Lydia heard the creak of the metal bed as the prisoner got up. Boots scraped on the concrete floor. Jim rattled the key in the lock, then pushed the door open.
Lydia wiped damp palms on the sides of her jeans one last time, then pasted her best professional-lawyer look on her face as Jim stepped aside.
And there he was: a glowering, grown-up J.D. Holt.
He was lean and tough and hard as nails. Exactly the way she remembered him. He wore the ubiquitous faded Wranglers, a thin cotton shirt and a battered, straw cowboy hat that was the summer uniform of the Montana cowboy. On the surface he looked no different than Rance or Trey or any other man in Murray County who made his living on a ranch.
It was what was inside those clothes that made J.D. Holt different. Deep. Hard. Dangerous.
The first time she'd recognized that, she'd been twelve years old and had gone with her banker father to the Holt ranch. He'd gone to discuss a loan with J.D.'s father, Dan.
Lydia had gone to dream – to feed her fantasies of growing up and marrying a cowboy, of riding and roping and living on a ranch. She'd thought she might see Gus, who was in her grade at school. Gus, with his dark reddish-brown hair and twinkling green eyes, was the cutest boy in seventh grade. Lydia had hopes that he might grow up and turn into that cowboy of her dreams.
Gus, unfortunately, had been nowhere around when her father and Dan Holt shooed her out toward the corral.
"J.D.'s out there," Dan Holt had said.
And her father had nodded. "Go visit with J.D."
Nobody, Lydia could have told them at the ripe old age of twelve, visited with J.D. Holt!
Girls like her – reasonably well behaved, hardworking, studious little girls – crossed the street when they saw J.D. coming.
Not because he'd ever done anything to them – he couldn't be bothered. But he was three years older, even though only a grade ahead of her, and he had the reputation at school of being a holy terror. Teachers despaired of him. The principal didn't know what to do with him. His fights and scrapes were legendary.
If anybody looked cross-eyed at J.D. Holt, Lydia's friend Kristen told her, he would pound them into a pulp.
Cross-eyed as a child – and too literal-minded for her own good – Lydia had made up her mind to keep well away from J.D.
But that afternoon, in spite of herself, she couldn't.
She'd stood next to their car and looked around, memorizing the house, the yard, the barn, the land. Then her gaze had found the boy in the corral working with a skittish young paint horse. It was J.D.
He didn't pay any attention to her. His focus was entirely on the horse as he rode bareback, moving in easy broad curves, then stopping and cutting in and out. It was beautiful, like watching a dance. When the horse faltered or didn't seem to do what J.D. wanted him to do, he responded quietly, gently. There was none of the fierceness or impatience she'd seen at a distance in the schoolyard.
In the corral he was cool, calm, patient. He might have been a different person.
Intrigued, Lydia had edged closer. As she approached the corral, the young horse caught her scent. His ears twitched, his head jerked, he shied and reared.
Anyone else would have fallen off.
J.D. didn't.
His legs hugged the horse's sides and, not even glancing her way, he leaned down and rubbed his cheek against the horse's neck near his ear. He spoke softly, and as he talked his hands stroked. The horse still nickered, moving restlessly, but he didn't rear again. He pawed the ground. J.D. kept talking, soft and low, guiding him, Lydia guessed, with the pressure of his knees.
She was sure he knew she was watching him, but he never looked at her once.
When they were moving easily again, Lydia went right up to the fence and stepped up onto the bottom rail so she could loop her elbows over the top rail and watch.
She half expected J.D. to yell at her or tell her to scram.
But he didn't. All his focus was on the horse. And the horse, apparently deciding that she was no threat, was paying attention to J.D. once more. As Lydia watched, they began their cutting and weaving dance again, horse and rider moving as if they were one.
He was the cowboy she'd always dreamed of. He amazed her. Astonished her. Delighted her. Intrigued her. There was much more to the rough-edged J.D. Holt than she'd ever thought. And as she leaned on the railing, she watched him more closely than she watched the horse.
He seemed so much bigger than Gus. So much older. So much closer to being a man. He was only fifteen. But already he was a cowboy.
A real cowboy.
Lydia felt a sort of primal awareness quicken somewhere deep within.
The screen door banged. "Come on, Lydie," her father called. "Time to go."
Lydia hadn't wanted to. She'd wanted to hang there, watching J.D. ride that horse forever. She'd wanted to study the play of his muscles beneath his thin cotton shirt. She'd wanted to watch the tightening of his thighs beneath the soft denim of his jeans.
She'd wanted him to turn and say, "I know you. You're Lydia Cochrane. Gus says you want to live on a ranch. You want to marry a cowboy? I'll wait for you."
The very thought sent her stumbling off the fence.
But still she couldn't leave, not without one last look. Not without just one small acknowledgment from J.D. Holt that she was alive and sharing the same universe with him.
She'd looked back, determined to smile at him.
He'd glared right through her.
He looked at her now with that same hard insolence.
And Lydia, despite her determination to be indifferent, wasn't.
Deep inside she felt that same adolescent curiosity and excitement and nervousness lick at her. The primal awareness of J.D. Holt as a man, as "other" – strange, tantalizing. forbidding and tempting – that she'd had clear back when she was twelve turned over and kicked in just as sharp and insistent as ever.
"Sure you want 'im?" Jim drawled.
The words jolted her. She flushed, because, at that very instant she did. She wanted J.D. Holt – in a very basic, very physical, very idiotic way.
She shoved the thought – the desire – right out of her head. "I'm his lawyer," she said crisply.
"She posted your bond," Jim told J.D. as he jerked his head and J.D. moved past him into the narrow hallway. "You skip out, she's responsible."
Walking behind him, Lydia saw J.D. shrug.
"He won't skip out," she said firmly, as if saying it would make it so. It was like being given the reins of a wild stallion. She had no idea what he would do. So she took refuge in her responsibility, taking the papers Jim handed her and scrawling her signature on them.
J.D. didn't say a word. But she could feel his presence, as if something was vibrating in the space between them. She straightened up and handed the papers back to Jim.
Jim glanced over them, then nodded. "All set. Keep your nose clean," he said to J.D. "And stay the hell away from Trey. I'll keep my eye out for a place for you to move to. Trey says you're supposed to be out first of September."
Judging from the harsh intake of breath beside her, Lydia knew that was the wrong thing to say. She spun around and, without thinking, grabbed J.D.'s arm. It was pure reflex, as if she would be able to prevent him doing the same thing to Jim that he'd done to Trey.
Fat chance. But whether she could have physically prevented disaster or not, her hand on his arm stopped him. He looked at it, then at her.
Eves as clear and light a blue as J.D. Holt's should have been cold as ice, but they weren't. They burned her with their intensity, and Lydia almost pulled her hand away.
Instead she curved her nails a little more firmly into the hard muscle beneath her fingers. Then she gave Jim a brittle smile. "Thank you," she said, since J.D. clearly wasn't going to. Then to him she said, "Let's go."
She didn't think he was going to move. And God knew she certainly wasn't going to be able to make him. But finally he gave one quick, sharp jerk of his head
and started toward the door.
Once they were on the sidewalk, Lydia let go of his arm as quickly as if she'd been holding the business end of a branding iron, then rubbed her damp palm on the side of her jeans.
It was just beginning to get light, the barest hint of a late-August, gray dawn peeking over the mountains to the east. There was no traffic on Main Street
. No movement. No life.
Just the two of them – she and J.D. Holt.
She wasn't touching him now, but somehow it felt even more intimate just standing next to him. She slanted a quick glance his way.
He scowled at her from beneath the brim of his hat. "How d'you know I won't skip out?" His voice was flat and hard.
She tried a smile. "You're not a fool."
He snorted. "Reckon the jury's out on that one." He sounded disgusted. He tugged irritably at the brim of his hat and rocked on the soles of his boots.
"You could be right," Lydia said, starting toward her car. "Punching Trey wasn't the brightest thing to do."
"I don't need a damn sermon."
"I don't intend to give you one," she retorted. He might be every bit as attractive as he'd ever been physically, but he had all the charm of a bull with an ingrown horn. "Come on. I'll give you a ride home."
She thought he was going to refuse, and the sane, sensible part of her wished he would. But he fell into step alongside her.
"He had it coming," he said as he settled into her Jeep. The confines of her car seemed all of a sudden exactly that – confining. J.D.'s broad shoulder nearly touched hers. If she glanced sideways, she could see clearly the rough stubble on his jaw, the tight set of his hard mouth.
Lydia didn't glance sideways. She started the car. She didn't speak again until they were on the road heading out of town. "Jim Muldoon said he … sold the ranch," she ventured finally.
"My ranch," J.D. corrected her.
"But he owned—"
"He promised to sell it to me! You don't think I was workin' for that bastard for the past three years because I enjoyed his company, do you?" J.D. spat the words.
She was surprised, as much at the fury as at the words. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. "I thought … um … well, Rance said you two … got along."
"Yeah, well … that was then."
And this was now. It went without saying.
"You'll plead not guilty, of course."
"Hell of a lot of good it'll do. Reckon there were two dozen witnesses, at least."
Two dozen. Didn't sound good. "I see," she said. What Lydia saw was a case she wasn't going to win. And that was the least of her problems.
She flexed her fingers on the steering wheel. She tried to think how pleased and happy with her life she'd been when she'd gone to bed scant hours before. When that line of thought hit a brick wall, she tried to think lawyerly thoughts. Professional thoughts. There were things they needed to discuss, things to get straightened out … things she had to tell him.
But her usual good sense and oratorical skills deserted her. She didn't know quite where to begin. And J.D. wasn't talking. Neither of them said another word until they'd turned off the county highway and were bumping along the dirt road that led toward the Holt ranch house.
Finally, desperately, Lydia took a deep breath and began. "Why didn't you answer his letter?"
Slouched in the seat next to her, J.D. sat up straight and turned to stare at her. "What letter?"
"He said he sent you a letter—"
"A letter? You talked to him?"
"Well, I … the other day," she said lamely. "He mentioned … at dinner…" As she spoke, they were bumping around the last bend and came in sight of the ranch house.
Long, low and rambling, it butted up against the foothills, looking out across the valley. Lydia knew it had been built sixty or seventy years ago when money was tight, and added on to once or twice. It wasn't elegant. Not at all fancy. But it had always struck a town girl like her as a wonderful place to live. Warm and homey. Neat as a pin and freshly painted. It still was.
There had been changes, though. New corrals. A new building that Trey had told her was a stable J.D. had built.
"I thought he was going to train horses there," Trey had said. Then he'd snorted. "Shows what I know. God knows what he's going to do. He sure couldn't be bothered to tell me!"
She'd heard anger in Trey's tone, too, just like she heard in J.D.'s.
Now he said, "I didn't read any letter. He's my boss. I see him damn near every day! What the hell was he doin' sendin' me a letter?"
Lydia shook her head. Trey hadn't explained. Trey never explained. "I think there are some things Trey might not find it … easy … to say face-to-face." At least that was her best guess.
"Like that he'd sold my place out from under me?" J.D.'s voice was harsh, bitter.
"Like he was giving it to you if you agreed."
"What!" J.D. gaped at her.
"That's what he told me. That he'd decided to give it to you. That he wanted you to come by Thursday and sign the papers." She licked her lips quickly.
J.D. shook his head. "He knows I didn't want it given to me!"
"He does?"
J.D. shrugged in annoyance. "He offered … after my dad died."
That was news. Lydia had never known that. She wondered if anyone besides Trey and J.D. knew that.
"And you said no?" That surprised her, too. Or maybe it didn't.
"I won't be beholden," J.D. said sharply. "I don't need Trey Phillips's charity!"
"I don't think that was the point. Not this time, anyway."
His gaze narrowed. "What was the point?"
"You'll have to ask Trey."
He hadn't told her. He'd just been furious. He'd stamped and fumed and kicked things. He'd called J.D. Holt an arrogant, prideful son of a gun, an ungrateful young whelp, a stubborn, hotheaded, coldhearted cuss. And Lydia was sure he'd have used stronger terms, but Trey Phillips didn't often swear in front of a lady.
"Why'd he tell you?" J.D. demanded now.
"I had dinner with him Friday night. He was on his own. You know he'd just come back from taking the kids back to Rance and Ellie, and he was, well … a little lonely." She didn't say he'd been furious. "Missing the kids. Josh especially. You know how he dotes on Josh." Rance's oldest son, the one who, for ten years, he hadn't known he had. "So he called and invited me out to dinner. And we … just … got to talking."
"About my place," J.D. said through his teeth.
"Yes."
"And he said he sent me a letter offering me the ranch?" There was an odd note in his voice. A sort of dead calm that Lydia thought might not be calm at all. She shot him a wary look.
He wasn't looking at her. He was staring straight ahead, his knuckles white as his fingers curled into fists on top of his thighs
"That's what he said."
She waited for J.D. to explain, to say he hadn't got the letter.
He didn't. He just stared at the house, then turned his gaze to the corrals, to the newly built stable. His knuckles were white.
"Didn't you get the letter?" she asked hollowly.
He shrugged.
She stared at him. He didn't know?
"I never read the mail."
"But—"
He didn't wait around to listen to her objections. He shoved open the door, got out and banged it shut again.
No "Thanks for the ride," no "Oh, cripes, I blew it." Nothing. Just a banged door and quick, angry strides as he headed toward the stable.
Like it was her fault he was so bullheaded!
Well, fine, Lydia thought. Be that way.
"Jerk," she muttered. She gunned the engine, spun the car around and, if the gravel she sprayed hit him as she left, it was no more than he deserved.
She rolled down the window and slowed just long enough to shout back at him, "What kind of idiot never reads his mail?"
* * *
The kind who couldn't.
Simple
as that.
Hard as that.
Unbelievable as that.
Who would believe a grown man couldn't read his mail? Who would guess that the foreman of one of the biggest ranches in the state couldn't read a shopping list? Who would think that a guy who looked just as smart as everyone else was really as dumb as a post?
No one.
Not a soul. Not now. Not ever.
No one knew that J.D. Holt couldn't read.
Not his father. Not his mother. Not even Gus. Though when they were in school, and J.D. made Gus read out loud to make sure his little brother "understood," Gus must have wondered what was going on. But he hadn't asked. And J.D. hadn't said.
He'd never said.
Never admitted it to anyone.
But he knew.
His whole life he'd known. As long as he could remember, J.D. Holt had known he was different.
Less.
What made sense to everyone else, was gibberish to him. Meaningless to him. For a whole lot of years – his school years – even terrifying to him.
Everyone else in the whole goddamned world could read.
Everyone!
Except J.D.
When he was little he hadn't seemed much different than anybody else. At first he'd even liked school. He'd liked going on the bus, getting together with the other kids, playing on the playground, listening to the stories the teacher read to them. He'd wanted to learn to do it himself. He'd liked drawing pictures and counting buttons and adding apples and oranges. He'd liked copying the letters from the blackboard. But he hadn't understood what they meant.
Except his name. That he understood. It was simple. A fish hook meant J. A funny looking half-circle meant D.
He was proud when he could write that. Proud that he could read it.
Things went downhill from there. Fast.
It wasn't that he didn't try. It was that they thought he wasn't trying. It wasn't that he didn't care – not at first, anyway. It was that they thought he didn't care.
"J.D. didn't finish his assignment," they told his mother.
"J.D. was looking out the window," they told his dad.
"J.D. isn't going to pass if he doesn't make an effort." They said that starting in first grade.
A COWBOY'S SECRET Page 2