Skye

by Linda Lael Miller

  Skye went by the livery stable, after she left Jake, to look in on the bay. Sure enough, two of the hands were hard at work, trying to break him to ride, and they weren’t having much luck.

  She leaned against the fence, unmindful of her good dress, her dainty slippers, her carefully coiffed hair. She was so used to wearing boots, homespun skirts and blouses, and Granddaddy’s hat that she forgot to fuss.

  The stallion was a magnificent sight, his muscles clearly defined and powerful, his spirit so strong that Skye felt akin to him. Oh, yes, they were going to win the race on Sunday, she and the bay.

  Zachary came to stand beside her at the fence, his folded arms resting on the top rail, his grin warm and full of amusement. “Well, now, who’s this? Though you bear a strong resemblance to somebody I know, I don’t think I recognize you.”

  Skye laughed. “Was that a compliment or an insult?” she asked.

  “Most definitely a compliment,” he replied, and his

  grin broadened. “Isn’t this the horse you’ve been tracking for the last six months?”

  She’d tried to keep her plans a secret, confiding only in Megan, but it was obvious that her cousin had told Christy, and Christy had told Zachary. All inclination to smile gone, she bit her lower lip before answering. “That’s him,” she said. “Jake Vigil got to him before I did.”

  “Hmmm,” Zachary mused. “Almost seems like he knew you wanted that horse and got the drop on you deliberately, doesn’t it? I guess he figured the bay would make a strong drawing card.”

  Skye felt the pit of her stomach slip. “Why should he want a drawing card?” she asked, even though she already knew. God help her, she knew.

  Zachary sighed. “I guess he figures he might be able to swap you that horse for the rights to your timber,” he said.

  All Skye’s pretty, fragile dreams collapsed in the space of a moment. She’d been deluding herself, and on purpose, too. Once she was Jake’s wife, he could cut down the tallest and best trees and saw them up into railroad ties if he wanted. He’d probably lose interest in her once he’d gotten his way—he might even find an excuse to secure a divorce, though it was more likely he’d simply go right on taking his pleasure with the hurdy-gurdy women, the way other men did.

  She had almost made a terrible mistake. She would not be able to endure the outrage, the humiliation of such an arrangement, not even for love.

  As for Jake, well, he was that sure he would win the race, the arrogant scoundrel.

  “Skye?” Zachary looked concerned.

  “We’ll just see,” she sputtered, taking a handful of skirt on either side.

  Zachary’s worried expression changed to one of bafflement. “See what?” he asked.

  But Skye was already spinning away on one heel, bent on going back to Jake Vigil’s office, giving him a piece of her mind, and telling him that his devious plan had failed. The bet was off.

  He didn’t need to know that he had broken her heart.

  Zachary reached out and caught hold of her arm, pulling her around to face him again. “Whoa,” he said. He and Trace were both protective of her and Megan, as well as their wives. Much as she loved them, she often found them irritating. Did they think she was a child, helpless and without guile? “You look like you’re about to shoot somebody.”

  Tears burned in her eyes; humiliated, she tried to blink them away.

  That was enough for Zachary. He tugged her right across the street to his office. Once they were inside, he sat her down in a chair, hung his hat on a peg by the door, and poured two cups of his infamously bad coffee. He set one down in front of her on the surface of his desk and grinned. “Tell me what’s the matter,” he teased, “or I’ll make you drink it.”

  Skye sniffled. “I want to report a horse theft,” she said.

  “What?”

  “That horse was mine. I tracked it for months. I want Jake Vigil arrested for robbery.”

  Zachary rounded his desk and sat down heavily in his chair. “Well, now,” he said reflectively, putting his feet up to rest on top of a stack of wanted posters. “This situation is getting more interesting all the time.”

  “You have to do something.”

  Zachary sighed. “Skye, I can’t arrest a man without cause, and you know it. Now, I want you to calm down and promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

  Skye couldn’t make such a promise, and it was a damn good thing she didn’t. It would have been impossible to keep.

  Chapter

  4

  T he livery stable was dark, and the bay stallion wasn’t in the corral.Skye, clad for skulking in trousers, one of Trace’s hats, and a dark coat, dragged a bale of hay over to a window and climbed onto it to peer inside. She had no real experience as a horse thief, since the worst thing she’d ever done was borrow her daddy’s favorite gelding without asking. She’d been thrown and gotten a broken arm for her trouble, along with a blistering lecture from her furious grandfather, delivered when she’d had some time to mend and to reflect upon the error of her ways.

  As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she spotted the bay in a nearby stall. Someone had put a feedbag on him, and, in that innocent stance, he looked as if he might have spent the day pulling a buggy or trotting smartly through a big-city park with a well-dressed rider on his back.

  She blew out a sigh and reminded herself that she had every right to ride the bay if she wanted; he was really hers, after all. She had been the one to track the critter, and in her heart she had laid claim to him long before Jake Vigil came along and all but grabbed him out from under her. Of course, the law—namely Zachary—definitely would not see the matter the same way.

  She’d brought along her own bridle, and she tossed it through the window first, to keep herself from turning coward at the last second. Then she climbed over the sill, one leg at a time, and jumped to the straw-covered floor, hardly making a sound in the process. Although several of the horses snuffled and whinnied, she didn’t hear what she had dreaded most: a human voice issuing a challenge to a trespasser. She stood very still for a few moments nonetheless, waiting for her heart to slide down out of her throat and the blood-thunder to subside from her ears. She stooped to pick up the bridle. Then, moving slowly, murmuring nonsensically in what she hoped was a reassuring tone, she approached the bay.

  The animal snorted and shifted nervously between the high rails of his stall, and Skye held her breath. Orville Hayes, the old reprobate who lived in a back room and kept watch over the stock at night to earn his keep, was busy swilling spirits at the Golden Garter, as usual. Skye had paused outside the saloon on her way to the livery and dared to look over the swinging doors, just to make sure. Mr. Hayes had been at the bar, all right, bending his elbow and thereby neglecting his duties at the stable.

  “Easy,” she whispered to the horse. “Take it easy.”

  Miraculously, the stallion settled down a little.

  Skye had no idea whether or not anyone had managed to ride him since his capture the morning before, but it didn’t seem likely. It took days, sometimes weeks, to break a horse to the saddle, and occasionally the task proved downright impossible. If she was going to ride the stallion in Sunday’s race, he had to be green-broke, at least.

  “Easy,” she said again. The stall gate squealed a little-as she opened it. She stepped inside, one hand resting lightly on the stallion’s flank in an effort to keep him from panicking, and moved alongside, trailing her fingertips over his gleaming hide until she was within his range of sight.

  She patted the bay’s forehead and gave him a lump of sugar from the flat of her palm, careful to keep her fingers out of the way.

  When she dared, she slowly raised the far side of the earpiece into place. He sputtered a protest but didn’t commence to kicking and carrying on—if he had, she’d probably have been trampled to something with the consistency of cornmeal mush—and Skye was heartened. She eased the leather strap over the other ear and balanced the bit on her open palm.<
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  “You need a name,” she said as the stallion took the questionable offering. She slid the metal bar carefully back over his tongue until it rested behind his teeth and finished buckling the bridle into place with swift motions of her hands, so long practiced as to be second nature. “How about Lancelot? Do you like that?”

  The bay nickered and pranced a little, but he allowed her to guide him backward, out of the stall. It was too bad horse-thieving was a crime, Skye thought, for she certainly seemed to have the knack.

  Outside, in the moonlight and the glow of saloon lamps, Skye stood, reins in hand, and spoke to the horse again in an earnest whisper. “Now, you listen here. I have to win this race on Sunday afternoon, and to do that, I need your help. I’ll thank you to cooperate because, if you don’t, I’m going to be a disgrace to every McQuarry who ever drew breath.” She bit her lip and blinked back tears.

  She could spare the timber Jake wanted, as long as it was cut responsibly, Trace and Zachary had convinced her of that, albeit with some difficulty. But now, faced with the reality, the mere thought of a lifetime passed with a husband who didn’t love her was intolerable. She’d seen real love up close, between Bridget and Trace and between Christy and Zachary, the kind that flowed both ways. She wanted the same sweet secrets, the same private laughter, the same fierce passion and partnership of souls.

  “All right,” she said, as much to herself as to the stallion, who was still nameless since he hadn’t shown any particular fondness for Lancelot. “We’re in this together, you and me, and if we’re going to win, we have to trust each other.” With that, she closed her eyes, sent a silent but fervent prayer winging to heaven, and sprang onto the bay’s back.

  He stood still as death for what seemed a long while, every muscle bunched, as if about to fly apart in pieces like a clay pot left too long on the fire. Then he quivered slightly through the belly and flanks and snorted a clear warning. The next few instants would tell it all: he might buck like the devil, or he might let her ride. She knew not which, and she wasn’t sure he did, either.

  Her throat was dry, and her heart pounded. Gently, she patted the animal’s corded, sweating neck. “Easy,” she said, and that, too, was second nature, the word her granddaddy had always used with nervous horses. “Take it real easy. I’m not going to hurt you, and I’d appreciate the same favor in return, if you can see your way clear not to throw me.”

  The bay was clearly the kind to deliberate, and he must have debated the question from both sides and in considerable depth, for they sat like a war monument, the two of them, for what seemed the best part of a month. While Skye waited, she tried not to imagine herself hurtling through the night air or rolling on the ground in a vain attempt to avoid four hard hooves. When he didn’t rear, Skye was pleasantly surprised, and while she was congratulating herself on her way with horses, he bolted. By the time they reached the edge of town, he seemed bent on sprouting wings, like Pegasus, and taking to the air. It didn’t occur to Skye to draw back on the reins and slow him down; instead, she tightened her legs around the barrel of his body and crouched low over his neck, brimming with joy.

  “He’s gone,” Orville Hayes whined, twisting his hat in his hands as he stood blinking his rheumy eyes in the dazzling sunlight outside Jake’s office. “Mr. Vigil, that fine stallion of yours is just plain gone. Somebody stolt him.”

  Jake resisted an urge to grasp the old man by the lapels and wrench him onto the balls of his feet. “What?” he demanded, even though he’d heard Orville’s words all too clearly. “Where the devil were you when this happened?”

  Orville swallowed visibly and crumpled the hat still further in his nervousness. “I stepped down to the Golden Garter—just long enough to have a single drink, mind you—Lil done cut off my credit a long time ago—and when I got back—”

  Jake glanced pointedly in the direction of the sun, which was well above the eastern horizon. “When you got back, you were so drunk that the stables could have burned down around your ears without your knowing,” he finished, disgusted but resigned. “When, exactly, did you discover that my horse had been stolen?”

  “J-just a little while ago,” Orville confessed. “You ain’t gonna get me into no dutch with Lil, are you, Mr. Vigil? I lose this job, I don’t know what I’m gonna do—”

  Jake sighed, resting his hands on his hips, and considered the situation. Orville worked for none other than the illustrious Diamond Lil; besides running a thriving saloon and brothel, the lady owned the stables and several other businesses in town, and she was hardheaded. Turning her loose on poor old Orville wouldn’t get the stallion back, and besides, Jake had a pretty good idea who the culprit was, anyhow. If he found Skye McQuarry, chances were good that he’d find the bay, too.

  He rubbed his chin. “I don’t know,” he said in a noncommittal tone of voice. “Fact is, if you worked for me, I’d show you the road.”

  Orville did not dare to point out that he didn’t work for Jake; it would have been worse than stupid, given the circumstances. “I came and tolt you right away, didn’t I?” he half whined, his countenance having slipped from fawning to outright pitiful. “I ain’t even been over to tell the marshal yet.”

  “I’ll take care of that,” Jake said tightly. He didn’t plan to speak to Zachary just yet himself. No, it was someone else he wanted to see. He felt a strange, elemental stir deep within him, just anticipating the coming encounter with Skye McQuarry. “You go on about your business, and I’ll see to the horse thief.”

  “You know who done it?” Among Orville’s other unredeeming qualities were a nosy nature and a tendency to gossip like an empty-headed spinster.

  Jake ignored the question. “Get my horse saddled,” he said, speaking of Trojan, the stallion he’d owned for the last several years. Then he turned to head for the mill, where he told his foreman he’d be gone awhile. Hank was over at the schoolhouse, and it looked as if the boy was finally going to stay put, so he could concentrate on catching up with Miss McQuarry. It shouldn’t be difficult.

  Ten minutes later, he was riding out of town, half amused and half furious. On the one hand, he had to admire Skye’s audacity, not to mention her riding skills. On the other, he wanted to yell at her until his voice rang off the mountainsides. Damn fool woman. Didn’t she know a wild horse was dangerous—especially a stallion? By now, she might well have gotten herself stomped to death or broken that stiff McQuarry neck of hers.

  A rush of cold horror coursed through his system. Maybe she had been hurt or killed. Maybe she was already lying on the ground someplace, dead or dying. In pain.

  He gave the horse his heels and reached Trace and Bridget’s place in a matter of minutes. Bridget met him in the dooryard, shading her eyes from the bright sunlight with one hand. Her smile might have warmed him if he hadn’t been so wrought up over Skye and the stallion.

  “Jake! What brings you here? I’m afraid Trace is away from home, taking a string of saddle horses down to Fort Grant.”

  “I’m not looking for Trace,” Jake said. He was trying to be polite, but his words came out sounding terse. “Is your sister around?”

  She frowned. “I suppose Skye’s around here somewhere—she’d already left the house when I got up this morning. She’s probably upstream panning for gold or traipsing around someplace in those woods of hers.” Bridget paused, probably regretting that she’d mentioned the timber, a known bone of contention between Jake and Skye. “Is—is something wrong?”

  Jake managed to smile, though he suspected it looked as forced as it felt, just wobbling there on his face, like a bill held to a brick wall with nothing but spit. “She borrowed something of mine,” he said in what he hoped was a jovial tone. “I’d like to get it back.”

  Bridget sighed. “Well, when you see her, you tell her to get on home, please. I need some help setting out onion starts, and it’s wash day, too.”

  He nodded, thought briefly, and then, on a hunch, started toward the high meadow just
below the timberline, where he’d caught the bay only the morning before. Had it really been just a day since then? He felt as though he’d lived a lifetime in the interim, and he expected to battle his way through ten more before dinnertime.

  She was there with the stallion, and when Jake caught sight of her, he drew up on his reins and sat back in the saddle, watching her. He was spellbound, a wanderer come upon a graceful nymph, unable to speak or move for the awe of it. His breath caught in his throat and lodged there like a peach pit. He felt a wild mingling of gratitude and fury, terror and pure, primitive joy.

  As he looked on, Skye rode fluidly, proudly, guiding the stallion in a wide circle through the high, sweet grass. She’d left the hat at home, evidently, or lost it someplace, for her dark brown hair flowed behind her in the breeze, as rich and wild and shining as the bay’s wind-ruffled mane.

  When she caught sight of him, she did not even break stride, though she did rein the stallion in his direction. Her smile was saucy as she faced him, easing the splendid horse to a stop and leaning down to pat his neck.

  “I thought as much,” he ground out. He was so stricken, all of a sudden, that he couldn’t manage anything more.

  There was an impish light in her wide brown eyes. She murmured something unintelligible and fond to the stallion, and for the first time in his life, Jake Vigil found himself envying a horse. “He needed to get used to me,” she explained, sitting easy in the saddle while the bay danced, eager to run again, “and I needed to get used to him. I’m sure we can win the race, he and I, now that we’re friends.”

  “How do you know I’m not going to have you jailed for thieving before Sunday?” he demanded. He’d had some trouble finding his voice, and when he did, it came out loud as thunder.

  She didn’t so much as flinch at the prospect of spending time behind bars. Of course, she wouldn’t. Zachary Shaw, the marshal, was a member of the family, and even if he wanted to arrest her, he’d catch hell at home if he did. “I don’t think you’d do that,” she said easily.