Caught Up Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more Amara titles… Dark Justice: Hunt

  The Man I Want to Be

  Disavowed

  Free Hostage

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Rya Stone. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 105, PMB 159

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Tera Cuskaden

  Cover design by Kelly Martin with KAM Designs

  Cover art from iStock

  ISBN 978-1-64063-513-5

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition March 2018

  To Jess, my always and forever.

  Chapter One

  From the oncoming lane, Jason Lucas watched the Lexus with the blown tire pull into the rutted drive and stop just short of the open gate.

  Of all the damned places to turn in…

  The place he’d been born to. The place he’d been banished from. And the last place on earth anyone from Marian County would choose to make a pit stop.

  It’s not your business, he told himself as his foot hovered over the brake pedal. Not anymore. He had a thousand and one reasons to hit the gas. Aside from the heartwarming memory of his brother, Clint, aiming a shotgun in the general vicinity of his head the last time he’d set foot on the ol’ homestead, Jase had told his rig foreman he’d be back from the parts run in an hour. And he’d be pushing it. On both fronts. Decision made, he shot the gleaming Lexus a parting glance. He caught a flash of hair through the driver’s window and swallowed back what felt like bile laced with barbed wire. A woman.

  Oh, hell no.

  He should have taken out a billboard years ago to warn every woman in Texas away from the Lucas Ranch. He could at least offer this one a tire change—a quick one—and send her on her way before anyone was the wiser. Please let that be true.

  He U-turned and pulled in. Instinct, training…something made him dip across the console and reach for the gun in his glove box. He shucked his company-issued fire-retardant jumpsuit to the waist, slipped the Glock 19 into the waistband of his jeans, and knotted the arms of the jumpsuit to hide the sidearm. The men on the rigs called them monkey suits, God knew why. He likened them to at least the fifth circle of hell they were so hot, and the warm coastal breeze felt like heaven against his bare arms as he stepped out of the truck.

  The tire was definitely blown and already starting to peel. As he assessed the damage, a pair of feet with painted toes encased in sort of strappy sandal things appeared next to the spent rubber. Despite the sense of urgency rising from the depths of his gut to the fine hairs on the back of his neck, his attention was diverted upward. Because supermodel types didn’t frequent the fringes of civilization on the southeast Texas coast. Not unless they were part of a swamp-themed photo shoot or something. And he definitely hadn’t read anything about that in the local paper.

  He cleared his throat and finally met her eyes. From where he stood their color was indiscriminate, but he could see they were large and seductive, heavy-lidded. Bedroom eyes. Christ. The thought that she might be a prostitute, a high-end call girl summoned by his brother for God knows what, flashed through his mind. Why did he always assume the worst about people? That was a complicated question. He decided to ask a simpler one. “You miss a turn back in Houston?” Which sprawled two hours to the northwest.

  Lush red lips parted beneath a nondescript nose and those anything-but eyes. “I’m not that horrible at directions,” the woman replied, revealing a set of dimples.

  Nice.

  So. She wasn’t lost. But she definitely wasn’t a local. He’d have noticed. Hell, the entire county would have noticed. Which brought him back to his original suspicion.

  “You’re here to see Clint,” he stated rather than asked, his voice edged with a hardness he hadn’t intended.

  “Yes, I’m here to see Clint Lucas,” she said. “And you are…?”

  “I’m his brother.”

  “Jason Lucas,” she said, smiling like she’d encountered a long-lost friend.

  How the hell did she know his name? And why was the gate unlocked? Unless he was expecting a shipment, Clint kept the place locked tight. This woman didn’t fit that bill, and Jase stared at the gate, trying to make the pieces fit. A thick chain hung from the rusty A-bar, and as far as he could tell, it hadn’t been cut. The whole contraption was slung open, barely visible among the gnarled oaks and dense brush crowding the fence line and obstructing any evidence of civilization. Not that “civilized” was a word he would use to describe the goings-on behind the curtain of trees. At least he understood what that was about. But the woman was insanely out of place, what with her long tanned legs, fitted skirt, and cinched waist. Her blouse clung in all the right spots. And those wedges… Damn. He stole another glance at her and came to the conclusion that his brother, who rarely left the ranch, had ordered in. But he had to know for sure. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “My name is Cassie Mitchum,” she said, extending her hand. “I work for Valhalla Land Services.”

  Jase took a step back. “Never heard of them,” he said, wondering what his brother had gotten himself involved in this time. Because oil and gas leases had never been on the table. In that instant, his skin flamed, and he wondered if he’d stumbled into some bizarre role-playing fantasy concocted by his bored brother. “You have a card or something?” he asked.

  “A card…?” She hesitated. “Yeah…yeah, I have a card.” She gave him a puzzled look and leaned into her open door.

  Lord God…

  If this was some kind of Clint bullshit, Jase was in trouble, because the simple act of retrieving a business card had turned into quite the show—one he couldn’t tear his gaze from as the maybe-landman bent her closest knee into the driver’s seat and reached across the console for her purse or bag or whatever. All he could see was the curve of her calf, her skirt stretched across her hips, the way her back arched and her blouse pulled taut across her chest—

  “Here,” she said, just as he ripped his eyes from her and trained them back on the thick woods. If she really was after a lease, then the gate hadn’t been left open for her. And they might not be alone.

  He snatched the card without looking at it. “You a landman?”

  “Woman,” she said, smiling again. “But yeah. In fact, I’m glad I ran into you. I’ve attempted to contact your
brother several times regarding a lease proposal. He’s been less than receptive. And until now, I’ve had no luck locating you either.”

  “There’s a reason for that,” he snapped. For all of that.

  It was her turn to take a step back, a look of alarm on her face. “I don’t want any trouble,” she said. “I’m just here to discuss an oil and gas lease on your property.”

  Still not convinced, he narrowed his gaze. “Lucky you blew your tire right at our gate.”

  “I thought so, too, until now…” Her hand was on the door.

  Good, he thought, finally using your head. God knew who might be lurking around the ranch. She should be on alert. And not because of him, although the jumpsuit, wifebeater, and tattoos probably didn’t help. Oh, and the hair. He liked it long; it suited his face. All in all, he probably looked like a felon.

  And he wasn’t the scary one.

  “Listen,” he said. “Let’s get your tire changed and you on your way. Clint’s not interested in leasing and neither am I.”

  “If you’d just hear me out, Mr. Lucas, I think you’ll find our terms rather attractive. There’s heavy competition in the area, and Valhalla is currently offering a substantial royalty interest. Aside from that, your tract is large enough to hold its own wells, which means no pooling agreements with your neighbors.”

  An eighteen-wheeler sped past and he couldn’t help but smirk at the pretty little landman trying to sell him a lease on the side of the highway. They weren’t called lease hounds for nothing. He’d even had a guy follow him into a restroom in a bar a few years ago, lease option paperwork in hand. Yeah, she was definitely a landman.

  But the fact remained. No leases. Ever.

  That last part made him grind his teeth. The “ever” part. He should be able to do what he damn well pleased on his own land. That wasn’t the case—not currently—and he didn’t need to be reminded a second time.

  “Pop the trunk,” he said. It didn’t matter who she was or what she wanted. He needed to make tracks. So did she.

  The landman crossed her arms and stared at him. No dimples this time. Damn.

  “Or I can call you a tow truck.” He folded his arms back at her. “Your choice.”

  “You’re driving an oil-field truck,” she said, and cocked an eyebrow that disappeared behind a fringe of bangs.

  “And?” he fired back.

  “And you don’t want to talk shop?” She raised both eyebrows now. When he didn’t respond, she continued. “You know, us landmen aren’t as scary as everyone makes us out to be.” She threw both palms up. “I swear I don’t bite.”

  The visual Jase conjured in his dirty, dirty mind was quite the opposite she’d intended, and he tried to sneer down the hot little curl deep in his belly. “Look, Ms….” He glanced at the card still clutched in his hand. “…Mitchum. What I choose to do or not to do with my property is none of your business. Now, do you want a tire change or not?” He winced inside as he delivered the blunt message. He’d like to do so much more than change Ms. Mitchum’s tire. It just wasn’t in the cards.

  The landman glanced down the driveway, having no idea what lay beyond the tangle of oaks.

  “I can do it myself,” she said, turning back to him.

  He cast his gaze toward the sinking sun. The rig foreman was going to kill him. If Clint didn’t get to him first. “Go ahead,” he said, and leaned against the hood of his truck, deciding his brother could go straight to hell.

  Ms. Mitchum…errr—he glanced down at the card again—Cassie bent into her car again. He didn’t look away this time. After a few seconds she straightened, holding her keys, and stared at him. “You can go now. I’ve got it from here.”

  He sensed what she was up to. “I’ll just wait until you’re done.”

  “I don’t need your help,” she said, glancing down the driveway again.

  Uh-huh.

  The look of defiance she gave him before marching to the trunk might or might not have done a little something for him, but when she retrieved the jack and tire iron he nearly lost it. It was the way she looked at him right in the eye, the way she gave the lug wrench a little spin. The way she blew her bangs out of her eyes, hiked her skirt, and knelt on the dirt road. The girl was hotter than his stupid monkey suit. But she wasn’t a damsel in distress, and the fire of self-reliance flaming in her determined gaze captivated his attention. He bit his lips to keep from grinning and proceeded to enjoy the most interesting tire change ever.

  He was kind of hoping it would happen. When it did—when she pulled the tire off the hub and started to tip backward from the awkward weight and angle—he was right there. Her butt hit the ground just as he took the weight of the tire.

  She glared up at him and blew her bangs. Blue-gray. That’s what color her eyes were. He hadn’t been able to decide. He couldn’t help smiling then. And he’d caught her scent. Something musky and exotic—both feminine and masculine, utterly appealing.

  “You okay?”

  “I’ve been in worse predicaments.” So close, there was no way to miss the color flushing the apples of her cheeks. She looked of the north, but smelled of the east. And he was damn near lying on top of her. With a tire between them. Real sexy. That ridiculous detail wasn’t what defined the moment however. Until then, they’d glared and snapped and quickly averted their gazes unless a stare-down was in progress. There was something different in that moment, in those few seconds when the highway traffic faded to the background and he dropped his guard, his eyes on her rather than the setting sun or the darkening woods.

  Unlike his brother, Jase didn’t use women to dull the sharp edges of his life. He used work for that. And as much as he liked to convince himself working to exhaustion drowned the pain of his past, there was something undeniably enticing about this woman’s touch. She cleared her throat, and the thought was gone as quickly as it had come.

  He let the tire hit the ground and headed to the trunk for the spare. As entertaining as the evening had proven, it was time to get on with it. The real world waited.

  He grabbed the spare and forced himself to make another scan of the tree line, but his gaze snagged on the landman who began brushing dust and gravel off her butt and hips and smoothing her hands over curves so visibly outlined something of his own was going to be outlining his thigh if he didn’t send her on her way. She looked up and caught him staring. No way to deny it.

  “I can do it,” she said, and he thought he detected a tremble in her voice.

  “I have no doubt.” He dropped to one knee beside her car, both to hide the bulge in his coveralls and to address the tire business. “But you’re not going to ruin that pretty skirt doing it. I’ve got it.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  Something had changed. And he suspected she felt it, too.

  “You okay?” he asked again after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence.

  “I’d be better if you’d set up a meeting with me.”

  He shook his head. “An oil and gas lease is about the only thing I can’t help you with,” he said, looking up through some stray locks that had fallen across his sweat-beaded brow.

  She chewed her lip, and as if of their own accord, her pretty eyes flicked down the driveway before meeting his again.

  “Don’t even think about it,” he said. “I mean it.” He stood and dusted off his knees. “Please believe me when I tell you it’s not worth it.”

  She looked up at him, another one of those wide-open looks, one he couldn’t look away from. “You have no idea what I have riding on this lease.”

  He sighed, wondering if it was all an act to garner sympathy so he’d crack the door to negotiations. Well, it didn’t matter. “I don’t know what you’re looking for, Ms. Mitchum, but it’s not down this road. I can promise you that.” And to drive his point home, he made for the gate.

  “Mr. Lucas, I’d like to buy you dinner,” she said, and it nearly stopped him in his tracks. It wasn’t an unusual of
fer from a landman. But it was a damn tempting one. “As a thank you for helping with the tire.”

  And if dinner discussion happened to segue into a lease discussion, he was sure she wouldn’t be opposed. He couldn’t. No, he wouldn’t. And he didn’t respond as he closed the swing gate and threaded the lock through the heavy chain. He did pause before he snapped the lock, wondering if he was locking Clint’s people in or out. Whatever Clint was up to was his business. But Jase refused to make it easy for him. Or the landman standing on his property.

  “You’re going to have to settle for a tire change,” he said, walking back. “It’s ugly, but it’ll get you to town.” He indicated the spare tire. “I recommend Randy’s. It’s just off Main. Tell him I sent you. If you don’t, it’ll probably take longer. He likes jerking around out-of-town attorneys and landmen in fancy cars.”

  She nodded and gave him a dejected smile as she headed for the Lexus. That’s when he noticed the limp.

  “Hey,” he called. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked for the third time.

  “I twisted my ankle when the tire fell,” she admitted, looking a little embarrassed. “Again.”

  “What do you mean again? ” He forced himself to take a step back and appraised her from silky head to painted toe as she spoke, surprised at the extent to which he cared about a virtual stranger’s injury.

  “It happened when I was little,” she said, waving off his concern. “The injury never healed right, and I’m always twisting it. It’s not a big deal.” She paused and bit her lip like she was considering spilling a big secret. Yep, there went the dimples. “On the upside, I use it to tell the weather.”

  He’d experienced enough tribal life to know people believed that kind of nonsense, but to hear it from this woman’s lips left him more than intrigued. She was a professional to the core—poised, polished, and he assumed, well-educated. He couldn’t help but ask, “So what’s our hurricane season looking like?”

  She cocked a manicured brow. “Since it’s already September and we haven’t had one storm enter the Gulf…” She wiggled her toes around. “I’m sensing slow.”

  Damn it, she was cute. Funny, too.