by Janet Dailey
“What’s going on?” he demanded. “Why the cold shoulder all of a sudden?”
The warmth of his hand filtered through her shirt sleeve and spread through her arm. She supposed he was entitled to some explanation for her change in attitude, although she was reluctant to make one. The muscles in her throat were tightening.
“I’m not upset or angry,” Sharon insisted. “I just didn’t feel like going through with your little charade.”
The pressure of his hand increased to turn her away from the saddle and toward him, subjecting her to the scrutiny of his unrelenting gaze. “Why? Because I was making an excuse to kiss you?” Ridge challenged, bringing his intention out in the open even though both of them knew it was where the conversation had been leading all along. “Or didn’t you want to be kissed?”
“Not particularly.” She lowered her gaze to the width of his leanly muscled shoulders, conscious of the way his chest expanded under his shirt. His nearness was creating an inner agitation she couldn’t control.
“You raised no objections the other afternoon,” he reminded her tersely. “In fact, you were more than willing.”
“Maybe I’m just tired of playing games,” she retorted with an impatient edge to her voice.
His harsh laugh had no humor in it. “What do you call this if it isn’t playing hard-to-get?”
The accusation startled her into meeting his narrowed look. After those early years of chasing him, was this a subconscious attempt to have Ridge pursue her?
“No.” It was more an answer to her own silent question than a denial of his charge.
She started to shrug out of his grip and turn back to the saddle, but Ridge tightened his hold and hooked an arm around her waist to keep her facing him. Anger flared at his forceful tactics. She brought her hands up to keep from being drawn into his arms.
A stillness claimed him. Sharon wasn’t about to antagonize him by struggling further, satisfied to show a resistance and keep the status quo. She could feel the coiled energy in his rigidly flexed muscles, the strength held severely in check. Hard blue eyes relentlessly probed her expression.
Suddenly the clenched line of his jaw relaxed. “I get it,” he murmured with chilling satisfaction. “You planned all this just to pay me back.”
“Wh . . . what?” Sharon faltered, completely thrown by his conclusion because she had no idea what he meant.
“You wanted me to become interested in you so you could have the chance to tell me to go to hell.” His mouth crooked in a slanting line of rueful amusement. “I never would have suspected you of being vindictive, Sharon.”
“I’m not,” she denied his assessment.
“Am I supposed to believe that you’re not trying to pay me back for the way I unwittingly hurt you a few years ago?” Ridge tipped his head to the side, hard amusement gleaming in his eyes.
“Then you know—” She stopped in midsentence, briefly horrified to discover he had known how crazy she had been about him.
“When a young girl starts mooning over you like a lovesick puppy, it’s difficult to ignore.” His voice was thick with silent laughter, the corners of his mouth deepening.
Sharon pulled all her feelings tightly inside her-self to hide them. “It must have been very amusing for you,” she replied stiffly. “No wonder you and Scott were so willing to take me with you all the time. I was always good for a laugh if things got dull.”
“Sharon.” He gave her a little shake as if exasperated with the deprecating way she was talking about herself. “It wasn’t until the last that I guessed the way you felt about me.”
“And before that?” Sharon looked at him, so cool that she felt frozen inside. “Why did you drag me along?”
There was a flash of impatience. “Why are you asking me questions when you know the answers are going to hurt?”
“I always thought it was the truth that hurt,” she declared, a bitter tinge in her response. “Or maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment. But I would like to know.”
Ridge studied her as if to assure himself that she meant it, then grimly set about answering her. “I guess we regarded you as a kind of mascot—a cute and cuddly little mascot.”
“Cuddly.” Sharon choked on the word. Suddenly she was tired of blaming herself for what had happened. “You didn’t exactly treat me like a mascot, Ridge,” she accused. “You did hand out some encouragement.”
“Inadvertently I suppose I did,” he admitted, then hit back without pulling any punches. “But you made it plain that you wanted to be kissed. You did everything but come right out and ask. The first few times I thought you were trying some innocent experimenting on me. Later on I realized that wasn’t the case.” He paused, a nerve twitching along his jaw. “Hero worship can be very flattering to a man, Sharon, even when it is misplaced,” Ridge added curtly.
“I’m sure it can be.” It all seemed very fresh and painful. She was beginning to feel the strain of keeping all emotion inside.
“It was never my intention to hurt you—and it isn’t now.” He sounded slightly angry that she had resurrected the past.
“I don’t know.” There was something stilted in her voice and the attempted shrug of her shoulders. “I always heard catharsis is good for the soul.”
“Wrong. Confession is good for the soul,” Ridge corrected her wording. “My God, how did we get into this discussion?” In a burst of impatience, he released her and took a quick stride away.
“You brought it up,” Sharon reminded him.
“I’m sorry—” He swung around with thinly disguised impatience. “Sorry I mentioned it—and I’m sorry if you got hurt. What else can I say?”
“Nothing,” she agreed, but the apology seemed flat.
His features appeared to grow hard, the recklessly handsome lines smoothed out of them. “I suppose you’re secretly wishing that I’d say something like ‘I’ve been waiting all this time for you to grow up’—that I’ve always been in love with you.”
Anger flashed in her hazel eyes at his mildly sarcastic taunt. “Maybe once I might have wanted to hear that, but I don’t now.”
“It’s a damned good thing, because it isn’t true,” he muttered thickly. “I didn’t like it on that damned pedestal. I’m a man, not some god to be adored.”
“Believe me, I don’t have you on a pedestal any more.” Her voice trembled on an angry pitch, a direct reaction to his icy rage.
“Good. At least we’re clear on that point.” There was a certain rawness in the contained energy that directed his movements as Ridge gathered up the reins to his horse and swung into the saddle.
In direct contrast, Sharon mounted with a deliberate lack of haste. When both toes were securely tucked into the stirrups, she looked at him expectantly, meeting his boldly challenging gaze.
“One more thing before we ride to the holding pens,” he said.
“What’s that?” Coolly she continued to hold his gaze.
“The next time I decide to kiss you, I won’t make any excuses or wait for any invitations. I’ll simply do it—man to woman,” Ridge stated flatly—and about as unromantically as one could get.
“Always supposing I let you,” she countered smoothly, finding she had no qualms about slapping him down—figuratively. There was even the faintest smile on her face when she said it. “I think I liked you better when you were all honey and sweetness,” he muttered.
“And I liked you better when you were just a handsome flirt,” she retaliated in kind.
Digging her heels into the bay’s sides, she sent the horse across the creek at a lunging canter. Its scrambling hooves kicked back sprays of water, showering the liver-colored chestnut and its rider. She hadn’t ridden twenty yards before Ridge caught up with her. Not a word was exchanged during the ride to the holding pens. A couple of times, Sharon stole a glance at his profile, its lines showing such unyielding hardness and his gaze always directed to the front.
The holding pens were a hive of activit
y. Dust kicked up by churning hooves hung over the scene like a dirty gray pall. The bawling of cattle, clacking hooves, and shouts from cowboys both afoot and on horseback created a ceaseless cacophony. As Sharon and Ridge approached the pens, they separated. Sharon rode over to the motorized cook wagon where her mother was in full preparation for the noon meal, and Ridge headed for the chutes to check on the morning’s progress.
Feeding nearly two dozen hungry men with hearty appetites was no easy task under normal circumstances, so Sharon opted to pitch in and help her mother rather than join the crew at the chutes, vaccinating and ear-tagging calves. Conversation was held to a minimum by the amount of work to be done and the noisy competition from the pens.
When the call for noon break sounded, the activity shifted to the camp kitchen. Good-natured grumbling was customary, but this group grumbled with silent expressions. Her brother was one of the last in line. Sharon speared a charred steak and forked it onto his plate.
“What’s the matter?” she murmured, her glance running curiously around the vaguely sullen group. “Nobody seems to be in a very good mood.”
“It’s Ridge,” Scott muttered in a grudging fashion. “He’s been as bad tempered as a range bull with a nose full of quills. He’d better start letting up or he’s going to find himself without a crew.”
Scott drew in a deep breath, briefly meeting her sobered glance, and moved on down the line for his helping of potatoes and corn. She scanned the scattered collection of cowboys sitting cross-legged on the ground or clustered around the odd barrel drum. But there was no sign of Ridge among them.
“That should be the last of them,” her mother said as she wiped her brow with the back of her hand, a sight in her flop-brimmed hat, a cast-off flannel shirt of her husband’s rolled up at the sleeves, and snug-fitting jeans that showed her still very trim figure.
Sharon glanced at the cowboy walking away with a plate mounded with food. “Where’s Ridge?” she asked. “I don’t remember seeing him come through the line.”
“That’s right. He didn’t,” her mother commented with a curious frown and looked around as Sharon had done earlier. “He can help himself when he comes. Grab yourself a plate. If Ridge is like your father, he won’t show up until the food is cold. I used to wonder if your father ever ate a hot meal when he was running a crew. That’s half the reason I started cooking,” she admitted, smiling faintly.
When another quick search of the area couldn’t find Ridge, Sharon reached for a plate. It had been a long time since breakfast. Maybe some of her rawness was caused by hunger.
The excuse her mother had offered for Ridge’s absence was a reasonable one. From her own experience, Sharon knew her father always lagged behind, making sure everything was in readiness for the crew when they went back to work and no time would be lost. He was always the last one to eat and the first one to throw in his plate. There was no reason to think Ridge was any different.
Her plate was filled and balanced on her knees as she sat on the running board of the van. She was chewing her first bite of steak when Ridge approached the edge of the circle. The camp kitchen was situated upwind from the pens, so the dust and smell would blow away from the food and the noise would also be carried away from them. He was leading a roan horse, instead of the liver-colored chestnut he’d been riding in the morning.
“Hobbs, where did you pick up that unbranded yearling bull?” Ridge snapped the question at his lanky foreman. “How come you haven’t separated him into a pen away from those cows?”
“Damned thing’s half-wild. We spent nearly an hour this morning trying to pen it, then finally decided it was easier to separate the cows from him,” the foreman Hobbs answered and immediately forked another mouthful of food.
“Is the yearling one of ours?”
Hobbs had to chew quickly to answer. “Yup. It sticks close to that half-shorthorn cow. I reckon she’s his momma. I think we had her listed last year as being barren. I figure she hid that calf from us all this time.”
“Did you try penning her first?” There was a faintly sarcastic edge to Ridge’s voice. Sharon could almost see the foreman’s hackles rise at the insulting tone.
“Nope. We didn’t do that,” he admitted.
There was no comment from Ridge, but his look said it all. “I’ll pen her up myself.” He stepped into the stirrup and swung onto the saddle all in one motion.
“If you wait a couple of minutes, I’ll give you a hand,” Hobbs protested.
“I don’t need it.” Ridge set the roan horse on its haunches and pivoted it in a half-spin, pointing it toward the corrals.
There were a few low mutters, but no one moved from their positions. Sharon was conscious that all were watching as Ridge rode his horse into the largest of the pens. After he had herded the mixed cattle to the far end, he came back and opened the gate to a small pen. He walked the roan horse back to the herd, picked out his quarry, and set about cutting it from the rest.
A sudden movement caught her attention. She turned, spying her brother as he set his half-finished meal down and walked over to the horses, climbing aboard his afternoon mount. Secretly she was relieved that someone had gone to help Ridge, although she suspected he could have managed alone.
With Scott on hand to turn back the cattle, Ridge made short work of separating the shorthorn cow and maneuvering her into the smaller pen. The yearling bull turned out to be a real test for horse and rider. Four times he escaped and rejoined the herd. The fifth time, Ridge threw a loop around his stubby horns and dragged him the length of the pen, shouting to Scott to open the gate.
The sight of the lowing cow in the pen checked the struggles of the yearling bull. Ridge shook off the loop as the yearling trotted eagerly past him through the open gate. A murmur of approval began to flow through the watching riders at the efficient job Ridge had made of it.
A moment later everything went wrong. The instant the yearling heard the squeak of the closing gate Scott had started to swing shut, it whirled and charged for that narrow gap of freedom. The cow followed her feral son.
In a lightning move, Ridge was out of the saddle and lending his strength to Scott’s in an effort to latch the gate before the pair forced it open. For a second, it looked as if they were going to succeed. Sharon was on her feet, unconsciously holding her breath.
The gate popped open. Scott was thrown to the side, but Ridge stumbled into the path of the yearling bull and the cow. He tried to dodge out of the way, but the wild-eyed bull hooked at him and drove him onto the ground with a butt of his head. Then both animals were trampling over him and running to rejoin the herd.
For a paralyzed instant, Sharon stood there, staring at Ridge and waiting for him to move out of the half-crumpled ball he’d made of himself on the ground. The sounds of others running toward the scene finally galvanized her into action.
Later, she couldn’t even remember climbing the fence and racing across the churned-up sod of the pen. She didn’t remember seeing any of the other riders—only her brother as he knelt over Ridge’s still form.
And her mother’s voice, saying, “Don’t move him.”
Then Sharon was kneeling on the ground next to him. Her hand felt cold as ice when she pressed it to the side of Ridge’s warm neck, seeking his pulse. Her own heart was pounding so loudly that she couldn’t hear his, but Sharon felt the vein throbbing beneath her fingers.
Ridge stirred, moaning. There was an ashen pallor to his skin beneath its burnt-in tan. He made an attempt to uncurl from his protective ball and roll onto his back. Her eyes widened at the sight of his torn shirt, the front nearly shredded by sharp, cloven hooves. His stomach was scraped raw, but there were no other obvious wounds.
Suddenly his glazed blue eyes looked directly into Sharon’s. “Help me up.” His voice was a hoarse, rasping sound, completely unrecognizable as belonging to him.
Somebody ventured the opinion, “Maybe he’s just got the wind knocked out of him.”
“Probably broke some ribs,” someone else said.
“You’d better lie still,” Sharon told him and glanced at her mother.
“No.” The protest was a guttural sound.
After a few seconds’ hesitation, her mother suggested, “Let’s see if we can’t roll him onto his back.”
“Help me up.” This time Ridge didn’t waste his throat-rough appeal on either Sharon or her mother, directing it instead at Scott who would understand the manly need to rise above injury.
Her mother placed a restraining hand on her son’s arm when he would have helped Ridge. She bent closer so that Ridge could see her face. “The pain. Where is the pain, Ridge?’ She spoke slowly and concisely.
The tightly clenched jaw, the betraying whiteness, and the trembling mouth that wouldn’t let any sound come out were all indications that he was in a great deal of pain. Both arms were clasped around his middle, holding his stomach.
It seemed a very long time before Ridge attempted to answer the question. “My gut—” his voice was so tight and hoarse that tears pricked Sharon’s eyes “—feels like it’s ... on fire.”
Mrs. Powell sent a concerned glance at her son. “I think he’s hurt internally. Get one of the trucks in here and find some blankets.”
Somebody handed Sharon a canteen. She vaguely recalled hearing that a person bleeding internally shouldn’t drink. So she took her kerchief from her pocket and wetted it down, then used it to moisten Ridge’s lips and wipe some of the grime off his face. His features were twisted with pain that had him doubled up.
When the pickup roared into the pen, two cowboys hopped out of the rear bed before it came to a stop. Both carried blankets. Her mother instructed them to roll Ridge onto the blankets and use them as a stretcher to transport him to the back of the truck.
“Dammit! If somebody would just help me . . . , I can walk,” he protested in a hoarse rage.