by Lisa Jackson
Within a few blocks the city gave way to a more rural area where apple and pear orchards competed with chicken ranches. Maggie angled off the main highway to a road that led upward again, through the hills where neatly tended rows of grapes grew in the surrounding vineyards. The traffic lightened, the air seemed cleaner, and the bottom of Maggie’s feet burned in her worn shoes.
Trucks, vans, and cars whizzed past as she stuck to the gravel-strewn shoulder of the road and ignored the constant pestering of flies and gnats that swarmed in these last waning days of summer.
She heard the rumble of an engine, a truck from the sound of it, driving on the opposite side of the road, heading in the same direction she was going. She didn’t bother to look but couldn’t mistake the sound of the tires slowing as it approached, and she braced herself for some kind of catcall.
“Need a lift?” the driver, a man in his early twenties, asked. Positioned behind the wheel of an ancient truck that had obviously seen better days, he flashed her a smile that was a little off center, on the wicked side, and sent a warning to her brain. Whether the grin was sincere or just well-practiced she couldn’t determine because of the mirrored sunglasses that served as a shield for his eyes.
“Nah, I can walk.” Her first, natural, do-the-safe-thing response. But she lifted one hand to shade her eyes and squinted to get a better look at him.
“Sure?” He had thick, straight hair, dark brown, streaked with gold and a day’s worth of stubble that couldn’t quite disguise the square angle of his jaw. He wasn’t all that handsome, well, not really, but there was a rugged edge to him that she recognized, an innate sexual energy he possessed and probably used to his advantage. Without knowing anything more about him, she realized he was trouble, the kind of trouble good girls avoided.
“I’m fine. Really.”
“If you’re sure.” He didn’t bother to hide his disbelief.
“I am. Really.”
His smile was mockingly amused. “Your funeral.”
“I doubt it.” Was he flirting with her? This older guy in a faded T-shirt with a few holes around the collar? She felt warm inside, a kind of push-me-pull-you kind of fascination with his devil-may-care attitude.
“Just tryin’ to be chivalrous.”
“Yeah, right.” He was about as far from a knight in shining armor as he could get. What kind of con was he running? “And I’m Joan of Arc.”
“Thought I recognized you.”
Sending him a “drop-dead” look, she started walking again.
“If that’s the way you want it. See ya, kid.” With a glance in his rearview mirror, he stepped on the gas, and the truck shot forward.
Kid? Kid? Her ego deflated. The Coke was suddenly sticky on her legs again, her hair pulled back into an ungainly ponytail, her cutoffs frayed. The guy thought she was a kid? A schoolgirl? Well, she was, she supposed, but seventeen wasn’t exactly junior high—and she’d be eighteen in a matter of weeks. And how old was he? Twenty-one? Twenty-two maybe? Well, it didn’t matter; she’d never see him again, but still she was bothered, and, for the rest of the trek, she replayed the conversation in her mind over and over again. It wasn’t all that great, but it beat the heck out of thinking about her sister and Mitch.
Half an hour later she was walking up the long drive to the stables when she spied his truck, an old beater with primer patches covering the dents of a vehicle that had once been army green.
Great, this day was just getting better and better. She waved to Flora, the owner of the ranch, who stood at the open kitchen window of the old farmhouse. Nearing sixty, Flora had let her hair turn its natural shade of gray, and when the straight wiry tresses weren’t hanging down past her shoulders, she wound the strands into a knot that she pinned to the very top of her head, where it was now. From years in the sun her face had a leathery cast, wrinkles, and age spots daring to mar the once-smooth surface, but Flora didn’t seem to mind. She never wore any makeup more than a genuine smile. Divorced for “a million years,” she never spoke of her ex-husband, had no kids, and seemed perfectly content with her life.
“Ink Spot’s in the north paddock,” she called through the window as the curtains shifted with a tiny breeze that skipped across the yard. Her dog, a golden mutt named Charlatan or Charlie for short, was positioned under a tree where a squirrel scolded from the upper branches.
“Thanks.”
Bored with the squirrel, Charlie fell into step behind her. His head lolled to one side, probably from the burs that he forever gathered in his ears as he hunted in the surrounding fields.
Chewing the corner of her lip and wondering why the guy in the truck was here, she passed by the rabbit warren where droopy-eared lops peered from their hutches. Their eyes were dark and bright, their noses twitching as she and the dog hurried by on their way to the stable.
She spied Ink Spot, bold black-and-white-patched coat gleaming in the sunlight as she grazed in a field with a couple of other horses—a bay and a palomino—where the grass was little more than dry stubble. The mare lifted her white face to look at her. Snorting, flicking her ears, Ink Spot returned to gingerly pick at the dry blades of grass.
“I can see she’s real excited about this,” Maggie grumbled to the dog, who, nose to the ground, wandered off to explore the cracks in the foundation of the garage. Maggie pushed open the door of the stable. Inside the old building the familiar scents of leather and oil, dung and dry straw, horses and cobwebs assailed her as she made her way to a closet of a tack room that was filled with saddles on sawhorses and bridles hanging from pegs, long reins snaking down to the concrete floor.
She set the curb bit and bridle aside, then found a lead rope and halter. Walking out a side entrance, she nearly collided with a man who was about to walk inside.
Of course it was the guy from the truck, she thought with uncharacteristic fatalism. His sunglasses were missing, revealing intense gray-blue eyes guarded by dark, straight eyebrows and spiked lashes. He mumbled a quick ”’Scuse me,” around a dry stalk of grass that was stuck in the corner of his mouth before a flicker of recognition lighted his eyes, and that same arrogant grin she found so irritatingly and blatantly sexual split his face. Rubbing his jaw and smelling of smoke, he looked her up and down. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Maid of Orleans.”
“What?”
“Joan? The independent lady too proud to take a lift?” He leaned a muscular shoulder against the doorjamb and effectively blocked her exit.
Embarrassed, she told herself to just shut up, but she couldn’t help but rise to the bait. “And if it isn’t the truck driver who thinks it’s safe for women to hitch rides with strangers.” Flinging the halter and rope over her shoulder, she squeezed past him, her body brushing his as she edged through the doorway.
“Not just a woman—but a saint,” he mocked, turning as she passed. Laughter followed her outside. Her backbone stiffened, and she whirled to face him again.
“That’s right. A saint. Pure as the driven,” she tossed back at him. She didn’t know why he irritated her so much, why her skin flushed, and she wanted to slap that damned smile off his lips, but she couldn’t help herself. One of his eyebrows lifted in silent amusement. As they stood in the shade cast by the barn, swallows pirouetted and scrambled overhead in a sky covered with gauzy clouds that did nothing to block the intensity of the late-August sun.
“So, Saint Joan, you got a horse here?”
“Mmm.” She nodded; no reason to prolong the conversation.
“Want me to get him for you?”
“Why would you do that?” she asked before questioning what he was doing here in the first place.
“Part of the job.”
Her stomach sank as she started to understand that he might be more of a permanent fixture here than she first thought. “What job?”
“I work for Flora now.”
“Doing what?”
“Whatever.” Those damned eyes held her spellbound. He shifted the dri
ed piece of straw from one side of his mouth to the other. “I teach riding and roping, though most people here aren’t interested in that. Take care of the stock, that sort of thing.”
“You’re a groomer?”
“S’pose ya could call me that.” He winked at her, and she nearly dropped the damned lead rope. “And a trainer and general do-whatever-needs-to-be-done guy.”
So this wasn’t a solitary meeting. He’d be here whenever she showed up. That thought was disturbing. Bothered her. Worse yet, there might be a chance that he would be teaching her how to ride. “What happened to Enrique?”
“Quit, I think.” He lifted a shoulder, and, beneath the worn T-shirt, a huge muscle moved. For the first time Maggie saw all of him. Wide shoulders, tanned arms where sinew moved easily under his skin, narrow waist, and hips so slim his faded, disreputable jeans, if not for his battered leather belt, might have puddled around his ankles. As it was they hung low. Too low.
“Oh.” She was suddenly embarrassed, painfully aware that she wasn’t quite eighteen. Not even old enough to vote. Hadn’t he called her a kid? Well, she was. “Too bad. I liked Enrique.”
His lips twitched. “You know, if you try real hard, you might like me, too.”
I doubt it, she immediately thought, but didn’t say it. If he read the apprehension in her gaze, he let it pass.
“The name’s Walker.” He stepped forward a couple of steps, spit out the straw, and thrust a hand, callused and large, at her. “Thane Walker.”
“Thane?”
“My mother had a lisp.”
“What?”
He chuckled. “A joke, Joan. It would be smart to leave it at that. Thane’s a family name.” His fingers curled over hers in a simple handshake that she felt was way too intimate. “And when you’re not being canonized, I suspect you’ve got another handle?”
“Maggie Reilly,” she said by rote, as heat seemed to climb up her arm.
“You go to school around here?”
She nodded as he dropped her hand and she backed up a step. “I did. Graduated last June.” Why did she feel compelled to answer all his questions, to keep the conversation going?
“Never finished myself,” he admitted.
“Why not?” This guy was a dropout?
His eyes darkened a shade, and Maggie felt a chill. This man, only a few years older than she, had secrets. Deep secrets. “Other things to do.” As if he decided he’d told her enough, he turned and nodded toward the fields where the horses were penned. “Which one’s yours?”
“The piebald, there, in the north paddock,” she said automatically, and pointed toward Ink Spot. She started toward the field, and Thane fell into step with her.
“You’ve got good taste.” A new appreciation flickered in his gaze. “Best horse here.”
“You already know that?”
“Yep.” A big gopher snake slithered out of their way as they walked along the dusty path to the north paddock.
“How?”
“Been around horses all my life. Grew up on a ranch in Wyoming. Now, if you give me that lead and halter, I’ll go get your mare for you.”
“I’ll get her myself,” Maggie insisted, though why it was so important that she appear grown-up, an adult woman, to this man, she didn’t understand. But she did realize that he put her on edge, made her nervous. She swatted at a pesky yellow jacket, then made her way through the gate.
Thane didn’t follow her, just leaned on the top rail of the fence with his elbows, while hooking one boot over the lowest board. Maggie could almost feel him squint as he stared at her with unabashed interest, as if she amused him, as if she was some kind of city girl who didn’t know up from sideways when it came to horses.
Not that he was too far from the truth.
“Hey, girl. Come on,” she cooed quietly, and reached into her pocket for a bit of apple she’d squirreled away after breakfast that morning.
Ink Spot tossed her head, snorting, her muscles quivering beneath her mottled black-and-white coat. For a second Maggie thought she might bolt, further embarrassing her, but greed won out over independence, and, as the mare’s neck stretched forward and her soft lips brushed Maggie’s palm, Maggie slipped the lead rope around her neck, then slid the halter into place. “Good girl,” she whispered, stroking Ink Spot’s silky muzzle. Feeling inordinately proud, Maggie turned on her heel and felt an unlikely disappointment. Thane wasn’t anywhere near the fence. In fact, he wasn’t within sight.
Like a fool, she blushed and tugged on the rope. It was only half an hour later when, astride the piebald, Maggie realized she hadn’t thought of Mary Theresa and Mitch since meeting Thane Walker.
“So, you need a ride into town?”
Thane’s voice jolted her, and she nearly dropped the currycomb as she brushed Ink Spot’s gleaming coat. “I’m okay,” she said automatically as she glanced over her shoulder and found Thane returning a pitchfork to the spot where it usually hung just inside the doorway of the stable.
“Well, if you need one, I’m runnin’ to the feed store. I could give you a lift.”
“Thanks,” she said. “But I can call…” Who? Her mother, who was probably already three sheets to the wind? Her father at work? Mary Theresa, who was at her dance lessons? Or Mitch? Inwardly she shuddered. No, she’d walk home if she had to. It wasn’t that far, and she didn’t want to look like an adolescent who had to phone for rides. “I’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Just let me know.”
“I will,” she said, surprisingly tongue-tied. There was something about him, an underlying current of electricity, that she sensed was dangerous—a little wild, and though she found that part of him darkly fascinating, she refused to think about it or explore it any further.
Later, she was walking home along the shoulder of the county road when she heard the truck behind her. She’d already tuned in to the distinctive rumble of its engine. “Maggie?”
She glanced in his direction. One arm was resting on the driver’s door, the other on the wheel as he allowed the pickup to slow.
“Yeah?”
“Hop in. I’ll give you a ride.”
“I don’t need one.”
His smile faded. “I’d feel better about it.” Through his mirrored aviator glasses he looked at her. Hard. “I don’t bite. Leastwise not usually.”
She hesitated, but couldn’t resist. Though he seemed about as harmless as a coiled rattlesnake, there was something she found intrinsically fascinating, a hint of raw masculinity that she wanted to know more about though it frightened her just the same. She sensed that he was a dichotomy, this man, one minute a kind, decent-enough guy, the next a wild man, one who probably smoked and drank too much and had women waiting for him all the way from here to Montana.
He leaned over, opened the door, and, before common sense got the better of her, she climbed inside. She slammed the door shut and saw the ghost of a smile flit across his lips as he forced the rig into first and headed into town. Maggie was sweating, her T-shirt clinging to her back, her hairline damp. Without air-conditioning the cab sweltered, and she licked her lips nervously. She didn’t know where to put her hands and sat stiffly, looking through the bug-spattered windshield, scraping her mind for some kind of topic, anything to talk about.
“You goin’ on to college somewhere?” he finally asked as they drove past the McDonald’s where she had picked up her Coke earlier in the day.
“Yeah—oh, turn here, up this hill,” she said, and he hung a left, shifting down, avoiding oncoming traffic and gunning the old engine as the street angled sharply upward. With a click of gears he shifted again, and she gave him directions, pointing out where to turn as they wound through the intricate web of hedges, rock walls, electronic gates, and narrow, curved lanes.
He eyed the neighborhood, and, for the first time in her seventeen years, she was acutely aware of her father’s station in life, of the status of her address, that to someone li
ke Thane Walker, the very social prestige her mother and father had scrambled so hard to achieve was of no importance. In fact, he might consider it a detriment.
“There—” she said, pointing to the driveway. Mitch’s Mustang was parked near the garage, flanked by long planters filled with petunias. The gate was open. Thane steered his truck into the drive. “Thanks,” Maggie said as he slowed to a stop. “I, um, appreciate it.”
“Anytime.” He turned to face her, and one side of his mouth lifted into a smile that, to her horror and surprise, touched a part of her she hadn’t known existed—a part that frightened her.
Her heartbeat quickened a bit, and, when his gaze dropped to the wide neckline of her T-shirt, she felt her pulse throb at the base of her throat. “Uh, yeah…” Oh, God, she sounded like such a ninny as she fumbled for the door latch. Such a high-school kid.
“Here. Let me. It’s stubborn.” He leaned across her and reached forward. She was suddenly gazing down at shoulders that were strong, muscular beneath his shirt; tanned arms that had ropes of veins running beneath his skin, a T-shirt that was stained and faded, wet with sweat. His head, facedown, was nearly in her lap, and she felt his warm breath against the bare skin of her thighs where her cutoffs didn’t quite cover. “Damned door.”
Her stomach did a slow lazy roll, and her skin prickled. Inadvertently, she sucked in her gut, held her breath, and ignored the warm tingling sensation that started somewhere deep inside her as he gave the door handle a hard shove and, with a metal groan of protest, the door swung open.
“There ya go.” He straightened, and the smell of smoke and male sweat assailed her nostrils as she nearly tumbled out of the truck to put some distance between her body and his. She felt flushed, her skin hot, her legs rubbery. “See ya around.”
“Y-yeah.” She swallowed hard, and, though she told herself to go into the house, she stood as if rooted to the driveway. Biting her lower lip, she watched his battered truck coast down the street.