Читать книгу Marry A Man Who Will Dance - Ann Major, Ann Major - Страница 13

A warm gust of air stirred Ritz’s golden curls and ruffled Buttercup’s tail. Sighing in exasperation, Ritz scowled at her mare.

“So, we’ll let Buttercup decide who she wants?” Roque repeated.

She put her hands on her hips. “I don’t have to play your silly game. This stubborn, mulish, black-tailed idiot is mine.”

“Careful how you talk to her, or she won’t choose you.”

Ritz tossed her head and would’ve spun away, but he grabbed her arm.

“Ouch. You’re hurting me.”

“Okay. Okay.” Instantly the long brown fingers loosened. His dark face was grim. “So, you don’t have to play my game or prove anything. Maybe I just want to teach you something.”

“You left marks.” She rubbed her elbow.

The long shadows made his face darker, crueler. But when he fixed his bold green eyes on her, his expression softened. “Okay. I’m sorry. I don’t ever like hurting anybody, especially not somebody smaller or…a girl. I have two big sisters.”

“Down in Mexico?”

Instead of answering, he blurted, “I’m not a bully! Not like my father!”

His hot gaze and the pain in his voice stripped her soul and demanded intimacies she didn’t understand and wasn’t ready to share. His wild eyes slid from her face to the red place above her elbow. “I could show you marks!” He began unfastening his shirt, but when she shrank from him, misreading his intent, he sucked in a hard breath.

“Híjole!” His brilliant eyes devoured her flat chest and then her skinny, sunburned legs as he cursed low in Spanish.

She blanched at his rough language.

“Tú hablas….” he whispered when he realized he was scaring her even more.

She nodded and then stared at his scarred boots and at her own pigeon-toed feet. “Por supuesto.”

“Lo siento,” he muttered in apology.

Spanish was the working language on the Triple K. She was a Keller. Everybody spoke Spanish. Everybody except Jet. But Jet was a natural at music and was learning it fast. She had a gift for imitating sounds, same as she had a gift for boys. Ritz wished she had Jet’s gifts. But other than being a Keller, she was plain and ordinary—as Roque had just so cruelly pointed out.

He gave her skinny body another of those insolent sideways glances that sent her heart rushing in stilted, painful beats.

“Quit looking at me,” he whispered in a raw tone, “with those big blue eyes that eat me alive. And…and I didn’t meant to scare you…or hurt your feelings.”

“You just can’t help yourself.”

“What are you—thirteen…to my eighteen?”

“Fourteen!”

“You’re too damn young to be hanging around me.”

“So, give me my horse and I’ll…”

“You’re skinny and not even pretty.”

Tears pricked. “You said that already!”

“And you’ve got spots.”

“Freckles!” Ritz shouted. “What’s wrong with freckles?”

“Same thing that’s wrong with your last name and all that metal in your mouth. I don’t like them.”

Just when she was feeling weird and sad and hurt, his low tone gentled. “You’ve got pretty hair, though. Mexicans have a thing for yellow hair. At least I do even though I don’t see colors like other people. Yours is really something. Who knows…in another year or two…maybe you’ll be even prettier than your friend. You’ve got something…she doesn’t. I’m not sure what it is exactly.” His voice had gone smooth.

She felt a strange, powerful pull to move toward him. “I don’t care what you think! Just give me my horse!” But she put her hand over her lips to hide the beginnings of a smile.

“Your horse?” he began in a teasing vein that made her blush again. “We’ll see whose horse she is. We’ll both call her. We’ll see who she chooses. I’ll even let you go first, guera,” he offered magnanimously, eyeing her yellow hair.

Guera was slang in Mexico for blonde.

When she shook her head, causing her hair to bounce on her shoulders, he laughed. “Scaredy-cat. Go on. Call her. If she comes. She’s yours.”

“It’s a trick!” Ritz muttered, catching a breath and then cupping her hands to the sides of her mouth and calling out, “Buttercup!”

Munching grass, Buttercup didn’t even raise her head or prick her ears. When Ritz called her again, the obstinate beast chewed lazily.

“I need an apple,” Ritz said.

“Give?” her foe taunted.

“Buttercup!” Ritz cried, her voice tinged with desperation.

“That’s no way to coax a pretty lady,” Roque said smugly, directing his brilliant gaze to the mare. He swaggered toward the beast, his brown hands outstretched.

Buttercup jerked her head out of the grass and flicked her nose out at him. She snorted, her nostrils flaring. Her black tail lifted and seemed to float in the wind like an inky banner.

When he had her full attention, he splayed his long fingers open like claws.

Ritz sprang in front of Roque and called again. “Buttercup! Come here, sweetheart!”

“Cheater,” he purred. He stood so close she could feel the heat of his breath against her neck.

The sun was gone. The tall grasses and big sky were aflame, the horizons ringed in pink.

“Buttercup,” Ritz pleaded, truly scared now.

Buttercup nibbled, her nose low to the ground. Roque strutted toward the horse, squared his body to hers and stared directly at her.

The mare bolted.

“My turn,” Roque said jauntily.

“You made her run away just when I was trying to call her.”

“I can make her come back, too.”

“I hate you!”

“You sure about that?” He laughed and began clucking to Buttercup.

The mare stopped running. Roque squared his shoulders and stared fixedly at her again. Again, Buttercup ran from him.

“She doesn’t want you, either.”

“She’ll change her mind after I court her a little. All the girls, big and little, want Roque Moya. Just you watch.”

“You are disgusting.”

“Your sexy friend doesn’t think so. Maybe someday…when you grow up and I court you, you’ll change your mind, too.”

Was he flirting with her?

No way.

But if he was, it was a heady game to play with a bad wild boy like him, a Blackstone.

“Watch me, Four Eyes,” he said softly. “She’ll come to me.”

And the mare did. In less than twenty minutes. He didn’t even have to call her. Buttercup just stopped running and started watching everything he did as if hypnotized. Soon the mare’s head dropped, and she walked slowly toward him, licking and chewing. Only she didn’t have any grass in her mouth. Roque kept his body at a forty-five degree angle to the horse, avoiding eye contact as she approached.

Sensing some baffling, silent chemistry between Roque and her horse, Ritz held her breath. Furious as she was, she felt a strange thrill when Buttercup walked up to the fiend and held her nose less than an inch from his broad shoulder.

Ritz wanted to shout, “She’s mine! Mine!”

But what he’d done was so fantastic, she didn’t want to break the spell.

When Roque turned and walked away from Ritz, Buttercup followed. They walked in a circle before returning. Finally Roque faced the horse and lifted his hand, stroking Buttercup between the eyes. Then he stared at Ritz and grinned.

Ritz was stunned.

“He can talk to horses.” Caleb’s eyes shone.

Ritz had forgotten Caleb was even there. “How?”

“Not in words, but Roque says horses talk just the same. He’s going to teach me their language.”

“Their language?”

“Horse. He read about it in a book and taught it to himself, and he can hardly read.”

It was obvious the younger Blackstone was much in awe of his older brother. Even though she didn’t want to admit it, he wasn’t stupid like people said he was. He was smart and different—special.

“I can, too, read!” Roque blurted, stung.

“I want to learn horse, too!” The words just popped out of her mouth.

“Do you want to start now?”

She scowled at Roque when he flung himself to the ground and began yanking his scuffed black boots off. He pulled off his socks, too, and wiggled his long, naked toes.

Why was watching him do the most ordinary things so fascinating? The keen sweetness of hay being cut somewhere made her heart ache. Or was it just him, balling his dirty socks and stuffing them into his boots that made her feel so strange?

If Ritz had thought more about boys before last night and this afternoon than she’d ever admit, she felt possessed now. Roque’s dark sensual male beauty made her long to be older and prettier—desirable.

“There’s sticker burrs,” she said lamely when he finally stood up.

“So?”

She tried not to look at his gorgeous black head when he turned. But his bold green eyes claimed her somehow, holding her with that same, mysterious force she hadn’t understood last night.

“I’m not going to walk,” he said. “I’m going to fly. Do you want to learn to fly, princesa?”

He extended his brown hand just as he had last night, inviting her to put hers inside it. She stared at those long, tapered fingers and then at the purple-black grasses that curled away from them in endless waves. With a shiver, she shook her head.

“Scaredy-cat.” He laughed. As she gasped, he sprang up on Buttercup’s back, urging the mare forward with his toes into a springing trot.

“Get off her,” she whispered.

“I won, remember.”

Soon he had Buttercup cantering round and round in a perfect circle. They were so beautiful, Roque with his black hair and Buttercup with her black mane streaming in the wind as they danced in that sea of tall grasses.

Even before Roque stood up and went dangerously faster, Ritz was trembling with a mixture of fright and wonder.

“Don’t,” she pleaded silently.

But he stretched both his arms out like wings.

“No…no…” Even as she begged, her heart thrummed, and her spirit sang along with those thudding hoofs.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes.”

Roque’s wickedness and wildness made him seem like a god, who was connected by spirit and blood to the mare he rode, connected to the endless sea of purple grasses, to the darkening sky itself, to the whole universe—connected even to her. She’d felt the same thing last night, only now her feelings were stronger.

Buttercup galloped so fast, Roque did indeed seem to fly. When Caleb spread his own arms like wings and ran after his brother, she did the same thing. The three of them soared on their make-believe wings, running round and round, both flying and dancing.

Caleb and she ran after him until they collapsed in laughter, breathing hard. Ritz put her hand over her heart as the galloping horse and the bad Blackstone boy flew away. She began to laugh, forgetting all sense of ownership when Roque turned, and she realized he was galloping back to her.

“He’s magical,” she whispered. “He’s like a centaur.”

Buttercup slowed and Roque sat down again and smiled down. A stillness descended upon her when he came close and held out his hand to his brother.

“Do you want to fly?”

Caleb shook his head.

“I do!” she cried in an eager voice that did not belong to her.

Roque gave her a long look. Then he leaned down. This time when he extended his hand toward her, she grabbed it.

Sweet heat flicked through her veins like summer lightning. Oh, what had gotten into her? Was it his wildness? His badness?

Caleb shrieked with joy and ran up to them. Kneeling, he cupped his dirt-encrusted hands. As bravely as Jet, Ritz put her foot in his fingers and sprang up in front of Roque. His warm hands circled her waist, burning her skin through her thin blouse.

When he urged Buttercup into a trot, she forgot all about hating him.

Never had cantering been such a glorious experience. It was like dancing. A chemistry flowed between the three of them. They weren’t just a boy and a girl and a horse. They belonged to an ancient world and a primitive time that was truer than anything modern, a paradisiacal time before man had been expelled from the kingdom of nature.

He stood up and then helped her to stand, too. When she teetered, crying out to him, he steadied her until she got her balance. Soon she was holding her arms out just as he had. Slowly his thrilling hands at her waist fell away. Then he extended his arms behind hers, and they were flying together, racing in that endless magical pasture, the thudding rhythmic hooves singing in her blood.

For a few brief moments there was no high game fence, no feud. It was just Roque and her and the magic between them. Then a black pickup sped toward them on the caliche road, belching angry white fantails of dust.

For a few brief moments longer, horse and riders were free, and the range was as wild and open as their hearts. Ritz’s hair blew against Roque’s dark face, so that she felt herself part of him as well as part of the sky.

Then the truck braked. Benny Blackstone hopped out, shaking his fists and cursing when he saw Caleb running toward the galloping riders with his arms outstretched. Not that Ritz really heard Ben.

Buttercup’s hoofs were thudding, and she felt too wonderful. Even when Roque turned Buttercup, so that they seemed to charge the truck and Caleb, she was only vaguely aware of his father.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Ben leaned inside the cab and pull his Winchester off the gun rack behind the driver’s seat.

“Caleb—” Ben shouted. “Sunny—”

Caleb stopped, but Buttercup kept galloping at him, Benny raised the rifle to his chest.

Caleb yelled when his father aimed at Roque, “No! Daddy! No!”

Roque let out an Indian war whoop and charged faster.

The Winchester cracked. And still Roque charged.

Almost carelessly Benny ejected the empty shell and raised the rifle again. The gun popped a second time, bouncing rocks in front of Buttercup. The mare reeled. With a scream, Ritz tumbled backward into Roque.

He grabbed her, rocking precariously, grabbing wildly at the air. Buttercup reared.

“Dios,” he muttered as her forelegs came down with a thud.

Ritz’s heart was pounding when he slipped. Still, holding her, he shielded her somehow. His body struck the rocks first. She fell on top of him, crushing him against the ground. Something inside her knee popped. When she tried to stand up, she couldn’t.

Mad with fear, Buttercup circled them frantically, got too near and stepped on Roque’s arm.

The bone snapped, but Roque didn’t utter a sound. He lay in a broken heap like a doll thrown down by an angry child, his dark face as white as bone.

“Sunny!” Benny shouted. “Are you crazy? He was trying to kill you! How many times do I have to tell you to stay away from him?”

Caleb ran to Roque. “You shot him—deliberately! There’s…there’s blood on the dark grass.” Caleb drew back a hand, wet with the stuff, and began to cry.

Ritz knelt over Roque and choked on a sob. “Roque! He’s not moving.”

Through her sobs Ritz heard Caleb’s muted pleadings. His father stalked toward them, his Winchester lowered now, his expression grim.

“Move, kids.” Benny sank to his knees and examined Roque. When he was done, he stroked Roque’s black hair for a long moment. “He’ll be all right.” His voice was strange, hoarse. “Take more than a fall to kill a devil like him. Broken arm. Let’s hope it’ll teach him a lesson. He shouldn’t have charged me. Run get a blanket, Sunny.”

When Caleb loped off, Benny fiddled with his radio, shaking it and cursing. In a few minutes Caleb was leaping back through the tall grasses with the blanket. His father took it and threw it over Roque.

“You’d better git,” he said to Ritz.

“My knee—”

“Damn. I can’t get anybody on the radio. I’m going to have to call the ambulance from the house. Can you stay here with him until I get back? I’ll phone your parents and tell them what’s happened. If he comes to, don’t let him move—”

Her eyes widened. “You can’t call my daddy! When you come back…if you’ll just put me on Buttercup and leave the gate open….”

He shook his head. “I’m liable for you. You stay here. Roque’s just crazy enough to hurt himself if he comes to alone and is disoriented in the dark.”

She looked at Roque’s crumpled body and then at the black sky. Then she rubbed her burning eyes and nodded. “Daddy’s going to be so mad.”

Benny stood up. “Come on, Sunny.”

“I want to stay with Roque, too!”

“This wouldn’t have happened, if you’d stay away from him.”

Benny Blackstone seized Caleb by his collar and pulled him, his boots scuffling across the rocks, all the way to the truck. They roared away in geysers of white dust.

Ritz swallowed a hard lump in her throat. Roque lay so still. He was very white, and his hair spilled like rich black chocolate across the rocks and grass.

“Roque?” Leaning closer, she caught his scent, which was musky, and clean, all male. “Roque!” she yelled.

When he didn’t answer, she brushed a lock of his hair from his brow and gasped. His beautiful face was swollen and out of shape.

“Oh! No!” She pressed her hand to his temple. When her finger came away sticky, she didn’t dare shake him. “Roque! Please…Please wake up!”

High above them, the evening star twinkled like a lonely sentinel in an opalescent, purple sky. Then a gray owl swished low over their heads toward the oak mott, melting into the dense shadows of the brush. A chorus of night bugs began to sing.

His pulse! That’s what she was supposed to check for!

At the thought of laying even a single fingertip on that dark throat, she sucked in a quick breath. With an eye on his still, white face, she lowered her hand and ran it along his warm skin all the way to the base of his throat.

Finally, when her fingers were still, she felt a flutter. She pressed harder, and the pressure of his heart’s slow, steady thudding, made her own heart leap.

“Don’t die,” she whispered. “Please…please…”

She lifted her St. Jude medal and said a fervent prayer to the saint. And then she looked up at the new stars and the moon and prayed to God, too.

Hardly knowing that her fingers unfastened the silver chain, she removed the medal. She caught her breath. Aunt Pam had given her Uncle Buster’s medal at his funeral. Ritz had promised to treasure it always.

With a heavy sigh, Ritz fastened the medal around Roque’s dark neck.

“Save him,” she murmured. “Please, Uncle Buster and St. Jude, and you, too, God.”

Roque’s eyes remained tightly closed.

After that, time passed in slow motion. Ritz rubbed her neck, and felt all alone and scared as she thought of the puma and those pointy ears she’d seen earlier.

When a pack of coyotes began to yip off to the north, she began to shake as hard as a rabbit or whatever little animal they were terrorizing. The sky and brush blackened ominously.

Aloud Ritz said, “Roque, I’ll stay out here all night long—in the dark, no matter how scared I get, if you just, please…please…don’t die…. I’ll even take back every mean thing I said. You’re not nasty…or…or pure sin…just ’cause you wear tight jeans. I’m sorry I watched you pee. It was fun flying with you. The most fun I ever had in my whole life…until you charged—”

Clasping his lifeless hand, she bent closer, so that she could broadcast straight into her powerful medal.

“You won Buttercup—fair and square. You can have her, too…if you’ll only wake up. And…and…you’re not stupid, even if you flunked a grade. Nobody but a rare, genuine genius could talk horse…could learn it from a book…when you can hardly read. And…and it wasn’t Jet last night…. It was me! I watched you dance, so don’t you dare die.”

Horror mingled with delight when he stirred and she felt his gaze.

“You’re just scared there won’t be anybody to teach you horse if I die,” jeered a thready voice that made her heart leap.