Читать книгу Gerrity's Bride - Carolyn Davidson, Carolyn Davidson - Страница 9

Olivia Champion could be an attractive woman, Emmaline decided. If only she weren’t so grimly determined to look like a typical teacher. Her primly clad body and her smoothly scraped-back hair advertised her calling, as did the subservient air she wore like a garment.

Like a chameleon against the sand, she blended into the atmosphere of the house, and only here at the breakfast table had Emmaline heard more than one-syllable replies from the woman. Apparently this was a daily routine. Matthew questioned and Olivia answered, reciting Theresa’s schedule for his approval.

Her dark eyes focused on Matt’s face as Olivia placed her napkin carefully across her lap. Emmaline watched as a faint softening of the other woman’s features was quickly concealed by the lowering of her head.

So that’s how the land lies, Emmaline thought with awakening interest. The words spoken described lessons and books, but the subdued glances and carefully orchestrated movements told a different story.

“Today we’ll be working mostly on letters and numbers,” Olivia said quietly, her eyes limpid as she lifted her lashes in Matt’s direction. “I’ve planned a geography lesson for this afternoon, but that will depend on Theresa.” She glanced at Emmaline, her expression tolerant, as she elaborated. “Sometimes she gets a bit cranky after noontime and needs a short rest.”

Emmaline nodded, striving to hide the smile that begged to curl her mouth. “I seem to suffer from the same problem some days,” she agreed. Glancing at Matt as if she were seeking his reinforcement, she continued. “She’s only five years old, Miss Champion. You’re not pushing her too rapidly, are you?”

Olivia shook her head. “Certainly not. Mr. Gerrity wants his sister to be more than literate. His plan is to send her back east, to a university, when the time comes. But for now she is only beginning the basics, learning her letters and numbers as I read to her from the classics. We look at pictures of other countries and read about them, learning history and geography at a primary level.” Her gaze swept across the table to rest with tender concern on Theresa, whose own eyes had moved from one adult to another.

Well said, Emmaline thought with a trickle of humor. The woman was a teacher to the bone, with hardly a shred of impetuosity within that dignified frame. Except for the sidelong glances that Matt seemed so oblivious of.

“I’m sure you have the situation well in hand,” Emmaline murmured, her attention on the butter knife she was using with a lavish hand.

Across the table, Matt’s dark eyes focused on the two women. Even as he listened to the words they spoke, he measured them in his mind. It was unfair, he decided. The contrast between them put Olivia at a distinct disadvantage. Next to the bright curls that surrounded Emmaline’s head and cascaded down her back in an early-morning frenzy, the tutor’s dark hair was commonplace, slicked back into a tightly wound knob at the nape of her neck. Only the somber clothing each wore placed them on common ground; Olivia’s dark gray morning dress just shades lighter than the black silk that adorned Emmaline’s curves.

He frowned as he considered the covered buttons that divided Emmaline’s fitted bodice, ending at the small stand-up collar circling her throat. Covering all the soft flesh there, except for an inch or so in front, where he caught sight of the vulnerable hollow his lips had touched only yesterday.

“I want you to put away the mourning, Emmaline,” he announced as he cut the beefsteak that lay on his plate.

“Really.” She managed to put subtle emphasis on each syllable as she softly defied his edict.

His fork waved in her direction. “Yes, really. You’re not likely to meet any members of high society out here, and the rules of behavior you followed in Kentucky don’t apply.”

She glanced at him with barely concealed disdain. “Rules of behavior never vary when it comes to civilized people,” she said politely.

Olivia Champion swallowed the last bite of her breakfast with almost indecent haste and snatched the white napkin from her lap to cover her mouth. “May I be excused?” she asked softly, and her eyes were shuttered as she rose from her chair. “I must prepare for Theresa’s lessons.”

Matt’s nod was curt, but Emmaline found her tongue. “Certainly, Miss Champion. We’ll look forward to dinner.”

His gaze was morose as Matt watched the young woman leave the room. “You’ve had a week to look her over. Is she any good?” he asked in an undertone. “I mean, do you think she’ll do for Tessie?”

Emmaline’s left eyebrow lifted as she considered him. “Why on earth are you asking me? Didn’t you check into her credentials before you hired her? How long has she been here?”

He shrugged diffidently. “For three months, just since Tessie’s birthday. My mother hired the woman, sight unseen, from a newspaper ad, when she decided that it was time for Tessie to begin schooling.”

“Well, I suppose she’s doing well. She seems to like Tessie, and she certainly admires you.”

“Me?” Matt shook his head as he swallowed the last bite on his fork. “What do I have to do with anything? You’re just trying to ignore the issue.”

Blankly Emmaline looked at him. “What issue?”

His hand waved in her direction, encompassing the darkness of her attire. “That black thing you insist on wearing,” he muttered with disgust.

Emmaline’s chin lifted, and her eyes glittered. The man was totally blind to the attachment Tessie’s teacher was forming for him, and yet managed to notice every detail of her own appearance. How dare he criticize her dress?

Matt chewed calmly, surveying the arrogant picture she presented, his own eyes lowering to his plate as he fought to hide the gleam of amusement he could not suppress.

“This black thing,” she announced with genteel anger, “is made of the finest silk, imported from France and sewn by Lexington’s most accomplished dressmaker.” Her head nodded once when she’d completed her announcement.

His drawl became more pronounced as he inspected her carefully. “Well, it sure won’t do for summertime in the Arizona Territory.”

“I beg to differ with you,” she said smartly. “We’ve had this conversation once before, if I remember correctly, and my position has not changed. I intend to remain in mourning for at least six months. Given the circumstances of our marriage, I consider that sufficient.”

His chair pushed back, silent against the thick rug that covered the dining room floor, and Matt rose to his feet. He spread his palms flat on the heavy pine table and leaned to confront her, parroting her words precisely.

“Given the circumstances of our marriage, I insist you send for some more appropriate clothing from Kentucky. Either that, or I’ll take you into Forbes Junction to sort through the ladies’ things at the dry goods.”

A flush rose from her throat to cover her cheeks, and Emmaline swallowed the angry words that formed in her mind. Just who did he think he was? This misbegotten...

“Well?” He leaned closer, and she fought the urge to scoot her chair back, fought the inclination to put more than a few inches between his hard-bitten features and her own.

Her fingers clenched into fists as she pounded them on the table, her elegant manners flying to the four winds. She met his arrogance in equal measure.

“Well, what?” she said between gritted teeth. “Who gave you the right to judge my wardrobe, Mr. Gerrity? Until I stand before a preacher and say all the right words, you have no right to dictate to me! About anything!”

His eyes flashed with smothered amusement as he assessed the haughty demeanor of the woman who faced him. He’d ruffled her feathers, that was for sure. He decided he might as well finish the job, as long as he was at it.

One hand lifted from the table and snaked out to cradle the curls that covered the back of her head. Fingers gripping securely, he pulled her forward, balancing himself with the other hand that pressed firmly against the table between them. Tiny flecks of amber glowed within her blue eyes as she tilted her head against the pressure of his wide palm. Not fear, he noted with satisfaction, but defiance, lit those gently slanted eyes. Her lips were firmly closed, her jaw clenched, and her nostrils flared with the force of her indrawn breath as he lowered his mouth to stake his claim.

As kisses went, it wasn’t much, he thought ruefully. She had clamped down hard, her teeth held tightly together, like a bulldog with a bone. He molded her lips with his own, amused by the pursing and pushing at him, and then, with a growl, he bit at the lower lip that protruded, nipping it gently until she protested.

“Um...bffft...” The words were captive within her mouth, and he quickly followed his attack with a gentle bathing of his tongue against the fullness of the flesh he had grasped between his teeth.

Then, as quickly as he had leaned forward to take hold of her, he released her and stood erect, his damp mouth slanted into a grin that bespoke his victory.

“I have the right, Emmaline,” he told her quietly. “I’m in charge here, over everything and everyone on this ranch. Most especially, my dear bride-to-be, I’m in charge of you. That gives me the right to be concerned for your welfare.”

He waited for the explosion that was sure to follow, but she only watched him warily, her tongue exploring the cushion of her bottom lip.

The worrying of her mouth had not hurt, she realized, only caught her attention, which was no doubt what he’d had in mind. He’d caught her attention, all right. Twice before, he’d kissed her, first with a harshness that branded her as his prey. The second time had been an awakening, a tender, careful perusal of her lips that had beguiled and tempted her into hazy desire.

Now, in a demanding fashion, he had arrogantly taken her mouth, riding roughshod over her muffled protest. As hard as his hand had been, holding her in place, as determined as his mouth had been, tasting of her own, she could not be afraid of his dominance. Only of the strange emotions his touch had forced into being within her.

“And what if I decline your generous offer, Mr. Gerrity? What if I choose not to shop at the dry goods?” She rose from her chair and waited, her eyes speaking her defiance.

His grin became a smile of anticipation as he allowed his own gaze to slide downward over the bodice of her dress, admiring the slender curves beneath the black silk.

“Why then, Miss Carruthers, I’ll have to find something appropriate of Maria’s for you to wear,” he said with mocking assurance.

“Maria’s?” Her glance was skeptical, questioning his intelligence without words.

Arrogantly he ignored her insinuation, viewing her dark garb measuringly. “You’ll need a different outfit, if you expect to go riding with me. We’ll just have to make Maria’s fit.”

“I hardly think so,” she said, denying his suggestion. “We just aren’t built the same.”

His grin caught her unawares, and she bit at her lip. His threat to stuff her into Maria’s clothing had been mere foolishness. No two women could be more different. Once more he’d managed to rile her with his teasing.

And then he relented, his smile shamefaced now. “Peace? A truce of sorts?” He lifted his hand in a placating gesture, waiting for her nod of agreement. “I have just the thing for you to wear,” he said softly.

Matt Gerrity in the role of a supplicant was not to be believed, and Emmaline privately gloated at the sight. She could afford to be generous, she decided, then smiled and shrugged eloquently.

“You’re going to have a chance to make good on your claims,” he told her, reaching for her hand as he reminded her of her boast. “I’ll get you outfitted, and then we’ll see just how well you can ride some good Arizona horseflesh.”

* * *

“Whose is it?” she asked as she smoothed the soft leather garment with the palm of her hand. Dark against the pristine white of the coverlet on her bed, the riding skirt was spread for her approval. Made of tanned leather, sewn with careful stitches, it was certainly not Maria’s. Slim at the waistline and flaring into a full, separated skirt, it was obviously some woman’s prized possession. Her hand brushed once more at the creamy texture of the leather as Emmaline admired the garment.

Matthew Gerrity’s jaw clenched, tightening for a moment as he watched her slender fingers. “It belonged to my mother,” he said finally, his voice clipped, as if he found the words difficult to speak.

Emmaline’s eyes widened as she stood erect, clutching the skirt to her breast. “Oh...well, maybe I shouldn’t...”

He shrugged, lifting one shoulder, as if it were but a minor detail, this protest on her part. “It’s too fine a garment to go to waste,” he said soberly. “I don’t think she’d care if you wore it.”

As if a veil had lifted, his mouth twisted into a smile when Emmaline nodded, accepting the gift he offered.

“Thank you,” she said gently. “I’ll be very careful with it.”

His smile widened into a grin, quick and unexpected, taking her by surprise. Another side of this man, she realized, one she hadn’t expected. A warmer, softer element that had caught her unprepared.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the grin vanished and the taciturn rancher once more stood before her. “Get ready,” he said gruffly. “I’ll get someone to saddle up a couple of horses.”

She nodded, lifting the soft leather to brush it against the curve of her cheek, watching Matt as he turned away to leave her room. Deep within her body, a coiling heat radiated, bringing about a tingling awareness of him. Of high cheekbones and dark hair, a strong jaw with deep slashes defining his cheeks, wide shoulders and hard, heavy muscles beneath the cotton shirt he wore.

The door shut behind him quietly, and she closed her eyes, intent on recapturing the purely masculine look of him to ponder for a moment. The width of his shoulders, the strength of those wide-palmed hands that had lifted her so casually, taking her weight as if it were nothing. Her heart pounded more rapidly while she remembered the moments on the porch, when he’d held her and kissed her with harsh intent. Yet his kiss had not repulsed her or caused her to fight his embrace.

It was a puzzle, she decided, her eyes blinking open. And nothing in her sheltered past had prepared her to interpret the feelings that ran rampant within her. To give her his mother’s riding skirt... She shook her head unbelievingly, inhaling the fine scent of the leather.

And this was the same man who was intent on riding roughshod over any objections she might have to offer against his manipulating her life. Biting her lip against the thought, she shook her head. “I don’t begin to understand you, Matthew Gerrity,” she murmured.

Even as she uttered his name, she heard the telltale sound of his boots in the corridor outside her door.

“Ten minutes, Emmaline,” he called impatiently through the closed panel.

“Bossy,” she grumbled as the footsteps moved on, and then she sighed as she crossed to the heavy wardrobe to find a shirtwaist that would be suitable for her ride.

* * *

The mount he placed her on was small, a compact cow pony with muscular haunches and leashed power that surged between her knees. The saddle was strange, high in back and equipped with a knob in front, cradling her in its depths. She held the reins as Matt directed, both across her palm, guiding the horse with the pressure of the narrow leather strips across his neck.

“Not exactly what you’re used to, is it?” Matt’s wide palms were lodged against his hips, and his eyes glittered with unconcealed glee. Watching her and assisting her in mounting the gelding had been an experience he’d thoroughly enjoyed. Holding her left foot in his palm, he’d hoisted her easily, one hand at the waistband of the skirt she wore. Regrettably, he hadn’t been able to fit her as neatly with boots. The ones he’d found in his mother’s room were a size too large, but he’d stuffed the toes with batting that secured her feet for safety.

“I’ve ridden astride before,” she told him. “But we box our reins and hold them with both hands.” Her palms rested on the horn of the saddle, and she scooted about in the cradle, seeking a spot where she would feel comfortable and yet in control of her mount. Her legs clung to the pony’s sides, and she spent a moment sending a prayer heavenward that she’d not disgrace herself on this first day. A vision of falling headlong in front of Matt or losing control of the horse she rode caused her to tighten her grip on the reins. Her horse pranced sideways, sensing her unease.

“Let up on the reins!” Matt said sharply.

“I am!” she retorted, attempting to soothe the animal. Ears back, the gelding was skittering toward the corral fence, and Emmaline realized she was facing her first test.

With soft words and a gentle, even pressure on the reins, she turned the horse and then allowed him to move out at a quicker pace. Automatically, she rose to meet his quick trot, and behind her Matt howled his dismay.

“No...not like that! You can’t post on a western pony. Just ride the trot...keep your rear end in the saddle and get used to the motion.” He shook his head in scorn at her eastern ways. “You’ll be laid up with liniment on your bottom at this rate,” he said, catching up with her as she rode beyond the confines of the corral.

She glanced at him with as much dignity as she could muster, given the bouncing ride she was coping with. “I’d like to see you on a saddle with one of our big hunters between your legs and watch how you handle it!” she snapped.

“You’ll never find me perched on one of those pancakes you call a saddle. We don’t ride for pure fun, lady. Out here, our horses are just equipment that allow us to do our work.”

“Well, I certainly don’t call this ride pure fun.” But, gradually, she caught the rhythm of the animal she rode and settled deeper into the saddle, rolling more easily with his gait. One hand slid from the leather of the saddle to smooth the mane, which flowed against the dark neck of her mount.

“Does this animal have a name?” she asked.

He shrugged at her question. “I think Claude calls him Brownie.”

Her hand ceased its motion.

“Brownie?” The word dripped with derision. “You actually call a horse Brownie?”

He swept her a mocking bow from his saddle, and his eyes sparkled. “Actually, I don’t call him anything. What would you call him back in Kentucky?”

“Our horses all have names they’ve been registered with, and we usually call them by some part of that name. Mine is Rawlings Sweet Fancy. I call her Fancy.”

“Well, today you’re riding a cow pony named Brownie, bred for cutting cattle,” he drawled, urging his horse into a slow lope. Hers followed suit, and she settled with relief against the saddle.

Emmaline scanned the horizon, where low hills melted into each other, covered with a dark underbrush and dotted with taller scrub. Before them lay a sparse pasture where mares and foals were kept. Surrounded by a double strand of barbed wire, the mares appeared to have docilely accepted their confinement. But the foals were frolicking, kicking up their heels and racing to and fro, carefree in the hot sunshine with their mothers close by.

“We’ll be working with these foals later today, if you want to watch,” Matt said, his gaze ever alert to her. She’d changed, thawing before his eyes as she watched the young ones leap and play in the pasture. A faint smile hovered over her lips, and the rigid control she’d donned at the beginning of this ride had slipped, to reveal the softening of the woman within.

“I’d like that. I’ve helped with the young ones back home,” she told him casually, and then, as her smile broke into a wide grin, she lifted her hand to point at one particularly adventuresome colt.

“Look at that little fellow,” she said with a chuckle. The long-legged dove gray creature had overestimated a leap and gone spraddle-legged in the grass, shaking his head and looking about in surprise.

Their horses had slowed as they spoke, and now they walked abreast of one another. The air between them was free of the abrasiveness they had set out with.

“Thank you for the loan of the skirt,” she said finally, after a few long minutes of quiet.

“No problem,” he answered curtly. “My mother was generous. She’d approve.”

“Tell me about her,” Emmaline asked, aware that her request might well be denied. Matthew Gerrity didn’t strike her as the kind to confide in anyone.

He surprised her, tipping his hat back and resting one hand on his thigh. “She was raised here in the territory—a real native, you might say. Her daddy was a brave from a tribe who took a shine to her white mother. That made her a half-breed, and not good marriage material. But she was pretty,” he said, his words tender as he thought of the young girl who had been an outcast.

“Anyway, when Jack Gerrity breezed by, he snatched her up and took her along with him. She was young when I was born, just sixteen, and too innocent to see through the black-hearted Irishman who fathered me,” he said with a twisted grin. “He was foreman on a good size ranch fifty miles or so west of here, and she made do as best she could. We lived in the foreman’s shack there on the ranch, and my mother took home the laundry from the big house.” His mouth tightened as he remembered those early days. “You sure you want to hear this?” he asked abruptly.

She nodded, almost afraid to speak, lest she break the thread of his story.

He shrugged and settled back into his saddle. “Jack Gerrity wasn’t a kind man.” His eyes flickered once in her direction, and the look in them was bleak. “Anyway, one day when I was about five or so, he hightailed it to town on payday, along with the rest of the ranch hands.” He lifted his reins, and the horse beneath him quickened his pace.

Emmaline looked at him with impatience, jostled in the saddle as her own mount followed suit. “And then what happened?” she asked after a moment of silence.

“We never saw him alive again,” he said. “He headed for town to drink and gamble away his monthly pay, and died when he slipped an ace up his sleeve.”

Her brow puckered and she shook her head. “What caused him to die?” she asked innocently.

“The gun of the fella across the table who caught him cheatin’ at poker,” Matt replied sardonically.

Her heart thumped wildly in her throat as Emmaline envisioned the bloody scene. “Whatever did your mother do?” Her voice trembled as she thought of a young woman left alone with a child to care for.

His shrug was eloquent. “We had to move to make room for the new ranch foreman. She managed to get another job, cooking for another rancher. Took me along and raised me in the kitchen.”

“How old were you then?”

His hand fisted against the solid flesh of his thigh, and his voice tightened into a deep growl. “Old enough to stay out of the way when the old man who owned the place got drunk.” He went on deliberately, as if he wanted to have the words spoken and done with.

“One day, my mother loaded me and all our belongings on a wagon and headed out. Your pa found us on the road and took us home with him. When the old man caught up with us, your pa sent him on his way. Paid him for the horse and wagon and told him to clear out.”

“Did they get married then?” she asked quietly, almost unwilling to interrupt, but wanting to know the rest of the story.

“No...she cooked and kept house for him until he heard that your mother had died, just ten years ago.” He scanned her with eyes gone hard and cold. “He thought you’d come back home then.”

“I was only twelve years old,” Emmaline said, defending herself. “My grandparents were heartbroken, and I was all they had left of her. I couldn’t leave them.” Her chin lifted defiantly. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t want to. My father had never shown any interest in me, anyway.”

His look was scornful. “We both know that isn’t true. I remember all the letters he sent, till he finally gave up on you.”

Those letters again. Maria had told the same story, and she’d spoken with such ringing sincerity, the words had begun to raise doubts in her mind. She shrugged them away, her heart unwilling to release the anger she had clung to for so long.

“Seems to me he had a family right here,” she said haughtily. “You and Arnetta filled the bill for him. He didn’t need a daughter.” As she spoke the words, a twinge of pain needled its way into her heart, and she recognized the envy that blossomed within her. “He didn’t need me,” she repeated stoically.

“You’re wrong.” Matt’s voice was firm, adamant, as he denied her claim. “He felt bad every time one of his letters came back unopened. Then he finally stopped sendin’ ‘em.”

She was silent, digesting the news he’d just delivered, tempted to admit her ignorance of the facts she’d just been faced with. But not for the world would she betray her grandparents, though dismay gripped her as she repeated his words to herself.

His letters came back unopened.

It was too late for mourning, she decided as her back stiffened. But unwanted tears burned against her eyelids, and she struggled to contain them. If he really wanted her, he’d have come after her, she reasoned painfully. She allowed herself one sniff, breathing deeply as she pacified herself with the thought, her eyes on the ground.

“What did you want to show me?” she asked abruptly. “Surely there must have been a reason for this jaunt.”

He glanced at the set expression she wore and scowled. One day he’d make her listen, he vowed. She was due for an eye-opener where her daddy was concerned.

“Just thought you’d like to take a look at the near pasture, and then ride to the top of that highest rise ahead of us,” he answered. “You can see the stream over east of here, and from the high spot we can see all the way to the summer ranges, where the horses go for pasturing.”

“You send them away?” she asked, relieved that he’d allowed her retreat.

“Yep. We round up a good share of the stock and herd them north from here into the high country to graze. Leave a couple of men there for the summer to tend them. They stay in a line shack and watch for mountain lions and keep an eye on things.”

“What about the young ones? Do you send them, too?”

He nodded. “Except for the nursing foals and the ones we keep here to train for saddle. The rest we’ll sell off as we need to.”

“To whom?”

“Whoever,” he said. “Some go north, some to the army. We make most of our money from the ones we break and sell to ranchers or send east.”

“Break?” she asked.

“Well, eastern lady, what do you call it when you get a horse to let you on its back and give you a ride?” His tone was amused as he teased her.

“I can’t imagine breaking an animal,” she said briskly. “Back in Kentucky, we train them, starting with a foal, just days old. By the time we’re ready to mount them, they’re used to being handled and are ready to be ridden.”

“And I suppose you know all the tricks of the trade,” he suggested mockingly as he watched her roll with the easy gait of her horse. Once she got past the rough trot, she managed well, he thought with silent admiration.

“I watched the trainers work, from the time I was a child,” she said, and her mouth tilted in a smile of remembrance. “I used to sneak out to the barns whenever I could. And when I was older, our head trainer, Doc Whitman, let me help.”

“I’ll bet your mother didn’t know,” he surmised with a lifted eyebrow.

“No.” Her smile faded as she straightened in the saddle. “How much farther?” she asked briskly.

“A ways yet,” he returned, acknowledging her retreat.

The level land began rising in a gradual ascent, and her pony chose his way without her guidance, moving at a steady pace that ate the ground beneath them. She followed just a few feet to Matt’s rear, aware now of the value of the high-backed saddle as she settled into the rolling gait. Her eyes scanned the land about her, yet returned like a compass pointing north to the man who rode before her, his back straight, his shoulders held proudly as he traveled the land he’d been entrusted with.

The highest of the sprawling hills was ahead, and Emmaline felt the hot rays of the midmorning sun penetrate her white shirtwaist even as the breeze kept her reasonably cool while they rode. Matt had handed her a wide-brimmed hat to wear when they began this trek, but she’d left it hanging down her back. Now she tugged it into place.

“You’re ‘bout guaranteed to have a sunburned nose tomorrow,” he told her, casting an assessing glance over his shoulder. “That’s a case of too late, you know.”

“I’ve never been very concerned with a lily-white skin.” Her nose wrinkled, and she laid fingers against it. “I suspect you’re right this time. I can feel the heat there already.”

“I’ll warrant you were a trial to your folks, growin’ up,” he suggested mildly, taking in the sight of her rosy complexion.

“You’d be right. But I cleaned up really well, once I grew up,” she added with wry humor.

His mouth pursed at her words, and he grunted in agreement. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

The horses traveled a narrow path as they neared the crest of the hill, moving along ridges that had not been apparent from far off, but had obviously been used for trails regularly. Single file, they moved along at a quick pace, Emmaline a few yards to the rear, until they broke onto level ground. Their pace picked up and the horses settled into an easy lope.

Then, with a scattering of small pebbles and dust, Matt drew his reins and held out a hand to halt her next to him. “Look, out there,” he instructed her as his other hand swept the horizon.

Before them was a valley that led into a canyon between two roughly hewn hills. A stream trickled down the center of the valley, coming from the side of the rocky heights above.

“Is that the beginning of the mountains?” she asked as she tried to trace the canyon out of sight.

“Just foothills,” he said. “The mountains are farther north, where the stream begins. It dries up down here during the hot spells, but up north a ways, it flows year-round. That’s where we send the horses.”

“It’s desolate, isn’t it?” Her eyes swept the horizon, where not a moving shadow or creature caught her gaze.

“Some folks would say so.”

She looked at him quickly. “But not you?”

He shook his head and swung his horse about with a quick movement of his reins across the cow pony’s neck. “Time to get back. Maria will have dinner gettin’ cold before we show up.”

It was gone. The sense of closeness she’d felt with him had vanished.

His glance was quick as he nudged his horse into a trot. “Can you keep up?”

She bristled and urged her own horse along. “Try me,” she called challengingly.

“One of these days, city lady,” he drawled. “One of these days, I’ll take you up on that.”