Soul Deep by Pamela Clare

she’d
been saddle sore. She made her way out into the hallway, where she
heard music coming from the gym—Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog.”
    She walked down the hall and found the door
open. Wearing a black Army Ranger tank and black gym shorts, Jack
stood at a cable machine doing standing cable flyes. He didn’t seem
to notice her, but worked his way through the set, exhaling each
time he drew his hands together in front of his chest, the muscles
of his arms and shoulders taut.
    Now she knew why his body felt so hard and
muscular.
    He finished the last set, released the
cables, and played a few chords of air guitar before reaching for
his stainless steel water bottle.
    Not wanting to startle him—or get caught
staring—she knocked on the door jamb.
    His head jerked around. He smiled when he saw
her.
    Her stomach did a flip.
    “Hey. Did you have a nice nap?”
    “Yes, thank you.” She walked over to him, the
sheen of sweat on his forehead somehow sexy. “Thanks for the
blanket—and the fire. I was snug and cozy. Did everything work out
with the detective?”
    He frowned. “That depends on how you look at
it. He took statements from everyone, but none of them saw or heard
anything. I’ve got twenty men out there, and not one of them
noticed when someone aimed a gun at the ranch’s prized
stallion?”
    “I’m sorry. It must be incredibly
upsetting.”
    “I thought I’d burn off some frustration and
take a shower before making dinner.”
    “Don’t let me bother you.”
    “Why don’t you join me?”
    She blinked. “You’re serious?”
    He was. “You can work in between my
sets.”
    There was no reason she couldn’t. She hadn’t
lifted weights since being shot, but that was only because she’d
had to devote all her time and energy to physical therapy.
    “Okay. I’ll be right back.” She hurried to
her room, changed into a pair of yoga pants, a sports bra, and an
old T-shirt, then pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail.
    In less than ten minutes, she was back in the
gym, where Brett Eldredge was singing “Beat of the Music.” So Jack
wasn’t just a classic rock guy.
    “What kind of workout do you usually do?”
    “I haven’t done anything since I was shot. I
just had too much else going on.” She figured he needed to know
that. “I used to aim for three days a week on weights—one day for
chest, shoulders, and triceps, one for back, abs and biceps, and
one for glutes, hamstrings, quads, and calves.”
    He nodded. “I’m doing chest and shoulders
today, so why don’t we start there?”
    They took turns doing chest press, triceps
press, and more cable flyes, Jack adjusting the weight, spotting
for Janet, and encouraging her. She tried not to stare at him while
he lifted, then gave up, the sight of all that man and shifting
muscle more than she was able or willing to deny herself. As they
moved from one set to the next, she grew more and more aroused
until she was certifiably horny.
    She hadn’t felt like this in ages.
    At first, they talked about the sheriff’s
visit. The guy was an idiot as far as Janet could tell, and she
told Jack so. “I don’t think he plans on doing anything.”
    “Neither do I.”
    “Who went with you when you confronted the
hunters?” The frown on his face told her that he knew where she was
headed with that question.
    “You think one of them might have taken
it.”
    “I know you don’t want to doubt your men, but
I find it highly unlikely that some stranger walked out of a
blizzard, shot Chinook without being seen, then disappeared into
the storm.” She could see in his eyes that it hurt him even to
consider that one of his men might have betrayed him.
    He had such expressive eyes.
    “I understand what you’re saying. If one of
them planned to get back at me, it might make sense for him to
acquire a firearm that couldn’t be traced to him.”
    “It might be a total coincidence that both
weapons are forty-fives.”
    “Then again, it might not.”