A Leaf in the Wind

by Velda Sherrod

  "If the Firebird ever gets the bit between his teeth, no horse but Blaze could catch him, and she couldn't if the Bird had much of a headstart."

  A sudden movement caught her attention, and Elise turned to stare at a big sorrel standing alone, his head over the fence, his tail swishing at flies. She studied the heavy-bodied stallion with a rider's eye. He was without the well-triggered lines of the blacks, but when he looked her way, she didn't hesitate. "That one would be my choice."

  T.K. stared at her, one hawkish brow raised at her cocksure preference. "The Drummer? He's a good all-day horse, but compared to these beauties, he's a packhorse."

  Elise knew she had hurt T.K.'s pride, but some obstinate streak kept her from giving in. "When the time is right, I'll ride Drummer."

  "Why?"

  With a shrug, she turned away. "I suspect I'd have to get permission to ride one of the blacks. Their owner appears jealous and possessive. Besides"

  Interest flickered in his face, followed by a measuring glance that disappeared as quickly. "Besides what?"

  "Some horses are easier to know than others."

  Nodding, he took her words seriously. "The Drum keeps a civil tongue."

  When T.K. saddled his buckskin, Elise studied him surreptitiously. T.K. Burke exuded power, seeming barely to hold it in check. Once his eyes locked with hers, warmly, intimately, and he smiled. When he looked at her like that, he made her feel strange and unsure, and she knew intuitively that if she made one ambiguous move, told one questionable lie, he would recognize it instantly.

  She watched him tighten the cinch. "Why aren't you riding one of the blacks?"

  "I'd run away and leave you. The buckskin is in a class with Drum."

  "I doubt it." Papa's forays to the horse races had made him a reliable judge of horseflesh. He had not been reluctant to pass that information along to her. With absolute certainty, she smiled. "I think Drum is in a class by himself."

  "Then I'll saddle him for you."

  Meekness didn't figure into her nature, but pride certainly did. Not for a gilt-edged horse's bridle would she let on that her lack of clothes stood in the way of a ride across the pastures. Pivoting, she put distance between them. "Toddie might need me, and I promised Vesper to help her with some mending."

  He straightened and there was no mistaking who was boss at the Lazy B Ranch. "Vesper can take care of Toddie. As for your promise to her, I'll handle it."

  He'd handle it! Damnation. She had misjudged him, allowing herself to believe he could be put off by her flimsy excuses. She wanted to lash out, tell him haughtily that a long time ago she had worn velvet riding habits before Mama had died and Papa had married Margaret and before the gambling table had claimed him.

  "Please don't bother Vesper. She has her own work."

  T.K.'s assessing gaze slid down her body, to her breasts and past her hips to her shoes. Quickly and efficiently, he cinched up the Drum before taking time to speak. "You need some elbowroom. I'll see if Juan's son has something you can wear. It's time you had clothes other than that faded-out garb, even if it's a kid's breeches." He didn't give her time to argue. "Be right back."

  His words conjured up all kinds of responses she'd like to have directed at his overbearing lordship, but the man was already out of range. In a few minutes, he was back, bearing down on her with a triumphant gleam in his eye.

  "These will do, I think. Maybe not as well as they should, especially in certain places." He thrust the clothes at her and grinned. "But they'll sure as hell look better."

  Elise glared at him. "I've never worn men's clothes." Then the humor of the situation hit her, and she added impishly, "If they fit, I might find a job on a ranch."

  He arched a brow. "How are you with a rope?"

  She stared at him, trying to understand the emotion that leapt between them. "Shouldn't be too difficult to lasso a steer or hog-tie a calf." With the pants in one hand, the shirt in the other, she turned toward the house. "Give me a minute."

  When she returned, he was leaning indolently against the rail fence, smoking a cigarette. His long muscular legs were crossed at the ankles, and he stared across the landscape at a spiral of smoke curling from the top of a cliff. Her gaze went to his strong jawline and finely carved mouth.

  Handsome was not a word to describe him, yet all the characteristics were therehair so dark it was almost black, eyes that flashed green in anger or sparkled with humor, skin weathered to a rugged brown. Somewhere along the way, responsibility had wiped away the carefree exuberance of youth.

  Starting with her face, he inspected her form. Then with increasing interest his eyes moved down to where the tight-fitting pants molded her slender hips. He grinned at the boy's hat that she had jauntily placed on her head. Her breasts strained at the buttons on the shirt. The faint lift of a dark eyebrow revealed that he noticed.

  "That's more like it." He appeared unnecessarily pleased with himself, and when he smiled at her, the corners of his mouth curved into a half smile. "I'm looking forward to getting rid of the other clothes permanently."

  Color warmed her face at his words, their double meaning not lost on her. The man had the sensitivity of a longhorn steer. Didn't he realize she was embarrassed, dependent as she was not only for food but for clothes? Concentrating on placing a foot in the stirrup, she swung into the saddle. She was determined to end the talk about what she would or would not wear.

  "The Drummer likes you."

  "It was love at first sight."

  Perversely, he gave a different interpretation to her words. "I've heard that happens to people, but I've never known anybody personally who it happened to. Have you?"

  "Animals are different from people."

  He was laughing at her again. "Are they?"

  They cantered through the gate, past the corral. Then they loped across the pasture and headed north. The late afternoon sun flattened on the horizon like a giant egg yolk, blurring the sage and darkening the evergreens.

  Leading the way, T.K. looked back frequently to check on her progress. "Enjoying your horse?"

  She rode smoothly, swaying in time with Drum's rocking gait. "Fine."

  "Ready to see if he can outrun the Buccaneer?"

  Laughter welled within her. "Everybody loves a horse race."

  "Care to wager?"

  "What do you have in mind?"

  He hesitated, his eyes roving over her face and down to the opening of her shirt. Something powerful and fundamental swept through her. His eyes drifted on down to her feet. "A pair of boots?"

  "I've nothing to bet." And everything to lose, she thought almost wildly.

  "Nothing?"

  Like a comet, an idea flashed through her consciousness. "Wait. Work. I can work. I bet a cowboy's wage equal to a pair of boots. And," she added quickly, "some charcoal for sketching."

  The amused look on his face turned quizzical. "Fair enough. I didn't know you were an artist. I doubt Muldoon has charcoal at the trading post. But he can order it." He reined his horse even with hers. "Ready when I give the word."

  Caught up in the game, but trying not to appear too eager, she gripped the reins and waited for his signal. At his signal, she nudged her horse's flank. Sheer joy filled her as she leaned low over the animal's neck. Her hat, tied on by strings beneath her chin, whipped from her head and flopped against her back. How long had it been since she had felt the wind in her face?

  Drum's response was all she could have wished for, and within moments she was two lengths ahead. Positive that she had judged correctly, she let the stallion run. He was stronger and faster than the buckskin, but she wasn't ready to share that knowledge with T.K. Men didn't like to lose, especially to a woman. Besides, she wanted to buy the boots herself.

  Gradually, she drew up on the reins and let Buck and his rider surge ahead. ''I concede," she said, laughing, "now which direction?"

  "Any one of three, if you rule out the one we're coming from, but since we're almost to a stream of live
water, let's go north."

  They rode easily, and soon T.K. called a halt and dismounted. He walked around to help her down, his warm hands encircling her waist. A hard, masculine vitality replaced the ruthless set of his features. His hard-carved jaw already showed a shadow of beard. Along the line where his bandanna hung loosely, the brown of his tanned skin met the lighter skin beneath. He lifted her easily, seemingly unmindful of how his hands had slipped upward.

  He inhaled. "You smell nice, and the ride brought color to your cheeks, but I'm afraid you not only lost the race, but also your braid." He ran sensual fingers through the thick mane. "I like your hair better this way, flying in the wind. It traps the sun's color."

  Beguiled by the intimate stroke of his hand for one long endless moment, she couldn't speak. Then she pulled away, letting her hair curtain her face. "People grow accustomed to their hair the same way they do their skin. In either case they'd be uncomfortable without it," she said and smiled at his unexpected laughter.

  With his shoulders still shaking, he turned and placed a booted foot on a rocky outcropping. "When did you realize you'd lost the race?"

  So he hadn't known she had deliberately let him win. "I saw you out of the corner of my eye."

  "You ride like a Texas girl, and yet you're not from Boggy Creek. Where was home?"

  "New Orleans. Young women learn to ride there, too."

  T.K. poured tobacco into a paper and rolled it into a cigarette. "When did you move to Boggy Creek Crossing?"

  "About two years ago. We started from New Orleans, where Papawhere my stepfather taught." Already, she was tripping over her lies. "We gradually moved westward."

  He struck a match and cupped the flame. "Most whites in the area got here the same way. We waged a war for the right to enslave the Negro, then moved west to rob the Indian."

  "The people around Boggy Creek hate the Indians. Papa used to say the Indians would have to give up or die."

  "Quanah Parker, Grayhawk, and some lesser chiefs of the Comanche have refused to stay on the reservation. They raid and run, doing what we'd do if we were in their moccasins."

  Elise shivered. "They find horrible ways to hurt people. You sound kindly toward them, for God's sake."

  "I'm guilty as the next rancher. I just don't lie about it. I hate deceit. I took land that rightfully belonged to the Comanche, then expected them to stay off of it. Of course they got the land the same way we did, by brute force, taking it from the Mexicans, Pueblos, Mescaleros, Tonkawas, and a host of others."

  Magnetic in its intensity, his gaze traveled down to the gentle curve of her throat. The dispassionate tone of his voice belied the slumberous look in his eyes. He moved toward her until he could look into her face, until his breath touched her lips. "Maybe it's human nature to take what we want, knowing damn well we're going to fight like hell to keep it."

  Elise sought his full message in the velvet green of his eyes, then eased away to free herself from their intensity. T.K. Burke would take what he wanted. He would be merciless in trying to take Toddie. But what else did his gaze imply?

  "It isn't human nature to maim and torture," she said.

  He snapped the cigarette butt into the sand and ground it beneath his boot. "Indians don't look at it that way. They see hide hunters sneak in to kill the buffalo, ranchers to take their hunting grounds. Now President Grant and General Sherman are sending Colonel Ranald MacKenzie to get the Indians on the reservation any way he can. MacKenzie's a cold fish, but damned efficient. If the half-breed Quanah Parker ever gets a chance, he'll make a sieve of MacKenzie's blue bellies, but I doubt he'll have the chance."

  "Have you had trouble with Indians on the Lazy B?"

  "No. Once in a while, a small party can be spotted near the head of Tule Canyon. When they get hungry, I shed a few head of beef to get them through the winter. The government hates that, so I'm not popular with the military. They want to put the Indians in pens and close the gates."

  "Do the Indians ever show up at ranch headquarters?"

  Once more he stepped close enough to brush a tendril from her forehead and send a spiral of heat through her. "Grayhawk shows up occasionally. You can stay out of sight. I'll be around, so you needn't be afraid."

  She needn't be afraid! Suddenly, her knees trembled not because of his words, but because of the tempest he created within her, of the knowledge he held her world in his hand. He had said he hated de ception. So did she, but she would keep Toddie with her, even if it meant lying.

  T.K. was proud. Muscles rippled across his wide shoulders. Conscious of him as a man, she hated her own confused awareness. She'd try to appear comfortable at the Lazy B, but the fact remained that Patrick might come riding in before she could find a place for herself and Toddie.

  "How did you and Patrick get to the Texas Panhandle?" she asked finally. "You didn't grow up here."

  "Grew up in Atlanta. Went to military school, then joined the Southern Army. I was nineteen when Sherman made his march. Patrick was seventeen. Unlike most Southerners, our parents didn't lose everything, just almost. They managed to start over here in Texas. How long did you know Patrick?"

  She felt his eyes on hergreen eyes capable of seeing into the heart. "Long enough."

  "Did he promise to marry you before you found out about the baby?"

  "No," she said, bitterly remembering her stepsister's weeping when Patrick rode away. "And later, I suppose Patrick thought it a big joke when he heard about Toddie."

  Strangely gentle, T.K. put out a broad, comforting hand. "Try not to worry. I'm going to take care of you."

  Resentment surged through her. With a mutinous twist of her shoulder, she declared proudly, "For the present, Toddie and I appreciate your hospitality, but we won't take advantage of it. I intend to work."

  Unaware of the alluring picture she made, Elise wound her hair around her head and pushed it beneath her hat. "My son and I are a couple of mavericks. We don't wear anybody's brand."

  And T.K. missed nothing. Neither the determined chin, nor the moist, fragrant mouth.

  Chapter Four

  Elise walked to the wash table, poured water into the basin, and washed her face and hands. She toweled herself and stared gloomily into the mirror. So far she had been lucky. May and June had gone by and nobody had discovered her secret. Her father and her stepsister had had a way of rearranging other people's lives to serve their own purposes. She could now add T.K. Burke's name to the list.

  When his knock came, it sounded as if he had nudged the door with his foot. "Hey, open up."

  T.K. elbowed his way into the room at her invitation and tossed stacks of boxes to the bed. When he faced her, he quirked a black eyebrow and let his gaze wander down, warming her body as surely as if he had touched her. "I know getting these new things took longer than expected. But now you don't have to wear Vesper's old clothes. These should fit better, but I'm not sure about the boots. Buying boots for a woman isn't the same thing as shoeing a filly."

  At least they agreed on that. "A change of clothes was all I needed," she said, stiffly. "Drum lost against the buckskin. So I'll work to pay for the boots."

  He picked up a package, casually tore the paper away, and handed it to her. "Before you hire out, see if they're the right size."

  Trying to salvage what remained of her poise, she sat down to pull on the soft leather boots. How had he learned the proper size?

  "They fit."

  He seemed almost smug. "Try the clothes now." At the thrust of her pugnacious chin, he added with a disarming smile, "For size."

  She drew a russet silk from the box, held it to herself, and whirled to face the mirror. "It's beautiful," she breathed, holding it up with one arm raised, the other arm gathering it to her waist. She executed a small dance, then turned awkwardly to lay the dress carefully on the bed. "I can't accept this one."

  "Why not?" he asked roughly, the smile going out of his face. "If you like it and it fits, why the hell not? Besides it matches you
r eyes."

  Tears of humiliation threatened more embarrassment. "It's true that I need a change of clothes, but that doesn't include a party dress."

  "Dammit, Lee. I won't have you going around looking like an abandoned orphan. How about the other things the green skirt and white blouse? They should be plain enough." He slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. "I'll never understand women. I'm going downstairs. Please, for God's sake, wear something besides that rag you have on."

  She stabbed him with a look that would have pierced an iron rail. "Nobody gives me orders. I'll wear what I please." Suddenly realizing how churlish and ungrateful she sounded, she flashed a rueful grin.

  "I believe I'll wear the green."

  A puzzled smile slowly replaced his scowl. "You're a headstrong woman, Lee. I'm not sure why you changed your mind, but I'm glad you did. Oh, I just remembered." She glanced at him quickly, suspiciously, but he had ripped open another box. "Here's the charcoal."

  She forgot everything in the excitement of holding the pencil in her hand. "Did you get it at the trading post?"

  He nodded. "Muldoon ordered all of it' the paper, charcoal, some of the other things. Had them sent in by stage."

  Her hands trembled as she picked up the art supplies and ran her fingers over the pad of drawing paper. As always when the itch Papa had called it a blind passion obsessed her, she could hardly wait to begin. The need to create was deep inside her, where the fear was.

  She turned to thank him and their eyes met and held. In the charged silence, Elise took a shaky breath. When she could trust herself, she said haltingly, "I'll be down as soon as I dress."

  Disturbed and flustered, she watched the door close behind him. What was happening between them, the new and dangerous emotion that left her searching for words? By giving her the charcoal, T.K. had touched another part of her life, a place where she hid her memories, tears, and dreams. She had always prided herself on her honesty, but she had resorted to trickery, and despite the pressing need for it, she felt ashamed.

  The luxuries T.K. provided attractive clothes, artist's supplies, her own horse alternately lulled and repelled her. His gentleness with Toddie became more gratifying each day. There was no denying the family resemblance between the two. Toddie's lips even curled at the corners like T.K.'s.