A Mating of Hawks by Jeanne Williams Page A

real as the fiery sweetness with which she’d met him. A stab of desire went through him, hummed through his blood. In spite of what he’d said to her it hadn’t been plain sex, though she was apparently inexperienced enough to believe him. He gave an involuntary snort. Did she think he went through those shenanigans when all he wanted was relief?
    After Cele had ditched him, he’d left women alone for a while. Then he’d tumbled everyone who seemed agreeable and clean. Probably, when he was drunk, some of them were not so clean. But once he went back to school, he’d been less randy. He’d had arrangements of convenience with several women, which he’d broken off if they seemed to be forgetting their bargain. Since returning to the ranch, he hadn’t bothered to establish a steady source of supply. Geronimo knew some obliging women in Nogales and that had sufficed.
    Good, like a meal or drink when a man was hungry or thirsty, but nothing like Tracy. Nothing ever had been, not even with Cele.
    That was small wonder. He and Cele had both been kids when they married. After all these years, he felt an ache like that from an old wound. She had been so pretty and new and sweet, so soft and yielding. Too soft and yielding to wait for him. Hadn’t even had the nerve to write. Patrick had done that. Shea hadn’t contested the divorce and he hadn’t the faintest notion where she was now.
    Patrick had understood. All too well, for his second wife, Elena, Shea’s mother, had run off with a ranch foreman. Shea had been only three. One day there had been a beautiful, tender woman who hugged him. Then, suddenly, she was gone. It seemed like winter and the house went dark. The ranch women petted Shea and held him on their laps, but he had clambered down and run off to mourn.
    Where was she? Why had she left him?
    He knew now, of course, that the city-bred girl had detested the ranch and felt neglected by Patrick. She hadn’t been evil. Nor was Cele. Both were sweet, appealing women.
    Like Tracy?
    Yes. Like Tracy. He could imagine both of them crying over a small trapped animal. But would they have risked themselves to help a stranger? Shea swore.
    All right. Give the girl guts. It made her all the more dangerous. She had gotten to him, something he’d thought no woman could do. It was a good thing he’d made her so mad that she’d avoid him. A few more times with her and he’d be lost.
    But he ached for her already, groaned under his breath as he remembered the sweetness of her flesh, the warm depths that embraced and held and urged him on, driving him crazy to have all of her, possess her as utterly as she had captured him.
    If she came to him, he’d have to have her. The only hope he had was to make her believe it didn’t matter, so that when she left at least she wouldn’t take his soul.
    Judd stalked into Patrick’s room after dinner that night, while Tracy was playing and Mary was barbering Patrick’s shaggy white curls.
    With neither greeting nor acknowledgment, Judd burst out, “Dad! Did you know Shea’s got himself a range research permit?”
    â€œNo,” said Patrick slowly. “That mean you can’t get his lease revoked because he’s not running cattle?”
    â€œThat’s what it means. I raised hell but he pulled some pretty high-powered strings and he’s got the right credentials.”
    Patrick sighed. “Well, boy, sounds like you better sell some cows.”
    â€œDon’t you care?”
    â€œI care,” snapped Patrick. “But I can’t see! You tell me one thing and Shea says another! You’ll just have to work it out between the two of you.”
    Judd’s breath sucked in heavily before he made an obvious effort at self-control. Shrugging, he said tightly, “Okay, I’ll work it out.”
    Patrick introduced him to Mary, then. Judd gave her the careless, charming smile