Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2)(37)

“You’ve got a knack for investigation,” I say. “I’ve worked with good detectives and bad detectives, and you’re one of the good ones.”

“It’s not that,” she says. “It’s the other part of the job. The physical part.”

She says she’s not strong like the chief and can’t shoot a gun like me. “I’ve never been in a situation where I had to draw my gun, let alone shoot it,” she says. “I’m not sure how I’d handle a situation like you faced in that bank.”

I’m crushing on this vulnerable new side of her, maybe even falling for her.

“Listen, Ariana,” I say, resuming a professional dialogue. “It doesn’t matter how big your muscles are. It doesn’t matter how fast you can draw a gun. What matters is what’s in here.” I point to my head. “And here.” I point to my chest. “A Ranger needs to be smart and good-hearted above all. And you have those qualities in spades.”

She smiles brightly and genuinely, touched by my words. “Thanks, Rory.”

After we finish our sandwiches, I ask if she’s ready to head back to town.

“Is there any reason to hurry?” she asks.

“I guess not,” I say. “What do you have in mind?”

Ariana gives me a sly grin I haven’t seen before.





Chapter 48



“CLOSE YOUR EYES,” Ariana says, “and don’t peek.”

I do as she asks. I hear her strip off her jeans and drop them in a heap. I don’t hear her take off her shirt, but I assume that’s what she’s doing.

“Now you can look,” she says.

I glance up in time to see Ariana in midair, suspended over the river—wearing only a bra and underwear—and then she’s gone in an explosion of water. She comes up laughing, throwing back her wet hair.

“You coming?” she says.

I want to encourage this intriguing new side of Ariana, so I undo my gun belt and hang it over a branch that’s broken off about six inches from the trunk. Then I loosen my tie and unbutton my shirt and hang them over the gun. I pull off my boots, set them aside, and strip off my undershirt and pants. I stand at the cut bank in my boxer shorts, looking down at Ariana in the water.

I watch Ariana’s face, the way her eyes drift down to my chest, the way one corner of her mouth curves slightly into the hint of a smile. I can’t believe it—she’s checking me out!

“How deep is it?” I ask.

“Seven feet maybe.”

I dive headfirst, stabbing the water with my hands and sinking down into the cold. I pull up quickly, and when I surface, Ariana and I face each other, treading water and smiling like kids playing hooky from school. With her wet hair slicked back and rivulets of water running down her skin, Ariana looks amazing. We find a slightly shallower section of the river and stand. I can see her bare shoulders and make out the blurry form of her body below the water.

The way she’s looking at me, I feel like I could swim up to her, take her in my arms, and kiss her, and she wouldn’t stop me. She’d kiss me back.

As much as I’m tempted to, I know I shouldn’t.

Can’t.

I lean back and float on top of the water, drifting away from her.

When I right myself again, farther away, she says, “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Amazing.”

I’m not sure if she’s talking about the refreshing chill of the water or how it feels to finally take a break from the case, but my answer works for either. We know we can’t stay in for long. We can’t postpone our responsibilities for the whole day. Even an hour. I’ve had my share of time off since I arrived in town—jamming with the guys, the gig at Lobo Lizard—but the person in Rio Lobo I like spending time with the most is Ariana. And this is the first time we’ve ever done anything fun together, just the two of us.

It feels great.

But it also feels a little inappropriate.

I ask myself how I would feel if Willow was swimming in Nashville’s Cumberland River right now with a handsome man.

“You okay?” she says.

I tell her I am, but she can sense that something is bothering me.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “This was a stupid idea.”

“No,” I say. “I’m glad we did it. Even a Texas Ranger and a police detective deserve a break every now and then.”

We climb out of the water. Ariana abandons her previous modesty, making no request for me to keep my eyes closed. I try not to stare at her, but I can’t help take in an eyeful. Her body is long and slender, muscled and toned. Like a runner or a swimmer.

“Hang on a sec,” I tell her, and I unlock the large storage box in my truck bed.

I dig past the rifles, shotgun, body armor, evidence kit, and other equipment, and I pull out a couple of musty shirts I keep in there in case I ever get dirty in the field. We use them as towels, doing the best we can to dry off before we get dressed. I also have an extra pair of underwear, but I don’t change. It doesn’t feel fair since Ariana has to keep her wet underclothes on.

Before driving away, I reapply the cortisone cream to my hand and fingers.

“I noticed you’ve got a rash,” Ariana says.

“Some kind of allergic reaction from when we were at McCormack’s. You didn’t get anything, did you?”