by Linda Howard
Well, he’d take care of all that for her, whether she liked it or not. He had the feeling she wouldn’t, but she’d come around. She was too used to being taken care of, and, as he’d told her, now it was his turn.
Yesterday had changed everything. He’d felt her response to him, felt the way her mouth had softened and shaped itself to his. She wanted him, too, and the knowledge only increased his determination to have her. She had tried to keep him from seeing it; that acid tongue of hers would have made him lose his temper if he hadn’t seen the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. It was so unusual that he’d almost wanted to bring back the haughtiness that aggravated him so much… . Almost, but not quite. She was vulnerable now, vulnerable to him. She might not like it, but she needed him. It was an advantage he intended to use.
There was no answer at the door when he got to the ranch house, and the old truck was missing from its customary parking place in the barn. John put his fists on his hips and looked around, frowning. She had probably driven into town, though it was hard to think that Michelle Cabot was willing to let herself be seen in that kind of vehicle. It was her only means of transportation, though, so she didn’t have much choice.
Maybe it was better that she was gone; he could check around the ranch without her spitting and hissing at him like an enraged cat, and he’d look at those cattle in the south pasture. He wanted to know just how many head she was running, and how they looked. She couldn’t possibly handle a big herd by herself, but for her sake he hoped they were in good shape, so she could get a fair price for them. He’d handle it himself, make certain she didn’t get rooked. The cattle business wasn’t a good one for beginners.
He swung into the saddle again. First he checked the east pasture, where she had said the fence was down. Whole sections of it would have to be replaced, and he made mental notes of how much fencing it would take. The entire ranch was run-down, but fencing was critical; it came first. Lush green grass covered the east pasture; the cattle should be in it right now. The south pasture was probably overgrazed, and the cattle would show it, unless the herd was small enough that the south pasture could provide for its needs.
It was a couple of hours before he made it to the south pasture. He reined in the horse as he topped a small rise that gave him a good view. The frown snapped into place again, and he thumbed his hat onto the back of his head. The cattle he could see scattered over the big pasture didn’t constitute a big herd, but made for far more than the small one he’d envisioned. The pasture was badly overgrazed, but scattered clumps of hay testified to Michelle’s efforts to feed her herd. Slow-rising anger began to churn in him as he thought of her wrestling with heavy bales of hay; some of them probably weighed more than she did.
Then he saw her, and in a flash the anger rose to boiling point. The old truck was parked in a clump of trees, which was why he hadn’t noticed it right off, and she was down there struggling to repair a section of fencing by herself. Putting up fencing was a two-man job; one person couldn’t hold the barbed wire securely enough, and there was always the danger of the wire backlashing. The little fool! If the wire got wrapped around her, she wouldn’t be able to get out of it without help, and those barbs could really rip a person up. The thought of her lying tangled and bleeding in a coil of barbed wire made him both sick and furious.
He kept the horse at an easy walk down the long slope to where she was working, deliberately giving himself time to get control of his temper. She looked up and saw him, and even from the distance that still separated them he could see her stiffen. Then she turned back to the task of hammering a staple into the fence post, her jerky movements betraying her displeasure at his presence.
He dismounted with a fluid, easy motion, never taking his gaze from her as he tied the reins to a low-hanging tree branch. Without a word he pulled the strand of wire to the next post and held it taut while Michelle, equally silent, pounded in another staple to hold it. Like him, she had on short leather work gloves, but her gloves were an old pair of men’s gloves that had been left behind and were far too big for her, making it difficult for her to pick up the staples, so she had pulled off the left glove. She could handle the staples then, but the wire had already nicked her unprotected flesh several times. He saw the angry red scratches; some of which were deep enough for blood to well, and he wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled.
“Don’t you have any better sense than to try to put up fencing on your own?” he rasped, pulling another strand tight.
She hammered in the staple, her expression closed. “It has to be done. I’m doing it.”
“Not anymore, you aren’t.”
His flat statement made her straighten, her hand closing tightly around the hammer. “You want the payment right away,” she said tonelessly, her eyes sliding to the cattle. She was a little pale, and tension pulled the skin tight across her high cheekbones.
“If that’s what I have to do.” He pried the hammer from her grip, then bent to pick up the sack of staples. He walked over to the truck, then reached in the open window and dropped them onto the floorboard. Then he lifted the roll of barbed wire onto the truck bed. “That’ll hold until I can get my men out here to do it right. Let’s go.”
It was a good thing he’d taken the hammer away from her. Her hands balled into fists. “I don’t want your men out here doing it right! This is still my land, and I’m not willing to pay the price you want for your help.”
“I’m not giving you a choice.” He took her arm, and no matter how she tried she couldn’t jerk free of those long, strong fingers as he dragged her over to the truck, opened the door and lifted her onto the seat. He released her then, slamming the door and stepping back.
“Drive carefully, honey. I’ll be right behind you.”
She had to drive carefully; the pasture was too rough for breakneck speed, even if the old relic had been capable of it. She knew he was easily able to keep up with her on his horse, though she didn’t check the rearview mirror even once. She didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to think about selling the cattle to pay her debt. That would be the end of the ranch, because she’d been relying on that money to keep the ranch going.
She’d hoped he wouldn’t come back today, though it had been a fragile hope at best. After talking to Roger that morning, all she wanted was to be left alone. She needed time by herself to regain her control, to push all the ugly memories away again, but John hadn’t given her that time. He wanted her, and like any predator he’d sensed her vulnerability and was going to take advantage of it.
She wanted to just keep driving, to turn the old truck down the driveway, hit the road and keep on going. She didn’t want to stop and deal with John, not now. The urge to run was so strong that she almost did it, but a glance at the fuel gauge made her mouth twist wryly. If she ran, she’d have to do it on foot, either that or steal John’s horse.
She parked the truck in the barn, and as she slid off the high seat John walked the horse inside, ducking his head a little to miss the top of the door frame. “I’m going to cool the horse and give him some water,” he said briefly. “Go on in the house. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Was postponing the bad news for a few minutes supposed to make her feel better? Instead of going straight to the house, she walked down to the end of the driveway and collected the mail. Once the mailbox had been stuffed almost every day with magazines, catalogs, newspapers, letters from friends, business papers, but now all that came was junk mail and bills. It was odd how the mail reflected a person’s solvency, as if no one in the world wanted to communicate with someone who was broke. Except for past-due bills, of course. Then the communications became serious. A familiar envelope took her attention, and a feeling of dread welled in her as she trudged up to the house. The electric bill was past due; she’d already had one late notice, and here was another one. She had to come up with the money fast, or the power would be disconnecte
d. Even knowing what it was, she opened the envelope anyway and scanned the notice. She had ten days to bring her account up to date. She checked the date of the notice; it had taken three days to reach her. She had seven days left.
But why worry about the electricity if she wouldn’t have a ranch? Tiredness swept over her as she entered the cool, dim house and simply stood for a moment, luxuriating in the relief of being out of the broiling sun. She shoved the bills and junk mail into the same drawer of the entry table where she had put the original bill and the first late notice; she never forgot about them, but at least she could put them out of sight.
She was in the kitchen, having a drink of water, when she heard the screen door slam, then the sharp sound of boot heels on the oak parquet flooring as he came down the hallway. She kept drinking, though she was acutely aware of his progress through the house. He paused to look into the den, then the study. The slow, deliberate sound of those boots as he came closer made her shiver in reaction. She could see him in her mind’s eye; he had a walk that any drugstore cowboy would kill for: that loose, long-legged, slim-hipped saunter, tight buttocks moving up and down. It was a walk that came naturally to hell-raisers and heartbreakers, and Rafferty was both.
She knew the exact moment when he entered the kitchen, though her back was to him. Her skin suddenly tingled, as if the air had become charged, and the house no longer seemed so cool.
“Let me see your hand.” He was so close behind her that she couldn’t turn without pressing against him, so she remained where she was. He took her left hand in his and lifted it.
“They’re just scratches,” she muttered.
She was right, but admitting it didn’t diminish his anger. She shouldn’t have any scratches at all; she shouldn’t be trying to repair fencing. Her hand lay in his bigger, harder one like a pale, fragile bird, too tired to take flight, and suddenly he knew that the image was exactly right. She was tired.
He reached around her to turn on the water, then thoroughly soaped and rinsed her hand. Michelle hurriedly set the water glass aside, before it slipped from her trembling fingers, then stood motionless, with her head bowed. He was very warm against her back; she felt completely surrounded by him, with his arms around her while he washed her hand with the gentleness a mother would use to wash an infant. That gentleness staggered her senses, and she kept her head bent precisely to prevent herself from letting it drop back against his shoulder to let him support her.
The soap was rinsed off her hand now, but still he held it under the running water, his fingers lightly stroking. She quivered, trying to deny the sensuality of his touch. He was just washing her hand! The water was warm, but his hand was warmer, the rough calluses rasping against her flesh as he stroked her with a lover’s touch. His thumb traced circles on her sensitive palm, and Michelle felt her entire body tighten. Her pulse leaped, flooding her with warmth. “Don’t,” she said thickly, trying unsuccessfully to pull free.
He turned off the water with his right hand, then moved it to her stomach and spread his fingers wide, pressing her back against his body. His hand was wet; she felt the dampness seeping through her shirt in front, and the searing heat of him at her back. The smell of horse and man rose from that seductive heat. Everything about the man was a come-on, luring women to him.
“Turn around and kiss me,” he said, his voice low, daring her to do it.
She shook her head and remained silent, her head bent.
He didn’t push it, though they both knew that if he had, she wouldn’t have been able to resist him. Instead he dried her hand, then led her to the downstairs bathroom and made her sit on the lid of the toilet while he thoroughly cleaned the scratches with antiseptic. Michelle didn’t flinch from the stinging; what did a few scratches matter, when she was going to lose the ranch? She had no other home, no other place she wanted to be. After being virtually imprisoned in that plush penthouse in Philadelphia, she needed the feeling of space around her. The thought of living in a city again made her feel stifled and panicky, and she would have to live in some city somewhere to get a job, since she didn’t even have a car to commute. The old truck in the barn wouldn’t hold up to a long drive on a daily basis.
John watched her face closely; she was distracted about something, or she would never have let him tend her hand the way he had. After all, it was something she could easily have done herself, and he’d done it merely to have an excuse to touch her. He wanted to know what she was thinking, why she insisted on working this ranch when it had to be obvious even to her that it was more than she could handle. It simply wasn’t in character for her.
“When do you want the money?” she asked dully.
His mouth tightened as he straightened and pulled her to her feet. “Money isn’t what I want,” he replied.
Her eyes flashed with green fire as she looked at him. “I’m not turning myself into a whore, even for you! Did you think I’d jump at the chance to sleep with you? Your reputation must be going to your head…stud.”
He knew people called him that, but when Michelle said it, the word dripped with disdain. He’d always hated that particular tone, so icy and superior, and it made him see red now. He bent down until his face was level with hers, their noses almost touching, and his black eyes were so fiery that she could see gold sparks in them. “When we’re in bed, honey, you can decide for yourself about my reputation.”
“I’m not going to bed with you,” she said through clenched teeth, spacing the words out like dropping stones into water.
“The hell you’re not. But it won’t be for this damned ranch.” Straightening to his full height again, he caught her arm. “Let’s get that business settled right now, so it’ll be out of the way and you can’t keep throwing it in my face.”
“You’re the one who put it on that basis,” she shot back as they returned to the kitchen. He dropped several ice cubes in a glass and filled it with water, then draped his big frame on one of the chairs. She watched his muscular throat working as he drained the glass, and a weak, shivery feeling swept over her. Swiftly she looked away, cursing her own powerful physical response to the mere sight of him.
“I made a mistake,” he said tersely, putting the glass down with a thump. “Money has nothing to do with it. We’ve been circling each other from the day we met, sniffing and fighting like cats in heat. It’s time we did something about it. As for the debt, I’ve decided what I want. Deed that land you were going to sell over to me instead, and we’ll be even.”
It was just like him to divide her attention like that, so she didn’t know how to react or what to say. Part of her wanted to scream at him for being so smugly certain she would sleep with him, and part of her was flooded with relief that the debt had been settled so easily. He could have ruined her by insisting on cash, but he hadn’t. He wasn’t getting a bad deal, by any means; it was good, rich pastureland he was obtaining, and he knew it.
It was a reprieve, one she hadn’t expected, and she didn’t know how to deal with it, so she simply sat and stared at him. He waited, but when she didn’t say anything he leaned back in his chair, his hard face becoming even more determined. “There’s a catch,” he drawled.
The high feeling of relief plummeted, leaving her sick and empty. “Let me guess,” she said bitterly, shoving her chair back and standing. So it had all come down to the same thing, after all.
His mouth twisted wryly in self-derision. “You’re way off, honey. The catch is that you let me help you. My men will do the hard labor from now on, and if I even hear of you trying to put up fencing again, you’ll be sitting on a pillow for a month.”
“If your men do my work, I’ll still be in debt to you.”
“I don’t consider it a debt; I call it helping a neighbor.”
“I call it a move to keep me obligated!”
“Call it what you like, but that’s the deal. You’re one woman, not ten men; y
ou’re not strong enough to take care of the livestock and keep the ranch up, and you don’t have the money to afford help. You’re mighty short on options, so stop kicking. It’s your fault, anyway. If you hadn’t liked to ski so much, you wouldn’t be in this position.”
She drew back, her green eyes locked on him. Her face was pale. “What do you mean?”
John got to his feet, watching her with the old look that said he didn’t much like her. “I mean that part of the reason your daddy borrowed the money from me was so he could afford to send you to St. Moritz with your friends last year. He was trying to hold his head above water, but that didn’t matter to you as much as living in style, did it?”
She had been pale before, but now she was deathly white. She stared at him as if he’d slapped her, and too late he saw the shattered look in her eyes. Swiftly he rounded the table, reaching for her, but she shrank away from him, folding in on herself like a wounded animal. How ironic that she should now be struggling to repay a debt made to finance a trip she hadn’t wanted! All she’d wanted had been time alone in a quiet place, a chance to lick her wounds and finish recovering from a brutal marriage, but her father had thought resuming a life of trips and shopping with her friends would be better, and she’d gone along with him because it had made him happy.
“I didn’t even want to go,” she said numbly, and to her horror tears began welling in her eyes. She didn’t want to cry; she hadn’t cried in years, except once when her father died, and she especially didn’t want to cry in front of Rafferty. But she was tired and off balance, disturbed by the phone call from Roger that morning, and this just seemed like the last straw. The hot tears slipped silently down her cheeks.
“God, don’t,” he muttered, wrapping his arms around her and holding her to him, her face pressed against his chest. It was like a knife in him to see those tears on her face, because in all the time he’d known her, he’d never before seen her cry. Michelle Cabot had faced life with either a laugh or a sharp retort, but never with tears. He found he preferred an acid tongue to this soundless weeping.
