Silken Threads

by Barrie, Monica

  “All of that for a…horse?” she asked, not able to keep the disbelief out of her voice.

  Kirk studied her beautiful face for several long seconds while he held his irritation in check. “A stud, Miss Leeds, is not just a horse. A good stud ensures the herd will flourish. A good stud also brings the price of foals higher.”

  “I suppose the female doesn’t count in the greater scheme of things?”

  “Mare, Miss Leeds, mare. Brood mares count, Miss Leeds, but the value for the type of horse we breed is in the stud.”

  “Of course,” Cassandra replied tersely.

  Hearing the sibilant tones in her answer brought home to Kirk the obvious: he was as much to blame in this war of nerves as she. He was angry about the loss of his freedom as general manager and foreman, although Gregory Leeds had assured him he had not lost anything, and he been demoted to baby-sitter. Combined with that, were the memories of his first reactions to her in the restaurant. He knew he was venting his frustrations.

  Yesterday he had seen a very special woman, the kind whom he would have chased to the ends of the earth. No sooner had this happened than his illusions had been broken, and he’d seen that in reality, she was a spoiled and shallow rich girl about to play with her daddy’s money.

  Kirk knew Cassandra Leeds would soon learn many lessons in life, for no matter who you were, or who your father was, if you didn’t gain the respect of the people on the ranch, your life would be a lonely series of days, and the ranch itself would flounder. Cowboys were a different breed of men. There were always jobs for them, and it was easier to move on than to work for someone they didn’t respect.

  In fact, it was the rule for a cowboy, but not for a foreman and general manager. For Kirk, Twin Rivers was an important job. Without it, his goals would be set back.

  Although he tried to rationalize his emotions, he could not rid himself of the feelings battling within him. He could not deny—and he had tried to since yesterday afternoon—his attraction to Cassandra in a way he’d never been to another woman.

  Kirk knew the kind of poison a woman like Cassandra Leeds was to a man like himself. Added to that was the fact she was the boss’s daughter.

  When the plane finally landed in Denver, Kirk led Cassandra to the baggage counter, where they claimed her five suitcases and his one leather traveling bag. With Cassandra, a porter, and his baggage cart in tow, he left the main terminal and walked the quarter-mile to the private hangar where the ranch’s twin engine Beechcraft waited.

  While the luggage was loaded, Kirk left to file the flight plan. When he returned and went to the plane, Cassandra looked around. “Where’s the pilot?”

  “You’re looking at him,” Kirk stated. “It was one of my money-saving cuts.”

  “I should have guessed,” she whispered, still looking at him.

  “Would you like to see my papers?” he asked.

  “No,” she replied as she stepped onto the small passenger step and entered the plane.

  They waited on the runway until the tower gave them permission to taxi, and soon they were airborne. An hour later, they were flying over yet another range of mountains.

  “Have you ever flown in a small craft?”

  “Not one with propellers, or as slow as this is,” she replied, thinking of the many times she’d flown in her friends’ private jets.

  “Naturally. But at least this gives you a chance to enjoy the scenery.”

  It wasn’t his tone this time, but his words that made her look at him. “Did I hear you right? Did you say I would enjoy the scenery?” she asked, her voice filled with incredulity.

  Kirk set the controls and put the plane on autopilot before turning to look at her. Once again, her beauty tore at him, striking deep within him and making him want to reach out, shake her, and tell her about the realities of life. “Would you prefer that we didn’t talk unless it was about business?”

  Cassandra, her pulse racing with the intensity of his stare, felt the tension in the air as if it were a thick and tenaciously clinging fog. “No,” she whispered, her mouth was dry and parched for no reason.

  “You’re a jet-setter, you’ve been all over the world, Miss Leeds, but have you ever been out west?”

  “California,” she replied after moistening her lips.

  “Look out there,” he said, motioning toward the ground. “Look at the mountains; look at the harsh beauty of the land. It takes a lot to live here, and it takes more to conquer it.”

  Cassandra followed his pointing finger, and her breath caught at the magnificence of the endless mountain range. Although it was late spring, snow still covered the mountain peaks in startling contrast to the lush green slopes beneath them. Kirk’s words echoed in her mind until she began to understand what he was saying.

  As she looked at the bountiful vista spread out below her, her own desire to make a success out of her life returned forcefully. Without taking her eyes from the scene, she spoke in a low, intense voice. “I intend to do just that, Mr. North. I intend to live here. But I don’t want to conquer the land, just make the ranch work.”

  “They’re one and the same thing, Miss Leeds,” Kirk said, surprised at the sound of determination in her voice.

  “Can we stop the formality? My name is Cassandra.”

  For the first time since she’d met him, Kirk gave her a full smile. She wished he hadn’t. The crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes spread outward into his cheeks. Cassandra realized she had never before met a man like Kirk North, never.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Kirk?”

  “Yes?”

  “How much longer?” Cassandra asked.

  “A half hour. After we land in Sheridan, we’ll go to the ranch and look over the stud. We’ll fly out tomorrow morning and should be at Twin Rivers by mid-afternoon.”

  “What is Sheridan?” she asked.

  Kirk favored her with a sideways glance. “A small town by your standards.”

  “That should be interesting,” she commented, looking out at yet another oncoming mountain range.

  “The Big Horns,” Kirk told her as he shut off the autopilot and took back control of the plane.

  ~~~~

  Once Kirk arranged for servicing the plane, they went to the waiting rental car and, with only one of her five suitcases; she and Kirk drove out to the ranch. “The Broken Spur,” Kirk had told her.

  How quaint, she had wanted to say, but had held back the remark, hoping to keep the tension light. Cassandra knew Kirk was barely tolerating her, and she was starting to believe he had every right to do so.

  She was now his boss, but knew nothing about ranching, a fact he knew all too well. I’ll change that soon enough, she promised as she concentrated on the passing scenery. The mountains bordering the road were indeed formidable; the rough green vegetation seemed less dense than it had appeared from the air.

  “What is that stuff?” she asked.

  “What stuff?”

  “The small bushes.”

  “Buffalo grass,” Kirk replied.

  “I thought buffalos were extinct,” Cassandra replied immediately.

  Kirk waited a patient moment before answering her. “Buffalo grass is the basic vegetation of Wyoming. It’s what the range animals graze. This part of the country is a bit hostile to lawn grass.”

  Cassandra heard the undertone of condescension, but ignored it. “Is it what we have in Arizona?”

  “Not quite, but not too far off, either. The open ranges aren’t exactly what you thought they’d be, are they?” As he asked the question, he tried to see her face.

  Cassandra smiled. “Nothing is like the movies; I’ve learned that lesson already. Tell me about the stud,” she requested, instantly regretting her demand.

  Kirk talked about it, but he concentrated more on the road than on Cassandra’s face, which she was grateful for, because as he spoke, her body tensed. She couldn’t help it: whenever anyone talked about horses, she had the same r
eaction.

  She heard a different tone in Kirk’s voice than she was used to when people spoke about animals. His voice was almost reverent, and he seemed to give the animal human qualities. Strangely, it wasn’t unpleasant.

  When he finished talking, he slowed the car and turned off the main road onto a smaller one-lane blacktop. “The Broken Spur begins here,” he said, pointing to a small sign on the side.

  “How large is it?” she asked.

  “About fifteen thousand acres,” he informed her as they crested a hill. When they started down, Cassandra saw the ranch spread out beneath them. There were several large buildings, two barns, and half dozen small corrals.

  “It’s a big place,” she commented.

  “About average,” Kirk replied as he stopped the car. “The main house is directly ahead. That long building off to the side is the bunkhouse, and there,” he said, pointing to a corral on the opposite side of the buildings, “is our new stud.”

  When he finished speaking, he started driving. Cassandra’s eyes locked on the corral. It was at least a quarter-mile away, and from this distance, the horse looked small and safe.

  A few moments later Kirk pulled the car to a stop before a large barn and got out. He came around the car and, as Cassandra opened her door, offered her his hand. “Watch your step,” he advised.

  Now she knew why he had looked at her so strangely at the airport when he’d asked her if she wanted to change and she had decided not to. Kirk had put on a pair of faded jeans, cowboy boots, and a lightweight cotton shirt.

  “You might be more comfortable,” he’d told her.

  Cassandra had decided to wear the dress she had on, along with the three-inch heels that complemented it so perfectly. Now, beneath her feet was only muddy, rocky earth, treacherous footing for high heels, to say the least.

  Refusing to acknowledge her error and give him a sense of victory, Cassandra smiled, released the hand that was turning her own to a burning cinder, and followed him as best she could.

  Within seconds after leaving the car, Cassandra forgot her difficulty in walking, as the varied smells of the ranch struck her. She smelled a myriad of things—earth, hay—but most pervasive of all was the concentrated scent of horses.

  Unable to stop it, tentacles of fear infiltrating her mind, making her unsteady walk even more unsteady. By sheer dint of her willpower, Cassandra forced herself to stand straight and not allow her shivering to turn into full tremors.

  She concentrated on the man ahead of her, seeing only his broad back. But even the powerful aura of his masculinity offered no relief.

  Halfway to the corral, a gruff voice called out to them. Kirk turned, a smile on his face. “Hello, Hank,” he said as he shook the man’s hand.

  “’lo Kirk, been waiting for you.” As he spoke, he glanced at Cassandra, his face open and questioning.

  “Cassandra Leeds, meet Hank Lomax, owner of the Broken Spur.”

  Cassandra took the large hand he extended to her. “A pleasure, Miss Cassandra,” he said in a heavy western accent. Then he glanced at her feet and saw what she was wearing. “Perhaps you’d like to wait in the house. Wouldn’t want you to twist one of those purty ankles. Besides,” he added with an understanding smile, “you’ll get awfully dirty at the corral.”

  “So I’ve been noticing. But thank you anyway, I’d like to go along.”

  “Sure thing, just watch out for the rocks; they can be tricky.”

  Cassandra nodded, trying to squeeze out a smile she didn’t feel. She started after the men once again, but when they were twenty feet from the corral, Cassandra’s legs refused to move as fear gripped her in its paralyzing vise. She stared at the corral, and at the suddenly gigantic stallion, whose pinkish flaring nostrils and wide dark eyes, riveted her to the spot. When the stallion whinnied loudly, she shivered again. “Kirk,” she called, forcing her voice not to break.

  Kirk turned and saw her standing still. “Need help?” he asked.

  “I ... I think I’ll wait by the car; I really am getting filthy.” The moment the words were out, she saw the disappointment on his face. His eyes, which had been so friendly since their conversation in the plane, went cold.

  “We’ll be done in a little while,” he told her as he turned around and continued on to the corral.

  Cassandra stood there for several seconds before gaining the strength to move and make her way slowly and carefully back to the car.

  “She doesn’t seem to be your type,” Hank commented a moment after they reached the corral. “City girl and all. Sure doesn’t like to get that purty outfit dirty, does she?”

  “How could you tell?” Kirk asked, unable to keep the tightness out of his voice.

  “I got to admit she is a looker though.”

  “And spoiled rotten. No, Hank, you’re right, she’s not my type.”

  “Then who is she?” Hank Lomax asked, eyeing Kirk carefully.

  “The boss’s daughter. I’m baby-sitting,” Kirk stated as he turned to look at the stallion. He realized it was truer than he’d wanted to admit. Gregory Leeds had been honest with him: He was playing nursemaid to Cassandra.

  “That may not be too bad a job.”

  “You want it?” Kirk asked angrily.

  Hank just smiled. “No, thanks. I’m happy doing what I do best,” he said, nodding pointedly at the stallion.

  “Fifteen hands. Not bad,” Kirk said.

  “He’s a handsome one, Kirk.”

  “He is,” Kirk agreed as he began to study the stallion.

  Appaloosas were pure riding horses—bred specifically for ridding, and Kirk saw the powerful stallion was no exception. Its conformation was perfect, its color exactly what the books said. Dark grayish-black spots proliferated along a silky white body. It was easy to see the horse had the prerequisite amount of Arabian bloodlines.

  “He’s a beauty,” Kirk commented.

  “And he’ll sire a hell of a good line of riding horses,” Hank added.

  “Why don’t we sign those papers so I can give you your check?”

  “Fine. Your men called ’bout an hour ago. Said some roadwork held them up. Won’t be here till dark.”

  “No problem, Hank. Just tell them to load up and give me a call before they take off. We’ll be at the Best Western.”

  “One room or two?” Hank asked with another smile.

  “I wish it were two motels.”

  “Look, son,” Hank said, his face serious, “I’ve known you for a few years, and I’ve never heard you talk about anyone like that. Why are you so down on her?”

  “Ready to sign those papers?” he asked, disregarding the pointed question the man who had hired him nine years ago, when he’d finished college, had asked so perceptively.

  Twenty minutes later Kirk returned to the car.

  “Finished?” Cassandra asked.

  “Uh-huh,” Kirk replied.

  “Now where?” she asked, hating the way Kirk was staring straight ahead. Once again, tension filled the air. Cassandra hated that, too.

  “Don’t worry, you won’t get dirty. We’re going to the motel.”

  “Kirk,” Cassandra began, wanting to apologize for what had happened yet refusing to explain her actions to him. “You could have told me why you suggested I change.”

  “Am I going to have to spend the next year explaining everything that happens? Why not try to use the brain you were born with? You’re not in New York anymore!” he snapped, starting the car as he uttered the last word.

  They made the drive back to Sheridan in total silence, and when Kirk registered at the motel, he did it quickly and efficiently. They had rooms side by side on the second floor, and Kirk handed her the key and started off.

  “At least have the courtesy to wait for me,” Cassandra whispered angrily. “This suitcase is heavy.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Kirk replied sarcastically. Reaching the elevator, he leaned against the wall and waited for her to follow with the large suitcase.


  He let her struggle with it, knowing if he went to help her, he would be giving in. When she reached him, he pressed for the elevator. A moment later the door hissed open, and he stepped inside, again waiting for her to hoist the suitcase and follow him.

  They both looked straight ahead at the silver door until the elevator doors opened on their floor. Kirk again took the lead and walked halfway down the hall to their rooms. As he put his key into the lock, he heard Cassandra do the same.

  Before he could open the door, Cassandra spoke. Her tone was light, her voice sweet. “Kirk?”

  Kirk turned, his face set in a scowl, his eyebrows raised, waiting.

  “You’re a prick, but you’re not going to scare me off,” she said in a flat, low voice.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. Then he went into his room and closed the door.

  ~~~~

  Cassandra turned off the water and stepped from the shower stall into the steam-filled bathroom. Her nerves were still tight, and her mind was as unsettled as ever. Her rage was seething and strong, and she dried herself so roughly that her skin turned an angry shade of crimson.

  “How dare he!” she yelled to the moisture-filmed mirror. “He has no right to treat me like this!”

  Her breasts rose and fell forcefully under the power of her emotions. “He doesn’t know me! But he will!” she promised.

  She left the bathroom, but stopped when she saw her shoes lying on the floor near the bed. The mud had ruined the expensive heels, and Cassandra knew they would never be fit to wear again.

  “Damn him!” she yelled to the shoes. As it had happened on the plane, another wave of loneliness captured her within its cruelly taunting hold.

  I need him if I'm going to make it. Without his help, his knowledge of ranching, I don’t stand a chance, she told herself, trying in vain to find some vestige of control.

  It was hard, for Cassandra was in a position she’d never been in previously. She was in the middle of a strange place, akin to a foreign country with nowhere to turn, no one to turn to, and nowhere to go. She had only herself, for the man she was with obviously despised her.

  What am I doing here? Just then, there was a knock on her door. Securing the towel around her, she went to it. “Yes?”