Only You

by Peg Sutherland

  A tall, slim blonde wearing a cream-colored, smartly tailored suit got out. Dillon was certain he had never seen her before. A man didn’t forget a woman who made his body tighten at the mere sight of her. He didn’t know why she was here, but he hoped she wouldn’t leave right away.

  He started for the stairs, and before he was halfway down, heard Floretha answer the door.

  “I’m Angie Kilpatrick,” the woman said. “I have an appointment with Mrs. Weddington.”

  Her clipped speech told him she wasn’t from South Carolina. Somewhere in Pennsylvania, he’d guess.

  “I’m sorry,” Floretha said, “but she’s not at the farm today. Did you mean to meet her at the mill?”

  “No, I spoke with Mr. Rust on the car phone fifteen minutes ago. He assured me she would be here.”

  The mention of Burton Rust’s name gave Dillon an uneasy feeling. He didn’t like the man and didn’t trust him. While Floretha called WedTech to see if Harper had been held up, Dillon came down the stairs. Angie Kilpatrick was on the porch staring at the grounds when Dillon reached her.

  “There’s no need to wait for my mother,” he said, trying to keep his mind off the enticing way her suit curved over rounded hips. “You can talk to me.”

  Angie turned. “Who’re you?”

  The woman was coolly confident, unruffled by his presence or appearance. She had the look of a woman very much in control.

  “I’m Dillon Winthrop. Harper Weddington’s son.” He waited, edgy, for the question everyone asked. The one he had no good answer for. Why would a woman go back to her maiden name, abandoning her married name, her only son’s name? Dillon knew, of course, but damn if he planned to satisfy anyone’s curiosity.

  Angie Kilpatrick quietly studied him a moment, something else Dillon was used to. But she didn’t ask the question he expected. “Did she tell you I was coming?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’d rather wait. Do you mind if I look around?”

  His temper flared instantly. “What for?”

  Angie regarded him with a slightly puzzled look. “I’m considering buying the place.”

  Dillon felt a knot form in his stomach. All physical interest in this woman vanished. “It’s not for sale!” he barked.

  “That’s not what your banker says,” Angie replied. His flat denial had done nothing to disturb her cool confidence.

  Cold fear squeezed him like the coils of a giant constrictor. He told himself it was ridiculous to panic. His mother wouldn’t put the farm up for sale without telling him. Burton Rust must’ve gotten his wires crossed.

  “Look anywhere you damned well please,” Dillon said.

  He hadn’t meant to snap, but he didn’t feel like being polite. He watched as she headed for her car. He would straighten this out pretty quick and get this woman off his land.

  Off his mother’s land, a mocking voice in his head reminded him.

  Fear curled more tightly in his belly. Damn, it was that mill! It had to be.

  THE MOMENT CHRISTINE rounded the corner of the house, she slowed to catch her breath. Even here under the dogwoods, the air was close and heavy with moisture. It wasn’t a thing like California, and Christine hated it.

  Well, maybe not really hated it. She liked being free to wander around by herself. She couldn’t do that in California. Mommy had always worried somebody would snatch her.

  But she didn’t like living with her father. He never laughed like her mother. He didn’t stay up late or have lots of men friends over, either.

  She missed Grandma and Grandpa Stringfellow. They never made her do anything she didn’t want to do. They told her to call them the minute her father did something awful and they’d come get her.

  But he never did.

  Christine entered the barn. She saw her pony’s head over the stall door. “I’m going to saddle you all by myself today, Eddie. Daddy says I’m too little, but I’m not.”

  She didn’t really mind learning to ride. She just said so because Mrs. Stuart didn’t like being left behind.

  Living here wasn’t so terrible, even if her daddy didn’t give her lots and lots of presents like Grandpa and Grandma Stringfellow. He was always watching her and telling her what to do, but he never forgot to pick her up at school. And she never had to eat by herself or go to bed without a story.

  But sometimes he looked so fierce he scared her. She was afraid to climb into his lap and hold on tight like she could with Grandma Stringfellow.

  Even if she wanted to.

  Which, of course, she didn’t.

  Most of the time.

  AFTER THE JARRING RIDE down the lane from the road, Angie drove more slowly toward the barns. She was irritated at Mrs. Weddington’s failure to meet her. She was even more irritated by her son’s reaction. He obviously didn’t know the farm was for sale and didn’t like it a bit, but that was no reason to take his frustration out on her.

  Angie didn’t know why Dillon’s surliness should bother her. Usually she would just shrug it off. Most men were quick to realize she was in the driver’s seat and adjusted their attitude accordingly. Not Dillon Winthrop.

  Her initial reaction to him was the same as her reaction to any handsome man. She’d experienced a distinct tug of animal attraction. She usually tried to pretend it didn’t exist, but this time she hadn’t succeeded.

  From the scuffed boots to the tight jeans that hugged his hips and thighs to the shirt that molded itself over his shoulders, Dillon Winthrop looked as if he’d stepped out of one of those magazine ads about men who go nuts over trucks. No bulging muscles, no rippling pecs, just wellshaped, firmly packed manhood.

  Despite looking a little grungy, he conjured up thoughts of secret weekends and torrid sex on hot summer nights. Nights that felt a lot like this one would, despite the fact that September was almost over. Angie never had gotten used to the South.

  Angie’s thoughts surprised her. Dillon must have made a deeper impression than she’d realized. Maybe she wasn’t as much in control as she thought.

  Impatient with herself, she cast thoughts of Dillon from her mind. She had come here to look at a farm. Indulging in idle fancies about the owner’s son was neither professional nor useful. She should keep her mind on her work, get it done and get out of here.

  Weddington Farms wasn’t on her short list of properties that best fit her requirements, and she didn’t really want to look at it. She’d only come here to please her stepfather. When she’d decided to leave the family bank to open an equestrian center, she intended to buy a ready-made operation. Meticulous research had turned up several on the east coast. She had narrowed the field to six when her stepfather heard about Weddington Farms. He was certain the place would be perfect. Angie doubted it. But it seemed to matter to him, so she agreed to look.

  As she pulled her car to a stop between two large long-leaf pines, Angie glanced down at the folder lying on the seat next to her. She knew every bit of information inside the folder by heart. The farm belonged to Harper Weddington, a widow who had resumed her maiden name when her son went away to college and she went to work at the family textile mill. Her young husband had been killed before the son was born. She was in financial difficulty because of declining productivity at the mill, the only employer of significance in Collins.

  Angie changed into boots and stepped out of the car.

  The barns suffered from the same lack of maintenance as everything else. The first one didn’t seem to be in use. The grass had been cut, but it grew close to the barn and showed no sign of being cut by horses’ hooves. The second barn stood open.

  The eerie quiet of the place made it feel long deserted. After living most of her life in busy, noisy Pittsburgh, the silence was unnerving. Even Charlotte, North Carolina, where her stepfather and the family bank were now based, bustled with traffic. Angie had always thought she would enjoy living in the country. Now she wondered. The feeling of isolation made it all that much more unexpected when she looked in
side the open barn to see a little girl in formal riding clothes struggling to saddle a pony.

  Angie’s first impulse was to offer help, but she held back. She remembered her own impatience to be grown-up enough to ride her horse without having to wait for someone to saddle it for her.

  The child adjusted the saddle cloth with meticulous care. But when she tried to put the saddle on the pony’s back, the trailing straps and buckles knocked the cloth out of place. The pony sidled nervously, making it impossible for the child to right the saddle or the cloth. The little girl stamped her foot, pulled everything off and prepared to try again.

  Angie stepped into the barn. “Would you like me to give you a hand?”

  It took Angie’s eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness inside the barn, but she could sense as much as see the child’s fright at the appearance of a stranger.

  “He’s a really beautiful pony,” she said of the blond chestnut gelding. He had four white stockings and a blaze. A little too flashy for her tastes, but just the kind to appeal to a little girl. “What’s his name?”

  The child didn’t answer, but she did peep from under the pony’s neck to get a better look at Angie.

  “I have several horses of my own,” Angie said. “None as pretty as yours. My favorite is called Ring. Actually his name is Spring Run, but I feel stupid calling him that.”

  “Who are you? Are you a friend of my daddy?”

  “No. I came to see Mrs. Weddington. She’s not here, so I thought I’d look around. Is that your pony?”

  “His name’s Eddie,” the child said. She still kept the pony between her and Angie, but she didn’t seem as frightened. “Daddy calls him Lord Dilworth.”

  Angie wondered if Daddy was the young man she’d met up at the house.

  “My name is Angie Kilpatrick,” Angie said. “What’s yours?”

  “Christine Winthrop,” the child said shyly.

  Harper Weddington’s granddaughter. She wondered why the child’s mother had let her run off alone. She’d probably gotten busy and hadn’t noticed when her daughter slipped away. Maybe kids could go off on their own in the country.

  That had never happened to Angie. She had been surrounded by so many servants she’d often felt suffocated. Going to college had been a kind of culture shock.

  “Do you want me to help you?” Angie asked. “On second thought, maybe you’d better wait for one of your parents.”

  “I can ride by myself,” Christine said.

  “I’m sure you can,” Angie replied. She patted the pony and ran her hands over his limbs. The pony stood perfectly still during her inspection. A well-schooled animal, and a good one despite his showy looks. Someone here knew their horseflesh. “But it’s not safe to ride without someone to watch you. I don’t think your mother would like that.”

  “I don’t have a mother,” Christine said. “She died.”

  Angie heard fear and loneliness in the child’s voice, and she felt an immediate sympathy. She knew all about fear, pain and loneliness. She’d lost her own mother as a teenager. It still had the power to hurt.

  “Let’s make a deal. I’ll help you saddle up if you promise to stay in front of the barn till your father comes.”

  “I can go to the riding ring if I want,” Christine said, somewhat defiantly, Angie thought. “I’m not a baby.”

  “Of course not,” Angie said, trying to decide what was safe to talk about with this high-strung child. “But you’re still a little girl.”

  “I’m seven and a quarter,” Christine announced. “I’m going to ride in the Anderson County Championship. Would you like to watch me?”

  Angie was certain she wouldn’t be anywhere near Weddington Farms on the day of the championship. “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

  “That’s what all big people say. It means you won’t come.”

  “I can’t promise until I know when it is,” Angie said, clutching at straws. “But if I’m anywhere near Collins, I promise I’ll be at that meet.”

  With a hotheaded father like Dillon, it was no surprise to Angie that the child put little stock in the promises of adults.

  “Do you like horses?”

  “I love them.”

  She had started riding at three. She’d turned to her horses when her father left home. They had accepted her tears in silence, her failures without condemnation.

  “Hand me that saddle.” Angie positioned the saddle on the cloth and tightened the cinch. “I’ll give you a leg up. But promise you’ll stay close.”

  Christine nodded in agreement.

  Angie linked her fingers. “Up you go.”

  Christine put her foot in Angie’s hands, and Angie boosted her into the saddle. The child gathered the reins and Angie took the bridle to lead Eddie to the ring.

  Just as they stepped out of the barn, she felt the reins tighten. She looked up at Christine, but the child was staring straight ahead, her expression hard to read. Angie turned her head. Dillon stood before her as though emerging from an explosion of sunlight.

  He looked like a god. Pagan, of course. He seemed to exude raw energy. His blue eyes were brilliant with ill-concealed emotion. He seemed too still, unnaturally so, like the quiet before an explosion.

  Angie realized she was staring. She wasn’t acting the least bit like a woman in control.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  His tone was brusque. No, it was rude.

  “You said I could look around.”

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded as if he thought she were going to steal something.

  “I helped Christine saddle up.”

  “So I noticed.” His anger flared in his eyes, but he kept a tight control on his voice.

  “She promised she wouldn’t leave the barn area until you got here.”

  His gaze didn’t become any friendlier. Men usually appreciated what they saw when they looked at Angie. This man didn’t seem to see anything to his liking.

  He walked over to Christine. “Get down a minute.” Ignoring the child’s protests, he lifted her off the pony and removed the saddle.

  “Did I use the wrong saddle?” Angie asked, as confused as Christine was upset. “It’s the one Christine handed me.”

  “I have to make sure you put it on correctly. I won’t have my daughter hurt or the horse injured because you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  Under Angie’s shocked and stunned gaze, he proceeded to resaddle the pony. His actions were so completely unexpected she hardly knew whether to laugh or hit him.

  “Did I saddle him properly?” she asked, her tone barbed, when he had helped Christine into the saddle again. No one, not even her stepfather, doublechecked her work.

  “I didn’t find anything wrong.”

  “Can I go?” Christine asked impatiently. She seemed totally unaware of the tension between the adults.

  “You can go to the ring, but don’t try any jumps. Work on your gaits. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Together they watched Christine canter her pony toward the riding ring. Angie turned back to Dillon, but he spoke first.

  “I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but keep your hands off my daughter.”

  His attack shocked and angered her, but she controlled her temper. She was in the wrong. She shouldn’t have interfered, but she’d just been trying to help.

  “I’m sorry, but I meant no harm. She couldn’t saddle her pony by herself.”

  “She’s not supposed to.” His gaze was still unforgiving.

  “Did you reach your mother?” she asked in an effort to get back to the purpose of her visit and to get herself on firmer ground.

  “No.”

  Angie was disappointed. She didn’t want to talk with him. “Do you think it’ll take her long to get here?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  Was he being intentionally unhelpful? “Try.”

  “I really don’t know. She sometimes gets tied up at the mill for
hours.”

  Angie looked at her watch. One thirty-seven. She didn’t want to have to come back tomorrow. She wanted to give the place a quick once-over and get back on the road. She could be in her Charlotte office by the end of the workday.

  Dillon’s expression stiffened. “You could talk to me.”

  Angie decided that wasn’t a good idea. He didn’t seem to be the least bit cooperative.

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Why?” he asked, bristling. “My mother doesn’t keep anything from me.”

  Considering he didn’t know about the farm being for sale, Angie could hardly take that statement at face value.

  “Nevertheless, I’d rather wait.” They stood glaring at each other heatedly.

  “What would a woman like you want a place like this for?”

  Angie decided to ignore the first part of his question. “Old Southern mansion, magnolias, green fields as far as the eye can see. Who wouldn’t want a place like this?”

  “All this grandeur comes with a bit of decay,” he replied, bitterness in his voice. “That’s expected, you know. Folks don’t feel like they’ve found a piece of the real South unless the paint is peeling and the floorboards are rotted through.”

  A blue Toyota drove up. A woman got out and headed in the direction Christine had gone. Dillon seemed to recall who he was talking to, that he was divulging too much to a stranger. He stopped talking abruptly.

  “Is that Mrs. Weddington?”

  Dillon shook his head. “Christine’s riding teacher.”

  Angie didn’t know why she didn’t just go away and forget she’d ever met Dillon Winthrop. He wasn’t the kind of man she normally found attractive. Until now, she’d divided her attention between up-and-coming young executives and successful a id="page109">horsemen, all well groomed, wealthy and perfectly at home against a sophisticated background. She imagined Dillon would feel very much out of place at a cocktail party or an opening night.

  His face looked familiar. Maybe like some action movie star, one she wouldn’t recognize because she didn’t go in for that type of film. As she watched his expression harden, she decided he wouldn’t consider the comparison flattering.