by Janet Dailey
His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, the muscles standing out along his jaw. The hard silver sheen of his eyes was angry and forbidding. Hadn’t anything she’d said penetrated that stony exterior?
“I am not obsessed with the stallion. He simply has to be destroyed,” Holt stated.
“Don’t go after him.” Diana couldn’t explain this terrible feeling she had inside. “I’ll do anything you say, if only you’ll promise to leave the stallion alone. Do you want me to leave the ranch and never come back? Go somewhere far away where Guy could never find me? Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it. Only, don’t go after the stallion, Holt.”
“Stop being so damned dramatic! It’s a job, something that has to be done. That’s all!” he snapped.
“Maybe I am.” Her shoulders lifted in a shrug of confusion. “I—” Diana couldn’t get any words past the sudden constriction in her throat.
It was no use appealing to him. He wouldn’t listen. The Major hadn’t been able to dissuade him. Why had she thought she could? All the fight seemed to drain out of her, leaving her oddly weak. He stood so close, his strength so indomitable. It was easy to glide across the small space and wrap her arms around him, resting her head against the solid wall of his chest.
“Don’t go,” she heard herself murmur.
At the initial contact, his muscles tensed, rigid in resistance to her unconscious advance. “Diana, for God’s sake—” Holt began angrily, but the minute his hands touched her to push her away, they tightened to hold her.
Diana felt the brush of his mouth against her temple and lifted her head, hungrily seeking his kiss. The erratic hammering of her pulse was the only sound she could hear. His mouth devoured hers. His fingers began tugging at the pins holding the sleek coil of her hair in place. When it was free, Holt ran his fingers through the black confusion tumbling about her shoulders.
“I wanted to do that at the cemetery,” he muttered against her throat.
Diana’s senses were spinning beneath the passion of his touch, That familiar craving to be closer to him still took hold of her. She was aware of his wide-legged stance and her hips arching against him, wanting to feel the throbbing pressure of every muscle and sinew in his length.
It would have ended between them as it always did if it hadn’t been for a voice calling, “Hey, Holt, are you in here?” Don’s voice. A second later there was only silence as Holt lifted his head, his arms staying protectively around Diana, shielding her face from the man standing in the doorway, flushing twenty shades of crimson. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . excuse me.” The embarrassed apologies were tumbling out in mumbled words.
Holt’s sharp voice cut through them. “Catch the horses we’ll be riding and bring them up to the stables.”
“Yessir,” was the relieved response before Don scurried away.
Only then did Holt set Diana away from him. He took a step away and bent to pick up the cinch to the packsaddle. Diana watched him, part of her remaining under the influence of the warm, wonderful confusion of his embrace.
“I . . . can’t change your mind about going tomorrow?”
There was something self-mocking in his sideways glance. “I’m tempted to let you try, but, no.” He shook his head decisively. “You can’t change my mind.”
“Then I’m going with you,” Diana stated.
“I think I knew that, too.” Holt offered no argument.
Diana waited, wanting him to say more, but he continued his task of replacing the old cinch. Quietly she turned and walked from the tack room, retracing her path to the main house.
Diana shifted in the saddle, uneasily aware of Guy’s eyes boring holes into her back. She glanced at Don, directly ahead of her as they wound single file into the mountain wilds. Face it, she told herself, we are all a bit nervy. The freshness of Rube’s death had made them all unnaturally silent. They all missed Rube’s incessant chatter which had previously filled many a silence. Last night, watching Don build the campfire, there had been a painful knot in Diana’s throat.
They had located the wild band an hour ago. Holt was setting up the relay posts now. The wearing-down process would begin soon, the same tactic that had cost Rube his life, but the only one guaranteed to succeed. The first order of business was to recover the mares. Then the stallion would be taken care of.
In the lead, Holt reined in his horse and signaled to Guy that he wanted him to take up a position here. Guy stopped and they continued on without him. One by one, they took their positions until Holt was left to initiate the chase.
For three days they trailed the small band, always keeping at a distance, respecting the savage defense the stallion could launch if a rider’s nearness posed a threat.
On the fourth day, and after almost six full days in the saddle, Diana’s aching muscles numbed her entire body. A leg was hooked around the saddlehorn, an elbow resting on her knee, a hand supporting her head. Her horse stood in the shade of a gnarled pinion tree, stomping his leg at a persistent fly. Bone-tired, Diana dreaded to hear the sound of horses. When it came, it would mean it was her turn to take over the chase. She didn’t want to move. She didn’t think she could move.
A sharp crack split the air and her head jerked up. A cold chill of fear raced down her spine at the immediate repetition of the sound. A rifle shot. A signal. Diana unhooked her leg from around the horn, unaware of any stiffness or pain, and slipped the toe of her boot into the stirrup. She waited for the third shot, a signal of distress.
There was a long pause, then two shots fired in rapid succession. Her knees started shaking as relief washed through her. Two shots meant the stallion had separated from the mares. Diana reined in her horse in the general direction of the sound and started off.
Diana was the last to arrive on the scene. The weary mares were already roped and haltered. They were in sorry condition, their ribs showing, bodies dehydrated. Guy and Don were using the water from their canteens to temporarily slake the horses’ thirst. She stopped her horse beside Holt. There was weariness in his lined features, and a certain ruthlessness of purpose, too, as he gazed off into the distance, no doubt in the direction the stallion had taken.
“We have the mares,” Diana spoke quietly, appealing to him again to change his mind. “Let’s go back now.”
His gaze swung slowly to her, hooded and gray. With a faint, negative shake of his head, he said, “No,” his mouth quirking dryly at her persistence. “The mares can’t go another mile,” he said. “They need a day of rest, food, and water before they can be moved anywhere.”
“And the stallion?” Diana looked in the direction Holt had been gazing. There was no sign of him.
“He’s tired. He has to be.” The last biting statement cast doubt on the first.
“Holt, let him go,” Diana repeated tightly,
“She’s right, Holt.” Guy’s look glittered defiantly over the lean figure in the saddle. “You’ve got the mares back. Isn’t that enough?”
“No, it isn’t,” he retorted with a snapping, thin edge to his patience. “Don”—he turned to the other rider on the ground with the mares—“since I’d be wasting my time ordering either of these two to stay with the mares, you’re stuck with them. Water them again in about half an hour. Rest them for another hour or so. The waterhole is about three miles from here. By then you should be able to move them there and stake them out in the grass. We’re going to find the stallion.”
Without waiting for arguments or protests or agreement, Holt reined his horse away and urged it into a canter. Swearing, Guy scrambled into his saddle as Diana rode after Holt. The terrain was rough. It was difficult for either of them to overtake Holt with the head start he had on them.
Three miles later Holt stopped on the crest of a low ridge. When Diana and Guy joined him, they saw the white stallion about a mile away, standing in the shade of some rocks, his dusty-white coat plainly visible against the darker background. He was resting, a perfect tar
get. It was with relief that Diana realized the stallion was out of range.
“You’re really going to kill him, aren’t you?” Guy accused suddenly, “You said so all along, but I kept—” His voice cracked on a note of despairing anger.
There was no indication that Holt had heard a word he’d said. “I want you to flush the stallion out of those rocks, Guy. If you can, head him down that wash. It’s the obvious avenue of escape, so he’ll probably choose it on his own. Diana, do you see where that wash opens into the valley?” He pointed. “I want you to wait in that stand of trees. Make certain the stallion is well past you before you show yourself. Keep your distance. He should break for the smaller valley past that hill. Let him. That’s where I’ll be waiting.”
There was no need to state why he would be there. From that hill, Holt had a clear field of fire in either direction the stallion chose to take, down the main valley or into the smaller one. Diana tried not to think what would happen after that.
“I’m not going,” Guy said. “I’m not going to ride out there and help you murder that stallion. You aren’t going to make me a party to this. Diana isn’t going to help you, either. And without us, you can’t do it.”
“Diana?” Holt’s steel gaze became riveted on her. She shook her head in mute protest. “It has to be done. The Major knew it. So do you.”
“Don’t pay any attention to him, Diana,” Guy ordered. “He can’t make you do it. And he hasn’t got a chance on his own.”
Confused and torn, Diana looked from one to the other, father and son. Her love for Holt and a fear for his safety pulled her one way, while Guy’s arguments to spare the stallion and her own premonition that it would be dangerous to pursue him yanked her the opposite way. She saw Holt gather his reins.
“Make up your mind, Diana,” he said quietly.
“She isn’t going to help you,” Guy declared with faint triumph, a smile curving his mouth.
But Diana knew he was wrong. With a whipping lash of the reins, she set her mount down the ridge, deafening her ears to Guy’s angry cry. She didn’t look back and slowed her horse to a trot once they reached the flat, rocky ground. Diana could no longer see the white stallion, only the jutting rocks he had been using for shade from the sun. She set her course for them and refused to think what she had committed herself to or what the outcome would be.
When the stallion came into view, he was still standing in the shade, poised and staring in her direction. Diana didn’t ride any closer, aware of Holt’s unnecessary admonition to keep at a safe distance. Her horse pranced slightly under the tight rein. The stallion tossed its head, as if daring her to come closer. After several seconds, he left the shade and broke into a rolling pace, choosing, as Holt had predicted, the dry bed of a wash. Diana followed at a trot, increasing her mount’s gait to a canter as the distance widened.
Chapter XXI
The stallion was not as tired as Diana had hoped. He had held his initial burst of speed for more than a mile, forcing her to push her mount in order to keep pressure on the stallion. Without Guy or someone to relieve her in this heat, the pace was beginning to tell on her horse. There was still a long way to go before they reached the hill.
Leaving the wash, she glanced toward the stand of trees. For some reason Diana had expected to see Guy there. Possibly she had thought her decision might have influenced his. There was no one in the trees. She was on her own. Shutting her mind to the bone-weary ache of her muscles, Diana urged her horse into a canter before the stallion left them behind on the flat valley ground.
The hill grew larger and larger. She tried to concentrate on the stallion and not look for the flash of sunlight reflecting off a rifle barrel. The stallion moved steadily closer to the hill. So far, he hadn’t committed himself to either the small valley or the larger one, but the stallion was within range of the rifle. Her stomach began churning with nausea, waiting for the explosion that would strike down the wild stallion. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see the mustang topple to the ground.
Suddenly her horse swerved side way, half-rearing. Diana lost her grip on the saddle, slipping to the side. She grabbed for the saddlehorn, half-aware of the jackrabbit leaping into the sage in panic. She couldn’t regain her balance as her horse took a frightened leap forward, unseating her completely. Diana felt herself falling and the ground rushing up to meet her. Her arms reached out to break her fall. There was the hard impact as she rolled, then nothing. Everything went black.
When she came to, she was lying on her stomach. Diana was conscious of a hot wind blowing on her arm. Something snorted and there was moisture on her skin. Her lashes fluttered. There was a blur of white in front of her eyes.
Shock seared her into full consciousness as Diana realized the stallion was standing near her, investigating the pursuer that had fallen. Instinct warned her not to move, but it was sheer terror that kept her motionless.
Through the veil of her lashes, she saw the white stallion toss his head and paw the ground only a few short yards from where she lay. It was as if he was challenging his enemy to rise and fight him.
Nostrils flared and reddened, the stallion’s head was extended toward her, the thick white forelock falling forward to half-cover his dark eyes. His white coat was lathered and dirty, yet neither factor detracted from the fact that he was a powerful brute. Viewed from the ground, as Diana saw him, he was terrifying. She had seen what those ivory teeth and iron hooves could do. A cold sweat covered her skin, blood curdling in her veins.
Almost simultaneously, there was the sound of a rifle shot and dust was kicked into the air to the right and beyond the stallion. It came from the direction of the hill where Holt was to be. The stallion’s head came up, yet he didn’t flee. A second shot struck the ground nearer to the stallion. Spinning on his hindquarters, the mustang started to bound away as a third shot laid a red crease along the root of his tail. Diana heard his squeal of pain and rage before he leaped into full stride.
The paralysis left and shock waves of relief shuddered through her body. Her first breaths came in frightened gasps, strength returning slowly to her paralyzed muscles. She pushed to her knees, shoving the hair away from her face and waiting for the tremors to subside.
A galloping horse approached. Turning, Diana saw Holt vaulting from the saddle, rifle in his hand, as his mount slid to a stop. She stumbled to her feet. Before she could take a step to meet him, he was there, drawing her into his arms, the hard metal of the gun behind her back.
“Are you all right?” His husky demand was the most beautiful sound Diana had ever heard.
She clung to him, the solidness of his male length absorbing the tremblings of her body. His fingers roughly pushed the hair away from her face, then cupped the side of her face, lifting it up for his inspection.
“I’m fine,” Diana insisted shakily.
His gaze burned over her face, a brilliant silver fire that dazzled her eyes. “Don’t ever do that to me again!” Holt snapped. “I had visions of—” He didn’t finish that. He didn’t have to because Diana had had her own visions of ending up like Rube or trampled to death like the Arabian stallion. “For God’s sake, what happened?”
“A jackrabbit spooked my horse and I... I fell off. I must have blacked out for a couple of seconds. When I came to, the stallion was standing there.” Diana closed her eyes, not wanting to remember the fear that had consumed her.
His mouth covered hers, fierce and gentle, both at the same time. It was all so crazy. Diana felt crushed, yet cradled, safe from harm, yet assaulted. To all sensations, she responded with equal fervor. The knowledge seared through her that a few minutes ago she could have been killed and never again have felt his embrace. She wanted to cherish the feeling and have it forever burned into her flesh, too. They remained locked in each other’s arms for timeless seconds, each more precious than the last, his mouth trailing Are over every inch of her face and neck.
“It’s a miracle that stallion didn’t hurt you
,” Holt murmured at last, pressing her head to his chest, his jaw and cheek rubbing her hair.
“I don’t think he knew whether I was alive or not.” Diana strained closer to the comforting wall of his chest, eyes closed.
“Thank God, you had sense enough not to move,” he muttered.
“Sense?” Her laugh was shaky with reaction. “I was petrified!” She felt him smile against her hair.
“Are you sure you weren’t hurt when you fell?” He held her away, his expression serious. “You didn’t hit your head?”
“I don’t think so.” Diana touched her head, feeling no soreness or bump.
“You’re not riding after that stallion again.” It was neither an order nor a comment, but a flat statement, issued in a deadly grim voice. “You’re not taking any more risks of being harmed.”
“And you? Are you still going after him?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s going to help you?”
“There’s still Don,” Holt reminded her, both aware of Guy’s mutiny. “Let’s get you back to camp.”
“Where is my horse?” Diana glanced around, most of her view blocked by his wide shoulders.
“He must have bolted for home after—” The drumbeat of horses’ hooves interrupted his answer. They both turned as Guy came riding into view, leading Diana’s horse. Holt’s arm remained around her shoulders, although they both shifted to allow more space between them.
Guy reined in. “I heard the shots. I didn’t know whether something was wrong or if you had . . .”He didn’t finish that. “I found your horse on the way, Diana. What happened?”