by Lisa Jackson
All her life her mother had accused her of dreaming romantic fantasies, of being “boy crazy,” of living in an unreal world of heroes and heroines and everlasting love. Her older sister, Rachelle, had been the practical nose-to-the-grindstone type, and time and time again their mother had shaken her head at Heather’s belief in true love.
“If you want to fall in love, then why don’t you let yourself fall for Dennis Leonetti?” Ellen had asked her often enough. “He’s cute and smart and rich. What more could you want?”
Heather sometimes wondered herself. But there was something about Dennis—something calculating and cold that made her mistrust him. Why he wanted to marry her, she didn’t know; she only knew that deep in her heart she didn’t love him and never would. Marrying him seemed like admitting defeat or becoming a fraud or, at the very least, taking the easy way out. Heather, despite her fantasies, didn’t believe that there were any free rides on this earth. She had only to look at her mother’s hard life to see the truth.
“Heather?”
Drat! Mazie again. Heather couldn’t afford to look lazy; she needed this job. She dashed back to the kitchen.
“I thought we lost you again,” Mazie said as she lit a cigarette at the little table near the windows. “Mercy, I’ve never seen anyone whose head is higher in the clouds than yours!”
“I’m sorry,” Heather said as she wiped the top of the stove to look busy. Most of the polishing and cleaning was done, and three girls were huddled together near the swinging doors that separated the kitchen from the dining room.
“It’s all right. Your shift’s over.” Mazie honored Heather with a rare smile. “Besides, you’re missin’ all the fun.” Taking a puff on her cigarette, she motioned to the girls crowded around the swinging door. “The boys are back.”
“The what?”
“…I told you he was gorgeous,” Jill whispered loudly.
Mazie chuckled.
“They all are,” another girl, Maggie, said, her eye to the crack between the two doors. She let out a contented sigh. “Hunks. Every one of them.”
“But they’re trouble,” Sheryl added. She was a tall, thin girl, who, for the past six summers, had worked at the Lazy K. “Especially that one—” She pointed, and Jill shook her head.
“What’s going on?” Heather couldn’t hide her curiosity.
“The cowboys are back for a while. Between rodeos,” Jill explained a trifle breathlessly.
Cowboys? Heather wasn’t particularly interested in the rough-and-tumble, range-riding type of man. She thought of Dennis, the banker’s son, and he suddenly didn’t seem so bad. But dusty, grimy, outdoorsmen smelling of tobacco and leather and horses…? Well, most of her fantasies were a little more on the sophisticated side.
However, she remembered the ridge rider and her heart did a peculiar little flop. But he was a man of her dreams, not a flesh-and-blood cowpoke. She didn’t bother peeking through the crack in the door. Instead, to atone for her earlier idleness, she hauled the sacks of potatoes and onions back to the pantry where she double-checked that the plastic lids on huge tubs of sugar and flour were secure.
Cowboys! She smiled to herself. If she were to believe the image on the silver screen, cowboys spit tobacco juice and tromped around in filthy scraped leather boots and tattered jeans. They loved the open range as well as horses and booze and country music and loose women in tight denim skirts.
And yet there was something appealing about the cowboy myth, about a rugged man who was afraid of nothing, about a man who would die for what was right, a man who disdained city life and health clubs and sports cars.
Even Rachelle—stalwart, sane, levelheaded Rachelle—had fallen for a rogue of sorts. Jackson Moore, the reputed bad boy of Gold Creek, the boy whom everyone believed had killed Roy Fitzpatrick. Rachelle had stood up for Jackson when the whole town had wanted to lynch him; Rachelle had given him an alibi when he had desperately needed one; and Rachelle had stayed in town, bearing the disgrace and scandal of having spent the night with him, while he’d taken off, leaving her alone to face the town.
And that short love affair had scarred her and their parents forever.
“I’m not going to sit around and watch you make the same mistake your sister did,” Ellen had told Heather as she’d nervously taken a drag from her cigarette. “And she was the levelheaded one! You, with all your fantasies and silly notions about romance…ah, well. Unfortunately, you’ll learn in time.” She’d stubbed out her cigarette, and concern darkened her eyes. “Just don’t learn the hard way. Like Rachelle did. That no-good Moore boy used her, he did. Spent one night with her, then left town when he was accused of murder. Left her here alone to defend him and mend her broken heart.” Ellen had shaken her head, her loose brown curls bobbing around her face. “You listen to me, Heather. Romance only causes heartache. I loved your father—was faithful to him. Lord, I had supper on the table every night at six…and what happened? Hmm? He flipped out. Wanted a ‘younger model.’” Ellen scowled darkly. “Don’t fool yourself with thoughts of romance. Make life easy for yourself. Marry Dennis.”
Heather frowned at the memory. Closing the pantry door behind her, she crossed the kitchen and headed up the back stairs to the room she shared with the other girls. She changed quickly, stripping off her apron and uniform and sliding into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.
Within minutes, she’d caught and saddled her favorite little mare, Nutmeg, and was riding along a dusty trail through the pines. Telling herself she needed the ride to cool off, that her interest in exploring the trails had nothing to do with the rider she’d seen, she urged Nutmeg steadily upward, through the foothills. The sun had disappeared, and a handful of stars was beginning to wink in the evening sky. For the first time that day, Heather felt free and content. Her blond hair streamed behind her, and she even hummed along to the tempo of Nutmeg’s steady hoofbeats. She met no one, didn’t so much as hear another horse neigh.
So much for the solitary ridge rider… . Another fantasy.
Clucking gently to the mare, Heather followed the trail that led to the river. The air was fresher there, though the drone of insects was constant. She smiled as she spied the natural pool she’d discovered, a deep hole that collected and slowed the water where the river doglegged toward the mountains.
“I deserve this,” she told Nutmeg, as she slid to the ground, and without a thought to her horse, stripped quickly out of her clothes, dropping them piece by piece at the river’s edge. She ran along the rocky shelf that jutted over the dark water and with a laugh, plunged into the cold depths.
Frigid. So cold she could barely breathe, the icy water engulfed her, touching every pore on her body, sending a shock wave through her system. The river sprouted from an underground spring and the water was close to freezing. She didn’t care. After battling the heat of the kitchen oven and the hot summer sun all day, the cold water was refreshing. She felt alive again.
Surfacing, she swam to the far shore, feeling the tension slip from her muscles as she knifed through the water. As the sky darkened, she dived down again, touching the rocky bottom with her fingers before jetting upward and breaking the surface. Sighing happily, she tossed her hair from her eyes and nearly stopped breathing.
She wasn’t alone.
A tall, rugged man stood on the shelf of rock jutting over the water’s edge. Dressed in dirty jeans, scratched boots and work shirt that was unbuttoned to display a rock-hard chest, he stared down at her with eyes the color of gunmetal. His lips were thin and compressed, his tanned face angular and bladed.
Without a doubt, this was the very man she’d seen earlier riding the ridge.
Her heart nearly stopped.
Romantic fantasies fled.
She didn’t know this man, didn’t know what he was capable of. He could be dangerous, and from the looks of him she didn’t doubt it for a moment. Though his brown hair was streaked with gold, there was something about him, something about the arrogant
way he stood in front of her bespoke trouble.
He was nearly six feet or so and looked to be in his midtwenties, and Heather wanted to crawl behind the nearest rock and hide. But, of course, it was too late. In one hand he held the reins to his mount, a huge buckskin gelding, in the other, he dangled her clothes off one long, callused finger.
Heather swallowed hard and wondered just how menacing he really was. She didn’t want to find out.
“Lose something?” he asked in a lazy drawl.
She rimmed her lips with her tongue. What could she say? She was obviously naked—the clothes had to belong to her. She decided to take the offensive before things really got out of hand. “Just put them down,” she said, eyeing her shorts swinging from his finger. She treaded water in the deep part of the pool, hoping he couldn’t see too much of her body through the darkening ripples of the river.
“I’m not talking about these.” He tossed her shorts, T-shirt, bra and panties close to the water’s edge—almost within her reach.
He was playing with her! Dear God, why hadn’t she told anyone where she was going? Feeling a fool and very much afraid, Heather swallowed back a lump of fright in her throat and studied him more carefully. A cowboy, no mistaking that. His Stetson was pushed back on his head, displaying a ring of grime that matted brown hair to his forehead. His jean jacket was torn and dirty, his Levi’s faded and tight, his shirt, a plaid cotton that was open to display a dusting of hair on a sun-bronzed chest. He looked hot and tired and disgusted. “Your horse,” he prompted, and her gaze flew to the edge of the forest where she’d left Nutmeg grazing only minutes before. The mare was nowhere in sight.
“Oh, no—”
“She’s halfway back to the stables by now,” he said, and his flinty eyes showed just a flicker of amusement. “Looks like you have to hike or hitch a ride with me.”
For a fleeting instant she thought he was handsome, almost sexy, in a coarse sort of way, but she didn’t dwell on his looks as she was busy trying to keep herself covered.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll make it back,” she said, knowing that riding with him would only spell trouble.
“Will ya, now?” he drawled in a voice as rough as sandpaper.
“Yes.” She eyed her clothes and prayed for the cover of darkness.
“What’s your name?”
Did it matter? “Heather.” Anything to get rid of him so she could fetch her clothes and get dressed.
“Hmmm. You work in the kitchen?”
“That’s right.” So he was one of the men the girls were fawning over.
He didn’t say anything to this bit of news, just stared down at her, and she wondered at the picture she must make—pale skin beneath the dark ripples, hair wet and plastered to her head, face awash with embarrassment, white legs moving quickly as she tried to stay afloat. “Look, if you don’t mind, I really could use some privacy.”
A slow smile spread across his chin. “What if I do mind?”
Drat the man! Her fists curled for one frustrated second and she started to sink, her chin sliding under the water’s cool surface. Sputtering, she accused, “You’re no gentleman.”
“And I doubt that you’re much of a lady,” he said, working the heel of his boot with the toe of the other.
Heather nearly jumped out of her skin. He wasn’t really thinking of diving in and joining her, was he? To her horror, he kicked off both boots, yanked off a pair of dusty socks and started pulling his arms out of the sleeves of his jacket. “Wait a minute,” she said, surprised at the breathless tone of her voice.
“Wait for what?”
“Whatever it is you think you’re going to do—”
He stripped his jacket and shirt from a torso as tough and lean as rawhide. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him and only a smattering of gold-brown hair that arrowed down over a tanned, hard chest and a washboard of abdominal muscles. Lean and mean. Even in the darkness she saw a bruise, purple and green, discoloring the skin across one shoulder. “I don’t think I’m gonna do anything. I know I’m goin’ for a swim.”
“But you can’t—” she cried, as his shirt and jacket fell onto the pile of boots and socks.
“Why not? I’ve been swimmin’ here since I was ten.”
“But I’m here and…”
“You won’t bother me.” A devilish, off-center smile flashed in the coming darkness and he didn’t pause once at the waistband of his jeans. They fell away with the pop, pop, pop of buttons.
Heather averted her eyes. She’d never seen a naked man before, and she was certain this man wasn’t a good one to start with.
“You’re not the first girl to swim here with me.”
“That’s comforting,” she said, her voice filled with sarcasm. “And I’m not a girl—”
“That’s right. My mistake. You’re a lady.”
Heather felt a tide of color wash up her neck. She was out of her element. Way out of her element. And yet she was fascinated as, from the corner of her eye, she saw him yank off his jeans and in one lithe motion, dive into the river. She caught a glimpse of white—his underwear as he dove—and that was all it took. As quickly as he was in, she was out, scrambling into her clothes.
Dear God, how had she gotten herself into this mess? One minute she was fantasizing him and the next he was there, taunting her, teasing her with his smile, playing dangerous games with his gaze.
Her hands were cold, her body wet and her clothes clung to her skin. She didn’t bother with her bra or panties; she was only interested in covering up as much as possible in the shortest amount of time. Heart thundering, icy fingers fumbling, she found the tab of the zipper of her shorts just as she heard him break the surface of the water. All she wanted to do was get out and get out fast!
She started for the path.
“Leavin’ so soon, darlin’?” he yelled across the rush of the river. “I didn’t scare ya off, now, did I?”
Miserable beast!
He still thought this was a game! She tried to ignore the challenge in his words. “I was done anyway.”
“Sure,” he taunted.
“I was.” What did it matter? Just take off, Heather. Leave well enough alone!
“Well, you sure as hell weren’t troublin’ me.”
“Good. Because you troub—you bothered me.”
He chuckled, deep and low. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Take it any way you please,” she threw back, not understanding the emotions that seemed to have control of her tongue. The man scared her half to death, yet she was fascinated by him. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five or -six, and yet he wore the jaded cynicism of a man twice his age.
“You’d better be careful of that tongue of yours,” he said and, from the corner of her eye, she saw him swim closer, his head above water, his gaze never leaving her. “Could get you into a heap of trouble.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“My pleasure.” Again that deep, rumbling chuckle. At her expense. He reached the ledge and threw his elbows onto the rocks, content to stretch in the water. Heather was mesmerized by his sinewy forearms as they flexed.
There was something about him that got under her skin, something irritating, like a horsefly caught under a saddle that just kept biting the horse. Though she knew she was playing with fire, she couldn’t just walk away, letting him think that he’d bested her—by seeing her naked and forcing her, for propriety’s sake, to leave.
A plan of revenge started to form in her heart. Oh, but was she willing to pay the price? He obviously worked at the Lazy K. If she angered him, he might make the next two months of her life miserable. But it was worth the gamble. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Didn’t give it to you.” His gaze found hers again, and for some reason she had trouble finding her breath. “Turner Brooks.”
Not just one of the cowboys. Turner Brooks was nephew to the owner of the Lazy K. A drifter who followed the rodeo circuit. A man with
a past that she’d only heard snatches of. Something about his father and a woman…maybe a girlfriend… Then there were the rumors of all the hearts he’d broken over the past few years—women along the rodeo circuit waiting for his return. “What’re you doing back at the Lazy K?”
“Got to work between rodeos,” he said.
“Aren’t you good enough to make a living out of riding broncos?” She heard the sarcasm in her voice, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, damn him, he grinned again—that irreverent I’ve-seen-it-all kind of grin that caught her by surprise and made her heart beat unsteadily.
“I’m good,” he said, his dark gaze moving slowly up her body and causing a tingle to spread through her limbs. “Very good.”
Her throat turned to dust. She swallowed with difficulty.
“I just came here to help out and earn a little extra spending money. Hurt my shoulder a while back and it’s givin’ me some trouble. Thought I’d take a rest.” His gaze hadn’t left her face, and she felt as naked as she had in the water. Though she was dressed, she knew that she had no secrets from him; her clothes were little shield. He’d seen her completely unclothed, had his fun at her expense; now it was time to turn the tables on him. She eyed his pile of clothes, wondering how he would feel if she took his worn jeans and work shirt. As if he guessed her intent, he clucked his tongue. “Don’t even think about it unless you want more trouble than you can even begin to imagine.” She bit her lower lip. Stealing his jeans seemed too childish and not punishment enough. Besides, he would catch her. But not if she took his horse. What more humiliation for a cowboy than to have a mere woman steal his pride and joy? No more had the thought entered her head than she turned and caught the gelding by the reins.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warned. “Sampson doesn’t like people he doesn’t know.”
“Then I guess I’d better introduce myself,” she ridiculed. She wasn’t going to let him bluff her. She climbed into the saddle and kicked the big buckskin, pulling hard on the reins. In a ripple of muscles, the horse whirled and leapt forward, covering the open ground at a breakneck pace. Heather clung to his mane and leaned forward as Sampson’s long strides carried her into the woods. Trees rushed by in a blur. Heart pounding madly, she prayed the gelding’s hooves were sure because the forest was gloomy, the trail uneven. She felt a quick little thrill of showing up the cowboy, and yet she knew that what she’d done was dangerous. Turner would never forgive her.