by Lisa Jackson
The couples laughed and danced, and Heather wished she were anywhere else in the world than imprisoned in the saddle with this cowboy. How could she ever have thought of Turner as a romantic figure, riding alone along the ridge this afternoon?
A few animals stirred as they passed the corrals, and Heather noticed some of the ranch hands. Their boots were propped against the lowest rail of the fence, the tips of their cigarettes pinpoints of red light that burned in the night. A thin odor of smoke mingled with the dust and dry heat.
Turner rode into the main yard, and several of the cowboys, lingering near the paddock, glanced their way and sniggered softly amongst themselves.
Great. Just what she needed—to be branded as Turner’s woman. No doubt they made an interesting sight, both half-dressed and wet, wedged tightly into the saddle.
She didn’t wait for an invitation. When Sampson slowed, she swung one leg over the gelding’s neck and half stumbled to the ground. Without a word, she spun and started for the back of the house.
“Aren’t you gonna thank me?” Turner called.
She stopped, her hands clamped into tight little fists. “Thank you for what?” she asked, inching her chin upward as she turned to face him again. “For humiliating me? For forcing me to ride with you against my will? Or for being a voyeur while I swam?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said lightly, but his eyes didn’t warm and his jaw remained stiff.
“Go to hell!”
“Oh, lady, I’ve already been,” he said with a mocking laugh that rattled her insides.
Heather turned again, and without so much as a backward glance, she hurried up the back steps to the kitchen and tried not to hear Turner’s hearty laughter following after her like a bad smell.
She barely got two steps into the kitchen when Mazie, seated at the small table in the corner, glanced up from balancing the kitchen’s books. “Trouble?” she asked.
“No—”
“Your horse came back alone. Zeke’s none too happy about that and he was worried sick about you. He was just about to send out a search party. You’d better talk to him.”
“I will,” Heather promised. She wanted to drop through the floor. Mortified already, she didn’t need to be reminded of her carelessness with Nutmeg. “Where is he?”
“In his office,” Mazie replied, staring for a second at Heather’s state of dress and tangled hair before turning back to her books and chewing on the end of her pen.
Heather ran up the back steps and slid into her room. Jill was on her bed, reading some teen-idol magazine. She glanced up when Heather shut the door behind her.
“What happened to you?” she asked, eyeing Heather with a curious gleam.
“I went swimming.”
“In your clothes?”
“No,” Heather said managing a smile. “I just didn’t have a towel to dry off.”
“Heard you lost your horse.”
“That’s the abbreviated story.” In the mirror, her reflection stared back at her. Without makeup, her hair wet and limp, she looked about twelve years old. Turner Brooks probably thought she was just a kid. Except he’s seen all of you—breasts, the triangle of hair…
“Great,” she muttered, swiping a towel from the vanity and rubbing it hard against her long blond hair.
Jill tossed her magazine aside. “So what happened? And I don’t want the Reader’s Digest condensed version.”
“It’s boring,” Heather replied, lying a little.
“I doubt it.”
Heather stripped out of her dirty clothes and stepped into clean underwear, a denim skirt and pale blue shirt. She clipped a silver belt around her waist, combed her hair into a quick ponytail and contented herself with fresh lipstick.
“Does this have anything to do with Turner Brooks?” Jill asked. She drew her knees beneath her chin and smiled knowingly up at her roommate. “I saw Turner ride out that way.”
“Did you?” Heather turned her attention back to the mirror in order to hide the tide of embarrassment she felt climbing up the back of her neck.
“Isn’t he something?” Jill sighed contentedly.
In the reflection, Heather saw the girl close her eyes and smile dreamily.
“He’s just the kind of man I’d like to marry.”
“Turner Brooks?” Heather was aghast. The same slow-talking, sarcastic man she’d met? What kind of a husband would he make?
“God, he’s beautiful.”
“But there are rumors…about his past.”
“I know, I know, but I don’t care.” Jill grinned wickedly. “Besides, a man with a past is a little more interesting, don’t you think?”
“What I think is that Turner Brooks is a conceited, self-centered jerk who—”
“So you did run into him!” Jill’s eyes flew open. “Oh, I wish I’d been there with you.”
“Me, too,” Heather replied under her breath. Before Jill could say anything else, she hurried out of the room and clambered down the stairs. She had to face Zeke and explain that she hadn’t meant to lose Nutmeg, and hope that he wasn’t too angry with her.
Zeke’s office was in the front of the house and with each step Heather felt a mounting sense of dread. She couldn’t lose this job. She just couldn’t! All her dreams of art school and escaping Gold Creek would turn to dust if she didn’t save enough money to move away from her mother’s little cottage.
Steeling herself, Heather tapped lightly on the door.
“It’s open.”
Mentally crossing her fingers, she entered. The room was small and cozy. Filled with rodeo trophies, Indian blankets and worn furniture, the office smelled of tobacco, lingering smoke and leather. Antlers of every shape and size were mounted on the plank walls, and sprawled in one of the cracked leather chairs in front of the desk was none other than Turner Brooks himself. He turned lazy eyes up at her, and Heather nearly stumbled on the edge of the braided rug.
“Come on in,” Zeke ordered, his voice softer. He was a man few people forgot. With snowy-white hair and thick muttonchop sideburns, he was a big man—over two hundred and twenty pounds and six foot one or two. Though he was huge in comparison to Turner, Heather barely noticed the older man. All her senses were keyed in to Turner—the slant of his knowing smile, the mockery in his gray eyes, the smell of him, a scent that seemed to cling to her nostrils. “You’ve already met my nephew.”
Turner nodded in recognition and Heather swallowed hard. “Yes. Earlier.” She forced her unwilling eyes back to her boss. “Look, Mr. Kilkenny, I need to talk to you.”
Zeke leaned back in his chair and the old springs creaked. “So talk.”
“I mean in private.”
Zeke smiled. “We got no secrets here, Heather. At the Lazy K, we’re all family.” He waved her into the chair near Turner’s. “Sit down and tell me what’s on your mind.”
Balancing on the edge of a chair, Heather tried not to think about the fact that Turner was only bare inches from her, that at any moment his hand could brush hers. “I…I’m sorry about losing Nutmeg. I was careless. It won’t happen again.”
“No harm done,” Zeke said, rubbing his chin. “Nutmeg hightailed it back here for her supper. But it could’ve been worse.”
“I’ll be more careful,” Heather promised, surprised she was getting off so easy. The horses were the life and blood of the ranch, and Zeke Kilkenny had a reputation of caring more for his animals than he had for his wife of twenty-odd years.
“Well, I know you haven’t been around horses much—you livin’ in town and all—and you’re a good worker. Mazie says you’re one of the best helpers she’s had in the kitchen and she’s trained more’n her share, let me tell you.”
Heather could hardl
y believe the praise. From Mazie? The woman who single-handedly was trying to work her to an early grave?
“I could warn you off the horses, but, the way I see it, that’s unnatural. Horses and men—or women—they just go together.” Zeke leaned forward, and his smile was friendly. “Turner here came up with the perfect solution to our little problem.”
Heather’s blood ran cold. A suggestion from Turner? She tried to say something but for once her tongue tangled on itself.
“Why don’t you tell Heather your idea,” Zeke invited.
Turner leaned closer to her. “I thought that you might need some lessons handlin’ a horse.”
“I don’t—”
“And Turner here’s offered to teach you,” Zeke cut in, so pleased he beamed. “You couldn’t get a better teacher. Lord, Turner could ride before he could walk!” He chuckled at his old worn-out joke, and Heather felt as if her life were over.
She imagined the grueling lessons where Turner would take his vengeance and his pleasure in making her ride so long, she’d be sore for weeks, by having her groom every horse in the stables, by having her clean out every stall and shed on the ranch. The summer would never end. When she found her voice again, she held on to the arms of her chair in a death grip and said, “Surely Turner has more important work here—”
Zeke waved off her reasoning. “Always time to get someone in the saddle. So that’s it. Starting tomorrow, right after you work your shift, you’re Turner’s!” He slapped the desktop and the phone jangled.
The meeting was over. Heather stood on leaden feet as Zeke picked up the receiver. Riding lessons with Turner Brooks? She’d rather die! He’d be merciless. Life as she knew it would end. She’d spend too many grueling hours with Turner the Tormenter!
“Cat got your tongue?” he asked as he followed her to the door.
“You’ll regret this,” she warned.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” he drawled with a sparkle of devilment lighting his eyes. “Matter of fact, lady, to tell you the truth—I’m lookin’ forward to it!”
CHAPTER TWO
TURNER SLAPPED HIS HAT against his thigh and dust swirled to the heavens. Why in God’s name had he told Zeke he’d like to show Heather how to handle a horse? She must’ve made him crazy last night, because this was the worst idea he’d come up with in years! It didn’t help that he hadn’t slept a wink the night before. Nope. All night long he’d thought of her, how her white skin had looked in the darkening water. He’d seen her nipples, hard little buds in the frigid depths, and he’d grown hard at the sight. She’d done her best to cover up, but he’d noticed the slim length of her legs as she’d tried to tread water and cover her breasts at the same time. The sight had been comical and seductive. Had she been a different kind of woman, he’d have spent the night with her.
But Heather Tremont had been like no woman he’d ever met before. She’d been indignant when she’d spied him and when he’d tried to tease her, she’d refused to laugh. But she’d challenged him. By taking his horse. And he’d never yet come up against a challenge he hadn’t taken and won.
Now, as he watched her try to keep her balance upon a high-strung gelding, he almost grinned. Served her right for keeping him up all night wondering what it would feel like to kiss her lips, to drown in her sky-blue gaze, to touch her man to woman in the most intimate of places.
He shifted, resting his back against the fence and forcing his thoughts away from his sudden arousal.
“Pull back on the reins,” he said. “Let him know who’s boss.”
“That’s the trouble,” she threw back at him. “He already knows! And it’s not me!”
Turner swallowed a smile. She had guts—he’d give her that. She’d blanched at the sight of Sundown, a burly sorrel with a kick that could break a man’s leg, but other than inquire about Nutmeg, her usual mount, she’d climbed into the saddle and gamely tried to command a horse who was as stubborn as he was strong.
“Uh-uh. No hands on the saddle horn,” he reminded her as Sundown gave a little buck of rebellion and her fingers searched frantically for any sort of purchase. “That goes for the mane, as well.”
“I know, I know!” she snapped.
She pressed her legs tighter around the gelding, and Turner’s eyes were drawn to the tight stretch of denim across her rump. Her waist was tiny, but her hips were round and firm, in perfect proportion to her breasts. He saw the stain of sweat striping her back and the resolute set of her mouth.
He wondered what she would taste like. Yesterday, riding so close to her, the scent of her skin had driven him mad and he’d thought long and often about pressing his lips to hers. But, so far, he hadn’t gotten close enough or been stupid enough to try to kiss her.
“How long is this going to take?” she asked, yanking hard on the reins and swearing under her breath when Sundown didn’t respond.
“As soon as I think you’re ready to take him out of the paddock.”
“Humph.” She set her tiny little jaw and a gleam of determination flared in her eyes. She worked the reins again and the gelding reared, but she hung on, refusing to be dismounted.
Turner forced his mouth to remain grim, though he wanted to smile. Crossing his arms over his chest, he settled back against the fence to enjoy the show.
Heather decided the lesson was a disaster.
While he leaned his back against the rails of the fence and watched her put her mount through his paces, she tried to stay astride Sundown, who fought the bit and pranced this way and that.
“You know, I’d work a lot better with Nutmeg,” she grumbled when Sundown tried to buck her off for the third time. She managed to stay in the saddle, but only because she finally grabbed hold of the saddle horn.
“You’ll never make a rodeo queen,” Turner said. He shifted a piece of straw from one side of his mouth to the other.
“Oh, gee, all my dreams, down the drain,” she tossed back, but laughed a little. She was hot and dirty and tired. After spending most of the day in the kitchen, she’d changed into jeans and had been astride Sundown for two hours, and her legs ached.
“You know, Heather, you might like me if you let yourself.”
She nearly fell off the horse. The last thing she expected was any conversation from him about their relationship—or lack of one. “Me? Not like you? Whatever gave you that impression? Just because you invaded my privacy, forced me to ride with you and then came up with this harebrained idea of having you teach me, on my free time, mind you, all I wanted to know about horses but was afraid to ask, now, why would you think I didn’t like you?”
A bevy of quail suddenly took flight and Sundown leapt high. Heather scrabbled for the reins and the saddle horn, but the horse shifted quickly. She pitched forward. The ground rushed up at her and she hit the dirt with her shoulder, landing hard. Pain exploded through her arm, and she sucked in her breath.
Turner was there in a second. Concern darkened his eyes as he reached to help her to her feet. “Are you okay?”
“You’re the teacher,” she snapped. “You tell me.” But her arm throbbed and she held it against her body.
“Seriously, Heather.” With a gentle touch she thought he reserved only for horses, he poked and prodded her shoulder. Eyebrows knit, he watched her reaction. “Hold your arm up, if you can.”
Wincing, she forced her elbow high into the air. Like fire, pain shot through her bones. She gritted her teeth. Again his fingers touched her shoulder. “Ooh!”
“That hurt?” he asked.
“It all hurts.” Especially her pride. The last thing she wanted to do was fall off in front of him. She sent Sundown a scathing look. “Idiot.”
“Well, I see your sweet temper is restored,” he said, and relief relaxed the hard contours of his face. F
or a second she was lost in his silvery gaze and her silly heart skipped a beat. His hands were warm and tender, and beneath his rough cowboy exterior Heather spied a kinder, gentler man—a man with a sense of humor and a man who did seem to care.
“Good as new,” she said sarcastically, for she didn’t want to glimpse into Turner’s soul. It was easier to hate him than to have a current of conflicting emotions wired to her heart.
He tried to help her up, but she ignored his hand and found her feet herself. The less he touched her, the better.
“I think that’ll do it for tonight.”
“Oh? You’re not one who believes that you have to climb right back on a horse if you fall off?”
He eyed her speculatively, his gaze searching her face, and her breath was suddenly constricted in her throat. “You enjoy putting me down, don’t you?” When she didn’t answer, he stepped closer and the twilight seemed to wrap around them. “What is it you’ve got against me, Heather?” he asked, and his hand reached upward, barely touching her chin.
“I don’t have anything against you,” she lied.
“Oh, yes, you do, lady, and I intend to find out just what it is.” His thumb stroked the edge of her jaw and she felt as if she might collapse, so weak went her knees. Instead, she knocked his hand away.
“Don’t touch me,” she said, her voice breathless.
“Afraid?”
“Of you? No way.”
“You’re a liar, Heather Tremont,” he said slowly, but didn’t touch her again. “And I don’t know what you’re more scared of. Me or yourself.” He whistled to Sundown and caught the gelding’s reins in the hand that had so recently touched her skin. “You’d better go into the house, Heather, and have Mazie look at your shoulder.” His lopsided grin was almost infectious. “Unless you need the paramedics, I’ll see you same time, same place tomorrow.”
“How long will these lessons last?” she asked, rubbing the pain from her upper arm.