Secrets and Lies: He's a Bad BoyHe's Just a Cowboy

by Lisa Jackson

  “As soon as I think you’re ready to take him out of the paddock.”

  “Humph.” She set her tiny little jaw and a gleam of determination flared in her eyes. She worked the reins again and the gelding reared, but she hung on, refusing to be dismounted.

  Turner forced his mouth to remain grim, though he wanted to smile. Crossing his arms over his chest, he settled back against the fence to enjoy the show.

  Heather decided the lesson was a disaster.

  While he leaned his back against the rails of the fence and watched her put her mount through his paces, she tried to stay astride Sundown, who fought the bit and pranced this way and that.

  “You know, I’d work a lot better with Nutmeg,” she grumbled when Sundown tried to buck her off for the third time. She managed to stay in the saddle, but only because she finally grabbed hold of the saddle horn.

  “You’ll never make a rodeo queen,” Turner said. He shifted a piece of straw from one side of his mouth to the other.

  “Oh, gee, all my dreams, down the drain,” she tossed back, but laughed a little. She was hot and dirty and tired. After spending most of the day in the kitchen, she’d changed into jeans and had been astride Sundown for two hours, and her legs ached.

  “You know, Heather, you might like me if you let yourself.”

  She nearly fell off the horse. The last thing she expected was any conversation from him about their relationship—or lack of one. “Me? Not like you? Whatever gave you that impression? Just because you invaded my privacy, forced me to ride with you and then came up with this harebrained idea of having you teach me, on my free time, mind you, all I wanted to know about horses but was afraid to ask, now, why would you think I didn’t like you?”

  A bevy of quail suddenly took flight and Sundown leapt high. Heather scrabbled for the reins and the saddle horn, but the horse shifted quickly. She pitched forward. The ground rushed up at her and she hit the dirt with her shoulder, landing hard. Pain exploded through her arm, and she sucked in her breath.

  Turner was there in a second. Concern darkened his eyes as he reached to help her to her feet. “Are you okay?”

  “You’re the teacher,” she snapped. “You tell me.” But her arm throbbed and she held it against her body.

  “Seriously, Heather.” With a gentle touch she thought he reserved only for horses, he poked and prodded her shoulder. Eyebrows knit, he watched her reaction. “Hold your arm up, if you can.”

  Wincing, she forced her elbow high into the air. Like fire, pain shot through her bones. She gritted her teeth. Again his fingers touched her shoulder. “Ooh!”

  “That hurt?” he asked.

  “It all hurts.” Especially her pride. The last thing she wanted to do was fall off in front of him. She sent Sundown a scathing look. “Idiot.”

  “Well, I see your sweet temper is restored,” he said, and relief relaxed the hard contours of his face. For a second she was lost in his silvery gaze and her silly heart skipped a beat. His hands were warm and tender, and beneath his rough cowboy exterior Heather spied a kinder, gentler man—a man with a sense of humor and a man who did seem to care.

  “Good as new,” she said sarcastically, for she didn’t want to glimpse into Turner’s soul. It was easier to hate him than to have a current of conflicting emotions wired to her heart.

  He tried to help her up, but she ignored his hand and found her feet herself. The less he touched her, the better.

  “I think that’ll do it for tonight.”

  “Oh? You’re not one who believes that you have to climb right back on a horse if you fall off?”

  He eyed her speculatively, his gaze searching her face, and her breath was suddenly constricted in her throat. “You enjoy putting me down, don’t you?” When she didn’t answer, he stepped closer and the twilight seemed to wrap around them. “What is it you’ve got against me, Heather?” he asked, and his hand reached upward, barely touching her chin.

  “I don’t have anything against you,” she lied.

  “Oh, yes, you do, lady, and I intend to find out just what it is.” His thumb stroked the edge of her jaw and she felt as if she might collapse, so weak went her knees. Instead, she knocked his hand away.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said, her voice breathless.

  “Afraid?”

  “Of you? No way.”

  “You’re a liar, Heather Tremont,” he said slowly, but didn’t touch her again. “And I don’t know what you’re more scared of. Me or yourself.” He whistled to Sundown and caught the gelding’s reins in the hand that had so recently touched her skin. “You’d better go into the house, Heather, and have Mazie look at your shoulder.” His lopsided grin was almost infectious. “Unless you need the paramedics, I’ll see you same time, same place tomorrow.”

  “How long will these lessons last?” she asked, rubbing the pain from her upper arm.

  His gaze focused on hers again—hot, flinty and male. With a sardonic twist of his lips, he said, “We’ll keep at it for as long as it takes.”

  Heather’s heart dropped to her stomach and she knew she was in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.

  * * *

  LUCKILY, HER SHOULDER WASN’T sprained. Mazie clucked her tongue, Jill was absolutely jealous that Heather was spending so much time with Turner, Maggie didn’t much care, but Sheryl, the girl who’d been with the Lazy K longer than any of the others in the kitchen aside from Mazie, seemed to grow more quiet. Heather caught Sheryl staring at her several times, as if she wanted to say something, but the older girl would always quickly avert her eyes and hold her tongue. Heather didn’t pay much attention.

  Even with her bruised upper arm, Heather was still able to do her kitchen duties, sketch without too much pain and meet with Turner every evening. Despite telling herself that being with him was a torture, a punishment she was forced to endure, she began looking forward to her time alone with him.

  They rode through the forest on trails that had been ground to dust by the hooves of horses from the Lazy K. He showed her an eagle’s nest, perched high over the ridge where she’d first spotted him astride his horse all those days ago… . It seemed a lifetime now. He pointed out the spring that fed the river and let her wade in the icy shallows. They raced their horses across the dried pastureland, laughing as grasshoppers flew frantically out of their way; and they watched the sun go down, night after night, a fiery red ball that descended behind the westerly mountains and brought the purple gloaming of dusk.

  Often he touched her—to show her how to hold the reins, or tighten the cinch, or guide the horse, but the impression of his fingers was always fleeting and he never showed any inclination to let his hands linger.

  One night, when they were alone in the woods, standing at a bend in the trail, she felt the tension that was always between them—like a living, breathing animal that they both ignored.

  He was on one knee, pointing to a fawn hidden in the undergrowth. Heather leaned forward for a better view and her breast touched his outstretched arm. He flinched a little, and the tiny deer, which had stood frozen for so many seconds, finally bolted, leaping high as if its legs were springs, and making only the slightest sound as it tore through the scrub oak and pine.

  The wind died and the hot summer air stood still. Heather felt droplets of sweat between her shoulder blades, and she moved a step back as Turner stood. “I—uh, guess we scared him off,” she said, her throat as dusty as the trail.

  “Looks that way.” He was so close, she could smell the scents of leather and horse that clung to his skin.

  She moistened suddenly dry lips and wondered why she didn’t walk back to her gelding, why she didn’t put some distance between herself and this man she barely knew. There was something reckless about him, an aura that hinted at danger and yet was seductive. He touched her shoulder, and she nearly jumped at the heat in the pads of his fingertips. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the raw hunger in his stare.

  She expected him to yank her
close, to cover her yielding lips with his hard mouth, to feel the thrill of passion she’d read about in so many books. The naked hunger in his expression tightened her diaphragm about her lungs.

  “We’d better get back,” he finally said, his hands dropping.

  Disappointment ripped through her.

  “It’ll be dark soon.” Still he didn’t move.

  Heather’s throat constricted at the undercurrent of electricity in the air. She licked her lips and heard his breath whistle past his teeth.

  “Come on!” Grabbing her arm roughly, he strode back to the horses. “We don’t want to be late.”

  “No one’s waiting up for us,” she replied, surprised at her own boldness as she half ran to keep up with him.

  “For the love of Pete,” he muttered. Stopping short, he pulled on her arm, whirling her so that she had to face him. The darkness of the forest seemed to close in on them and the night breathed a life all its own as the moon began to rise and the stars peeked through a canopy of fragrant boughs. “You’re playing with fire, here, darlin’,” he said, his voice tinged with anger.

  “I’m not playing at all.”

  He dropped her arm as if it were white-hot. “Then let’s go home, Heather, before I start something neither one of us wants.”

  She wanted to argue, to protest, but he scooped up the reins of his horse, climbed into the saddle and kicked Sampson into a gallop.

  Heather was left standing in the darkening woods, wondering why he seemed to want her desperately one second, only to reject her the next. She was certain she hadn’t misread the signals. Turner wanted her; whether for just a night or a lifetime, she couldn’t begin to guess. But he wanted her.

  Yet he wouldn’t break down and admit it.

  She hoisted herself onto Sundown’s broad back and followed Sampson’s angry plume of dust. Turner was probably right, drat it all. Whatever there was between them was better left untouched.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING, HEATHER and Sheryl were assigned to inventory the pantry. The room was close and hot and Heather counted while Sheryl wrote down the information.

  “Sixteen quarts of beans…three tins of beets…five carrots—”

  “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Turner,” Sheryl said suddenly, causing Heather to lose track of her tally of the corn.

  “I—well, I’ve been taking riding lessons from him.”

  Sheryl lifted an arched eyebrow. “And that’s all?”

  “Yes—”

  “Good,” she said, seeming relieved. “The man’s trouble, you know.”

  Heather bristled a little. “His reputation doesn’t interest me.”

  “Well, it should, because Turner Brooks is bad news. He doesn’t care about anyone. I’ve seen the girls come here, year after year, and without fail, one of them falls for him. They get all caught up in the romance of loving a cowboy, and he ends up breaking their hearts. Not that he really intends to, I suppose. But they all start seeing diamond rings and hearing church bells and the minute they start talking weddings and babies, Turner takes off. He’s out for a good time and that’s it,” Sheryl said, shaking her head. “And it’s not really his fault. His dad’s a drunk and his mother’s dead. Some people say that the old man killed her—either from neglect or booze, I’m not really sure. But she’s gone, and before she died, they had horrible fights. Turner never lets himself get too involved with any woman.”

  “Is that so?” Heather responded, wanting to close her ears. Why should she believe this girl?

  Sheryl’s eyes were suddenly clouded, as if with a private pain. She touched Heather lightly on the shoulder. “Look, for your own good, stay away from Turner Brooks. He’ll cause you nothing but heartache. You can’t expect a commitment from a man who’d rather sleep on a bedroll in the snow and cook venison over an open fire than enjoy the comforts of a feather bed and hot shower. You like the good life—I can tell. You want to be an artist and live in a big city and show your work in some fancy gallery, don’t you?”

  Heather could barely breathe, but she managed to nod.

  “And Turner? What do you think he’d do in the city? Take you to the theater? Do you see him standing around an art festival and listening to jazz music? Or do you see him dancing in a tuxedo in an expensive restaurant?”

  “No, I don’t think—”

  “He belongs to the open range, Heather, and to the mountains. His idea of a wild time is having a couple of beers after a rodeo in a small town in the middle of nowhere. He’d never be happy in the city.”

  Heather’s heart nearly stopped. She wanted to say something, to defend herself, but her tongue was all tied in knots.

  “There was a time when I thought I could change him,” Sheryl said softly. “I’ve been working here since my senior year in high school and I guess I had a crush on him.” She fingered her pencil nervously and avoided Heather’s eyes. “I thought…well, that given enough time…he’d grow up or away from ranch life. I was wrong. I’ve been here six summers. This spring I’ll have my master’s in architecture. I’ve already started looking for jobs in L.A. Two years ago, I gave up on Turner. I knew I couldn’t change him.” Tears filled her eyes. “God, he’s got a girl in just about every town from here to Alberta! I was crazy. I…I just don’t want you to make the same mistake I did.”

  “I’m not—” Heather protested, but knew she was lying.

  “You belong in the city, Heather. Don’t kid yourself.” Clearing her throat, Sheryl motioned toward the cans of corn stacked on one of the deep shelves. “How many tins have we got?” she asked, and Heather, shaking inside, her dreams shattered, started counting again.

  * * *

  IN THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS, Heather thought about Sheryl’s warning, but she couldn’t help herself where Turner was concerned. She knew she was beginning to care about him too much, looking forward to their time alone together, and she refused to let Sheryl’s confession change her. Besides, she couldn’t. She’d waded too far into emotional waters and there seemed to be no turning back.

  Every evening, when the heat of the day fused with the coming night, Heather felt that she and Turner were alone beneath a canopy of ever-growing stars. They weren’t alone, of course. Laughter and the rattle of the coffeepot could be heard from the ranch house and every so often one of the hands would come outside to smoke or play harmonica or just gaze at the stars. But it truly seemed as if nothing else existed but the horse, Turner and herself. Silly, really. Nonetheless she did feel a change in the atmosphere whenever she was with him, and she began to notice him not so much as an adversary or a teacher, but as a man.

  The lone rider on the ridge.

  Yet he never so much as touched her again.

  “He’s such a hunk,” Jill said after work one evening as Heather changed for her lesson. “God, Heather, you’re so lucky! I’d give anything to spend a few hours alone with him.”

  Heather fought down a spasm of jealousy. “I’m sure he’d like that,” she said, brushing her hair and noticing the little lines between her eyebrows. Those little grooves always seemed to appear when Jill was gushing about cowboys in general, and Turner in particular.

  “Oh, no. He’s half in love with you.” From her bed, Jill sighed enviously.

  Heather nearly dropped her brush. It clattered on the bureau. “You’re crazy,” she said, but felt a warm glow of contentment at Jill’s observation.

  “No way.” Ripping a black headband from her hair, Jill offered Heather a conspiratorial smile before tossing the headband onto the bureau and rummaging under her bunk for a well-worn magazine. “I’ve seen it before.”

  Turner? In love with her? Absolutely ridiculous! Still, the idea had merit. “He doesn’t like me any more than I like him.”

  “That’s what I said. He’s half in love with you,” Jill replied, licking her fingers and flipping the page. In the mirror, Heather saw the wash of scarlet that was causing her cheeks to burn just as Sheryl walked in
to the room. Her lips were pressed into a hard line, and if she’d heard any of the conversation, she pretended she hadn’t.

  However, Jill thought Heather cared about Turner. Heather glanced at Sheryl, but the girl was fiddling with her Walkman and fitting the earphones over her head. Heather fingered her brush and tried to convince herself that Turner wasn’t her type. Too cynical. Too hard. Too…threateningly male. His sensuality was always between them, always simmering just below the surface of their conversations, always charging the air. And yet she’d wanted him to kiss her when they were alone at the deer trail. She wouldn’t have stopped him.

  The next few lessons were more difficult than ever.

  Though she tried not to notice, Heather found herself staring at the way his jeans rode low on his hips, the magnetism of the huge buckle that fit tight against his flat abdomen, the insolent, nearly indecent curve of his lips and his eyes… . Lord, his eyes were damned near mesmerizing with their cynical sparkle. Worse yet, whenever she had a few moments alone and she began to sketch, it was Turner’s face she began to draw, Turner’s profile that filled the pages of her book.

  Was she falling in love with a man who was only interested in the next rodeo? A cowboy who had seen too much of life already? He was a little bit mystery, and a lot rawhide and leather.

  It was dusk again—that time of day she seemed destined to spend with Turner. A few stars dappled the sky and the wind, blowing low over the Siskiyou Mountains, tugged wayward locks of her hair free of her ponytail. Clouds had gathered at the base of the mountains and the air felt charged, as if a storm were brewing.

  Turner was waiting for her in the corral, arms crossed over his chest, back propped against the weathered fence. His eyes were dark and serious, his expression hard as granite.

  “You’re late.”

  She felt the need to apologize, but shrugged and said, “Large dinner crowd.”

  As she reached the corral, he opened the gate. Sundown stood in the far corner, no bridle over his head, no saddle slung across his broad back.

  “Aren’t we going to ride?”