by Quinn Wilder
She felt a shiver of anxiety. Her father had introduced an element of doubt into her plans. He thought her plan was foolish. Even worse, he did not think Dace would do it.
Cade tossed her head at the figure walking down the road. Nonsense. She always got what she wanted.
An unwanted picture of Lionel crowded her brain. Okay—maybe not always. But her recent string of unfortunate events only made her all the more determined to have her way now.
Timothy came in. "Miss Copperthorne, Mr. Stanton is here to see you."
Timothy had recognized that innate dignity in Dace Stanton, too, she noted. He had introduced him as her equal.
She settled herself on the couch. She tucked the cane behind it, wanting nothing to suggest weakness to this man. She was rather surprised to find her heart hammering in her throat when Dace came into the room.
An aroma wafted in with him. The smell of soap and sunshine mingled enticingly with the scent of horses and sweat. The manliness of it contrasted sharply with the dainty refinement of this room. It made her extraordinarily aware of his masculinity, and her eyes strayed to the sun-browned muscles of his arms. She was shocked by the renegade feeling of yearning that blasted through her. The feeling tickled momentarily—and then cut with a razor's edge, bringing to the fore her feelings of inadequacy since the accident. Before, she had always just taken it for granted that she was a de-
sirable woman. The potency of his masculinity was like having salt poured in the open wound of her self-doubts.
She gestured at the wing chair opposite her. "Please, sit down, Mr. Stanton." She had planned to pull out all the stops on her warmth and charm. Her voice came out as cold as an Arctic wind.
He glanced at the chair, and then at his dusty clothing. "No, thank you, Miss Copperthorne."
Though there was nothing unreasonable about his refusal to take a chair, she felt slighted, and vaguely out of control. In her mind, she had rehearsed her speech with Dace Stanton sitting in that chair, perhaps leaning toward her slightly.. .but not towering over her, looking restless and impatient and faintly angry. She had not prepared herself for the discomfort his intent gaze made her feel, and she certainly had not prepared herself for the drugging, disorientating effect his scent was having on her. She flinched from the possibility that her father might have been right.
"Sit down/' she snapped.
Something flared in his eyes, and she hastily tacked on a "please'' in a voice that came out small and desperate.
He hesitated, studying her, obviously as surprised by that small voice as she was humiliated by it. There was a suggestion of a sigh in the deep heave of his chest, and then he moved by her and sat in the chair opposite her.
"Now," she said, attempting pleasantness, "can I get you a cup of tea or something?"
He didn't answer for a moment, and she had the awful feeling he was immensely enjoying some private joke.
"No, thank you," he finally said, and then raised a faintly mocking eyebrow at her. "Assuming I really have a choice?"
"Of course you really have a choice," she said, nearly choking on her sweet tone, but determined not to let his sarcasm about being ordered to sit down get her off on the wrong track again. "I suppose you're wondering why you're here?"
Again, that dark, wickedly shaped eyebrow edged upward, "Not to drink tea?" he guessed dryly.
He was not making this easy. Her smile now felt a little tight. "I have a business proposition to discuss with you," she said cautiously. She was rewarded when surprise momentarily overrode his look of studied indifference, but that expression was quickly overtaken by one of suspicion.
"I need someone to ride my horse," she rushed on.
He didn't respond. He seemed to be waiting. Then a surprised light went on in his eyes. "You don't mean me, do you?"
Her nerves were very taut. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Mr. Stanton, you've already guessed that you aren't here to drink tea. Of course I mean you."
"Well, pardon me if I seem a little surprised," he said, and there was a faint edge of impatience in his voice. "Yesterday I got the definite impression you would have had me drawn and quartered, if the lady of the manor were still allowed such luxuries in dealing with the help..."
"Really," she gasped. "There is no need to overstate the facts."
He continued as if she hadn't interrupted, "... for the crime of being reckless with the horseflesh, and today you're asking me to ride an animal who is
probably worth more money than I make in several years. Yes, Miss Copperthorne, I'm a little surprised at the change of heart."
"How do you know how much money my horse is worth?" she asked absurdly.
"I've seen him around. He's a magnificent animal.'' The last was offered grudgingly.
That grudging statement made her heart rise in her throat. There was a small hope in this seemingly hopeless situation. She knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Dace Stanton had been watching Storm, with the passion a horse like Storm invariably inspired in a lover of horseflesh.
"It's not exactly that I've had a change of heart," Cade said carefully.
"Oh," he said dryly. "You want me to ride your horse so that you can watch me being reckless, and then you really can have me drawn and "
"Mr. Stanton, you are being very difficult!"
"Really?" he said with silky innocence.
"What I was trying to say was that maybe I misjudged the situation yesterday in the first place."
"Maybe?"
"I didn't have ail the facts and I reached the wrong conclusions." Humility came very hard to Cadence Copperthorne. "You conducted yourself fairly impressively given the limitations of your mount and your equipment."
"I think that was a compliment," he said wryly. "Thank you."
"It was a compliment," she said seriously. "Many people with years of training don't jump horses that well, and never will. It's a gift—like being able to draw or write. Some people have a natural talent."
"The kid you have riding him now is not one of them," Dace said. "I don't like the way he rides that horse. He seems scared to death of him."
She nodded wholeheartedly. Unexpectedly, she and Dace Stanton had found common ground. She hated seeing Storm ridden nervously.
"Storm can be unpredictable. He'll go fine for weeks at a time. He'll be obedient and eager and responsive. And then, for a reason I can't determine, he goes wild. He's nearly impossible to control. The changes in mood can happen with incredible swiftness. And then they can be gone just as quickly as they came or last a few days.''
Dace smiled a crooked smile that revealed even teeth, brilliantly white against the weathered bronze of his skin. "Sounds as if he's got a bit of personality."
She felt oddly threatened by what that smile did to his face. It washed away the faint cynicism that was stamped into the lines around his mouth, erased the barrier of remoteness that had been in his eyes. It warmed them, and made them sparkle with a devilish charm.
"That /personality' is why I need to put a very strong rider on him. And that's the proposition. Do you want to ride my horse?"
"Sure."
Her mouth almost dropped open in surprise. "You do?" she asked.
"Actually, I'm glad of the opportunity. It kind of riled me, seeing that kid riding him. Fear doesn't do much for a fine horse." His eyes rested on her face. "Now, I'll bet you weren't ever scared of him, were you?"
She felt the compliment of it, and felt her cheeks grow warm under his steady gaze. "No, I wasn't ever afraid of Storm, Mr. Stanton." If her tone was standoffish, it was because there were those who had thought she should be—her father and Lionel. And maybe they had been right.
"Actually, we don't even have to make it a business arrangement," Dace continued. "I'd be happy to take him out on my own time. I could manage an hour in the mornings, before I start work. Will that suit you until you'ie back in the saddle yourself?"
The enormity of his misunderstanding hit her. He thought she was asking him f
or a favor—asking him only to exercise the horse for a little while each day—until she could ride again.
"I won't be riding again," she said stiffly. "The damage to my hip precludes sitting astride a horse."
His face softened, giving her a totally unwanted insight into what he might look like in moments of tenderness, with someone whom he loved, when his guard was down.
"I'm sorry," he said with soft gruffness. "I wasn't aware your injury was permanent."
"Really? I thought everyone on the whole place had nearly talked my accident to death by now." Her tone was shrewish, a deliberate effort to put the ice back in eyes made altogether too devastating by the unexpected understanding in them.
She succeeded in spades. Dace eyed her coolly. "I hate to have to be the one to tell you most of us have better things to do with our time than gossip about you. Naturally, we heard about the accident. And felt bad about it, too. I seem to remember we
took up a collection to send you flowers in the hospital/'
He looked away from her, and ran a hand through his dark curls. She had the unflattering feeling he might be petitioning heaven to give him patience. When he turned back to her his expression had only the faintest traces of exasperation lingering around the edges.
"Look, my offer stands. I'll ride your horse for you. On my own time. For as long as you need me to."
She didn't even feel particularly flattered that he was prepared to do it on his own time. She didn't need favors or pity from anyone, and least of all from this arrogant, entirely-too-sure-of-himself cowboy!
"You misunderstood me, Mr. Stanton. I wasn't asking you to do anything out of sympathy for me." Her voice was brittle.
That exceedingly brief moment of compatibility that they had shared was gone without a trace, and there didn't seem much hope of its returning.
Dace's posture was no longer relaxed, and his eyes were cold again. "You misunderstood me, Miss Copperthorne," he bit out softly, "because I never offered to do anything out of sympathy. I happen to like the look of the animal, and I wouldn't mind giving him a try."
"I'm not looking for somebody to exercise the horse for an hour a day," she stated. It was only a misunderstanding, but there was a strange, electrical tension between them that quickly gave misunderstandings the tone of arguments.
She took a deep breath and managed a very civil tone. "I'm looking for somebody to ride him. Full time. To jump him again, when that time comes.''
He stared at her with open astonishment. "Me?"
"Look, there's no need to act as if I've asked you to pilot the next space shuttle." He was looking at her as though she were crazy, and probably because she suspected as much herself she resented it. "I've asked you if you'd like to ride a horse. From what I've seen you already know how to do that, and you're damned good at it, too."
She decided to ignore the stubborn thrust of that square jaw, and concentrate on the fact that he hadn't actually said no. She pushed on. "I think you have an incredible natural talent. I think with training and the right horse "
He suddenly seemed to realize he hadn't said no. He cut her off abruptly. "I'm a cowboy."
"I know you are. I'm talking about what you could be."
He gave her a hard smile. "I like what I am right now."
She tried to backtrack around his offended pride. "I didn't mean to suggest that being a cowboy didn't have dignity, because 1 think it does. I mean I think you do. I mean... oh, dammit, I mean you could be great!"
"I doubt if you and I define 'great' in quite the same way," he said with slow dignity.
She was now so frustrated she couldn't have been polite and restrained if her very life depended on it. "Where's your ambition, man? Don't you want more out of life than being a hired hand on somebody else's ranch?"
"My ambition, or lack of it, is none of your business," he snapped coldly.
"Okay. Let's try on something that is my business. I'll pay you double whatever you're making now." She knew it was completely the wrong tack to take. Completely. But she didn't know what to do with his brick wall of stubbornness, except try to smash it down.
He eyed her silently.
"Plus give you an apartment over the stables to live in," she tacked on desperately.
"I'm not for sale," he said tersely. "I'm not interested in your money. I am not interested in your apartment. I am not interested in your fancy-pants riding. And I most definitely am not interested in working for you."
"I could fire you," she threatened.
"Yes, ma'am, you could," he agreed without emotion, and then, without waiting for her to say one more word, he unfolded himself from the chair, pivoted on his heel and went out of the door.
"... if she'd had her cane," Dace told Sloan, "I'm pretty sure she would have thrown it at me."
Sloan's eyes widened, it seemed to Dace more with appreciation than surprise. "Well, I guess you're darned lucky you got out of there without any bruises, boy."
Dace studied that weathered old face for the sarcasm, but it was hard to tell if it was there or not. "I just thought I'd better tell you, because she's going to be on the horn in a few minutes telling you to fire me. And then you can tell her she's too late. That I already quit."
"Now, Dace, don't go being such a hothead. Think things through, son."
"Look, Sloan, I'd rather not quit. I like this job and I like this outfit, but "
Sloan sighed. "That's not what you need to think through, Dace. You need to think about taking her up on it, for heaven's sake."
"What?" Dace eyed Sloan warily. Hadn't Sloan heard a word he'd said?
"Did you even think about it?" Sloan asked patiently. "Did you even consider it, and what it might mean, or did your foolish pride just jump in there before you even thought about what she offered?"
"I'm no fancy-pants rider, Sloan."
"What are you always jumping my ponies for, then?"
Dace felt himself color. "I don't know. It seems
to be in me, in my blood " He became aware
of the admission he was making, stopped himself, stared at his boot. "Aw, hell, Sloan, an old dog can't learn new tricks."
"I'm an old dog. You ain't. You're a foolish young pup who just turned down a chance to get paid to learn proper how to do something that you like to do, anyway."
"I don't feel so young, Sloan," he said quietly.
"Look, Dace, I know life handed you a hard deck. You ain't even thirty, and you've buried a wife and a child. Tried bloody hard to bury yourself, too. Well, now I guess you've decided to rejoin the land of the living, except you ain't living. You're coasting. Making the motions. You don't have any friends. You don't see any women. You
don't even have a dog. Man, you got to learn to care again."
"Well, that's sure as hell something she wouldn't be able to teach me."
"You don't learn to care by taking, Dace, you learn by giving. And you've got something to give her right now. She needs you. You can help her hope again."
"I don't owe her anything," Dace said stubbornly.
"Nope. But you owe me, son."
Dace felt stunned—and trapped. "Sloan, don't do this to me." It was true. He owed Sloan his very life. But he'd never expected Sloan to call in the debt. He'd thought he'd pay him back in his own time and his own way. "I can't work for that redheaded witch," Dace said, a little desperately.
"Dace, go home and think with your head instead of your mouth."
From anybody else, that probably would have been an invitation to one heck of a fight. But what could you do about Sloan? The man was over sixty. He had been his own father's best friend. And he'd been the one to pull Dace out of the mire of guilt and grief and booze that he'd fallen into after Janey and Jasmine had died in the fire. Sloan had given him back his life, and now he was requesting one small favor in return.
Small. Ha. It would be no small thing to work with that woman—or that horse.
But at least the horse appealed to him.
/> CHAPTER THREE
That damned cowboy had said no to her.
It was Cade's first thought when she woke up the next morning. It had been stupid to ask Dace, anyway. Her father had been right. It had been a ridiculous idea. Farfetched.
It would probably be impossible to teach someone that stubborn and narrow-minded anything new, anyway.
Still, she disliked losing face—losing, period-born competitor that she was. Well, she would not lose! She was not giving Dace Stanton the least bit of power in her life. She had decided when she was twelve years old she would have an Olympic gold medal one day and she would have it! She could no longer get it herself, and Dace Stanton wasn't going to help her, but there were plenty of fish in the sea.
Imagine thinking, however briefly, that he was the man to do it. She had been blinded by the circumstances. It had been the setting, rather than his actual ability, that had turned her head, made her match him with her horse. It had been the magnificence of an early summer day, and the sea of green grass, and the romance of the cowboy clothes and the flat-out horse that had made her react so dramatically to him, that had made her pair him instinctively with Storm. In an ordinary riding ring doing the very same thing Dace Stanton would have probably looked like an utter idiot.
She heard Storm nicker. The sound was clear in the crisp morning air. It was an unusually friendly sound. Her eyes suddenly opened wide. Storm was in the stable. He never sounded happy when he was confined.
She tossed back the priceless Chinese silk quilt and struggled out of bed. She used the edges of her night table to move around to the window. She shivered. The window was open a crack, and the breeze that stirred the soft white lace of her curtains was chill. It also had that wonderful crisp morning scent. She ignored the chill and flung the window wide open, leaning out, and sucking the morning-scented air into her lungs. The last of her irritation that things hadn't turned out according to her plan was chased away by the full glory of the morning.