by Jodi Thomas
A light flickered and swelled from within, dappling pale light onto the porch. Win remained rooted in place, watching her shadowy figure against the thin curtains until a cool breeze smelling of rain blew across his face.
Win unwrapped his gelding’s reins and led his horse toward the barn. He paused by the corral where Deil stood motionless, neck arched imperiously as he stared down at Win.
“So, Deil, are you really the devil?” he asked, meeting the stallion’s haughty gaze.
The devil reared up on its hind legs and trumpeted a shrill whinny.
Win instinctively stepped back, even though Deil had no chance of touching him. The first raindrops began to patter against the hard ground, giving Win an excuse to retreat.
Deil would definitely be a challenge, but taming the stallion would be a cakewalk compared to trying to tame his mistress.
AFTER lighting the kerosene lamp, Cait lowered herself to the rocking chair, which had been her father’s favorite place in the evenings. Ever since his death, she’d felt comforted by the rhythmic motion of the chair. Sometimes she closed her eyes and remembered how she used to clamber into his lap when she was small and demand he tell her a story.
Sitting there now, Cait could almost hear the faint Scottish burr in his low, rumbly voice. A tear rolled down her cheek, surprising her. She didn’t think she had any left, but informing Win of her pa’s death brought back the razor-sharp sorrow.
Ever since she’d walked into the telegraph office nine days ago to carry out her father’s last wish, she’d been preparing herself to see Win again. She thought she was ready; after all, ten years was nearly half a lifetime ago. However, the brittle reality of seeing him in the flesh released a flood of memories—some sad, some happy, but mostly painful.
For nearly ten years, she’d immersed herself in her and her father’s dream. Now twenty-five, Cait was a spinster, but she’d made that choice herself. Her father hadn’t understood, but he hadn’t pressed either. She was glad he hadn’t. How could she have told him how stupid and naïve she’d been? Not one to shirk responsibility even back then, Cait knew she was as much to blame for what happened that night as Win. But when Win had ridden away the next morning without even saying good-bye, Cait’s love for her long-time friend gradually turned to hatred.
Unable to remain sitting, Cait stood and paced the length of the two-room cabin. She paused by a window and eased the curtain back to gaze at Deil. Her free hand clenched into a fist as the knot in her stomach tightened. If it were up to her, the stallion would’ve been put down on the day he murdered her pa.
Instead, Cait had been forced by her dying father to send for the man she despised to tame the horse she hated.
If it weren’t so tragic, Cait would’ve found the irony laughable.
Chapter Two
WIN CUPPED HIS hands and splashed night-cooled water from the tin pan across his face. He gasped, but repeated the action again and again, hoping to rid his mind of the cobwebs from a restless night. Using the bar of soap sitting on the porch bench beside the pan, Win washed and shaved.
He drew the straight razor across his whiskered cheek and jaw, then gave a wry chuckle at his reflection in the small square mirror. Of all that he’d inherited from his mother’s half Indian blood—high cheekbones, straight dark hair, and perpetually tanned complexion—he hadn’t inherited the lack of facial hair, which would’ve come in handy. Finishing the routine task, he rinsed with more cool water and plucked a rough towel off a wooden peg and wiped dry, then finger-combed his thick damp hair back from his forehead.
The front door opened and Cait stepped out into the dawn’s rosy glow.
“Mornin’,” he said.
“Morning,” she echoed, not meeting his gaze.
Win wasn’t surprised to see her in trousers again. The only time she’d worn a dress was that evening ten years ago. He could see the gown clearly in his mind—pale blue with white lace bordering the low neckline, accenting the soft swell of her breasts. She hadn’t resembled the girl he’d known for so many years, but had been transformed into a desirable woman who’d sparked his hot young blood. He’d never forgotten that dress or that night.
“Was the barn comfortable?” she asked.
Win blinked in surprise at her attempt at a civil conversation. “I’ve slept in worse.”
“At least it doesn’t leak.”
“Good thing, since it rained buckets last night.”
She nodded, a slight smile quirking her lips. “Breakfast is ready.”
He followed her into the cabin, enjoying the gentle sway of her backside and the long blond braid that fell to her waist. He recalled the smell of honeysuckle, and how her silky hair had slid across his chest and caressed his fingers.
He hung his hat on the rack by the door just as he’d done so often as a boy. A wave of nostalgia startled him. He’d been drifting for so long, he’d forgotten what it was like to think of some place as home.
He waited until Cait sat down before taking his chair, and hid a smile at her faint blush when she realized what he’d done.
“You don’t have to act so polite, Win. We’ve known each other since we were kids,” she said irritably.
He smiled, using the charm that had never failed him with the ladies. “But we aren’t kids anymore.”
She raised her deceptively dainty chin. “That’s right. I grew up fast, thanks to you.”
Win flinched at the bitterness in her tone. “Seems to me you weren’t complaining too much at the time.” In fact, they’d spent much of the night together and their youthful passions had kept them awake for most of it.
Cait’s cheeks reddened, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she picked up her fork and began to eat.
Win swallowed back a smile and dug into a hefty pile of fried potatoes, scrambled eggs, sausage, and biscuits and gravy. Cait rose halfway through the quiet meal to fill their cups with fresh coffee.
“Do you have any hired help, besides me?” Win asked after pushing aside his empty plate.
Cait shook her head as she idly traced the rim of her cup with a fingertip. “I haven’t had time to look for a hired hand since Pa died.” Abruptly, she stood and carried their plates to the tin wash pan.
“You’d best start looking. You can’t do everything that needs doing yourself.”
“I manage just fine.” If she were a cat, she would’ve arched her back and hissed.
Win leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “You’ll work yourself into an early grave.”
She gripped the back of her chair and stared down at him. Her eyes blazed with stubborn pride. “This was our dream, me and Pa’s, and I’m not going to let it go now that it’s so close.”
There was nothing of the laughing, innocent girl Win had known in the plucky woman before him. “I’m not asking you to, just that you hire someone to give you a hand.”
“No. As long as you can tame Deil, I can take care of the mares and the foals they’ll soon drop.”
Win dragged a hand through his unruly hair. “Damn it, Cait, don’t be so stubborn. I couldn’t handle that many horses myself and I’m not afraid to admit it.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I can, then, isn’t it?” She marched to the door. “Daylight’s wasting and I’ve got work to do.” Cait donned her wide-brimmed hat and snugged the horsehair string beneath her chin. She strode out, leaving Win alone in the cabin.
He threw himself back in his chair and let loose a string of Cheyenne curses. What the hell had happened to the sweet girl he’d known? Granted, he’d taken her virginity and ridden out the next morning without so much as a good-bye, but dammit, he’d had his reasons. She’d had ten years to get over it, yet she clung to her resentment.
She was twenty-five now, an old maid, even though she hardly looked like some dried-up spinster. Why hadn’t she married? Girls got over boys and moved on, but it seemed Cait hadn’t.
Why not?
He finished his coffee, hardly
tasting the strong bitterness that he favored. After sliding his cup into the warm water, he donned his hat and followed in Cait’s wake.
He paused on the porch and noticed the barn door was open. He’d closed it behind him that morning. Knowing it was better to leave Cait alone until she got over her tantrum, Win strode toward the corral where Deil pawed at the ground. As he approached, the stallion tossed his head and snorted, and Win felt the familiar thrill of pitting himself against a strong-willed horse.
Win had been an itinerant bronc buster most of his life, following his father from one ranch to another after his ma died. They were normally paid five dollars a head for every horse they saddle-broke. But unlike some of their fellow busters, Win and his pa never used a whip or quirt on a horse. Neither of them could abide such cruelty to an animal.
Win’s mother’s people had taught Adam Taylor how to break horses their way. Combining the best methods of both the white and Cheyenne worlds, he and his son had established a reputation as busters who could saddle-break a horse without destroying its spirit.
“How will you do it?”
Win whirled around, startled to see Cait standing beside him, her hands in her back trouser pockets. She was staring at Deil impassively.
Win forced himself to relax and leaned against the top corral pole. “Depends. Do you plan on riding him or will you just use him for breeding?”
Cait narrowed her eyes. “Both. I have to be able to trust him.”
“He’s a wild horse, Cait. You’ll never be able to totally trust him.”
“If I can’t trust him, I’ll put him down.”
Win scowled. “You don’t have to—”
She faced him squarely. “Yes, I do.”
“It’ll take some time.”
Cait’s attention returned to the stallion that stared at them with intelligent and cunning eyes. “Use whatever means you have to. I want him broke.”
“I won’t whip an animal,” Win stated, hoping that wasn’t what she meant.
“He’s an outlaw.” Cait clasped her hands and rested them atop the corral rail. Her knuckles were white. “But he’s the best chance for this ranch to succeed, so do what you have to in order to break him.”
“You’ve changed, Cait,” Win said softly after a few moments of stunned silence.
“What the hell did you expect?”
Win flinched inwardly at the unexpected cuss word and her venomous tone, but kept his voice even. “The Cait I knew used to cry over dead butterflies.”
“The Cait you knew is long gone.”
The statement was delivered in a flat monotone that both frustrated and angered Win. He’d ridden away to protect her, yet he was beginning to suspect he’d done the opposite.
“Are you going to forefoot him?” Cait asked, the anger replaced by bland curiosity.
Win eyed the spirited stallion, gauging how difficult it would be to lasso the animal’s two front legs. If he did, he’d have to take Deil down and tie his hind foot up as well. “Probably,” he finally replied. “If he’s as tough as you say, I’ll have to bust him, too. I’ll need your help if I do that.”
“Pa tried to do it himself.”
Win scowled. “That’s a good way to get hurt.”
“Or killed,” Cait murmured and turned toward the barn. “Let’s get started,” she said over her shoulder.
Puzzled by her words, Win retrieved his lariat from the barn, while Cait brought another out from the tack room. She’d donned gloves and was checking the rope with the assurance of someone who’d done it numerous times.
Win had never known a woman bronc buster other than Cait. They’d both been taught by their fathers, with some of their training overlapping while Win and his father visited the Brices. Cait had forefooted her first mustang when she was thirteen years old. Win had been in the corral with her, ready to help if the horse needed to be taken down. He’d been impressed by her skill, but instead of praising her, he’d teased her.
“I’ll rope him,” Win said, unlooping his reata.
Cait stopped by the corral, her gaze never leaving the stallion. Her breath rasped in and out with rapid puffs.
“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned by her pallor.
“Fine.”
Although she sounded anything but fine, Win mentally shrugged and opened the post corral’s gate to slip inside. He latched the gate behind him when it was obvious she wasn’t going to follow. Instead, she climbed onto the corral’s top rail and sat there, her loop in hand and ready.
Deil pawed the ground, his hooves tossing dirt behind him. His nostrils flared widely and he snorted. Not once did the stallion take his eyes off Win, which sent a shiver of unease down the buster’s spine as he continued to hold the horse’s gaze. To look away would give Deil the victory, and Win had yet to be defeated by a wild horse. He increased the rope’s loop as he began to twirl it over his head.
Most horses fled when they saw the rope, and in a round enclosure, it was fairly easy to forefoot a running mustang. However, rather than flee, Deil reared up on his powerful hind legs, forcing Win to retreat, away from the flailing hooves.
“Look out,” Cait shouted, an oddly frantic note in her voice.
Win didn’t dare spare her a glance as Deil came down onto all fours, and instead of distancing himself from the man as most wild animals would do, the stallion charged. Instinctively, Win hit the ground and rolled toward the rail fence. Deil’s left hoof grazed Win’s forearm a moment before he cleared the pen and he gasped at the unexpected pain, sucking in a lungful of dirt and dust. Wracked by a coughing fit, Win curled up on the ground, cradling his injured arm against his belly.
Cait stumbled to her knees beside him and rested her hand on his shoulder. “Are you hurt?”
The coughing eased and Win spat out gritty sand. He nodded with a jerky motion, still rattled by the close call. “Just bruised.”
He began to push himself to a sitting position, and Cait helped him with a steady pressure on his back.
“You’re bleeding,” Cait suddenly said. “Let me take a look.”
Win glanced down at his throbbing arm and blinked at the red stain across his sleeve. “It’s nothing.”
Cait glared at him. Knowing he wouldn’t win this argument, he carefully held out his arm and was relieved to find it didn’t feel broken. He’d earned enough broken bones through the years to know what it felt like. “I’ve been cut worse shaving.”
Cait rolled her eyes at the phrase they’d both heard for years. “You, Pa, and Uncle Adam—one of you could be dying, and it’d be, ‘I’ve been cut worse shaving.’ ”
Win grinned. “You’re one to talk. You said it yourself one time.”
“My one and only time.” Cait unbuttoned Win’s cuff and rolled up the bloody sleeve. Her fingertips brushed his skin, leaving pockets of warmth, and she leaned so close that her flowery soap scent rose above the sour scent of sweat and fear. “When Pa told me I’d never have to shave, I cried.”
Win remembered the scene vividly. “You cried more over that than your broken collarbone.”
Cait huffed a soft laugh. “I don’t think Pa knew what to do with me.”
“Good thing I was around.”
Cait lifted her head and her eyes were almost warm. “I guess it was.” Her attention returned to his injury and her tone turned businesslike. “Let’s go to the porch and I’ll clean this up and bandage it for you.”
Although Win figured a tied bandanna around the wound would suffice, he didn’t argue. He didn’t want to disturb the fragile harmony between them.
Leaning on her more than necessary, Win relished the feel of her arm around his waist and her unique scent that reminded him of a field of wildflowers. He’d doubted he’d ever touch her again, even in friendship, after her chilly reception last evening. Exaggerating the seriousness of a minor wound was a small sin to have her so close.
She settled him on the rickety rocker on the porch and he wished he dared p
ull her onto his lap. As children they argued over who would get the rocker. Sometimes they decided by playing a marble game where they would take turns trying to hit each other’s marble with their own. The first to miss lost. But more often than not, they ended up scrunching together on the chair.
“Do you still have your topaz cat’s-eye?” Win asked curiously.
Cait paused before entering the cabin and studied him blankly, then comprehension filled her face. She dug into her pocket, drew her fist out, and opened her hand. In the center of her palm lay a golden brown marble. She shrugged and shoved it back into her pocket. “It got to be habit carrying it around.”
Amazed that she still had it, much less kept it with her all the time, Win realized maybe his Cait wasn’t long gone. That maybe the spirited but gentle-hearted Cait he’d known most of his life was hiding behind this woman’s cool reserve.
“Do you still have yours?” she asked, still standing in the doorway and gazing at him intently.
For a moment, Win would’ve traded everything to have his lucky marble in his pocket, but he’d lost it long ago. “No.”
Disappointment flickered across her face, but all she said was “Oh.” Then she went into the cabin without another glance.
Chapter Three
ONCE INSIDE THE cabin, Cait leaned against the door and forced herself to breathe deeply. Between Win’s close encounter with Deil and the unearthing of long-ago feelings, she felt shaky and uncertain. Her heart gradually slowed its rapid gallop.
Memories she shared with Win unsettled her, and they jumbled with images of Deil trampling her father. She recalled with horrifying clarity the moment she believed Win would be struck down in the same manner as her father. Terror and helplessness slashed through her, leaving her weak and nauseous. If Deil had killed Win, too . . .
In two long strides, she crossed the room and seized the cool metal rifle in her trembling hands. Damn her father’s last words—a man’s life was worth far more than a broken promise.
She jerked open the cabin door and stormed out.