by Lois Greiman
“Your father cut you off.” His tone was deep and quiet.
“Yes.” She tilted her chin, clenched her fists. “But he’ll … we’ll work things out if I …” She forced a chuckle and felt herself die a little. “We’ll work things out.”
“If you do as he says.” He scowled. “Live as he demands. Marry as he wishes.”
She raised her brows. How surprising that a man like Hunter Redhawk could guess her father’s twisted reasoning.
“And you would accept his demands?” he asked.
She thought about it in silence for a second. The memory of David Albrook felt strange in her mind. Not repulsive, exactly. Just tired. Stale. She shook her head. “I’m not the girl I was.”
“No,” he said and something flared in his eyes. “You are not. But neither are you the woman I thought you to be if you give this up.”
“I don’t have a choice.” Her voice was louder than she had planned.
“There is always a choice,” he said, but she would be a fool to allow herself to believe that.
“You’re wrong.”
He held her with his eyes. There was anger there. And disappointment. He gritted his teeth, then, nodding once, he turned toward his truck.
She watched him go. Watched him pull open his door and step inside. Heard his ancient engine grumble as he turned the key, and felt his departure ache like an open wound in her soul.
He didn’t look back. Didn’t even glance at her as he drove away.
But in a matter of moments, he stopped. The engine died. Reaching onto the passenger seat, he retrieved something.
Sydney felt her heart hitch as she watched him step out of his vehicle, face expressionless, strides long and purposeful.
For reasons unknown, it felt difficult to breathe as he approached her, impossible to meet his gaze as he shoved a folder into her hands.
She kept her back very straight. “What’s this?”
“Look at it.”
“I’ve got things to—”
“Read it,” he ordered and waited while she opened the package.
The first photograph struck her like a blow. It was Courage … not as she was now, wild and free and unfettered, but as she had been, broken, starved, dying. Sydney pursed her lips and choked back the tears. Fingers slow, she shifted to the next image. The mare was lying down, bandaged legs bent beneath her. She was still scrawny, still broken, but something was different. There was a light in her eyes. A …
Scowling, Sydney looked closer, focusing on a messy tangle of hair just above the dark crest of the mare’s neck. And beneath it, where the dun’s mane hung heavy and long, a tiny scrap of purple, probably unnoticed by the photographer, was visible between the animal’s forearm and neck.
“She was in there,” Sydney hissed. “Lily snuck in with her.”
Hunter nodded.
“But it was locked. The stall was padlocked. It’s impossible.”
“Perhaps Lily didn’t know that.” He shrugged, a single lift of a heavy shoulder. “Or maybe the picture was taken before we began locking the stall.”
Sydney scowled, unable to speak as she lifted the papers from the folder.
An essay lay beneath a half-dozen more photographs: “Courage,” by Ty Roberts. Sydney read through it, blinked back tears when she could no longer see, wiped her eyes when that didn’t suffice. It was a simple story and true, written with a cowboy’s brevity and a poet’s magic. She cleared her throat as she shoved the pages back into the folder. “That doesn’t change—”
“You missed a picture,” he said.
She shook her head, unable to accept more, to feel more, but he reached into the folder himself. Drawing out a photograph, he pushed it toward her. She lowered her gaze against her better judgment.
It was a distant shot of a clay-colored horse. A tiny purple-dressed figure was perched on its back. Fog was rising from the canyon below, blurring the image, but you could still see the courage, the will, the bond, tight as a fist, between horse and child.
“Emily took it from the upstairs window while Bliss slept that morning.”
Sydney shuddered a little sob, but allowed herself no more. “This doesn’t change anything.”
“Really?” He huffed a laugh, shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and glanced at the distant hills. “These pictures … these words …” His river-agate eyes were bright. “What will they do to others if they can make a duchess cry?”
“I’m not crying.”
“Then your eyes are melting.”
She stifled a laugh and shook her head, but he spoke before she could.
“If the story was published … if people saw that horse … if they knew there were others like her …” He let the words fall into the quiet of the morning, but she could not let them lie.
“They’d …” Against her will, a sliver of excitement slipped through the fog of defeat. “They’d want to help. They’d do what they could to help fund the project.”
“Ai. If they have a soul, they would.”
“I could …” She kept her body very still, lest she move and lose the magic. “I could take in more mustangs.”
“You’ve got the land.”
“We could educate people. Make them understand. About … about the need for wild things. For wild places.”
He nodded once, but she barely noticed. “They could see the horses in their natural habitat. Pay extra to ride through the hills. We could bring in local artisans.” She thought of the horsehair vase Tonk had given her. “Sell …” Her mind was soaring. “Pottery and watercolors and jewelry, take a commission to pay for taxes and—”
“There she is.” His eyes burned into hers.
“What?”
“Welcome home, Sydney Wellesley,” he said, and nodding once, turned away.
She felt the dream being ripped from her soul. Felt the possibilities roll away like mist in the wind.
“I can’t do it,” she said.
He stopped, turned. Anger and disappointment lay like a blight on his striking features.
“Not alone,” she added. There was a plea in her voice so soft and earnest, it all but ached. But she didn’t care.
She watched his brows dip lower, felt his fear. It would be so much easier for him to run away. So much simpler. But she had no desire to make his life simple.
“I’ll need …” She paused. She had no idea what she was going to need. “Safe fencing and more hay and …” Their gazes clashed and held. You, she thought. I’ll need you. But even now she couldn’t force out the words. Couldn’t take the chance. But neither could she let him go. Not without trying.
“I need your help,” she said.
He watched her in silence for a small eternity, and then he smiled. The expression was gentle and strangely proud. “You do not need anyone.”
She let the warmth of his faith soak into the core of her being. “Then maybe I just want …” The truth was so close. So close, but still unreachable. “… your help.”
Seconds ticked away. “Do you always get what you want?” His voice was low and cautious.
“No.” A smile tugged at her lips. Happiness called. But contentment, that rare, fragile bird, was already fluttering quietly onto her shoulder. “I’m considering starting a new trend, however.”
He waited, uncertain.
“Do you want me to beg?” she asked.
He snorted. Humor shone in his dark-magic eyes. “I do not believe you capable of such a thing.”
“Somebody once told me I could do anything. Who was that?” she asked, and turning her eyes sideways as if in thought, tapped her cheek. “Oh yes …” She looked back at him abruptly. “It was you,” she said, and holding her breath, dropped to one knee.
He jerked back in surprise, but she had snagged his sleeve.
“Hunter Redhawk …”
“What the devil are you doing?”
“Please,” she said.
“Get up.”
&nbs
p; “Stay.”
He glanced around as if expecting a film crew to pop up from behind a boulder. But the paparazzi had not shown up. Sydney Wellesley, as it turned out, was of no particular interest … just your average farm girl, struggling to make ends meet. Contentment took a sharp bend toward unfettered joy.
“Stand up!” he demanded, but she remained where she was.
“For Lily,” she said.
He shook his head and tried to back away, but she tightened her grip on his arm.
“And Vura, and Courage, and …” She swallowed, searching for her own courage, and he froze, watching her, unbreathing, unmoving. “And me.”
An eternity passed. Her chest ached with the wait. Her thigh throbbed with tension, but it was just pain, no longer debilitating.
“If I do …” Was he glaring at her? “Will you promise never to beg again?”
She laughed. “But I’m just getting the hang of it, and I think …” She canted her head at him, thrilled by his grouchy expression, amused by his obvious discomfort. “I think it might be an extremely useful tool. Please … please …” she said, and managed, somehow, to sound more pathetic each time. “Please stay.”
“Fine! All right. Just …” He glanced around again. “Get up. You’re creeping me out.”
She smiled at him, heart singing. “I would,” she said. “Really. But my leg went numb.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” he said and, lifting her carefully into his arms, cradled her against his heart.
Epilogue
It was the perfect day for a wedding. If you liked fog … which Sydney did … with a spritz of rain, which was okay, and threats of snow, which was a little less delightful.
Lavender clouds unfurled like blossoms in the east, rolled over evergreen hills, and scattered sparkling droplets onto the honored guests. Behind the Lazy Windmill, bur oak and golden aspen provided a fiery backdrop for the ceremony.
The bride arrived on a bay stallion that arched his mahogany neck and pranced with princely strides. The scuffed toes of his rider’s weathered boots peaked out from beneath her snow-white gown. The elegant lace and smooth satin looked pristine against the deep luster of the horse’s burnished coat. Beside her, young Ty Roberts accompanied her down the aisle on his beloved Angel. Even the ancient mare jigged a few steps. Orange butterfly weed adorned her mane and tail. Beside the cocky stallion, she danced a little, flirting. Her rider placed a work-roughened hand on her neck, soothing, steady.
Sydney felt her chest tighten. She had never been a sucker for weddings. Had not planned that Cinderella day as many had, but there was something about the unbridled joy in Casie Carmichael’s eyes that made her throat tighten up. Something about the loving care in Ty’s touch that made her eyes sting. And that was even before the bridegroom topped the hill on his penny-bright palomino.
Sydney couldn’t help but notice that Colt Dickenson’s cocky grin was notably absent or that his hands, those callused hands that had grasped a thousand ropes, were not entirely steady on the reins. And when he spoke, his voice trembled just a little.
Their vows were simple and reverent, their gazes only for each other. Emily Kane wept openly and cuddled Baby Bliss to her chest. The lanky young man beside her wrapped an arm around her shoulders and whispered in her ear until she laughed soggily.
Vura propped her tiny daughter atop Fandango as her father led the old gelding between the well-wishers. With her gossamer hair wreathed in a circlet of autumn leaves, Lily laughed and tossed petals into the crowd.
Dressed in a beaded vest and dark trousers, Tonk watched their progress with a dark-eyed scowl.
And then the newlyweds were gone, slipping hand in hand past the crest of the hill and into forever.
A little sniffle was heard, but it wasn’t Sydney’s. She turned toward Hunter. His expression was stony, but his eyes were suspiciously bright. Stifling a smile, she handed over a tissue.
He cut his gaze to hers and raised an insulted brow. “Hunkpapa do not cry.”
She met his gaze steadily. “How about the Hessians?”
“They sob like babies,” he said and snatched the Kleenex from her hand. “God in heaven, are you going to let me cry alone?”
She laughed a little, but it sounded more like a sob.
“You’re not alone,” she said and, reaching out, folded her slim, pale fingers around his.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2015 by Lois Greiman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-601-8
eISBN-10: 1-61773-601-5
First Kensington Electronic Edition: March 2015
ISBN: 978-1-6177-3600-1