shop, lined with ceramic bisque on the shelves. The tables and chairs were empty now, but according to Hannah Blaylock who had managed the shop with others, the people of Jasmine loved painting their own designs on the ceramic bisque. Kallista picked up a dish lettered in a childish scrawl. “For My Mom. Patty Blaylock.”

Patty was Logan Blaylock’s ten-year-old daughter, and Else, the Blaylock’s eldest sister, had painted a big cup and saucer in an intricate design, duplicating a high priced Italian manufacturer’s. Kallista replaced the plate on the shelf and began checking the names on the bottom of the fired and painted ceramics. The Blaylocks, a close family, liked coming to paint their designs, though the male Blaylocks were conspicuously absent. The huge Blaylock family wouldn’t like her shaking Roman’s tight-fisted grasp over Boone’s estate.

An experienced troubleshooter who knew she was in for a fight, Kallista began making mental lists. First, she would check on the care and feeding of Boone’s beloved pigeons, his goats and sheep and the rest. She skipped her usual cool logic and hurled herself into the passionate dislike of Boone’s executor. Somehow, she would rip the estate away from Roman; she would expose his greed and—she glanced at Boone’s house, overlooking Jasmine, the lights glowing in the April night. Kallista stooped to jerk her small birdwatching binoculars from her leather flight bag and aimed them at Roman Blaylock’s house, which sat on the other hill. The house was dark, proof that Roman still lived in Boone’s home. From Hannah, married to Dan Blaylock, Kallista had learned that Roman had moved into Boone’s house when the old man became too ill to care for himself... and Blaylock hadn’t moved out when Boone died a year ago.

“Squatter.” Kallista muttered the Western term for those who would settle and claim another’s property. Enraged, she hurried out of the shop into the sweet-scented night.

The flashy little sports car soared up the Llewlyn ranch road, gleaming in the moonlight Roman appreciated the skill with which the driver changed gears, easing over the bars of the cattle crossing at the massive iron Llewlyn ranch gate. Then the sports car geared up again, hurling around the moonlit curves, that led upward to Boone’s big, two-story house. Roman flinched when a cow and calf wandered onto the road and the car’s tires squealed to a stop. The car slowly eased off the road, around the cow and calf and began more cautiously toward the house. Whoever was driving the car was mad enough to ignore a few fresh cowpatties. The car skidded to another stop beside Roman’s big dented pickup and Kallista Bellamy hurled her body out of the door.

Roman eased into the shadows, the exercise sweat on his body cooling in the night air. He watched her free stride toward the house, waist-long hair floating out in a black wave behind her. She glanced at the pigpens, the pigeon house and the cattle. She stopped in front of the steps, braced her hands on her hips and studied the house as if looking for one missing board, one untended potted fern.

She moved gracefully, her taut body eloquent and rippling with passion, impatience and fury. She looked the same as that day she’d slapped him, all fiery hot and full of life, and an unfamiliar restless hunger moved inside Roman. He shoved it away and studied Kallista’s long, curved athletic body, her pale heart-shaped face. In a classic style, straight back from her forehead and tamed by large silver combs on either side of her face, Kallista’s hair swung around her restless body like a curtain of sleek heavy silk.

In the framed picture beside Boone’s big carved four-poster bed her face wore a soft, tender look, her eyes luminous and green. Her smile at the photographer—probably Boone—was warm and loving.

Now, Kallista’s frown was cold and furious. Beneath her black shiny jacket, she wore a body-hugging black sweater and black jeans that fitted like a second skin. Roman’s body tensed as he noted the lush curve of her hips and endless legs. Her black combat boots added to the dangerous female-warrior look.