For someone who claimed to be easygoing, the power in his kiss was anything but—it was signed, sealed, and saddle-tight, like a contract she hadn’t realised she was agreeing to, all with the power of their lips.
This was a kiss that had her heart pounding uncontrollably, making her entire body buzz like she’d just charged headfirst into something dangerous and exhilarating.
What made it worse… She didn’t want to stop.
Not yet.
But then a screech from Porter’s radio interrupted them:‘Porter, you there?’
Porter walked backwards to his car, his eyes never leaving hers as he wiped at his lips, his hair messy, his shirt pulled free from his utility belt.She’d done that.
‘I’m here, Tanisha.What’s up?’He spoke over the radio, still watching her.
Amara had nowhere to hide, brushing down her hair, her shirt, while the heat pounded with her pulse as her lips throbbed with pleasure.
‘Can you swing by Meeker’s Road?Apparently, another tourist is having issues with some livestock.’There was a pause over the speakers as if Tanisha was squinting at her notes.‘A cow is wearing a rubbish bin?They’re German, so maybe they meant a bin lid, or a feed bin?’
Static crackled.A beat.Then Porter spoke over the radio, flat as always.‘Right.Livestock wearing household appliances.Must be Tuesday.’
Amara sighed, rubbing her temple, trying not to laugh, or frown—so muddled from that kiss that she barely remembered what day it was.
‘Just check it out, please.And try not to end up on someone’s travel blog.’
‘On my way.Over.’Slipping his cap back on, Porter opened the driver’s door and peered back at Amara.‘If you want to know about Dixby Downs, I’ll share the file with you.’
‘No more kissing.’She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as if to rid herself of his flavour.
‘You liked that kiss.’
‘You surprised me.’And what did he do with her hair tie?
‘Good.’His smirk irritated her.
‘No, not good.We work in the same space.It’s messy.’And now her hair was all messy, too.‘I’m only living at your place for the horse.Got it?’
‘Whatever you reckon, Montrose.’He climbed into his twin cab and started the engine.‘I’ll have the file at the station when you’re ready to talk, unless you want another kiss.’
‘See this.’She scooped up her hat and used it to wave over her body, her temper flaring and her hat dusty.‘This is thekissing-free zone.There are rules, you know.’
‘Good thing I enjoy bending the rules, Montrose.’And he drove away, typically having the last word.
‘Rule number seven: let the lady leave first or let her have the last word…Arsehole.’Her words echoed in the vacant shed, that felt emptier now he was gone.
Digging out her spare hair tie from her jeans pocket, she scraped her hair back into its usual bun—tight, practical, no-nonsense.Like maybe if she looked put together, the rest of her might follow.
Yet, slamming her hat back on, she suddenly felt smaller the way the clear sky was almost crushing under the heavy silence.
But she also had the spooky sensation of being watched.
Hand on her side holster, she peered defiantly into the scrublands.
She’d never been afraid of the country.Or the dark.Growing up on a station did that.
But now Porter had left, the hair on the back of her neck tingled, like something wasn’t right.
Looking for answers, she peered into the shed again, taking the last of her photos, ensuring all evidence was gone from the Cold Stock Case, when she noticed another set of boot prints.
They weren’t hers.Finn had steel caps.Craig typically preferred cowboy boots.Stone wore something in between.Even Porter had his own style of boots she recognised.
