by Tami Hoag
“None of your damn business.”
She stalked past him, feeling the need to put herself between him and the mess. The ceremony had been personal. She hadn't planned on witnesses or conscientious objectors. The idea of Rafferty probing into it made her feel exposed, vulnerable. Vulnerable didn't seem a very smart thing to be around a man like him. He was too tough, too forceful to show much in the way of understanding or compassion. She had seen that firsthand.
Of course, it was impossible to hide the evidence. It spread out behind her, a black, smoldering, oozing stain in the middle of the corral. She couldn't hope to keep him from it. He walked around to the other side, scowling down into the ashes.
“What the hell—?”
With the toe of his boot he dragged a magenta gabardine sleeve from the cinders. He picked it up gingerly by the unburned end and dangled it down, grimacing as if there were still an arm inside it.
“It was a suit, okay?” Mari snapped, snatching it from him and tossing it back into the embers.
“You were burning clothes?” His gaze traveled down her with undisguised skepticism, taking in her old jeans and the baggy purple oxford button-down she wore open over an old Stanford T-shirt.
Mari ground her teeth. “I was cremating my past. It was symbolic.”
He stared at her as if she had just claimed to be from the moon.
“Men. You wouldn't know symbolism if you sat in it. I'm at a life crossroads. I needed to make a grand gesture.”
“Yeah, well,” he drawled, “burning half of Montana to the ground would have been a gesture.”
“I didn't burn anything that wasn't mine.”
“What if the barn had caught fire? Or the house? Or—”
“What's it to you?” Mari challenged, sticking her chin out as she glared up at him. “They're mine too, so—”
“They're what?” J.D. felt as if he'd just run blind into a brick wall. He actually fell back a step from the force of the mental blow.
A relapse of guilt deflated Mari's truculence. She felt . . . unworthy, undeserving. She couldn't remember the last time she had called Lucy just to shoot the bull. She seemed to shrink as the fight went out of her on a sigh. Raking back a handful of hair, she looked away from Rafferty toward the beautiful log house.
“It's mine,” she said quietly. “Lucy left it to me.”
J.D. watched her carefully as he tried to digest the information. He wasn't sure how to react. He wanted this land for himself, for the Stars and Bars, as an added buffer against the encroachment of outsiders—of Bryce in particular. He had hoped it would be offered for sale by Daggrepont to settle the estate, though that scenario held no guarantees the land wouldn't go to Bryce. Still, Daggrepont was a local. Mary Lee Jennings was a wild card. There was no telling what she would do with it. The only thing he knew for certain was that she thought he was a jerk. And she was right. He'd been nothing but a bastard to her from the word go.
“Swell,” he muttered.
Mari wheeled on him, eyes flashing. “Thank you for your kind condolences. It means so much to know people care.”
“I won't pretend I liked her,” he growled.
“Fine. Then I won't pretend I like you either.”
She started to walk away from him, but his hand snaked out and caught hold of her upper arm. Furious, she twisted around and glared at him. “Get your hand off me, Rafferty. I'm sick of being manhandled by you. And I'm sick of your snide remarks about Lucy. I don't give a shit what she did to you. She was my friend. I didn't always like her. I didn't always agree with her. But she was my friend, and I'll be damned if I'll put up with your smart-ass remarks. If you can't manage to master any of the greater social graces, you can at least show a little respect.”
J.D. let her go, watching pensively as she stalked to the gatepost and took down a big tin Mr. Peanut. She stood with her back to him, holding the thing against her. Guilt gnawed on his conscience. She was right. He should have had better manners than to speak his mind about Lucy. Especially with the woman who had just inherited her property.
The addendum sat about as well as a gallstone in his gut. His personal code didn't allow for ulterior motives. A man conducted himself accordingly, regardless of circumstance; it was a matter of honor. Well, he thought, chagrined, Lucy had always managed to bring out the worst in him. Seemed she was still doing it, manipulating him from the next dimension.
He blew out a heavy breath and jammed his hands at the waist of his jeans. Women. They were more trouble than they were worth, that was for damn sure. His mouth twisted as he stared at the back of Mary Lee Jennings. She was crying. He could tell by the jerky movements of her shoulders. She was trying valiantly not to. He could tell by the halting breaths she snatched. A sliver of panic shot through him. He didn't know what to do with a crying woman. The only things he knew to do with women were avoid them or have sex with them. Neither option applied.
Feeling awkward and oversize, he walked up behind her and debated the issue of touching her. An apology lodged in his throat like a chicken bone, and he wished fervently that the world would just leave him alone to tend his ranch and train his horses. And people like Mary Lee Jennings and Lucy MacAdam and Evan Bryce would just stay down in California where they belonged.
“I—a—um—I'm—a—sorry.”
He practically spat the word out of his mouth. Mari would have laughed if she hadn't felt so miserable. She suspected words didn't come easily to a man like Rafferty. He didn't need an emotional vocabulary to deal with horses and cattle.
Clutching the peanut tin to her chest, she sniffed and tried to swallow her tears, embarrassed to shed them in front of a man who was embarrassed to see them. But they pushed back hard, slamming up against the backs of her eyes, swimming up over the rim of her lashes. Lucy's dead. Lucy's dead. Lucy's dead. The line chanted over and over in her mind, and echoing back were words that made her feel selfish and frightened. I'm all alone. I'm all alone. I'm all alone.
The shoulder she would have cried on had been reduced to ashes. She felt bombarded—by the decisions she had made about her own life in the past week and by the shocks that had been delivered since her arrival in Montana. All mental circuits overloaded and blew up.
Sobbing, she turned and fell against Rafferty. Any port in a storm. It didn't matter that he was a jerk. He was something big and solid and warm to lean against. And he owed her, dammit. After all his insults, the least he could do was hold her while she cried.
She buried her face against his shoulder and pinned the peanut tin between them, heedless of the thing's edges. For a moment, J.D. was motionless and dumb-founded, panic bolting through him. Then, almost of their own volition, his hands came up and settled on her shaking shoulders.
She was small and fragile. Fragile. The word reverberated as he listened to her cry. He couldn't imagine Lucy crying over anything; she had been too tough, too cynical. But little Mary Lee cried as if the world were coming to an end. Because he'd hurt her feelings. Because she'd lost a friend.
“Hush,” he whispered, his fingers stealing upward into the baby-fine hair at the nape of her neck. The soft, fresh scent of her hooked his nose and lured his head down. “Shh. I'm sorry. Don't cry. Please don't cry.”
The peanut tin was poking him in the stomach. J.D. ignored it. Dormant instincts stirred to life inside him—the desire to protect, the need to comfort. They slipped through the wall of his defenses in a spot made soft by this woman's tears. She cried as though she had lost everything in the world. He told himself a man had to be made out of stone not to feel sympathy.
She turned her face and shuddered out a breath, and his head dropped another fraction. His cheek pressed against hers.
“Shhh. Hush,” he whispered, his lips moving against her skin. Soft as a peach. Warm. Damp and salty with tears. His fingers slid deeper into her tangled mane, cupping her head, tipping it. “Hush now,” he murmured.
Mari stared up at him. His eyes were the warm gray o
f old pewter, the pupils dilated and locked on her mouth. He seemed to be breathing hard. They both were. His lips were slightly parted. She remembered the feel of them, the taste of him. He wanted to kiss her now. The message vibrated in the air between them. She wanted to kiss him back.
Would he blame her for it afterward?
She stepped back as J.D. started to lower his mouth toward hers. He didn't like her. She ripped herself up one side and down the other for wanting to kiss a man who had treated her so badly. She may have done a great many stupid things in her life, but falling for Neanderthals was not among her faults.
“I need to blow my nose,” she said. “Have you got a tissue?”
J.D. fished a clean handkerchief out of his hip pocket and handed it to her.
Mari blew her nose and tried to ignore the adolescent surge of embarrassment at her body functions. “I never mastered the art of crying delicately,” she said, folding the handkerchief and stuffing it into her pocket. “My sisters can do it. I'm pretty sure they don't have any sinuses.”
She wiped away the last tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt and shot a sheepish glance at Rafferty. “Thanks for letting me cry all over you.”
He shrugged, feeling awkward and hating it. Annoyance pulled his brows down. “You didn't give me much choice.”
“God, you're so gracious.”
The big sorrel horse he had charged in on and then abandoned stepped toward her, his big liquid eyes soft with what looked for all the world like concern mixed with curiosity. He was a handsome animal, his coat a dark, glossy copper, a big white star between his eyes. He inched toward her, his reins dragging the ground. Slowly, he stretched his head out and blew on her gently, then stepped a little closer and bussed her cheek with his muzzle. The gesture struck Mari as being sweet and comforting, and a fresh hot wave of tears rose inside her along with a weak laugh.
“Your horse has better manners than you do.”
“I reckon that's true enough,” J.D. said softly. Sarge caught his subtle hand signal and stepped back from Mari, nodding his head enthusiastically. She laughed, and J.D. ignored the fact that the husky sound pleased him. He hadn't done the trick to impress her, just to stop her from crying again, that was all.
“What's his name?”
“Sarge.”
He gave her the information almost grudgingly, as if he thought admitting he had given the animal a name showed some kind of hidden weakness. Mari bit down on a smile. “He's beautiful,” she said. One arm still clutching her peanut tin, she reached up and stroked the gelding's face, indulging his begging for an ear-scratching. He closed his eyes and groaned in appreciation.
“He's a good horse.”
The words betrayed no overt sentiment, but Mari caught the carefully even tone and her gaze sharpened on the seemingly mindless pat on the shoulder he gave the horse as he caught his reins and hooked one loosely around a rail in the corral fence. The gelding wasn't fooled either. He gave his master a hooded look and nipped at the flap on his shirt pocket. Grumbling, Rafferty fished a butter mint out and handed it over.
Some tough guy. Mari tried to steel herself against the insidious warmth curling around her heart. Just because the horse liked him didn't mean he wasn't a jerk.
“So what are you doing here anyway, Rafferty? Besides spoiling my fun.”
“I came to look after the stock,” he said, shooting her a sideways glance as he loosened the cinch on his saddle. “Nobody told me not to.”
Stock. She'd forgotten there were animals here, hadn't given a thought to the fact that she owned them now too. In fact, she had yet to see them. She hadn't gotten any farther than the corral in her exploration of the place. The burning of the business suits had demanded all her attention. She couldn't have considered accepting Lucy's bequest until she had officially broken that symbolic tie to her past. Now she thought of livestock and panicked.
“Stock?” she said, falling into step beside Rafferty as he headed toward the old barn. “What kind of stock? I'm not sure I'm ready to handle anything that could be considered ‘stock.'
“Come to think of it,” she went on, suddenly pensive, “I can't see Lucy handling ‘stock' either. Christ, she never even wanted to open her own beer cans for fear she'd chip a nail.” But then, there were a great many things about Lucy that suddenly made no sense. Mari bit her lip and cast a worried look down at the peanut tin in her arms.
“What is that thing?”
Mari blushed a little. She had almost gotten used to the idea of Mr. Peanut, but when she thought about it, it seemed too bizarre to share. “You don't want to know. Trust me.”
J.D. let it go as unimportant. “You know how to ride?”
He led the way into the dim interior of the barn. The thin scent of dust and the sweet aroma of hay filled her head. Beneath it lay the earthy undertone of animals and their droppings, not exactly perfume, but real and natural. J.D. lifted a lid on a grain bin and scooped mixed feed into a coffee can. Mari dug a hand into the grain and sifted it through her fingers, fascinated by the strange shapes and textures. She could identify the kernels of corn and the slivers of oats, but the rest were a mystery.
“Yes, I can ride,” she answered absently. “My mother thought it sounded impressive to tell people I was taking riding lessons. Until I expressed an interest in learning to ride circus horses standing up on their backs. Really, I mainly wanted to wear a glittery leotard, but she wouldn't go for that either.”
“Gee, you poor kid,” J.D. drawled sarcastically.
Mari gave him a sharp look. “Dreams don't have to be practical. It still hurts when they get broken.”
Brushing the grain from her palm, she took the coffee can as he handed it to her. He moved to the next bin, lifted the lid, and started dumping brown pellets into several mismatched buckets that stood on the concrete floor. When the buckets were full, he scooped them up and led the way out a side door.
“Here's your ride, if you're of a mind to,” J.D. said, feeling small for sneering at her childhood fantasy. “Get yourself a sparkle suit and knock yourself out.”
Mari stopped dead and stared at the creature in the grassy paddock. “A mule?”
She wouldn't have been surprised at a sleek thoroughbred or a handsome quarter horse. Lucy loved anything beautiful and expensive. But a mule? The animal pricked his long ears and ambled out of the shade of a lean-to as Rafferty took the grain can and dumped it in a big black rubber tub. Sturdy and slick with a glossy seal-brown coat, he was handsome enough as mules went, she supposed. But the big head and long ears were a lot to get past aesthetically.
“Some actress up Livingston-way bought one last summer. Now they're all the rage,” J.D. said dryly, rolling his eyes. He had been raised to see animals as useful and necessary, not trendy. He looked the mule over quickly and expertly, automatically checking for any signs of illness or injury. “Tack is in the barn.”
Mari slipped between the bars of the fence and circled the mule slowly. The creature kept his nose buried in his grain, but followed her with his eyes. When she squatted down beside his dish, he raised his head a few inches and stopped chewing, giving her a vaguely peeved look out of the corner of his eye.
“Hey there, Clyde. How you doing?”
The mule gave a little snort, chewed some more, watched her. Mari smiled and held a hand out for him to sniff. Clyde reached over and pretended to nip at her, then stuck his nose back in his feed.
“Clyde?” J.D. said skeptically. “Why Clyde?”
“Why not? He strikes me as a Clyde. How does he strike you?”
“As a mule.”
“What an imagination you have. Must be a real struggle to keep it from running away with you.”
They left Clyde to his grain and continued on through the small pasture to another gate. Gathered in the feeding area were about twenty llamas. The colors of their shaggy coats ranged from black to white, solid to spotted. They stood expectantly around the feed tubs, their magni
ficent, long-lashed brown eyes fixed on J.D. and Mari.
“Here's your stock,” J.D. said with no small amount of sarcasm.
“Llamas! Cool!” She stood still and watched as a fuzzy white baby came to nibble at her shirttail, her eyes wide with wonder. “Lucy never said anything about llamas!”
“Yeah, well,” J.D. grumbled. “She was just full of surprises, wasn't she?”
He watched her as she got acquainted with the peculiar creatures, trying not to be swayed by her obvious delight in them. It would have been better for him if she had run screaming in fright. He never liked a person who didn't like animals. They almost always proved untrustworthy. He didn't want to like Mary Lee. He couldn't associate anyone from Lucy's world with trust.
Mari ignored him, her attention absorbed by the curious animals that came to inspect her. They craned their long necks, sniffed and nibbled and hummed softly. Their gazes were sometimes direct, sometimes shy, always with a quality of secret wisdom in their limpid brown depths.
She had never met a llama up close before. Now she wanted to know everything about them at once—how soft their woolly coats were, what they were saying when they hummed at one another, what they ate, what they thought about. The peanut tin curled protectively in one arm, she touched them and stroked them and let one rub his soft upper lip against her palm. She chatted with them as if they were people, introducing herself, explaining her connection to Lucy.
One poked at the peanut tin with its small nose, and she laughed and backed away, a little apprehensive as they followed her en masse.
“Bring me up to speed, here, Rafferty,” she said, making a face as a black one tried to lick her cheek. The smell of them filled her nose like the scent of damp wool sweaters left on a radiator to dry. “What exactly do llamas do? I mean, they're not dangerous or anything, are they?”
J.D. snorted. They were next to worthless by his scale, a curiosity. Not that that was their fault, he admitted as he absently scratched the back of a black and white male. “If they don't like you, they spit on you.”