Читать книгу Heart Of The Eagle - Lindsay McKenna - Страница 8

Chapter Two

Hot scalding tears pricked the backs of Dal’s eyes as she stood looking up at Jim. His image blurred and she turned away, walking a few paces, her back to him.

Jim stared at her back, noting the way her shoulders were tensed and drawn up. He had watched her vulnerable eyes darken with a torture known only to herself and had seen her full, generous mouth draw into a line of anguish. What had happened in her marriage to tear her apart like this? Swallowing hard, he waited, his senses cautioning him that if he were to approach her too soon or try in some way to comfort her, she would turn on him. Trust, his senses screamed at him; she trusts no one. No man. He searched his memory for facts regarding Jack Gordon: he was an entrepreneur in the business of birds, capturing rare or colorful species from jungles around the world and selling them to zoos or private patrons. In those six years of marriage, had Gordon used Dal to sharpen his own education and utilized her knowledge to enhance his lucrative, international business?

Dal struggled to force down the lid on the caldrons of emotion that Jim Tremain had torn lose with his one touch. He had shaken her to the core. He wanted to use her just as Jack had at the end of their once happy marriage. Jim was even more dangerous because he knew how to read her and get what he wanted. Jack’s methods were always obvious once he had allowed material goods and stature become the center of importance to him. Jim knew that a simple gesture, such as placing a strand of hair behind her ear, would catch her off guard and place her in a more vulnerable position. Anger warred with a heart that said: he did it out of care, not because he wanted to use you. Pressing her fingers to her temples, Dal shut her eyes tightly for a moment, willing all her anger, frustration and pain back into a tightly lidded place in her heart.

She turned, her shoulders sagging as she stared at Jim. As much as she tried, Dal could not find one shred of selfishness in his face. If anything, she was screamingly aware of the tender light that burned in his golden eyes, the laugh lines at their corners and the way his mouth was pursed. Oh God, no! she cried inwardly. She had learned to take a secondary role to Jack’s aims. But she had no defense against a man who showed her kindness. It’s all a sham, her mind screamed. He wants something from you, just like Jack did. Only he’s going to take it from you a different way. Jack wanted your knowledge. Jim wants the same thing.

Dal had not realized that two paths of tears had streaked down her cheeks as she stood staring at him. It was only when she saw his eyes darken and his mouth part in protest that she became aware of why he was reacting. Quickly wiping the telltale signs away, Dal lifted her head, her azure eyes darkened with confusion.

“No, I wouldn’t believe that you or anyone could protect me from Jack. Not now. Not ever,” she forced out in a low, quavering tone.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

Dal looked blindly toward the paddock, unable to hold his understanding gaze. Jim was dangerous to her and she wanted to run. Run and hide. “I told you, I’m in no shape to help anyone. Not even myself.”

Jim moved closer, but not close enough to frighten her into fleeing. She reminded him vividly of a hunted deer standing tautly before him, an almost imperceptible quiver surrounding her. “My mother always told me tears were healing. I see nothing wrong with them.”

She snapped her head to the left, glaring at him. “Part of your half-breed heritage, no doubt.”

Jim’s mouth thinned as he studied her in that glacial moment. Half-breed. The word made his mouth go bitter with the taste of his past. He struggled with his anger toward her and then surmounted it. She had hurled the insult at him to get him to stop pressuring her. He drew the cowboy hat down a little lower on his brow, forcing a one-cornered smile. “My half-breed status has gotten me out of more trouble than in,” he countered mildly.

“How? By pushing papers in an office for the government!”

Jim leaned languidly against the pipe railing, studying the foals, who were now frolicking around their mothers after their recent meal. “My boss complains I’m not there enough to push those papers around. Usually, I’m in the field with my people.” His gaze moved to her. “I’d rather have the sky for a ceiling and a good horse under me instead of sitting at a desk. How about you? Which do you prefer?”

Dal frowned and licked her lips in a nervous gesture. He was cunning. He had diffused her attack and managed to steer the entire matter into an innocuous but important investigation of her as a person. “I’m sure you have a file on me in your office, Mr. Tremain. There’s little I care to add to that.”

“We’re not the FBI, doctor. The file I have on you is about your educational background, not your personal life.” He scowled. “But if you don’t allow me to enlist your help on this project, the FBI will come in. I don’t think you or your family will want that. It’s my opinion that because I and my people know the mountains and habitats, we stand a much better chance of netting the poachers than the FBI will.”

Dal clamped her lips together, refusing to be drawn into his soft banter. She liked his voice. It reminded her of a cat’s roughened tongue licking her hand, and sent delicious prickles of pleasure through her. She tried to squash all those feelings. “I’ll let my brother Rafe decide what’s going to happen, Mr. Tremain. It’s his ranch. I’m only a guest here.”

“All right,” he said slowly. “It will be necessary to talk to him, anyway. He’s as much a part of this plan as you are.”

“Rafe will be back tomorrow morning. He had business in Denver.”

“Maybe you can tell me where there might be a motel around here?”

Dal gave him a brief glance. He looked more like a wrangler than a government official. Cowboys had their own code and could be trusted. Jack was a civilian. An outsider. But Jim Tremain wasn’t. “There isn’t a motel within sixty miles of our ranch.”

“I see….”

Guilt twinged in her and Dal was unable to maintain that barrier of anger toward him. She could see his mind working beyond those lion-like eyes, and she watched as he rested his long, tapered fingers on his slender hips. She could discern the Indian blood in him by the sharp planed features of his face and his sun-darkened flesh. Another shaft of guilt struck her: she had called him a half-breed. God, what was wrong with her? She never threw prejudiced comments like that at anyone.

“There’s no sense in you driving all the way back to Denver just to come here again tomorrow morning,” she heard herself say. “I’ll get Millie to fix up one of the spare bedrooms and you can stay here tonight.”

Jim’s eyes glimmered with some undefined emotion as he met and held her nervous gaze. “That’s more than kind of you, doctor. Thank you.” So, he thought, there was ground for them to work on after all; he hadn’t totally destroyed the possibility of their combining their expertise on the poaching problem.

Shoving her hands in the pockets of her jacket, Dal stared down at the muddy earth. “It’s nothing,” she muttered, walking past him. “Let me tell Millie you’ll be staying.”

He watched her walk between the barns and knit his black brows. She was scared of him. As a man? Or as a government emissary? The Kincaids had a sterling reputation of having worked closely with conservation officials in the past on a number of wildlife projects. As Jim ambled around the paddocks, eyeing the horseflesh in each, he narrowed down Dal’s reaction to her distrust of him as a man. That cut down the chances of her agreeing to help him.

Sunlight bathed the valley as the clouds parted, slats shining across the lush land of the Triple K. Jim watched as a group of wranglers coaxed a herd of about a hundred Herefords out of a paddock, heading them in the direction of some upper pasture. He inhaled the crisp spring air, glad to be out of the office and in the field again. And then a rueful smile split his harsh features. Would “guard dog” Millie allow him to stay at the ranch overnight?

* * *

“What do you mean he’s stayin’, Dal?” Millie lifted her head, her chin jutting out stubbornly.

Dal walked farther into the spacious kitchen that was Millie’s territory. The red-tiled floor gleamed from a recent waxing, giving the cedar walls even more warmth. She poured herself a glass of water and leaned against the counter. Millie resumed folding the bread dough on the table, flour spotting her plump arms.

“He wants to talk to Rafe about poachers. I didn’t have the heart to make him drive sixty miles to a motel and then come all the way back tomorrow morning.”

“You know Rafe doesn’t like strangers about,” Millie chided gruffly.

“I know….”

Millie straightened, put the dough into a bread pan and then transferred it to the countertop. “Still,” she muttered, moving back to the table to begin folding another batch of dough, “he doesn’t seem all that bad.”

Dal raised an eyebrow at the housekeeper. Millie was mountain born and bred. She had an uncanny knack of summing up people on first sight. “What do you mean?”

“He might be with the government, but he’s got some horse sense in him. Can see it in those whiskey-colored eyes of his. That man’s always thinking. I nearly took his head off at the door earlier and he was like a duck, letting my snaps and snarls roll off his back like water. Didn’t let it ruffle him one way or another. He’s a man of patience, I can tell you that.” And then Millie looked up at her. “The exact opposite of that sidewinder of an ex-husband of yours!”

“What would I do without you around, Millie?” Dal asked with a grin.

“Humph! You might’ve listened to me when you first dragged Gordon home here to the ranch with you. Your parents didn’t like him. Rafe hated him on sight. Even your sister Cathy couldn’t stand him.”

Dal lost her smile and drank the rest of the water. “Nobody liked him,” she agreed quietly. “Except me.”

“Humph! What did you know? With you being in love for the first time in your life and Gordon being ten years your senior, he manipulated you just like a hand puppet.” Millie’s stern features softened momentarily. “But that’s all right, lamb. You did love him up until the time he let all that worldwide fame go to his addled brain. The important thing is you’re out from under his clutches. I told you then he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and I was right. We all make mistakes. The important thing is not doing the same thing over again!”

Dal’s laugh was strained as she placed the glass in the sink. “No chance of that, Millie. Men and marriage are two things that have been written off my life list.”

Millie shot her a know-it-all glance. “Maybe right now, lamb, but you’re a woman who needs a partner. You were made for marriage. Your sister Cathy isn’t, but you are. You work better in a team harness than as a single.”

Dal laughed and went over, hugging the housekeeper. “Oh, Millie…”

Regaining her stern look, Millie pinched Dal’s cheek, leaving a bit of flour on it. “Just listen to us, lamb. That’s all I ask. Your parents are right in wanting you to stay here to recuperate. So what if you miss a year of teaching at the university? You’re hurt bad by this divorce. Just don’t shut us out.”

Dal nodded, feeling her heart wrench in her chest as she walked slowly around the airy kitchen. “I have been, haven’t I?”

Millie nodded. “You need to talk to someone about all this. Ever since you came home, you’ve kept to yourself. All you do is meet that eagle every morning and go for long horseback rides. Rafe’s worried about you….”

Dal turned, her face contorted. “My God, Rafe’s got enough on his shoulders, Millie. He just lost his wife and baby a year ago. He doesn’t need me crying the blues to him. I didn’t lose someone I loved, Millie. Jack killed my love for him. Rafe lost the two most important people in his life. How can I go to him?”

“Sometimes, lamb, healing takes place between two hurt animals. You’ve seen how cats or dogs will lick each other’s wounds to speed their recovery. Maybe you need to do the same thing. Think about it.”

Running her fingers through her thick hair, Dal left the kitchen. Millie was right: she did need to confide in someone. But whom? Her parents, God bless them, were more than willing to help her. But they had a marriage that seemed to have been made in heaven—not like the one she had had. How could they understand that Jack’s love for her had been replaced with something he considered more important? He had beat her down emotionally until she had almost lost her sense of selfhood. There was Rafe, but he was barely surviving on a daily basis between shouldering the massive responsibilities of the ranch and his own internalized grief he refused to release over the loss of his family. She wouldn’t put her burdens on Rafe. She loved him too much to do that. Rafe was the oldest and always felt responsible for her and Cathy. For once, she was going to handle her problems by herself.

There was Cathy, Dal mused, standing at the picture window, staring out at the brilliant sunlight that bathed the green valley before her. Cathy was a mining engineer, a trouble-shooting expert for gem mines around the world. They had never been close as sisters growing up, each going to Rafe instead. Rubbing her temple, Dal admitted to herself that they were both pretty volatile and temperamental, whereas Rafe was an island of continuity, trust and steadfastness. Just like Jim Tremain.

A softened smile touched her lips as she mulled over her insight into Jim. She liked him. Or at least a part of her did. Her silly, blind heart. Her mind, on the other hand, distrusted him completely because he was a man who was able to infiltrate her defenses and reach out and touch her. Her blue eyes grew clouded with worry. What if Rafe decided that she should work with Jim? The brittle, damaged part of her cried out in sheer alarm over that possibility. How could she explain to Rafe that Jim Tremain knew how to get to her? And how could she explain how dangerous that was to her open wounds that hadn’t yet begun to heal? Would Rafe understand? Sometimes he was blindly insensitive to the subtle emotions.

Dal was pulled from her reverie as she noticed a dark shape growing larger and larger in the sky. It was Nar! What was he doing back there? She looked at her watch: it was almost noon. Concerned, she pulled on her sheepskin jacket and ran out the back door. Mud sloshed around her cowboy boots as she heard Nar’s shrilling cry overhead. The golden eagle swooped down and past her, ruffling her hair from the closeness of his pass as he glided out toward the last of the horse paddocks.

Dal went into an old garage that had a large oak block in the center of its quiet confines. Picking up the protective leather gauntlet, she slipped it over her left hand and arm and walked quickly out beyond the barn. She heard Nar shrilling, and as she rounded the end of the barn she almost collided with Jim Tremain.

“Oh!”

Jim reached out, gripping her arm as she stumbled. “Sorry.”

Regaining her balance, Dal kept her eye on the golden eagle that was circling lazily above them. Her heart was pounding and it wasn’t from the seventy-five-hundred-foot elevation, either. She was wildly aware of the strength of Jim’s hand upon her arm; her senses were screamingly alive as she rested momentarily against his hard, unyielding male body. There was nothing about him that spoke of soft office life. As her right hand rested on his chest, Dal felt the smooth interplay of muscles move beneath his shirt.

“Thanks,” she said breathlessly, pulling from his grip.

“Is that the same eagle I saw you with earlier?”

Dal nodded. “Yes. Nar never comes this late in the day. I wonder if something’s wrong?”

Jim watched her as she made a series of high-pitched whistling sounds. The golden eagle, which was at least two thousand feet above them, suddenly stooped. Jim’s breath caught in his throat as the raptor’s wings folded against its body for the dive toward earth, legs outstretched and murderous-looking black talons opened. The power of the eagle was awesome as it fell like a hurtling rocket fired from the sky. Jim held up his hands to warn Dal, but it was too late.

The golden eagle broke his stoop at the last possible second, the backwash from his wings powerful as he hung suspended for a split second before coming to rest on Dal. She held her arm high above her, her knees deeply flexed and legs spread far apart as she took the shock of the eagle’s full weight.

Jim looked on in a mixture of terror for her and admiration at the spectacle before him. At that moment, he saw Dal’s face light up with such joy that he found his own heart pounding in his chest. Her blue eyes were filled with the fire of life as the eagle mantled, flapping his seven-foot wingspread, hackles raised on its head, and gave a fierce call from his blue-black beak. Jim stood transfixed, privy to something that few people would ever see. Nar folded his massive wings, his feathered legs and yellow feet in sharp contrast to the tanned kidskin glove he gripped, his amber eyes large and intelligent looking.

Dal laughed softly and raised her right hand, gently stroking his feathered breast.

“Poor day hunting, is that it?” she teased the bird. “His crop is empty,” she called to Jim. “That’s why he’s here.”

Nar lifted his majestic head, staring imperiously at Jim. Dal turned. “He doesn’t know you, so don’t come any closer,” she warned quietly.

“No need to worry,” he assured her, observing the raptor. “He’s got to be heavy.”

Dal nodded. “All thirteen pounds of him. He’s three feet in length. As you can tell, he’s fully matured because he has no white feathers under his wings here. He’s still a baby at seven years old.”

“He’s a big baby,” Jim said with a grin.

“A spoiled one. He must have been too upset after meeting you on the crest of that hill to continue hunting.”

“He wasn’t the only one,” Jim drawled, meeting her smile. My God, he thought, she was simply breathtaking. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled like dark sapphires. Jim had the urge to reach out and simply cradle her face between his hands and worship those smiling lips with his mouth. Right now, she was a child, as was he. His gaze traveled to the eagle. It was wildlife that brought Dal out of her cloak of distrust for him. He absorbed every nuance of her in those precious moments.

Jim eyed the eagle’s grasp on her arm now; Nar was barely gripping it. “When he’s upset he grips hard?”

“Yes. Remind me when he decides to leave to show you the scars I have on this arm.”

“God, he’s magnificent.”

Dal met his gaze. “Yes, he is. And he’s free.”

“And yet you’ve trained him to sit on your arm.”

She shivered beneath the husky excitement in his voice. Suddenly she was sharing one of the few joys of her life with Jim, and she wanted to. The look of excitement in his eyes told her everything. He was just as elated as she was with the majesty of Nar.

“I started feeding him when he was a baby. When he was old enough to begin to fly, I had to make a lure out of a rabbit skin with raw meat attached to it and teach him how to catch food.” She laughed. “I’d swing the lure and he’d sit on my arm looking first at me and then at it. Finally, I’d throw him off my arm and swing the lure and he’d stoop, grabbing it in his talons. After that, I’d take him out to one of the meadows, cast him off into the air and he’d hunt his own rabbits or whatever.”

“And he still returns to you after being put back out in the wild?”

“When I got here six months ago, Nar somehow knew I was home again. Every morning he’ll be sitting on the block right after sunrise, waiting for me.” She gave Jim a shy look. “It’s our special time together. Nar flies to the meadow, circling me as I ride on horseback. Then I give him a few scraps of chicken or beef liver and then we play.”

“What do you mean ‘play’?” Jim had a tough time accepting that the raptor knew the meaning of the word play. There was nothing harmless about the bird.

Her smile widened. “Want to ride with me tomorrow morning at dawn and find out?”

Removing his hat, he scratched his head and thought about the invitation. “He won’t attack me? I’ve heard of other falcons and eagles being so protective of their masters that they’ll attack anyone who gets near them.”

“Nar won’t hurt you. He knows you’re a friend and not an enemy,” she assured him.

At that moment Nar turned, chirping softly at her, and then raised one wing, preening his molten-bronze feathers. Dal smiled and leaned forward, touching the bird’s breast with her cheek. “He’s such a pushover,” she confided, lifting her head.

Jim nodded, thinking that the eagle had one hell of a deal going for him. Not only was the bird on the receiving end of her affection, she trusted him. He knew that with a murderous beak like that, Nar had only to strike with savage swiftness to quite literally open up half of Dal’s face, if he chose. Jim wouldn’t want that fierce predator on his arm for any reason…and that left him worried for her sake. Falcons or eagles that had been kept in captivity for years were known to turn moody unexpectedly and strike their owner, inflicting no small degree of damage. Dal’s flesh was too soft, too lovely to mar with a scar made by Nar.

“Some pushover,” he growled.

“Follow me. I’m going to take him to his block and feed him some beef liver. On some days when food is scarce, he’ll make his presence known here at the ranch in no uncertain terms. Millie’s chased him away from the henhouse more than once,” she added with a laugh. “And Rafe has been ready to strangle him on a number of occasions for frightening the foals as he glides across the paddocks to the garage where his block is.”

Jim followed her into the gloom of the garage. As if on some silent cue, Nar stepped like a gentleman from her arm to the large, round wooden block that stood five feet off the concrete floor. Dal rubbed her arm. “God, he’s heavy.”

“I thought he was going to knock you over when he went into that stoop.”

“He has, a number of times,” she said with a chuckle, going to the refrigerator. “You figure a thirteen-pound eagle stooping at thirty miles an hour and calculate the force with which he comes in for a landing! Then, when he wraps his claws around your forearm…” She pulled out a package of beef liver, unwrapped it and threw the meat toward Nar. The eagle’s right leg shot out, his talons catching the food midair. Then he mantled, flapping his wings. The feathers on his head rose and he shrilled in warning.

Dal reached over, taking Jim’s arm. “Come on. Feeding time means leaving him alone. If he thinks you’re going to try and take that food away, he’ll fly at us.”

Not needing any more coaxing, Jim slid his hand beneath Dal’s elbow and led her back out into the sunlight. They stood there, watching the eagle for a minute or two. Jim smiled to himself; Dal was standing less than six inches from him and wasn’t displaying any of her previous nervousness. He thanked Nar for that.

“Isn’t it dangerous raising a bird like that?”

She pulled the glove off her left arm and held out her hand to him. Innumerable white and even recent pinkish scars marred her artistic-looking fingers. Turning her palm over, Dal pointed to a long deep scar that ran the length of her hand. Her voice held a rueful note. “When Nar was six months old he decided to make a meal of Millie’s cat, Goodyear. You’ll see him around here, I’m sure. He’s a long-haired white and yellow cat who stole Millie’s heart. Consequently, she overfeeds him, and so we started calling him the Goodyear blimp because he resembled one. I was out with the foals when Nar flew from his aerie on the cliffs about ten miles north of here. It was the middle of the day, so I was surprised to see him. I heard his call first. And then I saw Goodyear crossing the hen yard.”

Jim matched her grin. “So of course, Nar thought Goodyear was an ideal meal on wheels.”

“Exactly! The only thing that saved the blimp was the fact that at that age Nar wasn’t expert at stooping and catching his quarry. He managed to skim the ground and caught Goodyear’s tail between his claws.” Dal hooted with laughter as she recalled the event. “Imagine Millie coming out of the house screaming at the top of her lungs and waving a broom, and the blimp squalling for all of his nine lives, and Nar shrieking because the cat wouldn’t stay still.”

“So who got to whom first?” Jim asked, enjoying her warmth and camaraderie.

“Thankfully, I did. One thing I learned about predators long ago is that you never take their quarry away from them. I tried to get Nar to let go of Goodyear, who was still squalling, and I was begging Millie not to hit the eagle all at the same time. I put my arm out and I didn’t even have a glove on, so I knew I was in trouble. Nar wasn’t going to let go, so I reached down and tapped him smartly across the legs. His right leg came up like lightning and he struck at me. Goodyear escaped and I sat hunched in front of Nar with the palm of my hand sliced down to the muscle.” She grimaced. “Needless to say, Rafe was ready to shoot Nar before he took me to the hospital for stitches and a tetanus shot.”

Jim picked up her hand, gently cradling it between his own. He ran his thumb lightly down the length of the puckered scar. “Did you stop to think he might have struck at you with his beak and blinded you or scarred your face for life…?”

A tingle of unexpected fire leaped to life as he caressed her hand. Dal’s mouth grew dry, and she lifted her head and stared up into his dark gold eyes. Eyes of a hawk, her mind whispered. Yes, he was like a hawk, she thought weakly, tendrils of pleasure leaping like hot fire licking through her nerve endings as he met and held her gaze. His fingers were long and warm against the dampness of her own and she felt the callused roughness of his hands. Working hands. Not soft like an office worker’s. She blinked once, ensnared within the web of his amber gaze, an ache centering in her breast. Dal sensed his caring, his genuine concern toward her. It was no game. No, the low tremor in his voice that impacted her so headily was completely sincere.

“I…hadn’t thought of that,” she stammered, withdrawing her hand from his. Dal felt the heat of her blush and cringed inwardly. At thirty she shouldn’t be blushing. Just another Kincaid trait, she thought, embarrassed as she saw the beginning of a smile on Jim’s mouth.

“Well,” he growled softly, “from now on, if you don’t think of it, I will. You’re too beautiful to have your skin marred by that eagle if he takes a fit of temper again.”

She felt as if she were in a pool of golden light that surrounded them in that mesmerizing moment. All sounds ceased to exist except his low voice and the many unspoken messages conveyed by his predatorlike gaze. It was so long since a man had honestly cared what happened to her. “Well,” she heard herself say in a faraway voice, “Nar isn’t temperamental. Some birds are moody, but he isn’t. You just can’t take the food that he’s earned away from him, that’s all.”

“Dal?” Millie’s voice carried across the yard. Dal gave Jim a quick look, as if relieved that their intimacy had been broken by the interruption.

“Coming, Millie.” She managed a slight smile of apology. “Come on, lunch is ready.”

“Good,” Jim murmured, “I’m starved.”

Casting him a suspicious look, Dal tried to read between the lines of his statement. Yes, she had seen hunger burning in the depths of his eyes, and it was all aimed at her. She was trembling and that shocked her. Even her knees were weak as she walked toward the ranch house with him. How could that be? Jim had simply touched her palm. What was going on within her? she wondered. When Jack touched her, her skin crawled and she shrank deep within herself to blot out his advance. But Jim’s touch…

Dal tried to analyze the chemistry that existed between them, scared to death.

* * *

After lunch Dal excused herself and went into the study to lie down on the couch. She hadn’t slept well the previous night, as usual, and she catnapped daily to catch up on the sleep lost during the night. She pulled the orange, blue and green afghan that Millie had knit across her shoulders and drifted off quickly. The study was her one refuge while Jim Tremain was there. Usually, she would take a nap in the living room where the fire crackled and popped with friendly sounds, lulling her to sleep. Now she closed her eyes, wondering what he might think if he knew she slept on the couch every night instead of in a bedroom. What did she care what he thought? Grousing at her inability to make many decisions in her life yet, Dal let it all go, sleep claiming her almost immediately.

Millie woke her near three, stroking her hair in a gentle motion. “Time to get up, lamb.”

Dal groaned, stretching and yawning. “Three already?”

“Already,” Millie agreed, looking down at her. “What time did you finally get to sleep last night?”

“Around four in the morning,” she admitted, her voice thick with sleep as she sat up.

“More nightmares?”

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“My room’s in the back. You know I don’t hear a thing.”

Dal rubbed her face tiredly. “Rafe usually does.”

Millie nodded, her eyes mirroring her unspoken worry. “Why don’t you try and sleep in your own room tonight?”

Her heart suddenly began pounding in her breast and Dal felt herself going all shaky inside. “No…I can’t, Millie. Not yet.”

“But Mr. Tremain is here. He’s a stranger to the house. What if he finds you sleeping out on the couch?”

She shrugged tiredly. “He’ll have the guest bedroom next to your room, Millie. I doubt he’ll hear a thing if I do wake up. Besides, I’ll work late tonight for Rafe, here in the study. By the time I get my bed made up in the living room, Jim…I mean Mr. Tremain, will have already gone to sleep.”

“Whatever you say, lamb. Speaking of Mr. Tremain, he’s been outdoors most of the time snooping around.”

Dal looked up, smiling. “Snooping?” she teased. Millie distrusted everyone in general unless they had been born on the Triple K.

“Poking and prodding. You know. Charlie, the farrier, came in to tell me he was out in the stud barn looking over Rafe’s stock.”

Rising, then folding the afghan and hanging it neatly on the back of the leather couch, Dal asked, “Is that where he is now?”

“Guess so,” Millie groused. “That man’s got the curiosity of a cat.”

“Probably nine lives, too,” Dal said, chuckling. She put her arm around Millie and walked out of the study with her.

“You gonna go find him?”

“Sure. Matter of fact, the day’s so nice, I think we’ll take a ride. Rafe wanted me to check that new barbed wire fence the hands put up in the southern pasture. Mr. Tremain looks like he might put a leg over a good horse, so let’s not disappoint him.”

“Humph! Ask me, that man was born to the saddle.”

Dal felt lighter, happier. Happy? When had she last felt like this? The feeling was so foreign to her that it sobered her sharply. She divided her attention between the housekeeper and her unexpected revelation. “We’ll be back around seven at the latest.”

“Just in time for supper.”

Dal grabbed her dark brown felt cowboy hat and dropped it on her head. The late April day was turning mild, with the temperature probably somewhere in the high forties, she figured. She was used to below-zero conditions of winter, and forty felt like summer. She decided to leave her sheepskin coat behind, since the long sleeves of her shirt would be warm enough. Then she headed toward the Arabian stallion barn.

Jim looked up as many of the horses whickered simultaneously in greeting. There was Dal, at the entrance to the airy barn, walking toward him. He saw that she looked rested, the shadows gone from beneath her blue eyes. Did she realize how graceful she was? He had a tough time disguising the inner hunger he felt for her as she drew abreast of him.

“I see you’ve made friends with our three studs,” Dal said with a smile as she opened the box stall of a white stallion, led him out to the center of the aisle and placed him in the cross ties. “You ready for a ride with me?”

Jim followed and picked up the tack box from the tack room, handing her a currycomb and taking a brush for himself.

He began brushing down the stallion. “Sure.”

She grinned at him, then went to the tack room to find the appropriate saddle. “Trusting soul, aren’t you? You don’t even ask where we’re going or what we’ll be doing.”

He took the blanket and saddle from her and tacked up the Arab, which pawed restlessly in the ties. Jim’s amber eyes were dark and thoughtful as he looked across at Dal. “I’m trusting of some people,” he countered.

“And how do you know you can trust me?” Dal taunted softly.

“Your mouth.”

She laughed outright, curious as to how he saw her. “My mouth?”

“Or maybe it’s your large deerlike eyes. Vulnerable mouth and trusting eyes,” he murmured, finishing his task by bridling the horse.

Dal gave him a grim look. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

He handed the reins of the horse to her but she shook her head. “He’s yours to ride. His name is Flight.”

Jim smiled. “Fast, eh?”

“You’ll see,” she promised, walking down to another stall.

Within minutes Dal had her favorite gray gelding saddled and they were off at a brisk trot toward the southern pasture. Flight pranced sideways, blowing and snorting beneath the capable hand of Jim Tremain. From time to time Dal would drop back slightly and watch him handle the spirited stallion. Millie was right; Jim knew how to ride with the best of them. His thighs were long and powerful against the stallion’s barrel, and he rose and fell with each stride of the horse, as if they were one. He was beautiful, Dal decided. The man and the stallion; one and the same with so much spirit fused with pride and maleness.

“You and Flight suit each other admirably,” she complimented dryly, riding at his side.

Jim’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. “I hope your brother approves of me riding one of his prize stallions.”

“Rafe knows I’d never let anyone ride Flight who didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Is my wrangler side that obvious?”

She grinned. “You’ve got bowed legs like the rest of us. What do you think?”

His laughter was deep and clear and it freed Dal in a breathless sort of way. When he smiled, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened, and the smile lines around his mouth became grooves that eased the hardness of his features.

“I thought you were going to blame my Navaho blood,” he teased.

Dal became more serious, her curiosity overcoming her natural distrust of him. Flight was a volatile animal at best, and yet beneath Jim’s firm but sensitive hand the stallion had never once tossed his head or fought the bit. Her gaze rested on Jim’s hands, and she recalled him sensitively caressing the flesh of her palm. Her heart beat a little faster as she savored that branding moment earlier.

“I owe you an apology, Jim.”

“Oh?”

“I called you a half-breed. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

His eyes were filled with amusement. “I didn’t take what you said seriously, so don’t apologize. You were a little out of sorts, that’s all.”

Dal cast him a spurious look. “I haven’t figured out whether you’re a mind reader or not,” she muttered.

“Why?”

“Because you know me too well.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Everything. Men are insensitive.”

His mouth curved into a teasing smile. “Is that like ‘all women are catty’?”

She laughed at his generalization. “Touché. Well, I guess I can throw all my labels out the window with you and start all over.”

He gave her a heated look. “I think you’d better,” he said huskily.