by Cox, Deborah
Tentatively, she followed suit, smiling when the animal stood still and allowed her to stroke his smooth muzzle.
"Its nose is so soft," she murmured, enjoying the closest contact she'd ever had with a horse. At the same time, she was all too conscious of the large mouth full of teeth so close to her hand and of the man beside her.
He was watching her. The pressure of his gaze upon her caused her heart to flutter. His behavior last night was unforgivable, and yet she felt as if she were the one who should ask for forgiveness. She closed her eyes tightly. No, she would not apologize. She'd done what she'd felt she had to do.
"I used to love to go to the racetrack with my father and watch the horses run," she said, remembering the days when they used to go to the Metairie Race Course in New Orleans or the less fine but equally exciting tracks at Natchez-Under-the-Hill. She steered her mind away from other memories, of her father losing all their money on a single long shot, of the euphoria of the big win and the night spent alone while her father spent his winnings on whiskey and women. But no matter the outcome, she always loved to watch the horses from afar. "They are very beautiful. But I've always been afraid of them. They seem so wild and fierce."
"Horses are animals," he said, "and you shouldn't expect them to act otherwise. But they are not unreasonable or vicious, except for the occasional rogue. You just have to know how to handle them."
Like you? She almost put voice to the question as she continued to stroke the horse's silken nose. From what she knew about him, he could have been talking about himself.
He swung a collection of leather straps down from his shoulder. It was the first time she noticed the bridle.
"You put the bridle on," he instructed, holding it out to her.
She took a step back. "I can't."
"What do you mean, you can't?" he asked. "How the hell did you think you were going to make it to Mexico if you can't even put a bridle on a horse? How were you going to harness and unharness a team?"
She winced at his tone but stood her ground. "The man at the livery stable in Ubiquitous harnessed them for me. It was only supposed to take eight hours to get here, and I planned to take them to the livery stable here once I arrived —"
"Of all the stupid, irresponsible—"
"I had no choice!"
His words stung, but he was right. She had been foolish to think she could make it all the way to Mexico without knowing how to care for a team of horses. Still, he had no right to berate her so. She'd nearly been killed. Hadn't she suffered enough?
"Well, you're going to learn if you're going to travel with me. You hold the bridle like this," he said, holding one end in his left hand, while his right hand held the edge of the bit. With his left hand, he held the bridle toward the horse's ears. With his right, he pressed the bit against the horse's mouth. "You nudge his mouth with the bit until he opens it."
The sound of metal against teeth grated on her nerve endings. "Doesn't that hurt?"
Rafe slipped the bit all the way into the horse's mouth and the animal immediately began chomping on it. "No, it doesn't hurt."
"How do you know?"
"It doesn't hurt," he repeated. "Look, if it hurt, he wouldn't get used to it. If a horse gets a rock in his shoe, he limps. If a horse gets a burr under his saddle, he bucks. A horse isn't going to let you do anything to him that hurts without putting up a fight. Okay, now you fasten the chin strap and it's done."
Unsure how to proceed, she stepped closer to the horse. Two leather straps dangled on either side of the animal's head. Taking one in each hand, she drew them together just as the horse tossed its head.
She gasped and jumped back. "He won't hold still."
Rafe gave a short laugh. Leaning back against the hitching post, his arms folded across his chest, he watched her closely. "He's an animal, not a fence post. He knows what you're getting him ready for, and he wants you to hurry up."
"Well, I can't!" she snapped.
"That's all right. You don't have to do what he wants. He has to do what you want."
"Does he know that?"
"Yes, and he knows you're afraid, too. He can sense it."
"I'm not afraid."
"No, you're just shaking all over because it's so cold."
She moved toward the horse once again, gazing into the placid brown eyes, wondering if this animal could really sense her fear. She stole a glance at him. She didn't have to wonder about him. He knew when she was afraid. She wondered if he could read her other emotions as easily.
"Don't worry about me," she said as she grasped the two ends of the strap again. "I'll do it, all right?"
"There's nothing to be afraid of." He had come to stand close behind her, so close she could feel the heat of his body against her back. "I'm not going to put you on a horse and turn you loose."
Her fingers trembled as she managed to fasten the chin strap while Rafe looked on.
"I told you," she said as soon as she finished. "I'm not afraid."
"Not too tight." Rafe reached over her, leaning into her back. A rush of heat spread like a brush fire through her body as the scent of lye soap and male flesh assaulted her senses. He slipped his hand between the chin strap and the horse's muzzle. "Make sure your hand fits under it. You want to be able to control him, but you don't want to choke him to death."
She moved away. She liked him like this—all cleaned up. Maybe she liked him too much. He seemed almost respectable. He hadn't shaved, but she was beginning to think she liked him better with a beard than without.
"What next?" she asked from a safe distance.
"The blanket and saddle. Blanket first. It protects his back from the leather saddle. Make sure it's straight and high enough on his neck so it won't slide down when you start moving."
Anne did as she was told, swinging the heavy blanket up onto the animal's back and pulling it up to cover over its shoulder.
"Now it's time for the saddle. I'll put it on this time and you watch."
He took a step toward the saddle, but she darted in front of him and reached it first.
"I want to do it. It's the only way I'll learn."
"It's kind of heavy," he warned.
"Just tell me what to do." She'd show him she wasn't as helpless as he thought.
Rafe murmured something under his breath about stubborn women, then said, "Okay, pick up the right stirrup and the cinch. You do know what the cinch is?"
She ignored the sarcastic question, picking up the right stirrup and a strap of leather she assumed must be the cinch. "What next?"
"Lay the stirrup and the cinch over the saddle out of the way. Then pick the saddle up by the horn and the back lip and carry it over to him."
Clearing the hitching post with the saddle was easy, but when she tried to carry it to the horse, it became too heavy and she dropped it in the dusty street.
Rafe came forward immediately, but she had already grabbed the saddle again.
"No!" she snapped. "I can do it. I just didn't expect it to be so heavy."
His booted foot in the middle of the saddle prevented her from lifting it again. "There's nothing wrong with admitting you need help sometimes, Anne-Marie."
She let go of the saddle and jerked back. "Don't call me that. No one calls me that but my father, and he's dead. How do you know my name anyway? You've never been curious enough to ask."
Her eyes widened. There was only one way he could have found out. "You went through my things! You read my letter!"
Rafe brushed the inside of the saddle with his hand, then lifted it. "I was looking for information about the gold."
"So you could leave me behind. Bastard!" Blood rushed to her face.
He walked over to the horse and threw the saddle on its back. "You don't know what you're getting into, Anne-Marie."
"I told you not to call me that!" Her skin had gone cold, despite the heat of the day. She couldn't bear the idea that Rafe Montalvo had gone through her private things, had read a personal
letter.
"Then what should I call you?"
He pushed the stirrup and cinch over the other side of the horse, then turned to gaze at her, leaning against the saddle on the horse's back.
"How about Christina?" she asked, her voice trembling with rage and dread. Did she really want to go down this path?
He seemed to pale slightly at the mention of that name. Or was it just her imagination? He moved away so quickly she couldn't be sure, but she sensed a change in his demeanor as he threw the stirrup over the saddle.
"Why would I call you that?"
"The doctor said you told him my name was Christina." She'd wanted to elicit some response from him, but something in his silence and his manner disturbed her. She pressed on. "Who is she?"
"It's just a name I made up." He reached beneath the horse's belly to catch the cinch as he spoke.
"I don't believe you." The words came out before she even formed them in her mind.
"I don't give a damn what you believe." His face had turned to stone, and he gave her the most implacable stare she had ever seen. It should have been enough to warn her, but she couldn't let it drop. He had reacted, and she wanted to know why.
"Let it be," she mimicked. "Isn't that what you were going to say?"
"Are you watching what I'm doing? You tighten the front cinch first. Not too tight.”
"I need to do it myself if I'm ever going to be able to do it on my own."
"So you can run away again?" He repeated his actions with the back cinch, then turned to face her with accusing eyes.
"Quit trying to change the subject. I didn't run away," she replied. "And if you're so concerned about me running away, why are you teaching me to saddle my own horse?"
"Now who's trying to change the subject? The only reason you didn't run away is because your plan didn't work. What the hell did you think you were doing anyway?"
Ignoring his questions and the anger in his eyes, she turned back to a safer subject, one that made her the accuser and not the accused. "You went through my personal things. That's inexcusable."
"Then I guess it won't do any good to apologize, and there's no reason to discuss it.” He dropped the stirrup in place, adjusted the saddle and tightened the front cinch. “You won't forgive me and I won't ask you to."
She followed as he led the horse behind the doctor's office. He had succeeded in turning her away from the subject she'd wanted to pursue, the subject of a woman named Christina.
"You always mount from the left side of the horse," he said, as he came to a stop. "Put your left foot in the stirrup and swing your right leg over the horse's back."
He waited made one last adjustment to the front cinch while she swallowed her fear and walked toward him.
"Take the reins in your left hand and hold on to the saddle horn with the same hand. I'll hold the stirrup straight. Just slip your foot in it and swing yourself up. Unless you'd prefer to ride side-saddle, but I wouldn't advise it, especially where we're going. I can't imagine it could be very secure."
She stood close to the horse, reaching up to grasp the saddle and the reins, holding her breath. Her legs trembled. Her whole body trembled. She didn't want to do this, but there was no way he was going to leave her behind.
Her grip tightened. She looked down at the stirrup. How was she ever going to maneuver this?
"Pull yourself up and swing your right leg over," he told her.
She pushed with her left leg and pulled with all her might, but she couldn't make it. The horse's back was too high and she was too weak. Just when she was about to give up, a hand on her backside pushed her up and she stood in the stirrup, suspended in air, too terrified even to take exception to the intimate contact.
"Wait!" she cried in panic as the horse moved slightly.
Her right leg swung over the horse's back and she dropped none too gently in the saddle. With her right foot, she searched frantically for the other stirrup, but whenever she managed to get that foot situated, the other one would come out. The stirrups were too long.
"Take it easy," Rafe said gently.
Anne turned to look down at him where he stood at her left and drew some reassurance from the calmness in his eyes.
"Move your foot," he said, in that same soft, calming voice.
She did as she was told. Shifting in the saddle, she tried in vain to find a comfortable position. "It feels awkward."
Rafe smiled but kept his attention on what he was doing. "You'll be sore for the first couple of days."
His hands worked skillfully at adjusting the length of the stirrup, those hands that could kill so easily. She remembered their strength when he'd held both her wrists in one hand last night, and she also remembered their gentleness when he'd applied the poultice to her burnt hand. He was a man of mystery and contradiction, a man who stirred her senses as much as he stirred her curiosity.
His task completed, he looked up at her, squinting against the glaring sun. "You didn't answer my question."
"What?" She'd been so absorbed in watching him, so completely mesmerized, she had lost the thread of their conversation.
"What were you doing last night?"
He walked around the front of the horse, and then he was standing on her right. Without warning, his hand closed around her slender ankle.
She jerked away from the contact, adjusting her skirt when her motion caused it to ride up above her boot. He smiled up at her crookedly. Her face grew hot as her heart began to pound hard inside her chest. She held her leg out of his way as he adjusted the right stirrup, trying not to think about how close he was to her or how his touch made her melt inside.
"If you wanted to get yourself killed, there are easier ways," he said.
"You went through my things. You know how little money I have. I needed more. I learned a long time ago that people aren't always around when you need them, and if you can't take care of yourself, no one else will."
Rafe gazed up into her eyes for a moment before saying rather sadly, "How'd you get to be so old so fast?"
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she wasn't quite sure why. For someone who never cried, she'd been close to tears more in the past few days than she had been throughout the rest of her life.
"My father used to say I was born old." She swallowed with an effort, forcing the tears down.
"Couldn't you have thought of a safer way to earn money?"
She laughed without humor. "Got any suggestions? The only things I can do are play poker and sew, and I hate sewing more than I hate gambling."
He walked around to the front of the horse, grasped the bridle, and started leading the animal forward.
She gasped. "What are you doing?"
"I'm going to lead him around in a circle and let you get used to moving. Put your weight in the stirrups and hold on to the pommel if you need to. As long as you stick with me, you don't have to worry about money. I have enough for both of us."
She closed her eyes but the memory still came: Rafe Montalvo reaching into his shirt pocket, withdrawing a wanted poster, holding it up to the dead man's face to see if the picture matched, arguing with the sheriff over paying for the dead man's burial.
"I'll pay you back every cent," she told him. "I don't want anything to do with your blood money."
"Well," he said, without turning around, "that blood money's going to get you where you're going."
Silence stretched between them. She accustomed herself to the unusual feel of the saddle. There was something rather exciting about putting her legs around a living, breathing beast. She'd never put her legs around anything in her life before. It didn't seem quite decent.
She sat atop an animal that was capable of carrying her at great speeds, an animal whose strength and stamina she could not fathom, an animal that could easily injure or even kill her should it decide to do so, but that had been gentled through centuries of breeding and training to the point that it would allow itself to be used for her purposes. It was thrilling and frig
htening at the same time.
She studied the back of the man who walked in front of her. He knew the secret of this animal. He knew many secrets, some of which she had no desire to uncover. He knew the secret of killing and then going on living as if it had never happened.
She wasn't sure she wanted to know any more about him than she knew right now. It seemed every time she peeled back another layer, she discovered something dark and frightening. And yet, no matter what else she knew about him, she was beginning to believe he would not harm her – at least as long as she kept the secret of the gold's location.
"How many wanted posters do you carry around with you?" she asked.
He didn't look at her or change his pace. "I've lost count."
They reached the point where they'd started. Rafe moved to the left side of the horse, reached up without a word, and placed his hands on her waist. She had no choice but to grab onto his shoulders as he pulled her down from the saddle and stood her on her feet before him.
He didn't release her as she'd expected. Instead, he stood with his hands nearly spanning her waist, his face close above hers. She glanced away when she could bear the intensity of those pale eyes no longer.
"You knew that man last night," she murmured softly. Her voice sounded strange in her own ears.
Rafe stared at her in silence for a long moment. She couldn't look at him. The heat of his gaze on her was enough to cause her to squirm in his grip. His nearness violated her composure and stripped away her defenses. She couldn’t back away and he would not.
"I had a poster on him," he said.
Closing her eyes tightly, she tried to resist the magnetism that sizzled between them, wondering if he could feel it too. "You... you said you'd met him in the desert. What happened? How did you know him?"
He dropped his hands away and she released a ragged breath, regaining her composure with an effort. Turning to the horse, he dropped the reins over the animal's head. "Let it—"
"Let it be?"
"I knew him, all right? I had tracked him before, when I was in the army."
She nearly gasped with shock. This was more than he had revealed about himself since they'd met, and she had a feeling he hadn't meant to reveal even that. "You were in the army?"