Obsessed by Wildfire Read online

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  The Wild Rose Press

  www.thewildrosepress.com

  Copyright ©2009

  First published in 2010

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Wildfire made me laugh, care and fall in love.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  A word about the author...

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  Obsessed by Wildfire

  by

  Autumn Jordon

  "What do you want?"

  "I have a few words to say to you."

  "Then say ‘em."

  "You're really full of yourself, lady. If you'll recall, I told you two things last night. First, I'm here on important business. And second, if you want more of what went on between us then you're going to have to find me."

  "Then why did you call me?"

  "I didn't."

  Her eyes darted toward the restaurant behind him. A blue gingham curtain dropped back into place. Heat crawled up her neck. Damn. Just as she'd feared. The biggest gossips in the whole damn town were watching and talking about what happened between her and Warner last night at the Blue Bug and what was going on between them now. Mentally she scratched Chicky's name from her hit list and substituted Ray-Ray's.

  "When I called for the cab a man answered. I guess he was the dispatcher or owner. I didn't know you worked for the cab company. I thought you worked for—” Warner's lips sealed and he shifted his stance.

  "You thought I worked for who?"

  "I thought you had something to do with horses and the rodeo."

  "I do,” she retorted. I'm a barrel racer, and I am the cab company."

  "Oh. I see. Well, if you don't feel comfortable servicing me, I guess I can go back inside and ask one of the locals for a ride. Maybe that Ray-Ray guy."

  She knew he'd used the word servicing to needle her. She'd be damn if he was going to get her riled in front of the whole damn town. “No. Mr. Keyson, I have no problem servicing you. Let's go."

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Obsessed by Wildfire

  COPYRIGHT (C) 2009 by Autumn Jordon

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress. com

  Cover Art by Tamra Westberry

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www. thewildrosepress. com

  Publishing History

  First Yellow Edition, 2010

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my husband, Jim, who provides me with the courage to pursue my dream and to my friend Sylvie, who encouraged me to write Obsessed by Wildfire.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Wildfire made me laugh, care and fall in love.

  Autumn has created a heroine strong enough to root for and a hero who can take the heat.

  ~Sylvie Kaye, author of Wrong Side of Love

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  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter One

  The sun had set.

  Mini dust tornados swirled off the tires of Isobel Trinidad's seen-better-days Chevy pickup. She maneuvered through the Blue Bug Saloon's crammed lot at a less-than-safe speed, nearly taking the fender off of Suzie's prized classic Mustang. Suz would scalp her next time she went into the Hair Crazy Salon to get the dead ends trimmed from her waist length hair. And she was partial to her raven locks.

  A couple of orange cones flew as she reached her destination and slammed on the brakes. The pickup skidded to a stop in the no parking area in front of the double doors. She jammed her truck into park and shouldered the door open before the four-by-four's engine stopped its final whine.

  The neon light above the Blue Bug's entry turned her white tank top a beautiful, light shade of sapphire and glazed her bare arms with an indigo tint.

  Why hadn't Chicky used blue? Blue was comforting. But no, he'd used gut-wrenching yellow. The town's handyman knew she hated yellow. Why he'd even helped her spray paint her yellow taxi purple. The man didn't listen. She hated men who thought they knew what was best for a woman when they had no clue.

  Chicky left her no choice. She had to kill him.

  She reached over the side of the truck, into the bed, and grabbed her lunge whip. It was the Thursday night before a holiday weekend and Wayback's hot spot was packed. Did she care? No. It just meant there would be a whole herd of witnesses to watch Chicky cower his way back to her spread and fix what he'd done while she'd been off checking out a promising two-year old stallion.

  Her fingers curled around the leather strap in her hand. In the morning, she wanted to walk out on her front porch—the one that still needed a dozen or so floorboards replaced—look out over the hundred fifty-seven point eight acres she'd inherited from her Gran, sip her morning cup of tea and see anything but yellow wood siding. There was still no promise of rain in the forecast and a brilliant full moon hung over Wayback. Chicky could paint in the dark.

  White would be good.

  She kicked up small puffs of dust as she rounded the truck's front end.

  Prickly pear green would be good.

  "You know, you should be more careful."

  The late-night-radio voice stopped Isobel's right heel from stomping the Blue Bug's step. She turned. If it wasn't for the fact her blood pressure was already at a dangerous level, it would've shot there staring into the cornflower blue eyes of this stranger. He was a good six inches taller than her five foot eight, broad at the shoulders and chest, trim at the waist and hips and from what she could tell by the stretch of his jeans, his package was where he got the gumption to face off with her while she was in a hellish ass-kicking mood.

  There was no doubt he was a Yankee. He wore sneakers. No Texan would wear running shoes to go dancing. And his scent wasn't leather, hay or old horse. She lifted her chin a notch, just a little, to let him know what he was about to take on. “Who are you?"

  "Warner Keyson. You?” He folded his arms across his chest. His muscles bulged from beneath the rolled back sleeves of his white dress shirt. She'd seen bigger forearms—on a few NFL players.

  "Isobel Trinidad."

  "Well, Ms. Trinidad, you could've caused some damage or killed someone the way you barreled in here."

  "The last time I heard, Raleigh was Wayback's chief and you're not one of his officers. Besides everyone's inside."

  "There could be a couple or two i
n the backseat of those cars. You know, enjoying the night."

  Warner Keyson's warm caramel gaze drifted over her and Isobel's legs buckled a degree before she roped off her reaction. Refusing to look away, she wrestled the urge to step closer and touch the cute dark lock that curled behind Mr. Keyson's right ear. “Were you peeking in windows?"

  "Nah, not peeking.” His full lips pulled up the tiniest bit.

  Looking past him, she scanned the cars. Had he been in the backseat of one of them? Had one of the local girls already run him down and claimed him?

  "So what do you have in mind with that whip?” He broke her musing.

  "Whip?” She'd forgotten she still had it in her grasp, and the reason why.

  Chicky. Her fire to kill the devil with a paintbrush had taken a new direction. This blaze was much more alluring, but she had a ton and a half of chores to do this weekend, starting with thrashing Chicky. She couldn't be distracted by a weekend fling, not this weekend.

  "I'm going to use it on a man who doesn't listen. So if you don't mind—"

  He chuckled. “Not at all. You've got business to tend to and so do I."

  He took a step back and Isobel's psyche tickled with disappointment. Was his business a half-naked woman waiting in his car? Longing for his strong arms to pull her close, to feel his large hands travel over her body? Waiting to help unwrap his package?

  "Goodnight, Isobel Trinidad."

  He'd said her name again, like he meant to remember it.

  The Yankee smiled, turned and walked back through the dozens of cars. He had a damn fine flank side.

  What brought Warner Keyson to Wayback? Certainly wasn't the rodeo. There wasn't a bit of hayseed scent about the man.

  Focusing on her original quest, Isobel yanked open the Blue Bug's door. Inside a tune by Willie and Waylon echoed out into the lobby. Decades of spilled beer and whiskey soaked the floor planks and gave the place ambiance, despite the sweet smoke of pipe tobacco which mingled with the stench of cigarettes and went right to her sinuses.

  "Hey, little Bella, you're back. How was the valley?” Ray-Ray a local good old boy slid to a stop in his bee-line to the little cowpoke's room. Blocking her path to the dance floor, he looped his thumbs over the waistband of his out-on-the-town Wranglers.

  Isobel ignored how Ray-Ray butchered her name and that his gaze landed on her breasts. She'd warned him time and again to look up at her but her words were lost somewhere between her mouth and his oversize ears. He was harmless and had a big heart and for that reason she could never get mad at him. “Hot."

  "Yup, valley is always hotter than Satan's oven.” The smooth pad of his boot slid across the polished floor planks as he boot-scooted to her side. “Speaking of hot—you're looking mighty good tonight. Especially with that whip. Do you plan to use it?"

  He twisted in front of her so that his backside was a prime target.

  Isobel rolled her eyes. “Not on you. Have you seen Chicky?"

  The shorter man tipped his Stetson back on his head and finally made eye-to-eye contact. “Chicky? You and Chicky?"

  Feeling her neck muscles tighten again, Isobel drew a breath. “No. Not me and Chicky. I'm going to whip his tail for what he did."

  Ray-Ray chuckled knowing full well she'd never hurt anyone. “What's that?"

  "Pissed me off.” She side-stepped him and headed into the saloon's ballroom.

  Within eight seconds, her eyes landed on her target. Chicky was right where she knew he'd be—dead center on the hardwood, kicking up his heels. It didn't matter he hadn't found a partner to join him. The man loved to dance.

  She waited at the edge of the dance floor, watching Chicky's every out-of-joint jerk. He would never see it coming. The music ended and as the dance floor cleared, she walked, with whip ready, toward her soon-to-be-ex-painter.

  "Whoa there, Issy.” On step three, her arm was yanked behind her. The force, and the smooth bottoms of her best boots, twirled her around to come nose to nose with Angel Olsen.

  "Ray-Ray told me to stop you. Said you were hotter than a poked-at armadillo."

  "Let me go. The man deserves a whoopin'. Damn, I wish I had my bull whip,” Isobel argued as Angel pulled her back to a table where Nora Walbash and Betsy Gates sat eyeing up the local cowboys.

  A pile of five and one dollar bills filled the center of the table. Her friends were here to party until the sun rose over Silver Gulch. It was the first night if a long holiday weekend and every single person in Wayback was looking for a good time. Everyone single but her.

  She intended to tackle a long list of projects at the ranch, including the porch floor. And she had two races coming up in September, each with a fifty thousand dollar purse. Since Lizzy's sight was fading, she had to run the mare around the barrels several times a day to maintain her trust. With a pile of bills coming due in a little more than sixty days, she couldn't miss those races. Rodeo season would break soon. Her creditors weren't going to wait till next year.

  "Issy needs to cool off, Betsy. Take five out of the kitty and get her a drink.” Angel picked up her own drink, a tall fruity concoction and took a sip before asking, “What in God's name did Chicky do that got you so riled?"

  "He painted my barn yellow."

  Angel laughed, nearly spurted her drink out though her nose. “Yellow?"

  "Yes, and not a mellow yellow or baby shit yellow but a pukey ripe lemon yellow. I hate yellow. The milking cows will think it's the sun. They'll never go in."

  "Why in God's name would he paint it yellow?"

  "That's what I intend to find out.” She scanned the dance floor, the tables surrounding it, and then the bar area. “Where in the Pecos Hill did Chicky go?"

  "He probably went to the little pokes room. He'll be back. The man's feet never got tired after a mere dozen songs."

  "He probably saw me.” Isobel accepted the prickly pear margarita Betsy handed her. “Thanks, sweetie."

  Standing beside her, Betsy whistled her signal that a stallion worth paying attention to was close by.

  Angel's eyes rounded matching the full moon outside and the straw slipped from her glossed lips. “My, oh, my, would you look at what just what walked in the door."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Two

  The raven-haired spitfire had changed Warner's mind about going back to his motel room. Since he was a stranger in town, heads turned the moment he entered the Blue Bug Saloon and followed him while he made his way through the crowd. The women took second long looks. The men eyed him suspiciously.

  It seemed most of the Wayback residents loved to dance. The place was jumping.

  Warner strolled up to the end of the bar. He was probably the only man in the place without a cowboy hat. No. There was no probably about it. And he wore Nikes.

  Cigarette smoke drifted his way. He swatted away the noxious cloud and shifted about a foot down the bar to his right.

  "What can I get you?” The bartender wiped down the smooth wood.

  "You got a local lager on draft?"

  The old guy grinned. “You got it."

  The best place to dig up information was in the local bar, and he'd just made a friend by ordering a local draft. After a couple of swigs, the bartender would ask if he enjoyed the beer and he'd reply it was the finest he'd had in a long time.

  Owen Grainger and Thad Lowry, two guys charged with a rash of local barn fires, apparently weren't the only arsonists plaguing Wayback. After those two were arrested, a rash of fires started again. And the guy was escalating. Warner was here to stop him. Fire bugs got thirsty and sooner or later they bragged about the blazes they set. By night's end, he planned on knowing what the bartender knew. Unless...

  Leaning on the bar, he scanned the room. There was no commotion involving a mad woman and a whip. Isobel Trinidad must've cooled off or found the guy named Chicky and somehow left with him, unseen, via the fire exit, which was blocked by a table.

  A busty blonde approached him, we
aring an I'm-coming-to-get-you smile. Her hips swayed with the tune sung by a Kenny somebody who went on about summer. Warner couldn't remember the country star's name.

  The gleam in the bombshell's eyes outshone her glossy lips and made him stand tall, ready to dodge.

  "Hi.” The single word was spoken breathlessly, just as Marilyn Monroe did in her classic movies, and held a whole lot of meaning. Her lips were Marilyn pouty too. “You're new in town."

  Not an original line but hell, the presentation was different. He'd never been approached by a Marilyn wannabe dressed in a pink halter top that matched her lip gloss, a skirt which. for lack of better words, reminded him of a western-style tutu, barely covering her assets, and pink boots. “Yes, Ma'am. I'm visiting."

  She giggled. Her left hand splayed across her chest, covering the skin exposed by the dip of her top. “I'm not married, sugar. It's Ms."

  "Here you go,” the barkeep interrupted. “Angel, you up for another Fruity-Zombie?"

  "Sure, Paul."

  The woman was fashion attentive. The color of her drink matched her from head to toe.

  "Put it on my tab.” Warner pulled a fifty from his wallet and laid it on the bar.

  "You got it.” Paul dipped his head and took off to blend the fruity concoction.

  Since Isobel had disappeared and there wasn't a show to witness, he might as well get to work talking up the locals. “So, Angel, that's quite an unusual name."

  "I'm an unusual kind of girl.” She snuggled next to him. Her sweet perfume cut through the smoke which continued to drift his way and surrounded him, similar to one of those ropes the cowboys used on baby cows.

  "I can see that.” Customers lined the bar, not shoulder to shoulder, but Angel couldn't get any closer without being on top of him. He figured that was right where she intended to be by night's end.

  "You don't look like the usual cowboys who come to town for the rodeo."

  Warner smiled, then swigged the lager. He licked the foam from his lips and chuckled inside while pretty Angel watched his tongue. He'd flirt a little but only in the interest of gathering information. “I've never been on a horse."