by BJ James
Ty gazed down at her through narrowed eyes. He would almost swear he saw the beginnings of laughter on her face. “Do you?”
“Not well enough for the rodeo, but enough to know the front of a horse from the rear. I can manage to stay in the saddle on a sedate ride.”
“Sedate, and you manage, huh?” She was leading him down the garden path, he was sure of it. A subtle tease, hinting at a wealth of humor temporarily weighted down by her troubles. Another step. Another beginning. “We ship most of the horses to lower pastures once the season’s over, but I think I can find you a mount that fits the bill.
“You brought boots, I hope.” He gave his approval of the full, comfortable shirt she wore, as well as the jeans belted snugly at her waist. With a jacket, both would do nicely. The delicate footwear, some sort of house slippers he deduced, left much to be desired.
“I have something that will suffice,” she returned casually.
“Terrific. I can have the supplies we need assembled and meet you in the barn in five minutes. Will you need more than that?”
“You’re sure about this?” Merrill cast another doubtful glance at the window. “We aren’t going to get lost in a blizzard and go snow blind, are we?”
“This is hardly a blizzard, as you’ll see later in the winter. We aren’t going to be lost. And I assure you, sweetheart, I won’t let anything happen to your enchanting eyes.” The endearment, one he’d imagined only moments before, had been a simple slip of the tongue. He wasn’t a man who normally went about calling virtual strangers familiar names, but it had seemed natural to think of her in those terms. It still seemed natural. Though, if she was as modern and as progressive in her thinking as her skills, she would very probably have his bloody scalp hanging from her belt for the diminution.
Yeah, maybe he should apologize. Should, he thought with little remorse, but wouldn’t.
Merrill was far less concerned with the slip than with her reaction to it. If this was a bar and he a stranger, he would be agonizing over his tenderest parts. But on a snowy morning at Fini Terre, and coming from Ty who looked at her through caring eyes, the casual endearment filled her with a warm, blushing glow.
Suddenly, it was wonderful to feel something more than the cold emptiness of guilt. And the wonder of it was there for Ty to see in the muted animation in her manner when she stepped away from the table. “Five minutes?” she considered. “That should be quite enough.”
When she would have gone to her room, his hand closing over her shoulder detained her. Her face was flushed and luminous, her mouth soft and dewy. For a mad moment he wondered if she would taste as delicious as he imagined.
A gold tipped brow arched in question as she stood motionless beneath his hand.
“I suppose this means you’ve decided to trust me after all.” His voice was hoarse from the sudden need to take her in his arms, to steal the kiss he wanted so badly.
Her smile was slow, and real, but with the ever present sadness lurking beneath it. She was conscious of the weight of his hand. The warmth, the strength, hers for the taking. For her to trust. For the winter.
“Yes, Ty,” she murmured, lingering a heartbeat over his name as she lifted her gaze to his. “I suppose it does.”
Three
He’d been snookered. Hoodwinked. Hustled and had.
Led down the garden path would be putting it mildly.
He knew it when he looked over the back of the horse he was saddling and found her watching him from the corral fence. Her jeans were the same, and the shirt. The jacket was of a matching denim. Not as faded, but enough that he knew it was a working jacket, not purely the decorative complement of a tenderfoot’s idea of ranch wear.
Sensible, practical, but the real giveaway was her boots. Or rather not boots. She wore moccasins, wrapped and laced, and tied at the knee. The same footwear favored by some of the Indians who worked with him as guides and wranglers through the short tourist season. Not as an affectation, nor for show, but comfortable, practical footwear for the skilled and intuitive nder.
His arms folded across the saddle, his hat tilted back a notch, he studied her from the Stetson that was far from new, to moccasins that were at least as old. A wry smile crinkled in fanning lines about his eyes. A flip of his finger moved the hat brim back another notch. “Sedate, huh?”
Merrill only nodded. The sun was at her shoulder, its muted fire casting provocative shadows beneath her cheekbones and turning her skin luminous. She’d taken a minute to braid her hair. But a minute was never enough to completely tame her curling mane. Tendrils escaped and drifted like mists about her face.
Ty wondered what it would be like to paint, to be able to capture on canvas the time, the place, this woman, forever.
The horse, a small, pretty mare, stamped a hoof and flicked an ear signaling an eagerness to be away. “Ho, girl.” Ty tapped her neck and stroked her, but kept his gaze on Merrill. A gaze that swept over her again, taking in every detail, the gear, the posture, the lithe, agile body. The mischief he couldn’t see, but knew was lurking there. He hoped was lurking there.
“You know one end of a horse from another, do you?” he asked soberly, picking up the threads of the conversation they’d had in the kitchen as if it had never been interrupted.
“The tall end is the front.” The reply was given just as soberly, without a ripple of change in her expression.
“And which side to mount from?” He continued the unnecessary catechism.
“Your side, if you’re a cowboy.”
“And if you’re not a cowboy or a cowgirl?”
“My side.” Merrill stayed by the fence. Her expression never altering.
“Indian fashion?”
“My first riding lesson was in Argentina.” A comment that might have been apropos of nothing, a digression, per chance a convoluted diversion. But not when it came from Merrill.
As she paused, his head angled and a brow lofted as he tried to make the connection. “Argentina.”
“I was seven.”
She was setting him up for the punch line, that would be the explanation for her dress, the definitive explanation. If she needed a straight man, he would oblige her. Recalling the wonderfully sprawling pampas of that country, with its dashing and daring riders, and imagining a tiny seven-year-old among them, he prompted, “You were seven, your father was stationed there.”
“My father was part of a sort of a roving diplomatic corps. I didn’t understand his work then, I don’t now. We’d been there a few weeks when he deemed it was time I learned to ride.”
“A logical decision, given the nature of the country and the skill of its riders.”
“Quite logical,” Merrill agreed. “But my first instructor was...”
“A gaucho.” Who better to teach her. Ty wondered, than one of Argentina’s flamboyant versions of the cowboy?
“A Dakota.” She chuckled under her breath as she corrected his logical assumption. “A Teton Sioux, and my father’s aide for a long time. His rank was lieutenant, his military name was Matt Danvers, but I preferred his tribal name, Tall Bear.”
“Tall Bear taught you to ride as he would.”
“Not in the beginning.”
“Not until he recognized the rapport.” Ty’s observation was based on more than supposition. He had seen it before. With his own riders as they took an interest in one of the guests who exhibited the unique quality that would make a superb rider. Sometimes it was one of the children. Sometimes an adult. But always there was something that set them apart. An undefinable element, more sensed than understood. Yet surely and simply there.
“Tall Bear began to teach me the Indian way when he realized we liked each other, the horses and I.”
As did the child and the Sioux, Ty thought with certainty. What chance would even the heart of a warrior have with a golden child as she must have been? Chattering, no doubt, in record time, in his native dialect.
He had no more trouble imagining the so
rt of man her instructor had been, than he did the child. The Blackfeet and the Sioux were his neighbors. if one used the term loosely. Several men of each tribe worked for him in summer, leaving reservations situated on the east side of Glacier, the national park separating Montana into an entity with two personalities.
Throughout history the Sioux had become the paradigm of the fighting American Indian. The men who rode for him were living proof of it. Perhaps they weren’t quite so warlike. Perhaps the fringed and beaded buckskins, and war bonnets of eagle feathers had been replaced by jeans and Stetsons, but the bloods were still tall and well proportioned. Their features still starkly dramatic with high-bridged noses and broad cheekbones.
Once they had been bold and arrogant warriors, splendid and contemptuous in their conviction of superiority. With this bold arrogance they had fought their Indian enemies for more than two hundred years. With the same zeal they fought the white invaders for fifty more.
In the beginning they had fought on foot. But was it little wonder that with the acquisition of the horse, they had become masterful horsemen? Mounted, they had, truly, been and were without peer. And always courageous to the extremes of foolhardy. Certainly they no longer warred among themselves, nor with the whites. But little else had changed. They were still bold, still arrogant, still as fearless and, sometimes, as foolhardy. And they remained horsemen without peer.
One who had been chosen to be taught the way of the Sioux by a Sioux, would be a rider, indeed.
Ty’s gaze narrowed, fine lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes. Through lowered lashes he studied her with new perspective, seeing more than the small stature, the troubled fragility. There was strength here, tensile strength surpassing any dearth of physical size and uncertainty. The quality he’d glimpsed the night before. Spirit that needed only the time Valentina had asked him to give.
The curiosity that had drawn her from her room, then led her to explore her new surroundings was the first of its resurrection. The mischief, this subdued chicanery a continuation.
In the mood of the game, for the hopeful pleasure of seeing her smile and hearing her laugh, he said, “He taught you how to mount, and not to fall off. So long as the ride is....” Hesitating he kept his gaze on her, waiting for her to fill in the word.
“Sedate,” she supplied on cue.
“Ahh, yes,” Ty nodded. “That’s it, sedate.”
“The horse understands that, I hope.”
“She understands.” He stroked the mare’s mane, smoothing it over the bowed neck. “Tempest has been cooped up in the barn and the corral for a few days now, I imagine she’s up for a ride. Any kind of ride.”
“I suppose there’s a story or a message behind the name.”
“There is. One of the wranglers christened her that since she’s inclined to kick her heels up on early mornings. Particularly in the first snow.” He petted and stroked the mare again. “Loves the white stuff nearly as much as Shadow does. While he leaps around and tumbles in it like a pup, she races and slides and dances. Best cold weather horse I’ve ever seen.”
“Tempest.” Merrill repeated.
“As in a teapot.”
She felt the laughter bubble in her chest. It had been so long since she’d truly laughed she was almost giddy with it. Tynan O’Hara made her smile. She hoped he always would.
Sensing the mood, Shadow barked and nipped at the fringe of her moccasins. He was ready to play, or ready to run. The mare chose that time to sidle away, bucking a little as if to live up to the reputation she’d just been given.
“I think the animals are trying to tell us something.” Ty tipped his hat from his head, sweeping it to the prerequisite position as he executed a gallant bow. Gallantry that came natural to him, and seemed as right in the trampled snow of a corral as any ballroom. His smile was as natural, as right, as he asked, “Shall we ride, Miss Santiago?”
Merrill stepped between the rails, approached the horse, and paused before it. Her fingers trailed down the long bones from bang to soft muzzle. Her palm curled under the nibbling lips, letting the mare grow accustomed to the scent and taste of her. Then moving past the massive head, with her fingers curled now in the gleaming mane, she muttered in a low voice, “Delighted, Mr. O’Hara.”
With the ease and skill that would have made Tall Bear burst with pride, she vaulted into the saddle.
Ty stepped closer, checking the cinch, adjusting the length of the stirrups she had ignored. When he was finished he moved back and found her frowning. “Something amiss?”
“I think I should tell you I’ve never ridden in snow,” she admitted as she looked down at him. “Oddly enough, few of the countries we lived in had winters like this. If there were ever any that did,” she shrugged, “my father always managed to be away for the season.”
“A man of preferences,” Ty growled in disgust, and couldn’t say why this small aberration angered him even more. Perhaps it was simply that he’d chosen to be angry at the man in all things for past transgressions. It was, he realized, an exercise in futility. The battle had been fought. One he couldn’t change. But, he decided, he didn’t have to like the man who ruled the Santiagos with rigid tyranny.
No, he thought with satisfaction, he didn’t have to like the man at all. Wheeling about, Ty whistled for his mount. The bay trotted from the barn, black mane flying, black stocking feet lifting high through the thin blanket of snow. Grasping the mane in one hand, in a flowing leap he lofted into the saddle as easily, as skillfully, as Merrill had done. Booted feet securely in stirrups, the Stetson returned to his head, the brim tugged low, he turned to her. “Tempest isn’t sedate. In fact she wouldn’t know the meaning of the word.”
Merrill kept her face grave. “I suspected not.”
“But she is surefooted. Snow is no more to her than ground wet from a shower. Trust her, let her decide where she can and cannot go. She won’t let you down. She is truly the best cold weather horse on Fini Terre.”
A small smile played at the edge of her mouth as Merrill wound the reins around her hand. “Thank you for that, at least.”
“Still hungry.”
She was! She truly was. “As a bear. A short bear.”
Something flickered in her face, something unusual. A memory, first pleasant, then regretful. Ty almost missed it as the bay danced and reared, eager to be gone. As he settled the horse with a firm hand and a soft word, filing the incident away for a better time, he resolved to explore it, what provoked it, and to understand it. A better time than this.
Worried that the rare appetite would pass if delayed too long by this venture, keeping his voice casual and teasing, he asked, “Will an hour be too long?”
“In an hour I should be hungry as two bears.”
She had recovered from her rueful recollection, but Ty didn’t miss the small shift in her wording. Later, he promised himself, and eased his tight hold on the bay’s reins. “Then let’s ride, sweetheart. I don’t have supplies enough for three bears.”
“Let’s.” Merrill kicked Tempest with her moccasin clad heels, but the mare needed no more urging than the light prod. The small horse was a lightning bolt as it eagerly answered the command it awaited. As Ty suggested, Merrill gave the handsome creature its head, letting it go as it would. Learning on the run the personality of her mount as she’d been taught by the Sioux.
They flew together over the corral fence. Merrill as firmly seated as if she were part of the saddle. The moccasins were fast in the stirrups, but Ty knew she would ride as well bareback with legs hugging the horse, softly shod feet curled against the belly. Direction and perception made by touch unhampered with leather trappings.
He allowed himself the time to admire her, as he’d found himself doing with increasing frequency. She rode almost as well as Valentina, who was the best he’d ever seen, male, female, hussar, cossack, gaucho or cowboy.
Even the best of the Sioux would be hard-pressed to outride Val. But Merrill Santiago would be a clo
se challenge. With a grin on his face and a touch of his heels setting his pacing bay into a leaping gallop, Tynan O’Hara, no tenderfoot in the saddle himself, took up the gauntlet.
The morning warmed rapidly as he expected. By the time they walked the horses through a small rocky stream, their breath was no longer visible and snow lingered only in small stubborn patches at the shady base of shrubs and trees.
Beyond the crest of the Continental Divide, before the hinterlands of the Great Plains, the forests would give way to other terrain, barren and windscarred. But now the land was lushly timbered. Here, nurtured by the vagaries of a mildly diminished Pacific Maritime climate found in only rare places, lay a wonderland rife with variety. Within a sweep of the eye, one could find lodgepole or juniper, Douglas fir or grand fir, Engelmann spruce or larch. Clinging to the towering folds of the mountains there would be the stalwart white bark pine, while along the forest floor rose the magnificent western red cedar and, weaving through them and by them, the hushed and great cathedrals of giant hemlocks.
As horses and riders splashed across the icy stream, it was a wonderland, indeed, with droplets and rivulets of melted snow glinting in evergreen jewels among the drooping conifers. Drawing his mount to a halt on the sloping bank, Ty stepped from the saddle and crossed to Merrill.
Laying a palm on Tempest’s withers, he stood at her side. Smiling up into the flushed face of his guest, he asked, “Well?” A half turn and a gesture swept the small clearing and the enclosing hemlocks. “Was it worth the ride?”
Following the path his gesture invited, she shifted in the saddle. For a time she seemed lost in her study, her look ranging high and low, tarrying here, returning there. “Was it worth it?” she repeated at last. Inhaling deeply, savoring she sweetness of air so pure it seemed to cleanse her, she returned her gaze to Ty and found him waiting patiently. “This is truly beautiful. More than I dreamed it would be, and more than worth the ride.”
Ty waggled two fingers at her. “Two bears?”
“Definitely two.” She looked again at the small meadow and the surrounding fortress of hemlocks. Sights and scents that spurred the senses and the appetite, as well. “Maybe two and a half.”