by Janet Dailey
“It acquired a flat tire overnight and the spare is in the same deflated state.” Reese Talbot offered this explanation with his dark head drawn back, a glimmer of superior amusement in his expression. “When I mentioned it to Lew, he was going in to town with the pickup and suggested I ride along.”
The answer drew Kit’s attention to the ranch hand. “And why were you going in to town?” she demanded.
Lew shifted, revealing unease. “Sorrell junked one of his tractors and has been sellin’ the parts. I thought I’d check to see if the steerin’ column could be interchanged or modified to fit the H. His place is only a mile or so from town so I figured that was no sense in makin’ two trips in the same direction.”
“You figured,” Kit repeated in an angry underbreath. “And what about the fence?”
“I was going to do it this afternoon.”
“After you blew a whole morning in town?”
“I think you’d better go fix the fence, Lew,” Reese Talbot suggested dryly. “Miss Bonner can take me to town and check on that tractor part for you.”
“Yessir.” Lew bobbed his head in agreement and moved away, obeying this order when he had more or less ignored Kit’s.
That irritated, as did that indefinable air of authority that emanated from the man before her. The fact that he had commandeered her services as chauffeur did not set well, either. Kit was about to inform him that as well as not being a cook and a housekeeper, she was also not a chauffeur, but she didn’t have the chance.
“I was under the impression, Miss Bonner —” there was nothing amused about the narrowed look he gave her “— that your grandfather was the manager of this ranch and as such was the one to give the orders, not you.”
The ground seemed to rock beneath her feet. It was one thing for her to know that Nate had lost interest in the ranch since his wife’s death and had begun neglecting his duties, and another thing for Reese Talbot to know. A sense of loyalty made Kit protect her grandfather from discovery.
“He is,” she defended. “I take my orders from him.”
“I see,” he murmured, but Kit saw that his suspicion hadn’t been completely set aside. “Is there anything specific you are to do this morning or are you free to drive to town?”
Her decision was made in a flash. “I can drive you to town.”
“Good.” Reese glanced at the gold of his watch, glistening around his tanned wrist. “Is ten minutes long enough for you to change?”
“There’s nothing wrong with the way I’m dressed,” she countered smoothly. It was part of her armor, a protective shield that kept her aloof from others, and that was what Kit wanted. “Why should I change?”
There was a quirking lift to one corner of his mouth as he ran a mocking eye over her decidedly masculine attire that gave her a shapeless form.
“Why, indeed?”
“If you are ready to leave, I am,” Kit challenged.
An upturned palm gestured toward the pickup truck parked a few feet away, indicating his readiness. Kit walked to the driver’s side, aware that he followed. She felt her nerves tautening as she realized that she had sentenced herself to spending the better part of the morning in his company. It wasn’t wise, not when her emotions ran so high against him. Or at least against the injustice his presence represented.
By the time Reese Talbot had climbed into the other side of the cab, Kit had started the motor and was shifting the truck into gear. They bounced out of the rough ranch yard onto the equally jolting ruts of the lane, springs squeaking in protest as they tried to absorb the shock of the bumpy ride. Kit knew if she slowed down it wouldn’t be so rough, but, perversely, she didn’t.
“Why hasn’t the road been regraded?” Reese questioned, riding out the jolts with apparent ease.
“There’s no point in it — not until summer.” Kit kept a firm hold on the steering wheel to prevent it being wrenched from her hands. “We don’t get much rain here, but when we do get a spring rainstorm it’s usually a violent one.” Her response was matter-of-fact. “So the downpour washes out the roadbed.”
The jarring ride continued until they reached the relative smoothness of the scorialike gravel of the county road, which left a haze of red dust behind them. Kit’s attention was divided between the road, twisting, climbing and dipping as it snaked its way through the torturous landscape, and the scenic badlands themselves.
Its wild terrain was one that Kit never tired of seeing, stark buttes jutted into the horizon. The layered rock faces of bluffs offered a striation of color from the bricklike red of baked clay to yellow and buff with an occasional stripe of black, a seam of low-grade lignite coal.
Dominating it all was the tall, thick grass, green and rich, the priceless bounty of the so-called badlands. Its dense cover was interspersed with sagebrush and wild flowers. In the twisting ravines formed by runoffs and along the winding streambeds, the cottonwoods and willow trees flourished, while stands of junipers clung to the north slopes.
At times it seemed a maze of canyons and guilies and mesas, verdant pastures and impassable rock cliffs. But always it stunned the eyes, awed the viewer, and the wild pulse beat of an. untameable land became Kit’s own.
“How old are you?”
The question banished her absorption and Kit became aware of the man seated in the pickup cab beside her. That unrevealing gaze of his was watching her and probably had been for some time. The penetrating scrutiny prickled her nerve ends.
“Twenty-one. How old are you?” She returned the challenge with piercing calm.
“Thirty-five.”
“You look older.” Kit kept her gaze fixed on the road as they topped a rise.
“Who put the chip on your shoulder?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she murmured coolly.
“Come now, Miss Bonner,” he taunted her skeptically. Without looking at him Kit could still see the faint curl of his lip in a cynical smile. “Ever since our first meeting you’ve been trying to impress upon me how hard and tough you are.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” But Kit felt her muscles tensing, although she continued to avoid looking in his direction.
“I am impressed,” he offered, but not without some amusement. “You have the hardest shell I’ve ever seen.”
“What makes you think it’s only a shell?”
“Because, as much as you might not like to admit it, you are still made of flesh and blood like the rest of us.”
There was the rasping sound of flint being struck and Kit glanced over to see the first wisp of smoke curling from the tip of the cigarette between his lips. The aromatic scent of tobacco smoke was inviting, its implied taste promising a narcotic balm for her nerves.
“May I have a cigarette?” Kit requested.
“They are … tailor-made.” The glint in his gold brown eyes appeared to be laughing at her. “So?” she frowned.
Reese took another cigarette from the pack and lighted it. “I assumed that you either chewed tobacco or rolled your own cigarettes.” He handed the second one to her. “I’ve heard rolling your own is considered a ‘manly’ art.”
Kit gritted her teeth at his gibe, knowing he was taunting her lack of feminine mannerisms. She inhaled on the filtered end of the cigarette, the taste of his mouth still warm on the paper. It wasn’t a sensation she cared for.
“I’ll have to try it sometime, won’t I?” was her bland response to his comment.
If anyone had ever got used to teasing, malicious or otherwise, Kit had. Her aloofness, her coolness, had deflected many a previous comment. And it didn’t desert her now. It had been years since anyone had been able to tell if his remark had found its target.
“What happened to your parents?” Reese switched subjects without appearing to care that he hadn’t aroused a more heated reaction.
“They’re dead. Nate and Martha raised me.” As an afterthought she added the explanation, “My grandparents.”
“
You’re doing it again,” he observed.
“Doing what?” Kit darted him another frowning glance.
“You’re trying to prove how tough and independent you are by using your grandparents’ given names. Calling them granddad and grandma would imply a closeness, a dependency, and you seem determined not to need anybody.” His speculating glance made itself felt even though Kit kept her gaze focused on the road. “What did you call your parents?
“I don’t remember. I doubt if I ever got past ‘mama’ and ’dada,’” she said, lifting her shoulders in a characteristic and silently defensive shrug. “I don’t remember either of them. They are just names of people I’ve seen in photographs.”
“And do you regret that?”
As far as Kit was concerned, this delving had gone far enough. “What is this, baron? A psychoanalysis?”
“The name is Reese. If you have difficulty getting that out I’ll settle for Talbot, but no title, please.” It was more of an order than a mere statement.
“Why not?” Kit challenged. “You inherited the title along with everything else, didn’t you?”
“I have no use for the title.” Reese Talbot ground his cigarette out in the truck’s ashtray. “I’m a U.S. citizen, not a British subject.”
“Surely it will come in handy in England, though, when you spend a few days at your castle?” There was the acid of bitter sarcasm flowing through the murmured question.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but there is no castle in England, not anymore.”
“Oh? Did you sell it?”
“Not me. My predecessor disposed of it some years ago.”
“What a pity for you,” Kit offered. “A title with no castle.”
“It was too costly to maintain. If he hadn’t sold it, I would have.”
Kit gave him a long look, studying his profile, aquiline and noble. “I understood you inherited a fortune.”
Her gaze fell away when his swung to meet it, arrogant and mocking. “Are you probing into your employer’s private affairs, Katherine?” The way his low voice rolled so tauntingly over her given name vibrated over her skin, pricking the hairs at the back of her neck. But Reese Talbot didn’t wait for a response. “Actually after the death duties — the inheritance taxes — there was very little left.”
“Except the Flying Eagle, isn’t that right, baron?” she gibed, jealousy surfacing for an emerald second.
“Yes, except for the Flying Eagle, baroness.”
Her stomach lurched at the feminine title. “Why did you call me that?” Kit demanded, flashing him an angry glance.
“You didn’t like it?”
“No, I didn’t like it!” she snapped.
“Neither do I, So let’s drop the ‘baron.’”
His clipped order coincided with their arrival in town. Kit didn’t acknowledge the order, instead she pointed out the red roof of the château built as a summer home by the ambitious Marquis de Mores in the early 1880s. It was visible through the budding trees, located on a hill overlooking the town of Medora, named for his American wife, and the perpetually carving waters of the Little Missouri River, responsible for creating the North Dakota badlands.
Their first stop was at a service station to leave the flat tire to be repaired. Kit was fully conscious of the questioning and curious looks she received. The few times she was ever seen in the company of a man it had always been someone from the ranch, mainly Lew or Frank or her grandfather. It was obvious to even the most casual observer that Reese Talbot was not your average cowhand, if he could be mistaken for a cowboy at all. But since he didn’t see fit to identify himself, neither did Kit.
“Where to now?” Kit let the truck idle in the station’s driveway.
“I want to see if I can arrange to hire someone locally to do the cooking and the housecleaning for me.”
“I’ll leave you in town then,” she stated, slipping the truck into gear and easing her foot down on the accelerator.
“Where are you going? To see about the tractor part?” he questioned.
“Yes.” She turned onto the main street, its rustic old buildings restored. “I wouldn’t worry about finding someone. You’ll have a flood of applicants for the job,” Kit offered cynically, “especially when people find out who you are.”
“Is there anyone you would care to recommend?”
“No one. You are on your own, bar — Mr. Talbot,” she corrected and pulled the truck close to the curb to let him out.
“What time shall I meet you?” Reese stepped out of the cab of the truck and leaned against the open window frame to look back at her.
“Medora isn’t all that big,” Kit stated. “When I’m finished, I’ll find you.”
The glinting light in his eye seemed to laugh at her attempted assertion of superiority. Despite his amusement, Kit had a warm sense of satisfaction as she drove away to complete her own errands.
But it was nearly noon before she got back into town. There had been one frustrating obstacle on top of another, first in finding Sorrell and then in trying to determine whether his part would fit the damaged one in the ranch’s tractor.
It was nearing the Memorial Day week, which meant there was a scattering of tourists in town. Kit looked at many faces as she drove down the street, without seeing Reese. Finally she parked the pickup in front of the post office and continued the search on foot.
Ignoring the curious looks from the tourists as they wondered if they were seeing a real live cowboy — or was it a cowgirl — Kit walked down the street, her head turning and looking, peering into storefronts for a glimpse of the man she sought. The main area of Medora covered no more than a few blocks and Kit walked it all.
She turned and began to retrace her route to the pickup. As she passed by the Rough Rider Hotel, Kit was about to decide that Reese had given up waiting for her and had found some other means of transportation back to the ranch,
The side entrance door to the hotel, leading to the restaurant, opened. “Are you looking for me?” Reese stood in the door frame, seeming to fill it.
Kit stopped abruptly. “Yes, and it appears that I found you.” She wasn’t about to admit that she had any trouble.
“I got tired of cooling my heels waiting for you and decided to have some lunch. Join me?” He stepped backward into the hotel, an outstretched arm holding the door open for Kit, leaving her little option but to agree.
Before she was two steps into the hall a set of strong fingers clamped on her elbow and the strength of his grip momentarily surprised Kit. Reese Talbot had struck her as being in good physical shape, but the degree of his fitness was disconcerting. Her upturned glance met the veiled glitter of his look and Kit felt a surge of resentment at the way he always seemed to be laughing at her, although there wasn’t a ghost of a smile on that hard mouth.
“My table is this way,” he explained and directed her to the room on the right.
Their destination was a table for two set against the far wall away from the mainstream of traffic. Kit was glad of its location. It made her feel protected, free from curious and prying eyes. Coffee and a water glass were on the table in front of one chair and Kit walked to the opposite side, pulling out the chair and sitting down before Reese could courteously offer assistance.
“Aren’t you going to take off your hat?” his low voice mocked her. His hand was on the back of her chair as Kit drew it up to the table.
“No.”
“With any other woman, I would suspect that her hair was a mess and vanity refused to let her be seen in public looking less than her best.” Reese walked to his chair to sit opposite her, running his gaze over her face. “With you I suspect it’s a case of stubbornness and nonconformity.
“You could be right,” was all Kit would admit.
The grooves deepened around his mouth, the only hint of a smile he displayed at her response. “I haven’t been served yet. Would you like to order something?”
“I think I’ll have a sandwich,�
�� she agreed practically. She was hungry and Nate would have fixed his own lunch by now. Eating here would save having to scrape together a hurried meal when they returned to the ranch.
Reese motioned to the waitress, who brought over a menu. Kit glanced briefly at the sandwich selection and gave her order to the young girl. Not wanting to engage in any more small talk with Reese, she began studying the western paintings on the walls, a complementing touch to the rustic motif of the dining room. Among the paintings were photographs of Teddy Roosevelt, the twenty-sixth president of the United States, and a former rancher in the badlands at approximately the same time as the Marquis de Mores and the first baron who started the Flying Eagle,
“Kit?” A questioning female voice broke into her concentration. “Kit Bonner? It is you, isn’t it?”
She glanced around to see a blond-haired woman about her age approaching the table hesitantly. A defensively proud mask stole over Kit’s smooth features as she recognized a former classmate at school.
When the blonde got a full view of Kit’s face she broke into a smile. “It is you, Kit,” she declared in delight. “I was sitting over at that table when you came in and I said to my girl friend, ‘That looks like Kit Bonner. I used to go to school with her.’ But I wasn’t sure it was you.”
“Hello, Carolyn.” Kit offered tile greeting stiffly, wary of the woman’s motives for seeking her out.
“My gosh, it’s been ages since I’ve seen you.” The declaration was accompanied by a short, amazed laugh. “Not since we graduated, right?”
“I think so,” she nodded.
Kit remembered her more clearly now, and the overtures of friendship Carolyn Nesbitt had made in those school years. But Kit had been leery, just as she had been leery of all attempts by others to get into her confidence. Yet Carolyn seemed genuinely glad to see her again after all this time. It was a very warming sensation and her lips softened into a wary smile.
“How have you been? You look wonderful, Kit.” Blue eyes sparkled over the golden tan Of Kit’s complexion.