Broken Spurs

by BJ James

  Fighting the effects of another sudden move, he made himself stand rigidly erect. “I’m fine, Benedict. Fine and dandy.”

  When he would have turned from her scrutiny, she caught his arms, keeping him close. “Are you?”

  “Yes, damn you. At least I will be, when you take the hint and go home. I don’t need anyone.”

  “You don’t need anyone!” Fear sparked her temper when she wanted to be peaceful. “You have five horses back there to tend. A half-wild stallion and two mares to breed, and two to train. A one-way trip from the ranch house turns you paler than snow and so weak a kitten could knock you down with the lash of its tail, and you think you don’t need anyone?”

  “No.” He wanted to pull away from her grasp, but she was wrong, it wouldn’t need the lash of a kitten’s tail to send him to his knees, were it not for her steadying hand.

  “No, you don’t think you need anyone?” She leaned closer, and the scent of roses drifted from her hair. “Or no, you don’t need me?”

  “You,” he managed as his head began to pound. “I don’t need you.”

  “Tough!” She released him and backed away until her shoulders touched the gate of the stall. “I’m what you got. In fact, I’m all you’ve got.”

  Steve was dated he was still standing; better still, when the headache began its song and dance in earnest, the dizziness ceased. A surge of adrenaline, that exhilarating lift of mind and spirit that could make or break a rider or a man as it spurred him to do the impossible, bolstered his strength and his confidence.

  “Go away, Benedict. You won the bet by default, but my carnal instincts don’t seem to understand. So, go, dammit,” he ground each word out, as if it were a separate entity. “Go, if you know what’s best for you.”

  “What about what’s best for you?”

  “What’s best for me is that you leave before I...”

  “Before you do what?” Her head lifted, her chin jutted as she threw down the gauntlet he couldn’t resist.

  “This.” His fingers threaded through her loosely bound hair, his gaze locked with hers. Her eyes were sparkling silver, mist over the mountains, smoke on a rainy day, and so beautiful he could lose himself in them. Her step was halting, but not resisting, when the gentlest pressure drew her to him. His head tilted, his breath mingled with hers. “Before I do this.”

  His mouth closed over hers as she started to move. It was hardly more than an impression, and he never knew if the momentum would have brought her to him, or away. When their lips touched, he forgot everything, except that her kiss was all he thought it would be. All he wanted it to be.

  Soft.

  Sweet wasn’t the word, but he knew no other.

  Satin.

  Strength beneath fragility.

  Passion.

  The wanton within the lady.

  Caught in the mystery of her, he felt her arms slide to his shoulders, then his neck, her breasts pressed against his chest. All the world seemed to spin in a fathomless wonderland. And he was lost in all of her.

  The day was hot and growing hotter. Horses stamped and shifted, waiting patiently to be taken to pasture. The scent of hay and dust and horses was borne on heated air. But for Steve there was only the scent of roses and the lithe body that curled into his as if it were fashioned for only him.

  Hank meant to evade, to step away. She told herself it was the stall against her back, the close quarters, his arms lifting at her sides that stopped her. She told herself that her fingers meant to tug him away, not caress him. When her mouth opened to his demand, her mind whispered that she only meant to speak her denial.

  When he released her, staring down at her, grim faced and bleak, as if he hated her and himself, she wanted to believe, tried to believe she was glad. Yet when he cursed her and drew her back into his arms, she went willingly, clinging to him as roles reversed and he was the stronger.

  “Damn you, Benedict. Damn you, damn you.” His voice was harsh, the words soft. As his lips brushed over her hair, her face, her throat, he chanted a rite of loathing, and in it she heard, but did not comprehend, the fierce need that was ripping him apart. The need he wanted desperately to deny.

  “This is foolish!”

  “Don’t. Don’t say anything.” As if he would assure her compliance, he skimmed a finger over her lips. His gaze followed its path, tracing the arch and curve it traced. Mesmerized, thirsting, he couldn’t turn away as smoldering desire reached its flash point, exploding in white heat, pushing him to the edge. His last shred of reason decimated.

  “Damn us both.” His hand was an iron band at her nape, drawing her swiftly, brutally, to him. The thrusting collision of his long, rigid body against her yielding softness brought a cry that was lost in the crush of his kiss.

  He kissed her as he’d never kissed a woman, savagely, with a punishing thoroughness that left no doubt of his anguish.

  Hank’s head spun with the swiftness of his move, her body burned from the heat of his. Passion she’d kept in check for years slipped its traces, racing beyond its careful boundaries. Shattering every rule by which she lived, every law of survival. With no will of her own, commanded by emotion and longing she knew little of, she opened to him, taking as he took, as ruthlessly. As a woman takes.

  She reveled in newfound freedom, in the joy of holding and being held. She drew in the scent of him. Leather and soap. The soap with which she’d bathed the wonderfully masculine body that caressed her now with its touch. Her soap, and it seemed right that it be so. And with it she drank in the heady taste of him.

  “Steve,” she murmured, his name on her lips caressing his. Then, abruptly, he was reeling drunkenly away.

  Color leached from his face, his eyes were black, burning pits as the last of the adrenaline left him weaker for the false surge of strength. He swayed on his feet, his respiration shallow. But when she reached out to steady him, his hand shot out, closing brutally over her wrist.

  “Don’t touch me. Hate me or love me, but don’t touch me. Not now.”

  She stared up at him, probing the closed expression, but saw only agony and bitterness. “All right.” A fraction at a time, she pulled from his grip. “I won’t touch you.”

  Stepping past him, she caught up Lorelei’s reins and led her to her stall. Beneath his scalding stare she unsaddled the mare and saw to her needs and closed the gate, stepping past him once more.

  “What the bell do you think you’re doing, and where are you going?” he demanded, turning gingerly in her direction.

  Hank continued to walk, barely glanced over her shoulder. “I’m hungry. By the time I put together a batch of fry bread, the stew should be ready. After that, I’m taking your horses to pasture.

  “I’m here for the duration, Cody,” she said staunchly and quietly. “Like it or not.”

  Heart pounding, her compassionate soul bleeding for him, she left him to wallow in the dilemma of hardheaded pride.

  Chapter 10

  “More stew?”

  “No.”

  “Fry bread?”

  “No.”

  From her seat across the table, as dose as she’d been allowed for days, Hank watched Steve toy with the last of his food. In the weak glow of the lamp, lit to stave off the encroaching shadows of evening, the changes in him were evident. In a week and two days, the unconscious stoop in his posture had overcorrected with a bent toward military perfection. Swollen tissues shrank, bruises faded, the gaunt and hollow look had vanished from his face. The stolid cynicism of his expression never changed.

  “Refill?” She lifted the dented coffee pot half filled with the awesomely bitter brew he preferred morning and evening, no matter the climate.

  “No.” Then, reluctantly, “Thanks.”

  She set the pot down. Apparently another thing not due for change was the monosyllabic growls that greeted every overture. “Then, if you’re through, I’ll clear the table before I bed down the horses.”

  As she reached for his plate,
he stopped her. Fingers cuffing her wrist, he turned her arm, examining the flesh where once a bruise had circled the small bones like a bracelet. The forbidden memory, the kiss, the desire, waited always in the deepest part of his mind. Waited to exert its mastery. He pushed it away, banishing it from mind and heart. And it grew a little stronger, nattering at the edges of his control, wearing it away.

  But it hadn’t won yet.

  His hold relaxed, but kept her. “How long do you intend to continue this farce?”

  “What farce is that?” Settling back, she waited for the rebuke that had been days in coming.

  “You know what I mean.” He dropped her arm, regretting the impulse that drove him to touch her.

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  Afraid! Steve wondered if she was afraid of anything. Either angry man or wild beast, or act of God.

  Hank’s arm lay where he dropped it, only inches from his as he pushed his cup away. With the slightest move she could cover his hand with hers, lace her fingers through his, and know the heady experience of their strength. “If you’re referring to my cooking, I never claimed to be capable of better than range fare. Bonita does the cooking at the house. If you’re sick to death of stew and bread alternating with bread and stew, I could ask her to pack a basket of her best dishes. Now that you’re better, we could have a picnic down by the stream.”

  Lurching from his chair, arms braced on the table on either side of her, he glowered down. “I don’t want any blasted baskets, and considering that I stand to lose the Broken Spur, the last thing I’m in the mood for is a picnic. What I want is for you to cut the pretense and get out of here. Then I can get on with my life and you with yours.”

  “You can’t do that.” She kept her unruffled poise, completely unintimidated by his show of temper. “Neither can I.”

  “What the hell!” He shoved away from her, then, as quickly, moved back. “What does it take to get it through your thick skull that I don’t want you here? I don’t need you.”

  Same song, second verse. Or was it the third? Maybe the fourth? Leaning back in her chair, her hands as still as marble on the table, her braid lying like a heavy weight over her shoulder and breast, she strove to keep her voice steady. “Perhaps my skull isn’t as thick as you think. I’m perfectly aware that you don’t want me here. It would take a fool not to know. But it takes a bigger fool not to know the last is a lie. No matter how much you rant and rave, nor how insulting you become, we both know you need me. You need me most desperately.”

  “All bets are off, remember.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then why would I need you?” he jeered.

  “To train the horses you hope to sell in the spring.”

  “I can train my own, thank you.”

  “No, Cody,” she contradicted matter-of-factly. “You can’t. To try could be suicide.”

  “This isn’t the first bruised kidney I’ve had. It won’t be the last.”

  “I know your history. The medical bulletins were pretty specific last time. The newspapers printed them verbatim, leaving nothing to conjecture. Another injury this soon after one so serious is courting disaster. You have to be careful. To quote Dr. Bonner, that means no riding more strenuous than a slow walk for the next couple of weeks.”

  Steve shook his head adamantly. “My schedule won’t permit that.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Since you know so much, then I suppose you know that even without our wager, I have to have two good horses ready for the sale. And they have to be good enough to take top dollar.”

  “Payment on the mortgage you made on this place, to have the funds for Gitano,” Hank filled in the gaps succinctly. The stallion had been a steal in terms of value, yet still commanded a considerable price.

  Steve’s expression grew harder, the flare of his temper turned him white lipped. “How the devil did you know that? Have you been snooping into my private papers?”

  The accusation scrapped Hank’s tenuous hold on her own temper, bringing her to her feet. “I don’t snoop,” she snapped. “Any more than I hire thugs to disable my opponents.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “One thing that doesn’t remain to be seen is that you’re a stubborn, insufferable idiot.”

  A cold grimace quirked his mouth. “Then go. Don’t suffer.”

  Hank bit her tongue, willing her temper to cool. Staring down at her hands, she realized they were clenched. One by one, she forced fingers to uncurl, and with each a bit of tension uncoiled. Implacable and unshakable reason returned before she dared face him again.

  “For the last time, I hired no one to hurt you, and I haven’t snooped. What I know of your situation, I heard in three days of your worried ramblings.” She wouldn’t mention Angie, the name she heard over and over in those ramblings, nor the anguish it caused. She couldn’t deny being curious, but this was the time to make a final stand, not for asking questions.

  “Lastly,” she declared emphatically, “no matter how many scenes such as this you instigate, I’m here for the duration. Your horses will go to the sale in Silverton, and I guarantee they’ll be the best trained horses there.”

  “Who will train them?” he goaded, knowing the answer.

  “I will.” Her reply was succinct, as if he’d asked a perfectly legitimate question for the first time.

  “How?”

  “My way.” She picked up her plate, intending to take it to the sink, where a pan of water waited. Instead, she set it back down with a bang and headed for the door.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going now?”

  Her hands were on her hips, her chin jutted at a telling angle. “Did your mother ever wash your mouth out with soap?”

  “No.”

  “She should have.”

  “She couldn’t.” Sidestepping another question, he repeated his own. “Where are you going?”

  The unguarded sadness at the mention of his mother hadn’t been lost on Hank. She’d spent hours studying that face, learning every feature and every nuance, even the closed, unfathomable look that defeated her. Perhaps in defense of the unthinking indiscretion, it was the insular control that looked back at her now.

  “I’m going to the barn.” Her reply lost the heat of her anger as she wondered what heartache she’d inflicted. “To make the most of what daylight is left. If I hurry, I can take a short turn with the small bay—another step in meeting the obligations of the job I signed on to do.”

  “You didn’t sign on,” he flung at her. “You barged in.”

  “Maybe I did, and maybe you should be thankful for it.” She tucked her thumbs in her back pockets, a move that pulled her belt snug, making mockery of the masculine clothing her work demanded. Hardly aware that his piercing gaze ranged over her, she continued her lesson in propriety. “There are others you should thank, as well. Most of all, Jeffie, for having the courage to tell what he’d heard. It wasn’t an easy thing for a kid to risk the retribution of the likes of Ransome and Wallie. Lawter. Considering what they did to you, can you even imagine what they would do to keep him quiet?”

  “I can imagine.” The anger he’d hurled at her became cold, quiet rage.

  Hank fought back a shiver. In three blunt words she heard danger, and saw what he could become. In a more charitable mood, she would have felt sympathy for the Lawter brothers when their paths crossed Steve Cody’s.

  “Who else?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Hank had lost the point of her lecture.

  “You said there were others I should thank.”

  “Lorelei.”

  By habit a brow arched, this time without causing a wince. “I should be grateful to a horse?”

  “Stranger things have been known to happen. If her stall door hadn’t been left open, if curiosity hadn’t drawn her to you, and if loyalty hadn’t kept her with you, shielding you from the brunt of the sun, you would have been badly burned by the time I arrived.”


  “On the back of your black devil, no doubt.”

  “Black Jack is a little wild, but I’ve never thought of him as a devil.” She wouldn’t argue even that point. “He’s our fastest horse, with the surest foot.”

  “For racing across open range, as if the devil were after you instead of under you.”

  “Across the range was the quickest way. There was no time to waste.”

  Steve’s frown deepened as he remembered another ride. “Then I should be doubly thankful. First that you came, then that you arrived in one piece.”

  “There was no danger. I knew the way, every dip and swell. I told you before that I’ve crossed that particular section of the range many times.” Perhaps not quite so hurriedly, nor in such reckless abandon, she admitted, but it served no purpose that Steve should know. “You misjudge the ride.”

  “I’ve witnessed a part of it once, and I know what I saw.” He looked into her clear, silver eyes, and wondered if her conscience was as clear. But why would she risk her neck to come to his aid if she’d ordered the ambush? The only answer that made any sense was that she hadn’t. The thought turned every accusation he’d leveled at her into a sieve. Yet he wasn’t ready to believe. Not for a while.

  Raking an impatient hand through his hair, he stared at her, searching for proof. The definitive proof that lay in trust he wasn’t ready to give. “I suppose I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

  Hank nodded, wary of this sudden change. “Maybe.”

  “How do you suggest I repay you?”

  “Stay out of my way, let me do the job 1 came to do.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all. Unless you can see your way clear to doing the dishes.” She was pleased with the idea, and with imagining the virile cowboy doing the mundane chores of housekeeping. “Sure, why not? Do the dishes, if you know how.”

  “I know how.” Steve almost smiled at her small revenge. “I’ve done a dish or two in my time.”

  “Good. That means I can get to the horses that much sooner.”

  “A splendid idea. I’ll finish up here and be along later to watch.”

  He’d caught her off balance with another lightning change. “Just like that? It’s settled?”