Read Online Convictions by Maureen McKade - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Maureen McKade
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soon. Are you ready?"
Her shoulders tensed, but she nodded.
She dined in the kitchen as the men ate. The low hum of voices was surprisingly soothing, as long as she kept her distance.
After they'd eaten, the men left the dining hall. Olivia knew most of them would end up in front of the television in the main bunkhouse. Hank and his fellow prisoners would probably join them. The hired men were, overall, pretty accepting of the prisoners. Those who didn't approve of them rarely stayed on the payroll for long. Olivia's father wanted them to work as equals on the ranch and culled out the troublemakers.
Olivia didn't miss the irony; she was probably the worst naysayer, but he could hardly fire his own daughter.
Hank appeared with an armload of dirty plates. "I'll clear the tables," he said simply.
Startled out of her thoughts, Olivia got to work. Once everything was rinsed and put in the dishwasher, she let the water out of the sink.
"Would you like some help in the morning, Ms. Kincaid?" Hank asked.
He was wearing his aloof mask, but she couldn't deny the heat that shimmered between them, like a wavy mirage above a hot highway. There, yet not. "If Buck doesn't mind."
"He won't." Without another word, he left.
Startled by his abrupt departure, Olivia hobbled over to the window and saw Hank pause outside the barracks where the convicts slept. She studied him in the dim light. He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to look out toward the dim outline of the mountain peaks in the distance.
Olivia wondered what he was thinking. Was the ranch any different than prison for him? Hank and the other four convicts weren't allowed off Kincaid land without permission. They continued to wear their Wilson Correctional Facility chambray shirts and ball caps. It was their mark, their badge of dishonor.
Her gaze traveled across Hank's shoulders and back, and down his long, muscular legs. She gave in to her feminine curiosity, and her attention lingered. She'd worked around men in suits for so long, she'd forgotten the allure of denim over a tight backside. Her fingers remembered, though, and she curled them into her palms.
After the attack, she'd lost control of her emotions, and now her body betrayed her. Her life was screwed up enough; she didn't want or need the complication of Hank Elliott. Yet she couldn't escape him if she continued to cook the meals because, in spite of everything, he'd be the one she'd turn to for help.
She glanced toward the mountains, which were lit with an eerie orangish glow as the sun dropped behind the peaks. Olivia grabbed her cane and left the cookhouse, intent on getting to the house before the sun disappeared completely. The skin between her shoulder blades tingled, and she suspected it was Hank's gaze that followed her.
However, Olivia wasn't certain if the tingle was one of trepidation or excitement. Or which was more dangerous.
Biting back a frustrated sigh, Hank watched Olivia disappear into the big house. She hadn't even glanced at him when she'd passed. What had he expected, that she would smile seductively and ask him to follow her into that fancy house, down the hall to her fancy room, and make love in her fancy bed?
He closed his eyes, envisioning her bedroom. He'd only been in it long enough to retrieve her cane, but he clearly remembered the feminine scents: a hint of violets and powder, and Olivia's unique musk that had taxed his control only minutes ago in the cookhouse. Surprisingly, her room contained frilly curtains and a pale pink, blue, and green bedspread, revealing a soft underside to Olivia's rigid exterior. He'd noticed a stack of books beside her bed and had no trouble imagining her lying in bed, alone except for a book held between her long, slender fingers.
Instead of holding some book at night, a passionate woman like her should be caressing a flesh-and-blood man—a man like him who could appreciate her touch, and who would be more than willing to
Her shoulders tensed, but she nodded.
She dined in the kitchen as the men ate. The low hum of voices was surprisingly soothing, as long as she kept her distance.
After they'd eaten, the men left the dining hall. Olivia knew most of them would end up in front of the television in the main bunkhouse. Hank and his fellow prisoners would probably join them. The hired men were, overall, pretty accepting of the prisoners. Those who didn't approve of them rarely stayed on the payroll for long. Olivia's father wanted them to work as equals on the ranch and culled out the troublemakers.
Olivia didn't miss the irony; she was probably the worst naysayer, but he could hardly fire his own daughter.
Hank appeared with an armload of dirty plates. "I'll clear the tables," he said simply.
Startled out of her thoughts, Olivia got to work. Once everything was rinsed and put in the dishwasher, she let the water out of the sink.
"Would you like some help in the morning, Ms. Kincaid?" Hank asked.
He was wearing his aloof mask, but she couldn't deny the heat that shimmered between them, like a wavy mirage above a hot highway. There, yet not. "If Buck doesn't mind."
"He won't." Without another word, he left.
Startled by his abrupt departure, Olivia hobbled over to the window and saw Hank pause outside the barracks where the convicts slept. She studied him in the dim light. He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to look out toward the dim outline of the mountain peaks in the distance.
Olivia wondered what he was thinking. Was the ranch any different than prison for him? Hank and the other four convicts weren't allowed off Kincaid land without permission. They continued to wear their Wilson Correctional Facility chambray shirts and ball caps. It was their mark, their badge of dishonor.
Her gaze traveled across Hank's shoulders and back, and down his long, muscular legs. She gave in to her feminine curiosity, and her attention lingered. She'd worked around men in suits for so long, she'd forgotten the allure of denim over a tight backside. Her fingers remembered, though, and she curled them into her palms.
After the attack, she'd lost control of her emotions, and now her body betrayed her. Her life was screwed up enough; she didn't want or need the complication of Hank Elliott. Yet she couldn't escape him if she continued to cook the meals because, in spite of everything, he'd be the one she'd turn to for help.
She glanced toward the mountains, which were lit with an eerie orangish glow as the sun dropped behind the peaks. Olivia grabbed her cane and left the cookhouse, intent on getting to the house before the sun disappeared completely. The skin between her shoulder blades tingled, and she suspected it was Hank's gaze that followed her.
However, Olivia wasn't certain if the tingle was one of trepidation or excitement. Or which was more dangerous.
Biting back a frustrated sigh, Hank watched Olivia disappear into the big house. She hadn't even glanced at him when she'd passed. What had he expected, that she would smile seductively and ask him to follow her into that fancy house, down the hall to her fancy room, and make love in her fancy bed?
He closed his eyes, envisioning her bedroom. He'd only been in it long enough to retrieve her cane, but he clearly remembered the feminine scents: a hint of violets and powder, and Olivia's unique musk that had taxed his control only minutes ago in the cookhouse. Surprisingly, her room contained frilly curtains and a pale pink, blue, and green bedspread, revealing a soft underside to Olivia's rigid exterior. He'd noticed a stack of books beside her bed and had no trouble imagining her lying in bed, alone except for a book held between her long, slender fingers.
Instead of holding some book at night, a passionate woman like her should be caressing a flesh-and-blood man—a man like him who could appreciate her touch, and who would be more than willing to
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