by Betina Krahn
She rushed to the front door and down the steps calling Fancy’s name. Her beloved horse stood in the moonlight, head down, looking exhausted and dispirited. At the sound of her voice he raised his head. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed his face as he sniffed and nuzzled her.
With tears running down her cheeks, she ran her hands over him, finding welts and slashes on his head and neck that spoke of an ordeal. He looked lean and hungry and was probably thirsty. He limped as she walked him slowly to the stable, where she checked his hoof. The imbedded stone had been dislodged—whether by human hand or by nature—but had left a wound that was going bad. She roused Eddie to help her put some bluestone on his hoof and wrap it. Then she mixed some salve for his scratches and instructed Eddie to see he was given water, a few oats, and all the hay he wanted.
Muttering a grateful prayer, she promised Fancy to return as soon as she could and went back to the house and her human patient.
The baron was sitting in the parlor letting the brandy take hold. She owed him a debt of gratitude, but couldn’t help feeling uneasy around him. As she cleaned the cut on his head, his tale confirmed her earlier judgment that his head wound was at least two days old.
He had ridden all over Betancourt, he said, seeking word of a horse that matched Fancy’s description. “I came across two men in an inn who said they’d been approached about buying a horse with special markings, but the price was too high and the details too sparse. The sellers found no interest and quickly moved on.
“I set out after them and located them in a woods well north of Betancourt,” he continued. “I crept up on their camp and lay in wait, watching until there were only two men left in the camp. By this time I’d seen the horse they were trying to sell; clearly it was your Fancy. I tried to steal around the camp and untie him but they heard me. They caught me and knocked me senseless. I was stripped of valuables . . . even my coat. I awoke after a time, but played dead as they celebrated what they considered their good fortune.
“Whiskey made them careless. When they nodded off, I managed to rise and make it to their horse line. I untied your horse and led him away until it was safe to climb on his back and ride. The men roused and came after me, but I hid with your horse and my own, in a copse of trees. This morning I set off to the south, toward Betancourt. My leg injury made riding difficult, but all I could think of was your distress, Miss Sarah.”
She listened intently and when he finished, said simply, “I am so grateful for your courage and selflessness, Baron. You must stay here tonight and allow us to tend your wounds—it’s the least we can do.”
She mixed him a draught for pain and had Ned and Mazie open a guest room. He was limping down the west hallway with Ned’s help, when Red came rushing from the east wing in his suspenders and stocking feet.
“Fancy’s back,” Sarah told him quietly. “The baron brought him home. Wait for me in the parlor, Uncle Red . . . please.”
He looked at the plea in her eyes, nodded, and headed downstairs.
Once the baron was settled and nodding off, she stationed Mazie at his bedside and headed for the parlor.
As she recounted the baron’s story to Red, it sounded even less credible than when he had told it to her. Red was silent when she finished, and he seized the brandy left on the tray and poured her a small glass.
Sarah sipped, shuddering at the fiery trail the drink left in her throat.
She pronounced her conclusion. “He’s lying.”
“Most likely,” Red agreed.
“Fancy would never let anyone—even me—ride him bareback,” she said. “He’s quite adamant when it comes to having the proper tack between him and a human. I think he deems it a matter of respect.” She took another sip. “It looks like he was treated roughly, but he was happy to see me.” Then came the puzzling part. “But George truly was injured. His leg looks terrible and his head wound is too late for stitching. He’ll have a beast of a scar.”
“Well earned,” Red said, frowning. “Still, I can’t see him thrashin’ about in the woods, layin’ in wait for hours, takin’ on two toughs single-handed. He’s damn near as fancy as yer horse.”
“He is that,” she agreed. “A bred-in-the-bone gent, for sure. So, how did he find Fancy so quickly and where did he get those injuries? There’s a story behind it, but I have no idea what it could be.”
“Well, what matters is yer horse is home.” Red stood, pulled her to her feet, and gave her a hug. “You need to get to bed, girl. You need some rest.”
“But I need to check on Fancy.” Her protest was half-hearted.
“He’ll be there in the mornin’. Like as not, he’s tired as you and fast asleep, bein’ back in his own stall.” He corralled her with an arm.
For the moment, she was grateful to be ushered up the stairs and to feel cared for and watched over by her beloved uncle.
She honestly tried to sleep. But as the clock struck three, ushering in the longest hours of the night, she slipped into her robe and shoes and headed for the stable. Navigating by moonlight, she found Fancy still awake and was soon humming to and stroking him, putting them both at ease. When the horse finally lay down in the fresh straw, she spread a blanket beside him, curled up on it, and was soon fast asleep.
* * *
The next morning, Arthur was relieved to have at least most of his mobility back, thanks to Sarah’s liniment and miracle powders, and a sound night’s sleep. He made his way down the hall to check on Steig and found the man groaning as he struggled to dress himself. Arthur shook his head; they were both going to have difficulty climbing back on a horse today to continue the search for Fancy.
As they headed for the stairs, a door down the way opened and out stumbled a man in a shirt and riding breeches and stockings. He swayed as he turned to look down the hall toward the stairs and staggered, clearly shocked by the sight of Arthur and Steig.
Arthur’s jaw dropped. George Graham had overnighted in one of their guest rooms? When in blazes did he arrive? And who gave the bounder a bed for the night? He took a couple of steps toward the baron, but stopped. The man looked like hell; a nasty head wound, a rumpled shirt, and stained riding breeches.
Red appeared a moment later, fully dressed and looking much-recovered from his own saddle-induced misery.
“What the hell is he doing here?” Arthur demanded, tossing a thumb over his shoulder at George. “Who admitted him to Betancourt?”
“My niece,” Red replied. “Seemed reasonable to me, considerin’ he delivered Fancy straight to her door.”
“He what?” Arthur whirled on George, who bore a smug expression. “You found her horse? Where?”
George crossed his arms and steadied himself against his door frame. “In some woods to the north. At some risk to my health and safety, I might add. Thanks to me, Miss Bumgarten has her precious horse back.”
“Hogwash,” Arthur said, stalking closer to the baron.
“It’s true,” Red put in, wary of the tension rising between the men, and catching Arthur’s arm. “I woke up last night at the commotion when he brought Fancy home. He’s got a bum leg an’ a nasty cut on his head. Sarah tended him.”
Arthur was ready to put a fist through something, but there didn’t seem to be an acceptable target at the moment.
“Where is Sarah?” he asked her uncle.
“I was awake after the clock struck three, havin’ a cigar in the parlor, when I saw her slip out the door. I’m thinkin’ she went to see Fancy. She was powerful worried about that four-legger.”
Arthur clamped his jaw, then beckoned Steig to follow and headed down the stairs.
Sarah was indeed with her beloved horse. They found her sound asleep, sharing a blanket with the big horse. His head lay against her, and she was curled protectively around it. Arthur stood watching her for a long moment, feeling a flood of unsettling emotions. She looked so beautiful in the soft, early morning light, with her hair in a loose braid and her lovely features determ
ined even in sleep. He wanted to touch her, hold her.
Steig mumbled something about needing food and ambled off toward the house and kitchen. When he could no longer hear Steig’s passage, he stepped carefully across the cushion of fresh straw. She didn’t stir when he sat down beside her, though Fancy lifted his head and sniffed.
“Go back to sleep, horse,” Arthur muttered as he lay down beside Sarah and fitted his frame around hers. A minute later, Fancy raised his head higher and plopped it across them both. Arthur found himself stroking the beast’s head, where he discovered welts and cuts that spoke of abuse. The bloody bastards. He felt a burning desire to deal the same to the sons-of-bitches responsible. “It’s all right,” he whispered, gentling his touch. “You’re back with your Sarah.”
She stirred at the sound of her name, though her eyes didn’t open. “Just rest, sweetheart,” he murmured against her ear.
As he held both Sarah and her horse, he had the palpable sense of something changing, something important happening to him and in him. He cared a great deal for this remarkable young woman. In the gray of early morning he swore on all he held sacred that he would protect her and his land and people with his last ounce of strength, his last drop of blood.
Betancourt was his home, his birthright, his responsibility. But he was coming to see that Sarah Bumgarten was far more than his passion; she was his destiny.
* * *
Sarah didn’t want to wake, but she did . . . to the smells of horse and straw and the sound of a soft rumble that came from Arthur’s chest. He lay curled around her, and Fancy was using her for a pillow. As she sat up and wiped sleep from her eyes, he murmured, “Good morning, sunshine.”
She couldn’t help but smile.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, looking around and nudging Fancy’s head off her legs. The horse rolled upright and soon rocked to his feet. He stood, head lowered, watching them from the corner of his eye.
“I came out to see if you were all right and decided to keep watch for a while. There are dangerous elements in the neighborhood, you know.” He sat up beside her, resting an arm on an upraised knee. “Better question: What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I’m worried about Fancy. I’ve never seen him like this.”
“He’s got a few bumps and scrapes.” He looked at the horse watching them, seeing more clearly the slashes on his face. “He might have a scar or two, but he’s still handsome. I have no idea what horses find attractive in each other, but I doubt a scar or two will matter.”
She took a deep breath, running her gaze over the horse.
“It’s not his face I’m worried about, it’s his spirit. He won’t hold his head up and keeps closing his eyes as if expecting to be struck every time I touch him.” She frowned and rolled up onto her knees to stroke Fancy’s head and the horse flinched and turned away, just out of her reach. Her heart sank. “He should know by now that I’d never hurt him.”
“Healing takes time, Sarah.”
“I know. But, some animals—when they’ve been attacked or badly mistreated—never get over it. It breaks something inside them. I’ve seen it with carriage horses and dogs.”
“You’ve said yourself, he’s not an ordinary horse. And he’s got you. He knows you care for him. He’ll recover.”
She bit her lip and looked down at him, seeing in his gaze a certainty born of personal experience that sent a wave of reassurance through her. He had been through harsh times and survived, even grown from them. There was a depth and a breadth to him that once again impressed her. Whole worlds of experience and hard-won wisdom lay at his core, waiting to be explored. She had never met such a man . . . worldly, wise, good-hearted, honest, handsome . . . and most surprisingly, humble.
“Don’t underestimate him,” he continued. “He’s got what you Nevada folk call grit.” His head tilted to that kissing angle she found so irresistible.
“I have to admit, you English have your share.” Every nerve in her body was suddenly alive with expectation. It was time to make Arthur see her as something more than just Daisy’s little sister. “Look at how you’ve come back from being shot.”
She laid her hand against his wound. “The way you worked at the Crotons’ that day. Then you spent days in the saddle looking for Fancy. You’ve worked through pain and limitations . . .”
“Yeah, well, I had a good doctor.”
“So you did.” She grinned at his admission. “But you still have a way to go. There is one more thing I need to prescribe. An exercise.”
“Oh?” His mouth quirked at the corner. “And what’s that?”
“You extend your arm . . .” She raised his left arm and wrapped it around her waist. “And you contract your muscles, pulling toward you.”
“And?” His smile was utterly seductive. She found herself falling toward him and braced with her hands on his shoulders.
“Repeat with the other arm.” She reached for his right arm and he let her slide it around her, too.
“Like this?” He pulled her against him so his face was just below hers.
She shivered, looking down into the desire lighting in his eyes. Her heart began beating like a rabbit’s on the run.
“Exactly like this,” she said, now breathless. “It’s important that both arms and shoulders receive equal attention.”
“Any other instructions?” he said as she lowered her lips toward his.
“Just one. Repeat as desired,” she whispered as she closed her eyes.
He met her lips with his and her whole body experienced a surge of raw pleasure as he sank back onto the blanket, carrying her with him. She lay atop his chest, feeling a curious sense of freedom, a sensual power at being in control of that kiss. She fitted her mouth to his, exploring the tastes and textures of him, and venturing away to trace the plane of his cheek and the curve of his jaw with her lips. When she opened her eyes, his were closed and there was a fierce look of pleasure on his face.
“Repeat,” he whispered, adding, “please.”
She obliged with all of the longing and need she possessed, and it ignited a firestorm between them. She ran her hands over his shoulders, his back, his neck . . . then buried her hands in his hair. He was hard and warm and responded to her as if he knew exactly what she wanted. Every curve, every angle . . . every hungry demand, every gentle persuasion . . . he met her in a delicious dance of sensation and response for which there was no pattern except that which was written in their very blood and sinew.
* * *
He traced her shape, learning with his hands the sweet body he had long since memorized with his eyes. By touch, he found her unboned curves firmer and sturdier than he expected . . . not that he had actually anticipated . . . except in late-night thoughts. But he had come to think of her as soft and curvy. It was something of a shock to have her meet his embrace with equal strength and a firm but supple response.
Her hips were firm and full, her waist lean and muscular, and her breasts soft and generous. She nibbled his lips in ways that ignited his nerves and when her tongue stroked his—sweet Jesus—he was suddenly hard and ready to—
He rolled and pulled her beneath him, unwittingly trapping her robe beneath his knee so that it slid open as she settled under him. Only a thin layer of lawn separated her intriguing body from his. He ran his hands over her, appreciating the provocative resistance of her musculature and the erotic yielding of her softer curves.
“Heaven’s breath . . . you’re . . . you’re . . .”
“What?” She lifted her head to gaze at him with eyes shimmering.
“So . . .” Her expression was so mesmerizing he almost forgot what he wanted to say. “So . . . strong.”
She gave a deep, throaty laugh that raised gooseflesh on his arms and shoulders.
“I ride. I wrangle horses. I tend big animals’ ills. And I run an estate. I can’t afford to be soft.” There was an edge of apology to her words that caught him back for a moment.
“I didn’t mean . . . oh, Sarah, I love the way you’re made. And much as you’d like to think otherwise, you are soft,” he said with a lump in his throat, “where it really counts.” He put a hand on her half-bared chest, just above her heart. “Here. You have a big and loving heart, Sarah Bumgarten. It’s what makes you so . . . very . . . precious.”
Those words seemed to surprise her. She searched his face with a look of wonder and put her fingers to his lips, touching them gently, tracing them. He responded to that invitation by lowering himself against her . . . bracing to bear much of his own weight . . . then kissing the bare skin he’d touched above her heart. She responded with a soft gasp and he kissed a trail up her throat to her mouth and absorbed her responsive sigh into his kiss.
Time seemed to pause around them as that kiss continued and their faces grew hot and hands grew bold. There was so much steam in his senses that it took at least two repetitions of their names to register.
“Your Grace? Duchess?”
He lifted his head and went still, recognizing stableman Eddie’s voice.
In an instant, he was up and away from her exposed form and pulling her up with him. She looked a little dazed, but recognized who was calling them and quickly retied her robe and picked straw out of her hair. When he pointed to the corner of the box stall and made a lowering gesture, she darted there and stooped, clutching her robe tightly around her bare legs.
Moments later, Eddie paused at the stall door.
“Yer Grace? You seen th’ duchess? She got a visitor up at the house.”
Arthur, who stood facing Fancy with his back to the door, turned partway and cleared his throat. “What? No. She was here earlier, but she went back to the house. Say, where is that salve she put on these cuts? Looks like they need another round.”
While Eddie ran to the tack room for the jar of salve, Arthur opened the door, checked that the alley was clear, and motioned her out of the stall. Her face was flushed and her eyes were glowing as she slipped by him and ran for the stable door.
Chapter Fifteen