Boundary Lines

by Nora Roberts

  “Fifty. It’s early yet.”

  “Mmm. Are you using artificial insemination?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Just curious. We are in the same business, Jillian.”

  “That’s not something I’ll forget,” she said evenly.

  Annoyance tightened his mouth. “Which doesn’t mean we have to be opponents.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Jillian shifted her hat lower on her forehead. “I came to look at your stud, Murdock.”

  He stood watching her a moment, long enough, directly enough, to make Jillian want to squirm. “So you did,” Aaron said quietly. Plucking a halter from the fence post, he swung lithely over the corral fence.

  Rude, Jillian condemned herself. It was one thing to be cautious, even unfriendly, but another to be pointedly rude. It wasn’t like her. Frowning, Jillian leaned on the fence and rested her chin in her open hand. Yet she’d been rude to Aaron almost continually since their first encounter. Her frown cleared as she watched him approach the stallion.

  Both males were strong and well built, and each was inclined to want his own way. At the moment the stallion wasn’t in the mood for the halter. He pranced away from Aaron to lap disinterestedly at his water trough. Aaron murmured something that had Samson shaking his head and trotting off again.

  “You devil,” she heard Aaron say, but there was a laugh in his voice. Aaron crossed to him again, and again the stallion danced off in the opposite direction.

  Laughing, Jillian climbed the fence and sat on the top rung. “Round ’em up, cowboy,” she drawled.

  Aaron flashed her a grin, then shrugged as though he’d given up and turned his back on the stallion. By the time he’d crossed the center of the corral, Samson had come up behind him to nudge his head into Aaron’s back.

  “Now you wanna make up,” he murmured, turning to ruffle the horse’s mane before he slipped on the halter. “After you’ve made me look like a greenhorn in front of the lady.”

  Greenhorn, hell, Jillian thought, watching the way he handled the skittish stallion. If he cared about impressing anyone, he’d have made the difficult look difficult instead of making it look easy. With a sigh, she felt her respect for him go up another notch.

  Automatically she reached out to stroke the stallion’s neck as Aaron led him to her. He had a coat like silk, and eyes that were wary but not mean. “Aaron . . .” She glanced down in time to see his brow lift at her voluntary use of his name. “I’m sorry,” she said simply.

  Something flickered in his eyes, but they were so dark it was difficult to read it. “All right,” he said just as simply and held out a hand. She took it and hopped down.

  “He’s beautiful.” Jillian ran her hands along Samson’s wide chest and sleek flank. “Have you bred him before?”

  “Twice in Billings,” he said, watching her.

  “How long have you had him?” She went to Samson’s head, then passed under him to the other side.

  “Since he was a foal. It took me five days to catch his father.” Jillian looked up and caught the light in his eyes. “There must’ve been a hundred and fifty mustangs in his herd. He was a cagey devil, damn near killed me the first time I got a rope around him. Then he busted down the stall and nearly got away again. You should’ve seen him, blood spurting out of his leg, fire in his eyes. It took six of us to control him when we bred him to the mare.”

  “What did you do with him?” Jillian swallowed, thinking how easy it would be to breed the wild stallion again and again, then geld him. Break his spirit.

  Aaron’s eyes met hers over Samson’s withers. “I let him go. Some things you don’t fence.”

  She smiled. Before she realized it, she reached over Samson for Aaron’s hand. “I’m glad.”

  With his eyes on hers, Aaron stroked a thumb over her knuckles. The palm of his hand was rough, the back of hers smooth. “You’re an interesting woman, Jillian, with a few rather appealing soft spots.”

  Disturbed, she tried to slip her hand from his. “Very few.”

  “Which is why they’re appealing. You were beautiful last night, sitting in the hay, crooning to the calf, with the light in your hair.”

  She knew about clever words. Why were these making her pulse jerky? “I’m not beautiful,” she said flatly. “I don’t want to be.”

  He tilted his head when he realized she was perfectly serious. “Well, we can’t have everything we want, can we?”

  “Don’t start again, Murdock,” she ordered, sharply enough that the stallion moved restlessly under their joined hands.

  “Start what?”

  “You know, I wondered why I always end up being rude to you,” she began. “I realize it’s simply because you don’t understand anything else. Let go of my hand.”

  His eyes narrowed at her tone. “No.” Tightening his hold, he gave the stallion a quick pat that sent him trotting off, leaving nothing between himself and Jillian. “I wondered why I always end up wanting to toss you over my knee—or my shoulder,” he added thoughtfully. “Must be for the same reason.”

  “Your reasons don’t interest me, Murdock.”

  His lips curved slowly, but his eyes held something entirely different from humor. “Now, I might’ve believed that, Jillian, if it hadn’t been for last night.” He took a step closer. “Maybe I kissed you first, but, lady, you kissed me right back. I had a whole long night to think about that. And about just what I was going to do about it.”

  Maybe it was because he’d spoken the truth when she didn’t care to hear it. Maybe it had something to do with the wicked gleam in his eyes or the insolence of his smile. It might have been a combination of all three that loosened Jillian’s temper. Before she had a chance to think about it, or Aaron a chance to react, she’d drawn back her fist and plunged it hard into his stomach.

  “That’s what I intend to do about it!” she declared as he grunted. She had only a fleeting glimpse of the astonishment on his face before she spun on her heel and strode away. She didn’t get far.

  Jillian’s breath was knocked out of her as he brought her down in a tackle. She found herself flat on her back, pinned under him with a face filled with fury rather than astonishment looming over hers. It only took her a second to fight back, and little more to realize she was outmatched.

  “You hellion,” Aaron grunted as he held her down. “You’ve been asking for a thrashing since the first time I laid eyes on you.”

  “It’ll take a better man than you, Murdock.” She nearly succeeded in bringing her knee up and scoring a very important point. Instead he shifted until her position was only more vulnerable. Heat that had nothing to do with temper surged into her stomach.

  “By God, you tempt me to prove you wrong.” She squirmed again and stirred something dangerous in him. “Woman, if you want to fight dirty, you’ve come to the right place.” He closed his mouth over hers before she could swear at him. At the instant of contact he felt the pulse in her wrist bound under his hands. Then he felt nothing but the hot give of her mouth.

  If she was still struggling beneath him, he wasn’t aware of it. Aaron felt himself sinking, and sinking much deeper than he’d expected. The sun was warm on his back, she was soft under him, yet he felt only that moist, silky texture that was her lips. He thought he could make do with that sensation alone for the rest of his life. It scared him to death.

  Pulling himself back, he stared down at her. She’d stolen the breath from him much more successfully this time than she had with the quick jab to the gut. “I ought to beat you,” he said softly.

  Somehow in her prone position she managed to thrust her chin out. “I’d prefer it.” It wasn’t the first lie she’d told, but it might have been the biggest.

  She told herself a woman didn’t want to be kissed by a man who tossed her on the ground. Yet her conscience played back that she’d deserved that at the least. She wasn’t a fragile doll and didn’t want to be treated like one. But she shouldn’t want him to kiss her
again . . . want it so badly she could already taste it. “Will you get off me?” she said between her teeth. “You’re not as skinny as you look.”

  “It’s safer talking to you this way.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  The gleam shot back in his eyes. “Then we won’t talk.”

  Before Jillian could protest, or Aaron could do what he’d intended, Samson lowered his head between their faces.

  “Get your own filly,” Aaron muttered, shoving him aside.

  “He’s got a smoother technique than you,” Jillian began, then choked on a laugh as the horse bent down again. “Oh, for God’s sake, Aaron, let me up. This is ridiculous.”

  Instead of obliging he looked back down at her. Her eyes were bright with laughter now, her dimple flashing. Her hair spread like fire in the dust. “I’m beginning to like it. You don’t do that enough.”

  She blew the hair out of her eyes. “What?”

  “Smile at me.”

  She laughed again and he felt the arms under his hands relax. “Why should I?”

  “Because I like it.”

  She tried to give a long-winded sigh, but it ended on a chuckle. “If I apologize for hitting you, will you let me up?”

  “Don’t spoil it—besides, you won’t catch me off guard again.”

  No, she didn’t imagine she would. “Well, in any case you deserved it—and you paid me back. Now, get up, Murdock. This ground’s hard.”

  “Is it? You’re not.” He lifted a brow as he shifted into a more comfortable position. He wondered if her legs would look as nice as they felt. “Anyway, we still have to discuss that remark about my technique.”

  “The best I can say about it,” Jillian began as Aaron pushed absently at Samson’s head again, “is that it needs some polishing. If you’ll excuse me, I really have to get back. Some of us work for a living.”

  “Polishing,” he murmured, ignoring the rest. “You’d like something a little—smoother.” His voice dropped intimately as he brushed his lips over her cheek, light as a whisper. He heard the quick, involuntary sound she made as he moved lazily toward her mouth.

  “Don’t.” Her voice trembled on the word so that he looked down at her again. Vulnerability. It was in her eyes. That, and a touch of panic. He hadn’t expected to see either.

  “An Achilles’ heel,” he murmured, moved, aroused. “You’ve given me an advantage, Jillian.” Lifting a hand, he traced her mouth with a fingertip and felt it tremble. “It’s only fair to warn you that I’ll use it.”

  “Your only advantage at the moment is your weight.”

  He grinned, but before he could speak a shadow fell over them.

  “Boy, what’re you doing with that little lady on the ground?”

  Jillian turned her head and saw an old man with sharp, well-defined features and dark eyes. Though he was pale and had an air of fragility, she saw the resemblance. Astonished, she stared at him. Could this bent old man who leaned heavily on a cane, who was so painfully thin, be the much feared and respected Paul Murdock? His eyes, dark and intense as Aaron’s, skimmed over her. The hand on the cane had the faintest of tremors.

  Aaron looked up at his father and grinned. “I’m not sure yet,” he said easily. “It’s a choice between beating her or making love.”

  Murdock gave a wheezing laugh and curled one hand around the rail of the fence. “It’s a stupid man who wouldn’t know which choice to make, but you’ll do neither here. Let the filly up so I can have a look at her.”

  Aaron obliged, taking Jillian by the arm and hauling her unceremoniously to her feet. She slanted him a killing glare before she looked back at his father. What nasty twist of fate had decided that she would meet Paul J. Murdock for the first time with corral dust clinging to her and her body still warm from his son’s? she wondered as she silently cursed Aaron. Then she tossed back her hair and lifted her chin.

  Murdock’s face remained calm and unexpressive. “So, you’re Clay Baron’s granddaughter.”

  She met his steady hawklike gaze levelly. “Yes, I am.”

  “You look like your grandmother.”

  Her chin lifted a fraction higher. “So I’ve been told.”

  “She was a fire-eater.” A ghost of a smile touched his eyes. “Hasn’t been a Baron on my land since she marched over here to pay her respects to Karen after the wedding. If some young buck had tried to wrestle with her, she’d have blackened his eye.”

  Aaron leaned on the fence, running a hand over his stomach. “She hit me first,” he drawled, grinning at Jillian. “Hard.”

  Jillian slipped her hat from her back and meticulously began to dust it off and straighten it. “Better tighten up those muscles, Murdock,” she suggested as she set the hat back on her head. “I can hit a lot harder.” She glanced over as Paul Murdock began to laugh.

  “I always thought I should’ve thrashed him a sight more. What’s your name, girl?”

  She eyed him uncertainly. “Jillian.”

  “You’re a pretty thing,” he said with a nod. “And it doesn’t appear you lack for sense. My wife would be glad for some company.”

  For a minute she could only stare at him. This was the fierce Murdock—her grandfather’s archrival—inviting her into his home? “Thank you, Mr. Murdock.”

  “Come in for coffee, then,” he said briskly, then shot a look at Aaron. “You and I have some business to clear up.”

  Jillian felt something pass between the two men that wasn’t entirely pleasant before Murdock turned to walk back toward the house. “You’ll come in,” Aaron said as he unlatched the gate. It wasn’t an invitation but a statement. Curious, Jillian let it pass.

  “For a little while. I’ve got to get back.”

  They walked through the gate together and relatched it. Though they moved slowly, they caught up with Murdock as he reached the porch steps. Seeing his struggle to negotiate them with the cane, Jillian automatically started to reach out for his arm. Aaron grabbed her wrist. He shook his head, then waited until his father had painstakingly gained the porch.

  “Karen!” It might have been a bellow if it hadn’t been so breathless. “You’ve got company.” Murdock swung open the front door and gestured Jillian in.

  It was more palatial than Utopia’s main building, but had the same western feel that had first charmed a little girl from Chicago. All the wood was highly polished—the floor, the beams in the ceilings, the woodwork—all satiny oak. But here was something Utopia lacked. That subtle woman’s touch.

  There were fresh flowers arranged in a pottery bowl, and softer colors. Though Jillian’s grandfather had kept the ivory lace curtains at the windows, his ranch house had reverted to a man’s dwelling over the years. Until she walked into the Murdock home and felt Karen’s presence, Jillian hadn’t realized it.

  There was a huge Indian rug spread over the floor in the living area and glossy brass urns beside the fireplace that held tall dried flowers. A seat was fashioned into a bow window and piled with hand-worked pillows. The room had a sense of order and welcome.

  “Aren’t either of you men going to offer Jillian a chair?” Karen asked mildly as she wheeled in a coffee cart.

  “She seems to be Aaron’s filly,” Murdock commented as he lowered himself into a wing-backed chair and hooked his cane over the arm.

  Jillian’s automatic retort was stifled as Aaron nudged her onto the sofa. Gritting her teeth, she turned to Karen. “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Murdock.”

  Karen didn’t attempt to disguise her amusement. “Thank you. I believe I saw you at the rodeo last year,” she continued as she began to pour coffee. “I remember thinking you looked like Maggie—your grandmother. Do you plan to compete again this year?”

  “Yes.” Jillian accepted the cup, declining cream or sugar. “Even though my foreman squawked quite a bit when I beat his time in the calf roping.”

  Aaron reached over to toy with her hair. “That tempts me to enter myself.”

&nb
sp; “It’d be a pretty sorry day when a son of mine couldn’t rope a calf quicker than a female,” Murdock muttered.

  Aaron sent him a bland look. “That would depend on the female.”

  “You might be out of practice,” Jillian said coolly as she sipped her coffee. “After five years behind a desk.” As soon as she’d said it, Jillian felt the tension between father and son, a bit more strained, a bit more unpleasant than she’d felt once before.

  “I suppose things like that are in the blood,” Karen said smoothly. “You’ve taken to ranch life, but you were raised back east, weren’t you?”

  “Chicago,” Jillian admitted, wondering what she’d stirred up. “I never fit in.” It was out before she realized it. A frown flickered briefly in her eyes before she controlled it. “I suppose ranching just skipped a generation in my family,” she said easily.

  “You have a brother, don’t you?” Karen stirred the slightest bit of cream into her own coffee.

  “Yes, he’s a doctor. He and my father share a practice now.”

  “I remember the boy—your father,” Murdock told her, then chugged down half a cup of coffee. “Quiet, serious fellow who never said three words if two would do.”

  Jillian had to smile. “You remember him well.”

  “Easy to understand why Baron left the ranch to you instead.” Murdock held out his cup for more coffee, but Jillian noticed that Karen only filled it halfway. “Guess you can’t do much better than Gil Haley for running things.”

  Her dimple flickered. It was, she supposed, a compliment of sorts. “Gil’s the best foreman I could ask for,” Jillian said mildly. “But I run Utopia.”

  Murdock’s brows drew together. “Women don’t run ranches, girl.”

  Her chin angled. “This one does.”

  “Nothing but trouble when you start having cowboys in skirts,” he said with a snort.

  “I don’t wear them when I’m hazing cattle.”

  He set down his cup and leaned forward. “Whatever I felt about your grandfather, it wouldn’t sit well with me to see what he worked for blown away because of some female.”

  “Paul,” Karen began, but Jillian was already rolling.