by Quinn Wilder
on that she had hoped he might come out and show the riding clothes to her.
"Wrap anything that fitted," she whispered at Daniel as Dace marched by her.
Dace turned to her as he pressed his shoulder against the door to leave. "I'm going to get my groceries, and then some lunch," he said, quietly. 'Til meet you back at the truck in an hour."
She nodded, unable to be offended that she had not been invited to lunch. By the look on his face she was fortunate to be getting a ride home. The door crashed shut behind him.
A few seconds later it squeaked back open. "If you have them set aside anything you buy, I'll drop by later and carry it out to the truck for you."
She stilled Daniel's protest with one quickly lifted finger. "Thanks, Dace," she said demurely. She was quite pleased with her impassive tone. It was not the voice of a woman who stood in the middle of a public shop and recklessly invited kisses. Still, she tucked Dace's reluctant thoughtfulness into a secret place deep within her and allowed herself to be warmed by it.
Cadence was up at the crack of dawn on Monday morning, but she waited for a decent hour to head across to the stable. At about seven-thirty she finally limped casually across the lawn. She'd told Dace eight, but she was champing at the bit, ready and raring to go.
She went into the tack room and put on coffee. The tack room was large, and she'd always used part of it as a lounge, too. There was a small fridge, and a sink, and an old overstuffed sofa. One entire wall was covered, floor to ceiling, with the rainbow
array of her ribbons. Another had been shelved in to hold her trophies.
Once she'd spent most of her life in this dark, comfy room that smeiled overbearingly and beautifully of leather. She'd pinned her first ribbon on that wall ten years ago. Lionel had kissed her for the first time on that couch. She'd slept in here when her horses were sick.
A feeling of nostalgia was creeping over her.
4 'Good morning."
She flinched when Dace poked his head around the door, feeling as if she had been found at her most vulnerable, her most unguarded. It made her slam up her walls twice as high.
"This is where the coffee smell is coming from," he said, coming in. "I make lousy coffee."
He came around the door, and she noticed he wasn't wearing any of his new clothes.
She had hardly let him have a sip of coffee when she said, "Well, are you ready to go to work?"
He set down the coffee cup. "Sure. Your coffee is even lousier than mine."
She recognized that she had an incredible urge to fight with him. To take that innocuous remark and turn it into the Third World War. And then she recognized something else: she was nervous as well as nostalgic, and she didn't want him to guess that, either.
"There's tack over there under the brass plate that says 'Ohmylady.' Could you get it?"
Dace went and pulled the saddle from its tree. He hefted it experimentally on one arm.
"Geez," he muttered. "There can't be enough leather in this overgrown bicycle seat to make a
wallet." With a shake of his head he removed the bridle from its peg, and turned to look at her.
She was glowering furiously at him. Overgrown bicycle seat? "This is the sport of kings," she said with tight reserve. Actually, she thought maybe that phrase referred to racing, but she had always felt it should refer to show jumping. Anyway, how dared he mock what was most precious to her?
"Lead on, then, King Copperthorne," he suggested dryly. "Or do you prefer Princess?"
"I think I'd prefer to have stayed in bed," she snapped, and stamped outside, thumping her cane down vigorously.
"That's fairly obvious," he drawled from behind her. "Are you always like this in the morning?"
They went out into the sunshine, and she turned with a toss of her head and glared at him. "Like what?"
His eyes strayed to her hair. She felt a few strands of it still hissing angrily about her head, before they floated down to rest on her shoulders. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that the sun was dancing off her hair, making it a far more outrageous red than it really was.
He muttered something under his breath as he moved by her. For an astounded minute, she thought he might have said "beautiful," but from the flinty cast of his profile she realized that wasn't even a remote possibility.
Unless he'd meant the horse, which he was looking at with liking.
"She's a pretty little thing," he said, setting the saddle on the top bar of the fence, and moving over to the roan mare who was tied to it.
He had meant the horse.
Still, watching his sure, affectionate way with the mare, Cadence felt the sharpness of her earlier nervousness dulling. She realized she had to get a grip—to try for a more cooperative attitude, or she wouldn't even have an outside chance at her gold medal. And, even though she wouldn't be riding, she now had something of her old beloved world back, and before she had had nothing.
"I'm sorry I was snappish." Here she was apologizing to him again.
His astounded expression made her struggle with an impulse to start snapping all over again. Instead, she squared her shoulders and turned to the horse.
"Her name's Ohmylady," she volunteered, joining him, and petting the mare's nose. "I usually end up calling her Ohmy. She's small for an open jumper, but she's got a lot of heart. She's a joy to ride because she's really sweet tempered and she just does what she's asked. Always. No surprises."
"Part quarter horse?"
Cadence nodded. "Yes. A lot of the best open jumpers are bits of this and bits of that. She's quarter and thoroughbred, actually." She noticed, with blessed relief, that they were finally slipping into the narrow neutral area of their shared interest in horses.
She began to groom the mare. "I'll be hiring a groom to do this some time this week."
"I like looking after my horses myself," Dace said with that note of formidable stubbornness she was beginning to recognize. He had picked up a currycomb and was working Ohmylady's other side.
"I do, too," she agreed. "But with five horses that can be tough. Especially on a show schedule.
Sometimes I'd have two or three horses at a show with me, in case one was injured or soured. A groom's pretty much a necessity in that situation."
By the time they had finished grooming, they were getting along quite companionably, though Cadence wished he'd be a little more cautious with those big shoulders. He'd brushed up against her three times now, and each time the heated shock of it had stolen the words right off her lips. Well, okay, he was attractive. But he wouldn't be interested in her in that way, so she would just file it and avoid his shoulders.
Her confidence grew. She knew what she was talking about, and she liked talking about anything that had to do with her horses and show jumping. And Dace actually seemed to be listening with interest, not a shadow of impatience or boredom clouding the utterly too intense blue of his eyes.
He didn't even look too troubled when she explained to him that they would have to do an incredible amount of flat work before he could progress to jumping.
"I think we're ready to go to work, Mr. Stanton," she told him. She explained the different mount to him, then stepped back, and smiled as he vaulted lithely into the saddle. An athlete.
She spent most of the morning just familiarizing him with the difference in seat and style, and reining. As soon as they had started to work the tension had completely dissipated between them. The focus was now on something else, and Cade had an incredible single-mindedness of focus. As did Dace, she noted. His feel was even better than she could have hoped, and he learned with in-
credible quickness. They progressed to basic dressage flat work very quickly.
She glanced at her watch a little later and was astounded to see that they had been working for three houTS. It was an intoxicating glimmer of old times, old times when she had been so absorbed in what she was doing that hours could disappear as though they were minutes. But, now that she was awar
e of the passage of time, she was also aware that the persistent ache in her hip had been trying to tell her she was overdoing it for some time.
"Let's call it a morning," she suggested.
He nodded, stopped the horse and she explained the dismount to him. He executed it as though he had never ridden any other way.
"We can call it a day, if you want," she said, "or we could work a little more this afternoon with a different horse."
"I'd like to work this afternoon." He frowned at her. "Are you all right?"
She could feel his eyes fastened with sudden awareness on her face.
"Oh, yes, I'm fine," she claimed proudly.
"You're a fine liar," he said. "You're almost falling over, Cade."
"I am not."
"Are you supposed to stand on your leg for that long?"
"It's my hip that was hurt, not my leg," she evaded.
"Just answer the question."
"It's none of your business!" This was exactly the kind of attention no woman wanted from a devilishly attractive man.
"Look, I'm not going to be responsible for your enthusiasm overcoming your common good sense. I can tell you're in pain, and I doubt that it's doing your hip any good,"
"I'll be responsible for that!" she informed him.
"Ha. If there's one thing that life has taught me it's that bad-tempered redheads are not responsible. Especially when they're having a little fit of temper."
"I am not!" she said, aghast.
"Whatever. I've decided I'm not quite up to riding this afternoon, after all."
She was not fooled for a second. Here was a man who'd in all likelihood spent most of his life on a horse. He was probably tougher than saddle leather, and three hours astride would barely warm him up.
It occurred to her, suddenly, she should be thankful to him. Her hip was now thrumming with pain, and she wasn't sure how she would make it to the house, let alone be able to stand again all afternoon. But she was beyond the point where she could be reasonable—even if that did confirm every last thing he'd said about redheads.
"Fine. If you don't want to work with the horse, there's lots of other things to be done, and I'm paying you for a full day. You can't be in very good shape if three hours of riding finishes you off, and I've always firmly believed that a rider has to be as much an athlete as his horse. Maybe with some work you can regain the suppleness and flexibility of your youth."
Dace's mouth had whitened into a line of anger. He strode across the ground between them. She tried to scramble away, but her hip was long past its tolerance and her leg folded underneath her.
Dace ignored her little mew of pain and humiliation, and caught her hard against his chest.
1 'You may pay me, you little witch, but you didn't buy me."
He tangled his hands in her hair and forced her chin up.
She swore to herself that she'd bite him if he had the audacity to try and kiss her. She swore it. And then his lips caught hers, and her vow was washed away by the unexpected ferocity of the storm that caught them in its grip.
Energy sizzled and hissed through her veins at the punishing touch of his lips, at their insolent insistence that she part her own lips and let his storm invade the cool cavern of her mouth. She wanted to pull away from him, or at the very least not to respond to him. But how could tinder not respond to a match? She was not thrusting him away, and not being passive either. She was meeting him, head-on, breath for heated breath.
Kissing him was like having her body invaded by a storm; sensations of hot and cold ripped through her, thunder invaded her heart, lightning bolted through her belly, and hot rain pelted the surface of her skin. She was awash with sensation. Tingling. Flying. Soaring. Diving.
Then, with stunning suddenness, the storm spent itself. He pulled away from her abruptly, and she stood, dazed, as if left drenched and unprotected after a real storm. She shivered, and Dace smiled coldly.
"The advantages of maturity, Princess," he said quietly. "See if any callow youth can make you feel like that."
It took every bit of energy she had left, but she drew herself to her full height, took the weight off her cane, and arched an eyebrow at him. "Like what?" she said coolly. Before he could respond she turned away. "Be at the pool at one-thirty, Mr. Stanton. A few laps a day will probably work wonders on that middle-aged pot."
She limped away. Though she didn't hesitate, she could feel herself cringe inside, waiting for the blow. She was sure he'd quit. And a part of her wanted just that. For him to quit. The utter and unforgivable audacity of the man! How could she be entirely professional about this training program if he was going to behave like a complete outlaw?
Quit, she begged him mentally.
But there was only silence from behind her. After she had walked a long way, she risked a glance back. Dace Stanton, masculine vanity etched into every handsome line of his face, was gazing at his flat belly with shattered disbelief.
CHAPTER FIVE
Cadence had heard Dace show up at the pool at one-thirty. She did not go down—indeed could not, since she was lying on her bed so exhausted that she could barely move, never mind face him again. She thought he would just go away. Instead, after a while she heard the hard plop of a body hitting water, and then the steady swish of someone swimming laps.
There was a soft rap at her door a while later. Timothy's soft voice informed her that Lionel had arrived.
She felt an odd flatness, quite different from the little rush of hope she had felt every time Lionel had appeared since the accident. She debated seeing him, and decided she would, though for a moment it struck her as odd that she had the energy to handle one man, but not another, especially when it seemed that who she should be able to handle, and who she should not be, were inexplicably reversed.
She made Lionel wait. She certainly wasn't going to see the man who had rejected her without looking her most attractive. And, when she gave herself a final glance in the mirror, she was quite pleased with the results. Her hair looked wild and tangled, her cheeks sported high copper color, and her eyes glowed with a surprising light that no makeup bag could ever hope to accomplish. In fact, she noted with astonishment, she looked like a woman who
had just got out of bed. Surely a look like that didn't come from one savage, stolen kiss? The thought brought even more color blazing to her cheeks. Of course it didn't. She was probably nearly feverish from her overexertion this morning.
She coupled her unexpectedly sexy appearance with a complete contrast—a soft white Angora sweater, of the most virginal white, and pleated white cotton trousers.
When she paused in the doorway to the sitting room, Lionel glanced up, and her efforts were rewarded. His jaw dropped, and unguarded desire burned through the pale blue of his eyes. Until the exact moment he saw her cane, and then what had been in his eyes was gone.
She greeted him coolly, and they talked about mutual acquaintances and horses for a while.
"Did you come for something in particular?" she finally asked. Surely Lionel had not always been this boring? It must just be the constraint of their history together that made him seem this way.
"I was kind of wondering what you were planning for Storm."
"Hmm," she said noncommittally. It occurred to her that she was not very surprised. He had already taken her staff, and now he was after her horses. She didn't even feel any fresh pain at his callousness. In fact she felt a little tickle of mischievousness. It might be quite fun to keep Lionel hanging for a month or two.
"I need to think about Storm a little bit," she said demurely. "Why don't you call me next week?"
She walked him out onto the porch and down the stairs, rather enjoying the discomfort her awk-
wardness caused him. Quite different from another man, who'd known her all of two days when he'd pronounced with utter and thoughtless sincerity that he'd forgotten she had a handicap.
At that exact moment, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dace cutting throu
gh the hedge that surrounded the pool.
Never mind that he'd forgotten she had a handicap. He was just a bloody forgetful man. Because he'd also forgotten his manners, and forgotten who the boss was! Well, this would stop him from thinking he could just go about punishing whoever he wanted with a kiss!
Without thinking she flung herself at Lionel, coiled her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the lips with all the pretended passion she could muster.
And then nearly panicked when, instead of pushing her away, Lionel responded with heat.
She broke away from him, and stared at him, wide eyed. She was utterly confused by what she saw in his face. He most certainly had not been repulsed by her!
"What was that all about?" he asked, after a long pause.
"Just an impulse," she said sheepishly.
"Ah," he said. "I'll call you next week, then." He paused. "About Storm."
She stared at his departing back. "About Storm." How could a man kiss you like that, and then try to tell you he was only interested in your horse?
But then he wasn't the only guilty one, was he? How could a woman kiss a man like that, just to tell another man "hands off"? Her eyes flew to Dace. She could only see his back. He was saun-
tering casually back to the stable. She suspected he was whistling carelessly.
She turned and stamped into the house, and slammed the door behind her.
She was not entirely surprised when Dace showed up for work the next morning. But she nearly went into shock at what he showed up in. He looked utterly male and utterly magnificent with the riding breeches molding every ripple of the muscle in those incredibly long legs.
Some feminine part of herself—a part that she would have dearly liked to kill—almost whimpered out loud at the sight that he made. She felt, with fresh agony, the ugliness of her handicap. She had intended to apologize, first thing, for her shrewishness yesterday. Now she found herself unable to do that.
"Life is full of surprises," she commented.