Ride a storm

by Quinn Wilder

  "Don't say one more word," he cautioned, his lips barely moving in a tightly haughty face.

  She opened her mouth rebelliously.

  "Not one, Cade."

  There was no hint in his eyes, or his voice or his stance, that this was the selfsame man who had grabbed her and kissed the living daylights out of her yesterday.

  Which was good. Wasn't it?

  "Perhaps I was surprised that, after that alter-cation yesterday, you showed up at all."

  "Oh, I suspected when I signed on that there might be an altercation or two," he drawled.

  "Well, you had better not try and resolve any more of them with your lips!"

  "You won't have to lose any sleep over that possibility," he assured her coldly.

  "Humph," she said crisply. "We're going to work with that hammer-headed black gelding over there today. His name is Tim Mix..."

  And then that other persona clicked in. The persona that had made her such a fierce competitor, the persona that allowed her to zero in on one thing, and think of nothing else at all. She became totally absorbed in the task of making him a top contender in the field of open show jumping.

  He seemed as capable of zeroing in as she, for they progressed in tremendous strides that morning, despite yesterday's run-in. She began to see that he was a complete natural and that there was a very good possibility she could be entering him in shows by the end of the summer. It was a thrilling prospect, and it must have showed in her face that she was happy.

  As Dace was taking the saddle from Tim Mix he slid her a look and grinned.

  "I wore the riding breeches today because the blue jeans rubbed the skin right off my knee yesterday," he confessed gruffly. "And don't say 'I told you so' either."

  She responded in the same light tone. "Do I look like the type who would say 'I told you so'?"

  "Yes," he came back bluntly.

  "I think I deserve that. Look, forget about the swimming. I was in a bad mood yesterday. I might have been trying to throw my weight around." It was very hard to say it.

  "You might have been," he agreed, just a hint of a smile turning up the fine line of his mouth. "I took your order as an invitation. I like swimming."

  She looked at the powerful sweep of his shoulders. It showed. She felt her face redden when he raised an eyebrow at her inspection.

  "I didn't mean it about your stomach." She felt her face grow a few degrees hotter. But there was no sense doing things in halves.

  "That wasn't the part that hurt," he said, his eyes unrelenting on the bright hotness of her cheeks.

  "Oh?"

  "The part that hurt was being called middle-aged. I don't think twenty-nine qualifies me for middle age, does it?"

  "Are you only twenty-nine?"

  "Thanks. Nothing like a little salt in the wound," he said dryly. He turned away from her, and fished through a grooming kit for a currycomb.

  "It's not that you look older," she said hastily, studying his face, and realizing it was true. "It's that you act older. Er—more mature, I mean."

  He began brushing the horse. "My dad died when I was seventeen. I had to quit school, and run a pretty big ranch. I guess I grew up fast. I guess it probably shows."

  She felt as if he had just given her a little peek inside him. It was the first time he'd really said anything personal about himself, and she wondered if there was a small chance that some day they might get along. Respect and care for one another—in a purely professional sort of way, of course.

  "I guess a lot of things age a man," he said quietly, almost to himself, and she glimpsed something she had glimpsed before in him—some terrible sadness. A tragedy that probably matched her own tragedy.

  The feeling she had for him absolutely terrified her. There was nothing professional about it. For a shocking second she felt a strange, inexplicable tenderness, a yearning to run her hands over his weathered, world-weary face, and make him young again, and carefree

  Instead, she turned away, quickly, afraid that her raw emotion would be in her face, making her vulnerable, when that was the one thing she had sworn she would never be again.

  "Use the pool any time you want," she invited gruffly, and then made her slow and painful way back toward the house.

  Dace had almost begun to think nobody lived in that giant house. He'd swum every afternoon. No one had ever come to those darkened windows. No one had ever joined him in the pool.

  Then, one day, after he'd been working for Cadence Copperthorne for just about a week, he had hauled himself out of the pool to see James Copperthorne watching him—he suspected waiting for him.

  An interesting conversation had followed. A very interesting conversation. The upshot of it had been James Copperthorne handing him some video cassettes that he said might help him understand what he was undertaking a little- better. Dace was uncertain whether Copperthorne had been referring to the sport of jumping, his fiery daughter, or both.

  He certainly wasn't about to pass on a chance to understand Cadence Copperthorne. When she had hired him, he had expressly understood he would ride Storm Warrior, and yet that was the one horse he had not yet ridden. And she was vague about

  when he would get a chance at that magnificent animal, even though he pressed her on the subject.

  Of course, she was mostly a witch. A bad-tempered, demanding, aggravating, self-centered witch, who must have put some kind of spell on him, because he couldn't get the taste of her damn mouth out of his mind.

  And she managed not to be a witch when he was actually in the saddle. He couldn't help but be impressed with her knowledge, and the way she presented it. He actually didn't mind the instruction portion of being with her at all.

  And, of course, there was the fact that every now and then her smile reached her eyes, and it was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. And that was the look that had been on her face, he reminded himself grimly, after she'd kissed that guy on her front porch...

  Dace raced to the fridge, and popped the cap off another Coke on his belt buckle just before he sat back down. His timing was perfect. The next segment was just beginning. He'd finally found the time to sift through the videocassettes James Copperthorne had given him. So far he'd watched five victory rides by Cadence and Storm. The part he liked the best was when she unsnapped the chin-strap of her helmet, jerked it from her head, impatiently took the ribbon from her hair, and raked her fingers through the hair of her braid. And then she gave that magnificent head of hair a shake, and it shimmered down around her shoulders, and swung around her face, and she looked at the camera, her eyes bold, and defiant and laughter-filled.

  She and the horse were sheer poetry. There was nothing else to describe it. He had never seen such fluidity of movement, never seen such strength and grace. He could barely tell that she controlled the horse. They moved at each jump at what seemed to be the same patient, controlled pace. But he knew from the reading that he'd taken on in his spare time that that wasn't quite the case—only that the easier she made it look, the better she was at it, the harder she had worked.

  Twice he'd seen the blond guy kiss her after her victories. The same one she had so soundly kissed on her front porch. He didn't much like that. Not because of Cade—why would he care who threw themselves on her claws?—but because there was a sneering superiority about the man that made him instantly dislike him. Of course, he was pretty certain that was the guy who had tossed her off as though she were a broken doll after the accident, and he didn't like it that the relationship did not seem to be entirely resolved, though he wasn't even sure why he didn't like it.

  . He settled in to watch the next video. This, he promised himself, would be absolutely the last one, before he turned in for the night. Of course, he'd already made that promise to himself twice. But somehow, watching these tapes, he was getting a sense of excitement he hadn't had before. Given time, he was going to ride like that. He would be the one guiding that magnificent horse over those awe-inspiring jumps.

>   On the video, Cadence swung the horse through a sharp corner; he could see her barely perceptibly shortening the big horse's stride for the final jump of that round.

  And then the world went crazy. The big horse was lifting—his takeoff perfect, Cadence up out of the saddle and leaning over his neck. And then, mid jump, it was as if the horse had been shot. He twisted violently sideways, came smashing down on top of the jump. She had been taken totally off guard—it was such a bizarre movement that nothing could have prepared her for it. She slipped sideways, and was right underneath the horse when his full weight smashed into the ground.

  "Cadence!" The tortured scream ruptured the air, and the picture suddenly swung wildly, and then the camera came to rest, still filming, showing James Copperthorne racing toward his daughter. She was lying still, so still, a crumpled, lifeless heap on the ground, her body twisted at a preposterous angle. If he didn't know she was alive, Dace would have sworn she was dead. Chaos ensued, the camera recording blithely on. The far-off wail of sirens, several people chasing after the near maddened horse. And then a flicker of stripes and the dull hiss of dead air.

  Dace rested his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands. He felt limp and wrung out. His composure was completely gone. He took several deep, steadying breaths, and then, using the remote control, rewound the tape. Taking another deep breath, he took his thumb off the rewind, and watched the approach and takeoff again and again, and again. And then again.

  Finally, aching with weariness, he went and switched off the TV. He rubbed his aching head. But, even lying in bed, he kept running the same few seconds of tape through his head, looking for the reason. And remained baffled that he could find

  nothing to account for the horse's behavior. Storm had been going beautifully, and then suddenly he had just gone completely mad. Or so it would seem.

  "On his good days, he's very, very good," Cadence had said that day, paraphrasing some old nursery rhyme. "But on his bad days he's horrid."

  He wondered, sadly, if she would ever again be the spirited, laughter-filled woman whom he had seen in those home videos. Not that she lacked spirit. But the mischievousness and the laughter seemed to have been lost. At least he knew, now, with the most reluctant of knowledge, why Sloan cared for her so much.

  Cadence watched Dace narrowly. He was performing what was asked of him perfectly, but without heart. He seemed preoccupied today, as he had all week. She did not like the way he had started looking at her—with something haunted at the back of his eyes. She was having trouble placing where she had seen that look before, but it felt like an arrow piercing her heart.

  He had been riding Storm since Monday. She didn't like that, either, though she wasn't sure why. She had no memory of her accident, or the day it had happened. Her doctor had told her that was a normal reaction to trauma, and also warned her that now and then some things would "twig" her memory. Unexpectedly, a picture might superimpose itself on her brain, or she might be nearly overwhelmed by a nameless anxiety, an edginess. She was certainly getting that feeling today. She tried, again, to shake it off.

  Really, they were magnificent looking, there was no two ways around that. She knew she had made

  quite a picture on that horse once, too, but it was because of the contrast—her slightness against the brute strength and athletic ability of the horse. This was a better match. It was power. Pure power.

  Storm was behaving beautifully for Dace, which should have helped her relax, but didn't. She felt as if she was waiting; waiting for the explosion, and every time the horse did something even slightly unexpected she jumped, and then tried to cover her fear and embarrassment by snapping and snarling at Dace. At least his eyes were losing that haunted look and just getting dark with anger, and he didn't seem to have a clue how fearfully hard her heart beat every time that big, beautiful horse danced sideways or snorted.

  She glanced at the sky, and shivered. It was lead gray. The wind was picking up, and there was an occasional spit of rain.

  "Dace, do the cavalletti again, at a trot." Her hip was sore. She felt deflated that he was working in such a lackluster fashion even though she knew her own brusque manner could at least be partly blamed.

  "Did you hear me?" she called sharply.

  Instead of obeying her order, he touched his heels to Storm's sides and began to trot wide, completely ignoring the cavalletti and the small jump at the end of the bars.

  She stared at him incredulously. He must have misunderstood. She repeated her command.

  Dace didn't even look at her. But he touched his heels to Storm's sides again, and they moved into an easy controlled canter.

  She felt furious color boiling up under her skin. The man was deliberately defying her. She screeched at him to stop.

  He ignored her.

  "Dace Stanton, you stop it right now! That isn't what you're supposed to be doing. This is "

  "Mutiny," he filled in for her, cantering by her again. She felt as if she was going to start crying. He was mocking her—mocking the fact that she couldn't even step out in front of the horse and make him stop. Mocking the fact that she was crippled. He took the small jump at a canter.

  "You aren't ready to be doing that "she

  yelled, impotent with fury, her knuckles white on her cane.

  He went by her again. Lord, he was magnificent. He looked for all the world as if he'd been born riding like this. Not ready for it? He looked as if he was ready for anything her world of riding could throw at him. Which, for some reason, increased her fury.

  "If you don't stop right now," she cried over the steady rhythmic thudding of the hoofs, "I'm going to dock you a week's salary. I mean it!"

  He tossed her a coldly disdainful look over his shoulder, and then wheeled the horse abruptly, and galloped him straight across the school area.

  She felt herself go white. He couldn't be! But he was, unaware or uncaring that his stride was all off. The horse was going at the fence far, far too fast. They couldn't possibly

  Storm bunched up, too close to the fence, and plopped over it. Dace lost his seat and was hanging off one side, trying to right himself using Storm's

  mane. He'd lost control and Storm wheeled around the corner of the stable and out of her view.

  She stared after them with tears of anger and humiliation growing at the corners of her eyes.

  She turned to walk away, suddenly aware of how terribly weary she was. She should never have let him take Storm yet. Maybe she should never have started this whole business. She was no match for that powerful pair.

  Dace came around the corner, walking, leading Storm. He opened the gate and came in.

  "I hope you fell off," she remarked viciously.

  "I did," he said quietly.

  "Do you know how much that horse is worth?"

  'Til assume it's something more than I make in a year," he answered indifferently.

  "That was a foolish, irresponsible thing to do, and I meant it about the week's salary "

  "Fine," he said quietly. "You can have it deducted off my final check."

  Her mouth fell open. "Your final check?" She forgot immediately that she had just been questioning the wisdom of this venture herself.

  "You heard me."

  "You're being childish," she said, but she could feel her mouth starting to tremble.

  "Childish? From you? Now that's a laugh. I'll tell you what I'm being. I'm being man enough to decide I don't want to be some rich girl's toy any more. I don't know what's going on with you this week, but I don't particularly like being treated with less respect than you'd show your dog, Miss Copperthorne—like some robot that can be trained to go out and get you a few more silver trophies and blue ribbons to stuff in your tack room."

  _

  She stared at him. Oh, Lord, she had been treating him just as he said. Giving him commands as if he were a piece of wood rather than a human being. But not for the reason he thought. Part of it was the uncomfortable uneasiness
being twigged by the horse, some vulnerable place inside herself that she didn't want anybody to see. But, even as she acknowledged that, she knew that vulnerable place went even deeper than she wanted to see. She was also afraid of him. She was afraid that if she treated him any other way—treated him like the man she was so aware he was—he would know.

  Know, somehow, that his eyes were the last ones she thought of before bed; know, somehow, that he entered her thoughts more than he ought. Know that she dreamed the dreams of a normal, healthy woman, even though she felt she no longer had a right to such dreams. As if a healthy specimen of a man like this would ever be seen dead with a woman who limped so atrociously, who looked so clumsy and awkward. His grace demanded a complement that she would never be able to give him.

  She had to keep the boundaries clear, in her mind, in her voice. She had to treat him the way she did— coldly and impersonally. Because if she ever let her guard down and showed him how attractive she was coming to find him, he would probably die laughing. Oh, not to her face, of course. To her face, he would remain solemn and impartial, with only pity coloring the blue of his eyes.

  "I'm sorry/' she said, her voice strained, "I certainly didn't mean to offend you. I may have been a little curt "

  "A little curt?" he spat incredulously. "Lady, the jump instructors who push reluctant recruits out the doors of airplanes are more polite than you. Bank robbers with sawn-off shotguns show more grace in asking for what they want. Fevered boys in the back seats of cars show more finesse "

  "I think I get your point " she said, struggling for composure.

  He regarded her high color and pinched expression thoughtfully. "And a prude, besides."

  "I am not!"

  "Oh, come on. The mere mention of a back seat "

  "That was entirely inappropriate to this conversation! It was an extremely crude reference "

  "Okay. Okay. Please don't remind me, again, that I belong on the other side of the tracks. I think I've received that particular message loud and clear."