Boundary Lines

by Nora Roberts

  “Clay wasn’t so narrow-minded,” Jillian shot back. “If a person was capable, it didn’t matter what sex they were. I run Utopia, and before I’m done you’ll be watching your back door.” She rose, unconsciously regal. “I’ve got work to do. Thank you for the coffee, Mrs. Murdock.” She shot a look at Aaron, who was still lounging back on the sofa. “We still have to discuss your stud.”

  “What’s this?” Murdock demanded, banging his cane.

  “I’m breeding Samson to one of Jillian’s mares,” Aaron said easily.

  Color surged into Murdock’s pale face. “A Murdock doesn’t do business with a Baron.”

  Aaron unfolded himself slowly and stood. “I do business as I please,” Jillian heard him say as she started for the door. She was already at her car when Aaron caught up with her.

  “What’s your fee?” she said between her teeth.

  He leaned against the car. If he was angry, she couldn’t see it. “You spark easily, Jillian. I’m usually the only one who can put my father in a rage these days.”

  “Your father,” she said precisely, “is a bigot.”

  With his thumbs hooked idly in his pockets, Aaron studied the house. “Yeah. But he knows his cows.”

  She let out a long breath because she wanted to chuckle. “About the stud fee, Murdock.”

  “Come to dinner tonight, we’ll talk about it.”

  “I haven’t time for socializing,” she said flatly.

  “You’ve been around long enough to know the advantages of a business dinner.”

  She frowned at the house. An evening with the Murdocks? No, she didn’t think she could get through one without throwing something. “Look, Aaron, I’d like to breed Delilah with Samson—if the terms are right. I’m not interested in anything more to do with you or your family.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s been bad blood between the Barons and Murdocks for almost a century.”

  He gave her a lazy look under lowered lids. “Now who’s a bigot?”

  Bull’s-eye, she thought and sighed. Putting her hands on her hips, she tried to bring her temper to order. Murdock was an old man, and from the looks of him, a sick one. He was also, though she’d choke rather than admit it, a great deal like her grandfather. She’d be a pretty poor individual if she couldn’t drum up some understanding. “All right, I’ll come to dinner.” She turned back to him. “But I won’t be responsible if it ends up with a lot of shouting.”

  “I think we might avoid that. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “I know the way,” she countered and started to push him aside to open her door. His hand curled over her forearm.

  “I’ll pick you up, Jillian.” The steel was back, in his eyes, his voice.

  She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  He cupped the back of her head and kissed her before she could prevent it. “I intend to,” he told her easily, then left her to walk back into the house.

  Chapter Four

  Jillian was still smarting when she returned to Utopia. Murdock’s comments, and Aaron’s arrogance, had set her back up. She wasn’t the sort of woman who made a habit of calming down gracefully. She told herself the only reason she was going back to the Double M to deal with the Murdocks again was because she was interested in a breeding contract. She wanted to believe it.

  Dust flew out from her wheels as she drove up the hard-packed road to the ranch yard. It was nearly deserted now at mid-morning, with most of the men out on the range, others busy in the outbuildings. But even an audience wouldn’t have prevented her from springing out of her car and slamming the door with a vicious swing. She’d never been a woman who believed in letting her temper simmer if it could boil.

  The sound of the door slam echoed like a pistol shot.

  Fleetingly she thought of the paperwork waiting for her in the office, then brushed it aside. She couldn’t deal with ledgers and numbers at the moment. She needed something physical to drain off the anger before she tackled the dry practicality of checks and balances. Spinning on her heel, she headed for the stables. There’d be stalls to muck out and tack to clean.

  “Anybody in particular you’d like to mow down?”

  With her eyes still sparkling with anger, Jillian whipped her head around. Joe Carlson walked toward her, his neat hat shading his eyes, a faint, friendly smile on his lips.

  “Murdocks.”

  He nodded after the short explosion of the word. “Figured it was something along those lines. Couldn’t come to an agreement on the stud fee?”

  “We haven’t started negotiating yet.” Her jaw clenched. “I’m going back this evening.”

  Joe scanned her face, wondering that a woman who played poker so craftily should be so utterly readable when riled. “Oh?” he said simply and earned a glare.

  “That’s right.” She bit off each word. “If Murdock didn’t have such a damn beautiful horse, I’d tell him to go to the devil and to take his father with him.”

  This time Joe grinned. “You met Paul Murdock, then.”

  “He gave me his opinion on cowboys in skirts.” Her teeth shut with an audible click.

  “Really?”

  The dry tone was irresistible. Jillian grinned back at him. “Yes, really.” Then she sighed, remembering how difficult it had been for Paul Murdock to climb the four steps to his own porch. “Oh, hell,” she murmured, cooling off as quickly as she’d flared. “I shouldn’t have let him get under my skin. He’s an old man and—”

  She broke off, stopping herself before she added ill. For some indefinable reason she found it necessary to allow Murdock whatever illusions he had left. Instead she shrugged and glanced toward the corral. “I suppose I’m just used to the way Clay was. If you could ride and drive cattle, he didn’t care if you were male or female.”

  Joe gave her one sharp glance. It wasn’t what she’d started to say, but he’d get nothing out of her by probing. One thing he’d learned in the past six months was that Jillian Baron was a woman who did things her way. If a man got too close, one freezing look reminded him how much distance was expected.

  “Maybe you’d like to take another look at the bull now, if you’ve got a few minutes.”

  “Hmm?” Abstracted, she looked back at him.

  “The bull,” Joe repeated.

  “Oh, yeah.” Hooking her thumbs in her pockets, she began to walk with him. “Gil told you about the calves we counted yesterday?”

  “Took a look in the south section today. You’ve got some more.”

  “How many?”

  “Oh, thirty or so. In another week all the calves should be dropped.”

  “You know, when we were checking the pasture yesterday, I thought the numbers were a little light.” Frowning, she went over the numbers in her head again. “I’m going to need someone to go out there and see that some of the bred cows haven’t strayed.”

  “I’ll take care of it. How’s the orphan?”

  With a grin Jillian glanced back toward the cattle barn. “He’s going to be fine.” Attachments were a mistake, she knew. But it was already too late between her and Baby. “I’d swear he’s grown since yesterday.”

  “And here’s Poppa,” Joe announced as they came to the bull’s paddock.

  After angling the hat farther over her eyes, Jillian leaned on the fence. Beautiful, she thought. Absolutely beautiful.

  The bull eyed them balefully and snorted air. He didn’t have the bulk or girth of an Angus but was built, Jillian thought, like a sleek tank. His red hide glistened as he stood in the full sun. She didn’t see boredom in his expression as she’d seen in so many of the steers or cows, but arrogance. His horns curved around the wide white face and gave him a sense of dangerous royalty. It occurred to her that the little orphan she had sheltered in the cattle barn would look essentially the same in a year’s time. The bull snorted again and pawed the ground as if daring them to come inside and try their luck.

  “His personality’s grim at best,” Joe
commented.

  “I don’t need him to be polite,” Jillian murmured. “I just need him to produce.”

  “Well, you don’t have any problem there.” His gaze skimmed over the bull. “From the looks of the calves in this first batch, he’s already done a good job for us. Since we’re using artificial insemination now, he should be able to service every Hereford cow on the ranch this spring. Your shorthorn bull’s a fine piece of beef, Jillian, but he doesn’t come up to this one.”

  “No.” Smiling, she rested her elbows on the rail. “As a matter of fact, I found out today that Aaron Murdock was interested in our, ah, Casanova. I can’t help but pat myself on the back when I remember how I sent off to England for him on a hunch. Damned expensive hunch,” she added, thinking of the hefty dent in the books. “Aaron told me today that he was planning on going over to England to take a look at the bull himself when he learned we’d bought him.”

  “That was a year ago,” Joe commented with a frown. “He was still in Billings.”

  Jillian shrugged. “I guess he was keeping his finger in the pie. In any case, we’ve got him.” She pushed away from the rail. “I meant what I said about the fair in July, Joe. I can’t say I cared much about competition and ribbons before. This year I want to win.”

  Joe brought his attention from the bull and studied her. “Personal?”

  “Yeah.” She gave him a grim smile. “You could say it’s personal. In the meantime, I’m counting on this guy to give me the best line of beef cattle in Montana. I need a good price in Miles City if I’m going to keep the books in the black. And next year when some of his calves are ready . . .” She trailed off with a last look at the bull. “Well, we’ll just take it a bit at a time. Get back to me on those numbers, Joe. I want to take a look at Baby before I go into the office.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said again and watched her walk away.

  * * *

  By five Jillian had brought the books up to date and was, if not elated with the figures, at least satisfied. True, the expenses had taken a sharp increase over the last year, but by roundup time, she anticipated a tidy profit from the Livestock Auction Saleyard in Miles City. The expenses had been a gamble, but a necessary one. The plane would be in use within the week and the bull had already proved himself.

  Tipping back in her grandfather’s worn leather chair, she studied the ceiling. If she could find the time, she’d like to learn how to fly the plane herself. As owner she felt it imperative that she have at least a working knowledge of every aspect of the ranch. In a pinch she could shoe a horse or stitch up a rent hide. She’d learned to operate a hay baler and a bulldozer during a summer visit when she’d still been a teenager—the same year she’d wielded her first and last knife to turn a calf into a steer.

  When and if she could afford the luxury, she thought, she’d hire someone to take over the books. Grimacing, she closed the ledger. She had more energy left after ten hours on horseback than she did after four behind a desk.

  For now it couldn’t be helped. She could justify adding another puncher to the payroll, but not a paper pusher. Next year . . . She laughed at herself and rested her feet on the desk.

  Trouble was, she was counting too heavily on next year and too many things could happen. A drought could mean the loss of crops, a blizzard the loss of cattle. And that was just nature. If feed prices continued to rise, she was going to have to seriously consider selling off a larger portion of the calves as baby beef. Then there was the repair bill for the Jeep, the vet bill, the food bill for the hands. The bill for fuel that would rise once the plane was in use. Yes, she was going to need top dollar in Miles City and a blue ribbon or two wouldn’t hurt.

  In the meantime she was going to keep an eye on her spring calves. And Aaron Murdock. With a half smile, Jillian thought of him. He was an arrogant son of a bitch, she mused with something very close to admiration, and sharp as they came. It was a pity she didn’t trust him enough to discuss ranch business with him and kick around ideas. She’d missed that luxury since her grandfather died. The men were friendly enough, but you didn’t talk about your business with a hand who might be working for someone else next year. And Gil was . . . Gil was Gil, she thought with a grin. He was fond of her, even respected her abilities, though he wouldn’t come out and say so. But he was too steeped in his own ways to talk about ideas and changes. So that left—no one, Jillian admitted.

  There had been times in Chicago when she could have screamed for privacy, for solitude. Now there were times she ached just to have someone to share an hour’s conversation with. With a shake of her head she rose. She was getting foolish. She had dozens of people to talk to. All she had to do was go down to the barn or the stables. Wherever this sudden discontent had come from it would fade again quickly enough. She didn’t have time for it.

  Her boots clicked lightly on the floor as she walked through the house and up the stairs. From outside she could hear the ring of the triangle, those quick three notes that ran faster and faster until it was one high sound. Her hands would be sitting down to their meal. She’d better get ready for her own.

  Jillian toyed with the idea of just slipping into clean jeans and a shirt. The deliberate casualness of such an outfit would be pointedly rude. She was still annoyed enough at both Aaron and his father to do it, but she thought of Karen Murdock. With a sigh, Jillian rejected the idea and hunted through her closet.

  It was a matter of her own choice that she had few dresses. They were relegated to one side of her closet, and she rooted them out on the occasions when she entertained other ranchers or businessmen. She stuck with simple styles, having found it to her advantage not to call her femininity to attention. Standing in a brief teddy, she skimmed over her options.

  The oversized white cotton shirt wasn’t precisely masculine in cut, but it was still casual. Matched with a full white wrap skirt with yards of sash, it made an outfit she thought not only suitable but understated. She made a small concession with a touch of makeup, hesitated over jewelry, then, shrugging, clipped small swirls of gold at her ears. Her mother, Jillian thought, would have badgered her to do something more sophisticated with her hair. Instead she ran a brush through it and left it down. She didn’t need elegant styles to discuss breeding contracts.

  When she heard the sound of a car drive up outside, she stopped herself from going to the window to peer out. Deliberately she took her time going back downstairs.

  Aaron wasn’t wearing a hat. Without it Jillian realized he still looked like what he was—a rugged outdoorsman with touches of the aristocracy. He didn’t need the uniform to show it.

  Looking at him, she wondered how he had found the patience to sit in Billings behind a desk. Trim black slacks and a thin black sweater fit him as truly as his work clothes, yet they seemed to accent the wickedness of his dark looks. She felt an involuntary stir and met his eyes coolly.

  “You’re prompt,” she commented and let the door swing shut behind her. It might not be wise to be alone with him any longer than necessary.

  “So are you.” He let his gaze move over her slowly, appreciating the simplicity of her outfit—the way the sash accented her small waist and narrow hips, the way the unrelieved white made her skin glow and her hair spark like fire. “And beautiful,” he added, taking her hand. “Whether you like it or not.”

  Because her pulse reacted immediately, Jillian knew she had to tread carefully. “You keep risking that hand of yours, Murdock.” When she tried to slip hers from it, he merely tightened his fingers.

  “One thing I’ve learned is that nothing’s worth having if you don’t have trouble getting it.” Very deliberately he brought her hand to his lips, watching her steadily.

  It wasn’t a gesture she expected from him. Perhaps that was why she did nothing but stare at him as the sun dipped lower in the sky. She should’ve jerked her hand away—she wanted to spread her fingers so that she could touch that high curve of cheekbone, that lean line of jaw. She d
id nothing—until he smiled.

  “Maybe I should warn you,” Jillian said evenly, “that the next time I hit you, I’m going to aim a bit lower.”

  He grinned, then kissed her hand again before he released it. “I believe it.”

  Because she couldn’t stop her own smile, she gave up. “Are you going to feed me, Murdock, or not?” Without waiting for an answer, she walked down the steps in front of him.

  His car was more in tune with the oil man she’d first envisioned. A low, sleek Maserati. She admired anything well built and fast and settled into her seat with a little sigh. “Nice toy,” she commented with a hint of the smile still playing around her mouth.

  “I like it,” Aaron said easily when he started the engine. It roared into life, then settled down to a purr. “A man doesn’t always like to take a woman out in a Jeep or pickup.”

  “This isn’t a date,” she reminded him but skimmed her fingers over the smooth leather of the upholstery.

  “I admire your practical streak—most of the time.”

  Jillian turned in her seat to watch the way he handled the car. As well as he handles a horse, she decided. As well as she was certain he handled a woman. The smile curved her lips again. He was going to discover that she wasn’t a woman who took to being handled. She settled back to enjoy the ride.

  “How does your father feel about me coming to dinner?” she asked idly. Those last slanting rays of the sun were tipping the grass with gold. She heard a cow moo lazily.

  “How should he feel about it?” Aaron countered.

  “He was amiable enough when I was simply Clay Baron’s granddaughter,” Jillian pointed out. “But once he found out I was the Baron, so to speak, he changed his tune. You’re fraternizing with the enemy, aren’t you?”

  Aaron took his eyes off the road long enough to meet her amused look with one of his own. “So to speak. Aren’t you?”

  “I suppose I prefer to look at it as making a mutually advantageous bargain. Aaron . . .” She hesitated, picking her way carefully over what she knew was none of her business. “Your father’s very ill, isn’t he?”