NCLE JED AND THE BOYS WILL BE LIVID when they find out who bought my box lunch, she thought fleetingly, but inexplicably, at that moment, she didn’t care. Even the realization of her family’s fury couldn’t dampen the unexpected surge of happiness that swept through her as she walked at Clint’s side.

Neither of them spoke as they passed beneath a shady canopy of trees and he led her toward a gully.

Finally she couldn’t endure the silence any more and she broke it. “The whole town seemed to be looking for you during the course of the bidding,” she burst out, as the sun poured down and twigs crunched beneath their feet. “Where were you?”

“Around,” he said in an offhand tone.

“Hiding.” Her lips twitched in a smile. “Clint Barclay, brave sheriff, running for cover from the women of Lonesome.” A laugh burst from her, and Clint chuckled too.

“Let’s just say I know how to keep my head down when there’s danger. And fighting a townful of marriage-minded women is as dangerous as it gets.”

They reached a pretty clearing far enough from the schoolhouse so that they couldn’t even hear the shouts and laughter of the children. “This suit you all right?” Clint asked.

Emily nodded. It was an ideal spot, a clearing of thick grass, where wild yellow pea grew charmingly among clusters of columbine. There was no one else from town visible, and the silence was delightful. Only the murmur of the wind through the aspens and the cry of a prairie falcon circling overhead broke the stillness.

But there was a saddle blanket folded under the lone cottonwood tree. She stopped short. “I wonder who this belongs to …” she began doubtfully, but Clint stooped and picked it up, then shook it out and spread it over the ground.

“It’s mine. I set it here a while ago to keep anyone else from taking this spot.”

“Do you always plan everything out so carefully, Sheriff?” She tried to keep her tone light.

“When I can—but I’m learning, Miss Spoon, that not everything can be planned.”

“Is that so?”

He set her box down upon the blanket and straightened, then fixed those keen blue eyes on her with an intentness that stole her breath away. “That’s so.”

In the pause that followed Emily wondered if he could hear her heart beating. Being alone with him had too strong an effect on her, and she tried to steel herself against him. She tore her gaze away and busied herself lifting the plates and forks and knives from the box, arranging everything prettily upon the blanket—desperate to do anything but gaze at this coolly handsome man, who could make every rational thought fly right out of her head.

“Joey seems to have recovered just fine,” Clint commented as she served him a thick sandwich and the corn fritters. “I noticed your uncle keeping an eye on him.”

“Joey’s fine now. Thanks in large part to Uncle Jake.”

“I don’t really see what he has to do with it, Emily. If you ask me, it has a lot more to do with you.”

“You’re wrong—it’s Uncle Jake.” Emily swallowed a bite of sandwich. “Despite what you think you know about him, he’s always been fond of children, and since coming home … from prison …” Her voice faltered a moment. “He seems to have even more patience than before. He’s taught Joey all sorts of things, he plays gin rummy with him, he even whittled him a horse.”

Clint Barclay eyed her skeptically. “Hard to imagine Jake Spoon playing grandpa.”

“You don’t really know him—or anything about him.”

I know he robbed stagecoaches and was damned good at it, Clint thought, but there was no point in mentioning that unless he wanted to get Emily Spoon fired up, like striking a match to dynamite. And he didn’t. He was enjoying this temporary peace between them too much for that. So instead, he helped himself to another corn fritter and said, “Why don’t you tell me then?”

Surprised, Emily’s eyes flew to his face. “Do you really want to know?”

He nodded.

“He’s a good man.” Her voice was quiet. “He … he may have done … some wrong things, some bad things, but he’s still a good man. Do you remember telling me how Reese Summers took you and your brothers in? Well, Uncle Jake and Aunt Ida did that for Pete and me.”

Only the skittering of a rabbit through the brush broke the stillness that followed. Clint’s storm-blue gaze held steady on hers.

“Our parents died when we were young—Pete was nine and I was six. And Uncle Jake and Aunt Ida never hesitated. They took us in and raised us right along with their own son, Lester.” Emily brushed a crumb from the blanket. “Their farm was small and they were barely scraping by before Uncle Jake got mixed up in holding up stages. There wasn’t nearly enough money to go around, but they managed somehow—we managed somehow.” Her fingers clenched around her skirt as the memories flooded back. “They raised us with love, as if we were their own children, and never once did they complain about the extra burden of supporting us.”

She met Clint’s gaze levelly. “It was Aunt Ida who taught me how to sew.” She paused, her eyes misting at the memory of the frail aunt who had taught her so painstakingly how to thread the needle, make neat stitches, how to measure and cut with pride and precision.

“I know about your handiwork,” Clint said dryly. “Just walking up the boardwalk this past week I’ve heard your name mentioned in snatches of conversation everywhere I went. Seems like everyone is talking about how Emily Spoon is a whiz with a needle. They say you sewed a bunch of dresses for women to wear today—and that you made that dress you wore to the dance last week.”

She nodded.

“Mighty nice,” he said softly. “You make this one too?”

“Yes, I—”

She broke off as he reached out, touched the muslin at her shoulder, traced his hand down her sleeve. “Beautiful.”

Her senses whirled at something in his voice, at the gentleness of his touch. Struggling to keep focused on their conversation, Emily forced herself to rush on.

“I owe whatever sewing expertise I have to Aunt Ida, but I owe Uncle Jake much more. He taught me so many things. Right along with Lester and Pete, I learned how to ride, drive a team, shoot a gun. How to fish and the tricks of bluffing at poker. He taught me how to tell if someone was cheating.” Her eyes met his, shimmering pools of silver.

“Not exactly a typical female education,” Clint drawled.

“Oh, I went to school,” Emily assured him. “I won my share of spelling bees and geography contests. But Uncle Jake taught me something even more important. He taught me that families stick together. That they stand up for each other and take care of each other. I’m sure you and your brothers learned that from Reese Summers, didn’t you?”

Her words struck something deep in his core. Yes, he’d learned that from Reese. So had Wade and Nick. He’d never in his life felt alone, even when he was hundreds of miles from his kin—he’d known he had them, would always have them. But it seemed damn odd to be comparing Jake Spoon to a man like Reese.

Clint studied her lovely, passionate face. “It’s true, Reese taught us that,” he said cautiously.

“Uncle Jake taught us the same. And he taught us that if you go through a rough time, you don’t give up. You stay strong, hold onto yourself, ride it out. I suppose that’s how he got through seven years of prison,” she added tightly.

His shoulder muscles clenched. And suddenly he realized that’s how she’d gotten through those seven years too. Dark years, when her uncle was imprisoned, her brother and cousin were on the run, her aunt was sick and dying …

It had taken toughness. Strength. Courage.

Emily Spoon had come through hard times. Ridden them out. Now she was trying to live them down.

“Guess I never thought of Jake that way. The Spoon gang was just a bunch of outlaws to me.” He cleared his throat. “But they were your family.”

“They still are.” Emily met his gaze defiantly. “Don’t think of me as different from them, Clint. I’m not.”

“You ever rob a stagecoach?” He set down his plate, his gaze narrowing on her. “Ever take money that didn’t belong to you?”

“No, but I told you—there’s more to the Spoons than that—just like your family, the one you found with Reese Summers, was more than ranch work and … and trail drives and roundups. A family is more than what you do. It’s where you belong, it’s the people you love and count on—and who love and count on you.”

She gave her head a shake as she saw the skepticism on his face.

“Never mind.” Gathering up the plates and cups, she began setting everything back inside the box.

He didn’t understand. He never would. And why does it matter anyway? she asked herself bitterly.

But it did matter. For some reason, she’d wanted him to understand.

When he reached out and covered her hand with his, she jumped as though he’d shot her.

“Emily—”

She jerked away, her eyes blazing. “Forget it, Clint. I don’t even know why I tried.” She placed the lid on top of the box and scrambled to her feet.

“I want to thank you for buying my box lunch. I hope you enjoyed it,” she said formally. But before she could lift up the box he sprang up and grasped her by the shoulders.

“Don’t you even want to know why I bought your box lunch today?” he asked roughly.

“No. We should go back—”

“I didn’t plan on it—even told myself I wouldn’t. But as soon as I saw Jenks was there, I knew he was going to bid on it.”

“So you did it to stop him,” she said coldly. “I suppose I should thank you—”

“Stop putting words in my mouth, Emily.” He gave her a shake. “I did it because I wanted to do it—I’d be damned if I’d let Jenks or any other man win your lunch.”

“You… would?” Dazed, Emily could only gaze at him in astonishment. “But… why?”

It was difficult to think straight when he was this close to her. Touching her.

Clint’s fingers tightened on her shoulders. He dragged her against him. A palpable heat flew between them as her eyes widened on his. They were only inches apart, and for once, Clint Barclay didn’t look cool and in control. His jaw was taut, every muscle in his powerful body seemed tensed. Heat and tension. It smoldered even from those hot blue eyes. His hand swooped to her hair, twisting in the careful curls, even as he spoke quickly, jerkily, the words seemingly forced from him.

“You know why. You damn well know why. Or do I need to show you?”

She couldn’t breathe, could only stand there in shock as Clint Barclay hauled her closer and lowered his head down to hers.

And suddenly he was kissing her. It was not a tender kiss. Not persuasive, gentle, enticing. It was powerful and hungry and raw, scorching her mouth and turning her brain to mush.

Demanding, it drew her in, made her reel, turned the world upside down.

And then he lifted his head, breaking the kiss as abruptly as he’d begun it.

“Now do you understand, Emily?” he asked hoarsely.

“No …” Dizzy, she touched shaking fingers to her mouth. It felt bruised, tender, as vulnerable as her heart. “I don’t understand anything about this … and … it’s Miss Spoon to you.”

“The hell it is. Emily,” he growled, his eyes determined, and then he yanked her close again, his arms clamping around her waist. “And I’m damned if I understand either, but I think it’s time we figured it out. All of it.”

His mouth covered hers before she could argue or protest and then she couldn’t do anything but kiss him back and cling to him. Her heart leapt crazily as his lips devoured hers, and as he tightened his hold on her, so that they were no longer two, but one, her breasts ached, crushed against his chest, and she felt herself melting into him, on fire with a need that left no room for thought or reason.

Then somehow they were lying upon the blanket, his body covering hers, his weight pushing her into the thick grass.

“I don’t know what you’re doing to me, Emily Spoon,” Clint groaned. Those simple words made her heart soar, and as his mouth skimmed along her cheek, explored the delicate curve of her ear, and trailed incendiary kisses down her collarbone, she shivered with pleasure and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her.

“Nothing half as frightening as what you’re doing to me,” she gasped.

But there wasn’t fear in her voice, there was hunger. Hunger for more. Desperation shimmered in those luminous silver eyes as Clint’s tongue awakened hers, as his hands roamed her body.

Seeing the desire in her flushed face, her eyes wide and soft and yearning upon his, Clint’s need drummed through him. Damn, how he wanted her. Knowing she felt the same, the tension in him escalated and he deepened the kiss, taking all he wanted, all she had to give.

All week he’d stayed away from her, every damned night, when the only thing he’d wanted to do was ride out to the ranch and find her—her family be damned. He hadn’t wanted much—only to see her, hold her, kiss her.

And make love to her.

The depth of his need for this woman stunned him.

“Don’t you wonder, Emily?” he asked, as he pressed his mouth to the pulse at her throat. “About what it is—between us.”

“I… don’t want to know,” she insisted. Yet her hands slid down his back, her nails clinging to him. The truth was, she’d wondered constantly, but hadn’t found any answers, and all of this was just confusing her more. Despite common sense, and Pete and Lester’s warnings, it felt so delicious to lie here with him, knowing that at any moment he might kiss her again.

“It’s wrong, whatever it is,” she whispered. Her breasts felt hot and achy as they pressed against his hard chest.

“Yeah? Who says it’s wrong?”

“Pete and Lester. And Uncle Jake would too … if he knew…”

“Maybe they’re the ones who are wrong.”

“But what they say—warning me about you—makes sense. This doesn’t.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he muttered. Leaning down, he licked the corner of her lush mouth. “Not a lick of sense,” he said softly.

A delicious shiver ran through her. She arched her head back and laughed. “Let me up,” she murmured breathlessly, “so I can think.”

“Thinking’s no fun. This is.”

She ought to be pushing him away, but she didn’t want to. She was too fascinated by those warm, glinting eyes, by the way her own body was responding to his hands and his lips.

“This … is … wrong …” she tried to insist again, but he cut her off.

“Why, Emily? It sure doesn’t feel wrong.”

“You’re a lawman and I’m—”

“Beautiful. You’re so damned beautiful.”

There was a catch in her throat. She couldn’t take this anymore. “Stop sweet-talking me … It’s not fair, you only want to seduce me.”

A chuckle burst from him. He ran his tongue around the shell of her ear. “You got that right, sweetheart.”

“Because … I’m not respectable enough to court or to … m-marry and so you know you’re safe …”

“What did you say?” Clint drew back, bracing his arms on either side of her and staring down into her face.

“Not respectable? Who ever said that?” he demanded, all the teasing gentleness gone from his voice.

“You did. Sort of. You think because I’m a Spoon that I…”

“I said you wouldn’t want to marry me. Because you’re proud and you hate lawmen. Damn it, Emily, I didn’t say I didn’t respect you. And as for being safe with you,” his voice grew harsh, “that couldn’t be further from the truth. Right now, if you want to know the truth, I feel anything but safe.”

Trembling, she reached out and touched a hand to his jaw. The late-day stubble felt rough against her fingers. “That makes two of us,” she whispered, unsure if she was asking for mercy, understanding, or release.

Suddenly a voice broke the stillness of the clearing—a loud, childish voice calling her name.

“Em-leeee! Em-leeee!”

Joey.

Next came her uncle’s sharper, deeper voice. “Emily! Where are you, girl?”

Clint let out a stream of oaths and rolled off her, and Emily bolted up to a sitting position. “Oh, no!” she gasped.

Frantically she began smoothing out her crumpled gown, her hands fumbling over the wrinkles in her skirt.

“Em-leee!”

Clint pulled her to her feet and she pushed her hair back desperately just as Uncle Jake and Joey appeared at the top of the gully.

“What is it… what’s wrong?” she called out, hoping her voice sounded calmer than she felt. “Is everything all right?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you.” Frowning, Jake stalked toward the picnic blanket, Joey trotting at his heels.

“Just heard who bought your box lunch, Emily. Didn’t think you’d want to be alone with him.” He jerked his head toward Clint.

“It’s perfectly fine with me, Uncle Jake,” Emily said quickly. “It’s to raise money for the schoolhouse. I don’t mind—”

“Neither do I.” Clint spoke easily, returning her uncle’s hard glare with a steady gaze. “Your niece is an excellent cook. We enjoyed the lunch—as you can see.” He glanced down at the repacked basket, and Jake and Joey followed his glance.

“Enjoying the picnic, Joey?”

Joey’s head bobbed. “Sure am. Sheriff Barclay, you saved Em-ly from the storm, right?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“It’s a lucky thing you found her,” he said. “She could have been eaten by a bear or a mountain lion. But that’s a sheriff’s job—to help people. That’s what Em-ly told me.”

“She’s right.” Clint knelt down so he was closer to eye level with the boy and met his gaze directly. “I’m just glad I was there when she needed me. I’ll be here if you need me too, Joey.”

“Thanks, Sheriff.” A grin broke over his face, but it faded as he glanced up to see Jake frowning.

“Why’re you mad at Sheriff Barclay, Uncle Jake?” he asked.

The older man looked down then into that small, uncertain face. He cleared his throat. “Me and Sheriff Barclay don’t see eye to eye.”

“We should go back to the schoolhouse.” Emily hurried forward and took Joey’s hand. “I wanted to ask Margaret for her corn bread recipe.”

“Go on ahead.” Jake’s eyes were fastened upon Clint. “Reckon I’ll have a word alone with Sheriff Barclay here.”

“Uncle Jake, I don’t think that’s a very good idea.” She glanced uneasily between the two men, but her uncle spoke curtly.

“Take Joey back. This won’t take long.”

“No. I’m not going without you.”

Clint saw the shadow of fear—and determination—in her eyes. Something twisted inside him. This slender, beautiful woman was afraid for him.

Amused, yet moved in a way he didn’t understand, he shook his head.

“Go back, Emily,” he heard himself saying, and kept his tone even. “Take Joey with you—it should be time for the potato sack races. We’ll join you soon.”

Uncertain, she stared at him, then at Uncle Jake. She might as well have been staring at two mules, she thought. The same flinty determination was stamped upon both of their faces.

“C’mon, Em-ly, let’s go.” Joey tugged at her hand. “Bobby Smith told me that Mrs. Phillips always gives out sugar cookies after lunch. I want one!”

She let go of his hand and gathered up her silk-decorated box, then threw one last glance at her uncle and at Lonesome’s tall, hard-eyed sheriff, trying to still the fear in her heart.

“Don’t do anything foolish, either one of you,” she ordered, before she let Joey pull her away, leaving Uncle Jake and Clint alone, facing each other in the shade of the cottonwood tree.

“Well?” Clint’s eyes narrowed. “Say what you have to say, Spoon.”

“I damn well intend to.” Jake’s lip curled. The still spring air around them vibrated with a keen, high tension. Even the hot sky above seemed to quiver with a dangerous electricity.

“But if you know what’s good for you, Barclay, you’ll listen real careful. Because I’m only going to say this once.”