He pulled to a stop in front of the house. There was no sign of anyone, but he’d made good time and was a bit early, despite a small contretemps when Rocky had decided that a cool, shady roadside rest was a good place to while away an hour or so. Only when Cole had started the truck and begun to pull away did the cat believe his bellowed “Now or never, cat!” and make a run for the still-open passenger window. Cole seriously considered not slowing down, but figured the damn cat would probably just take off after him, and he’d look pretty silly driving along with a raccoonlike cat chasing him. Rocky made it in a scrabbling, clawing leap, then settled into his spot atop the cooler, grooming himself placidly, as if he’d planned it that way. And he probably had, Cole had thought then, rather acidly.
And now Rocky was sitting up, looking around with interest. Cole could see his whiskers move as his oddly pink nose twitched at the new scents.
“When the cat food runs out, you’re on your own,” he warned. “Time to get back to your roots, cat. Probably lots of mice around here. You’d better hope so, anyway.”
Rocky let out a tiny yowl. Cole wasn’t sure what it meant, and decided he was probably better off not knowing. He opened the truck door, and just then heard the sound of a door sliding open from the direction of the barn.
Tory was there in the shadowed doorway, untangling the trailing reins of a bridle. She wore a bright-red sleeveless T-shirt tucked into black jeans, faded from wear, Cole guessed, not some manufacturer’s process. A pair of slim, shotgun chaps encased her legs, and he was suddenly struck with the notion, after all those youthful years of seeing them and wearing them, that chaps were sexy. Not so much because they delineated the long, slender line of her legs, but because of the way they stopped short of her tautly curved, jeans-clad hips and backside.
She looked up as if she’d felt his intense gaze. She waved, hung the bridle up just inside the door, then started walking toward him. He’d never seen her in full sunlight, only in the office and the gray light of dawn. The hair that had seemed a sort of sandy brown with lighter streaks, in the sun turned into a glorious meld of gold and amber and a flaxen shade that reminded him of the mane of a little sorrel mare he’d had as a kid.
Horse had had the same sassy look to her, too. She’d been the sweetest, most giving—and trusting—horse he’d ever known. And she’d died trying to jump an arroyo for him. It was the first time Cole had ever cursed himself, as he crouched there beside her broken body, a fourteen year old face-to-face with the results of his own bad judgment for the first time. And it was the first time someone else had paid for it. But not the last.
The memory stirred in his mind like a warning. He watched Tory walk toward him, with a lithe, leggy stride that was absolutely devoid of feminine artifice—and far too rife with feminine appeal for his peace of mind.
She’s Hobie’s niece, he reminded himself sternly. And off-limits, even if you were interested, even if you weren’t on a case. Besides, she’s too damned young for the likes of you. No matter how old she is.
She came to a halt in front of him. Before he could stop himself, the ridiculous words popped out.
“How old are you?”
Tory blinked. “What?”
Damn, Cole swore inwardly. “Er, never mind. I was just trying to remember how old Hobie is.”
“Oh,” she said, accepting his explanation. Trusting, Cole thought. “Hobie was fifty-four this year.”
Fifty-four. Lord, had it really been fourteen years since Hobie had quit the rodeo-clown business? Interrupting his own last round on the circuit, Cole had gone to see him up at Pendleton, Oregon, that last year. It was a young man’s game, Hobie had said, and his forty-year-old body wasn’t up to it anymore. He’d taken too many hits, had had too many broken bones, too many concussions. And once, Cole knew, although Hobie never mentioned it, he’d been trampled nearly to death.
Fifty-four. Hobie had said that last time that he wanted to get back to Texas in time for Victoria’s—he’d been calling her that then—thirteenth birthday. So that made her at least twenty-seven. The number hit him with a shock; he would have guessed she was much younger. She certainly had an air of innocence about her. But if she’d been hidden away on this ranch since she was twenty-two, as Hobie had once written him, then—
“Something wrong, Mr. Bannister?”
“I...no.”
“I see you found us, all right.”
“Yes. Your directions were fine.”
She studied him for a moment, as if puzzled. “I’m glad you changed your mind,” she said at last.
“Don’t be,” he returned, sounding short in spite of his efforts not to. “You may be sorry, yet.”
She looked startled at his tone, but recovered smoothly. “Maybe. But at least I didn’t have to try and explain to Hobie that you weren’t coming.”
Cole winced inwardly. Perhaps she wasn’t so young after all. She’d certainly cut to the heart of things quickly enough.
“He...doesn’t know, then?”
“That you weren’t going to come? No. I didn’t see any reason to...”
“Disillusion him?” His tone was biting, because he knew it was what she’d meant, and the truth of it stung.
“Yes,” she said, not denying it. “Look, Mr. Bannister—”
“Cole.” His mouth twisted wryly at her look. “I’m the hired help, remember? Better get into the habit now, so you don’t slip up when someone’s around.”
She seemed about to say something else, then merely nodded. “Hobie asked to see you as soon as you got here.” She nodded at the house. “He’s resting, albeit grudgingly. He wanted to be able to show you around.”
Cole frowned. “He’s that sick?”
“No. Just weak. And he won’t rest enough to get his strength back. We’ve got some temporary help for the summer, a couple of kids from the local high school who come out in the afternoons, but he still won’t slow down.”
“He always was stubborn,” Cole said.
“Funny,” Tory replied, looking up at him through lashes he only now noticed were tipped with gold that matched the golden strands of her hair. “That’s what he said about you. Something about a bull named Stomper?”
Cole nearly groaned aloud. He pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “He would go spreading that around.”
“So, how many times did you ride him?”
“Five.” And he remembered every jarring, tooth-breaking jump, every brain-scrambling spin. “He’s the one who finally taught me I was too damned big to ride bulls, which everybody else already knew. And before you ask,” he added ruefully, “the final score was three to two. And not in my favor.”
She grinned at him, an open, good-hearted grin that reminded him of Hobie. Which didn’t explain why his breath seemed to catch in his throat.
“Stubborn.” She mimicked the tone he’d used about Hobie.
One corner of his mouth twisted wryly. “I broke five bones when I was riding the circuit. Stomper broke four of them. That doesn’t count the three times he broke my nose. Or the muscles and ligaments he pulled. I lost track of those. After a while, I started to take it real personally.”
“So the last time you waved off the pickup rider and rode him on past the buzzer.”
Cole flushed. That had been a piece of pride-driven preening he would just as soon forget. “He was a tough competitor. He deserved better than to be shown up like that.”
She looked startled, then thoughtful, but only said, “Come on inside. Hobie’s— Well, hello. Where did you come from?”
Cole stifled another groan. Rocky had obviously grown tired of waiting to be properly introduced, so in his usual manner had taken care of it himself. He stropped himself across her legs once, which was his limit, then retreated to a circumspect two feet away, sat and waited regally to be acknowledged.
“He, er, sort of came with me.”
She looked at him, brows raised. “He’s your cat?”
“
No!” It came out a little too fervently, and he felt a tinge of heat in his face. “He just...sort of stowed away.”
Tory looked at Cole, then at the cat, then back at Cole.
“Look,” he said, “if it’s a problem—”
“No. Not at all.”
Damn it, Cole thought, she looked like she was about ready to laugh. He was sure she was. Who wouldn’t, at the thought of a man like him and a cat?
“Does your...er, the stowaway have a name?”
He hesitated, then figured things couldn’t get much worse. “Rocky.”
She smiled then, and he knew the laughter was about to break loose.
“A neighbor kid named him,” he said, denying responsibility. “After the movies.”
“He does look like he’s been through a fight or two. But I thought it was because of the raccoon resemblance.”
“That, too.” He thought he should warn her, so he added, “He’s kind of...weird. Standoffish.”
“I imagine he’s had to be. It doesn’t look like he’s had an easy life.”
“No.”
“And he certainly doesn’t look like a lap cat, does he? Definitely a tough guy.” She was smiling again, and he wondered if she meant something by that. “But he’s not yours?” she asked.
“No,” Cole said definitely. “I hate cats.”
She turned away then, kneeling before the cat, and Cole just knew she’d done it to hide her mirth. He slammed his hat back on his head.
“Well, Rocky,” she was saying lightly, “welcome to the Flying Clown. Lots of fun stuff here for a cat. We haven’t ever had one around before, but I’m sure we can adapt. You’ll teach us, won’t you?”
Rocky cocked his head, then out came a noise that sounded eerily like one of assent. Tory laughed, and Cole’s muscles flexed involuntarily against the shiver that ran down his spine at the light, musical sound of it.
“Well, have at it, Rocky.” She moved her hand in a sweeping gesture encompassing the ranch as she stood up. “It’s all yours.”
Again, eerily as if he’d understood, Rocky darted away, a low, gray streak heading for the barn. And again Tory laughed.
“I’m glad you found him so entertaining,” he said, knowing he sounded disgruntled, but unable to help it when that crazy feeling tensed him up again at her laugh.
“I did,” she agreed, but her expression was somber now as she faced him. “There hasn’t been much to laugh about around here lately.”
She turned then, and walked up the steps and into the house.
* * *
Tory smiled when Hobie lit up at the sight of his old friend. His eyes twinkled as the rather stiff handshake became the kind of shoulder-pounding greeting men seemed to be prone to.
Then Hobie tugged on his thick gray mustache as he looked Bannister up and down. “Damn, you’re still bigger’n a quarter horse stud, aren’t you?”
To Tory’s amazement, Bannister flushed. “And you’ve still got a wise mouth on you.”
“Wiser than you might think,” Hobie said rather cryptically. “You been through some hard times, my friend.”
Bannister went very still. “What makes you think that?”
“It’s in your eyes, son. There’s not much left of that cocky kid who didn’t care about anything but that all-around title.”
Bannister smiled, but once more Tory saw it didn’t reach his eyes. “No,” he said. “The last of that kid disappeared a long time ago.”
“About five years ago? That was the last letter I got.”
Tory knew she wasn’t imagining the big man’s sudden rigidity. The silence lasted for a long, strained moment, Hobie looking at Bannister as if merely curious, Bannister staring back in a way that made Tory feel compelled to break the sudden intensity.
“I’ll leave you two to catch up.” The words sounded forced, but she couldn’t help it; the tension radiating from Bannister was making her edgy. “I know you have a lot to talk about. You can see the ranch later, Mr. Ba—” at his lifted brow she caught herself “—Cole.”
“I’ll show him around,” Hobie said determinedly. “I’m not that feeble. We can catch up as we go.”
Bannister nodded, the tension vanishing as quickly as it had risen.
“Good,” Tory said, meaning it. Despite the comfortable familiarity of Bannister’s faded jeans, boots, Western shirt with pearl snaps and obviously well-worn hat, she was on edge every time she got too close to him. The man had only been here twenty minutes, and already she wanted a break. Just like his size, the very atmosphere around Bannister was larger than life, somehow more intense. Cole, she amended silently. If she was going to call him that, she’d better start thinking it, too.
The two men were talking easily as she left the room to retreat to the kitchen. It was obvious that despite the twenty-year difference in their ages, the two had found much in common. Or perhaps it was as Hobie had said, and Cole was just another of the kids Hobie had sort of adopted over the years, to take the place of the kids he’d never had.
After all, hadn’t he done that with her, taken her in when she’d at last fled from her father’s kind of life? When at last the charm had oozed too much, threatening to drown her in its false sweetness? Only Hobie, who had grown up in the shadow of his charismatic, oh-so-attractive older brother, truly understood why she’d had to leave what seemed, at least to others, the perfect life.
Putting aside the thoughts that were too worn now to be truly painful, Tory turned her attention to an evening meal. She hadn’t really thought this part through. She and Hobie usually traded off cooking chores, with Hobie bearing the brunt of it since his illness because she’d had to pick up the slack with the horses, but neither of them could be considered anything more than adequate cooks. In her father’s household, there had always been a cook on the staff. She had memories of her mother overseeing the work in the kitchen, but they were the kind that provided only the vague longing and sorrow and remorse she associated with thoughts of her mother, not any concrete help in the area of actual food preparation.
She heard the ranch Jeep start up, and glanced out to see Cole climbing in for the tour Hobie had planned. Lord, what did you feed a man the size of Cole Bannister? What would it take to fill up a man with shoulders as wide as the Texas panhandle? A side of beef and a couple of loaves of bread?
Spaghetti, she thought. A huge pot of it, and a gallon of sauce. It was easy, virtually foolproof, and the one thing she made that she knew tasted better than merely edible. With enough garlic bread, it should fill up even a six-foot-four ex-rodeo rider. And she wouldn’t have to start it for another two or three hours, giving her enough time to work with John’s colt.
Quickly she set out the fixings for the meal so she wouldn’t have to later, then headed back out to the barn. She felt a certain obligation to John Lennox, or, at least to his horse. The man had stuck with her, even though his other horse had been the first animal felled by the supposed attack of colic. And he’d been so nice about it, despite the fact that he’d lost a proven—and very expensive—prize winner, and been left with only an unpolished three year old.
And when Firefly, the second horse, had died, John had been even more concerned; odd, because the animal wasn’t his. But he’d been very supportive and helpful, dropping in every time he was in Santa Barbara for a meeting with the heads of a small company he’d bought last year, and she’d been grateful. And embarrassed when he’d at last told her his concern was for her, that he hated to see her so upset. The more upset she got, the more tender and concerned he became, although it did more to make her edgy than ease her pain. She wasn’t sure why.
But she owed him, even if he did disconcert her with the casual flirting she knew was only teasing. A man of the financial stature of John Lennox would hardly waste his time with a mere horse trainer. Especially one who didn’t have the kind of looks—or wardrobe—to travel in his circles.
“Hi, there, Mac,” she said as she reached the colt’s
stall. A trim, intelligent-looking head popped over the bottom of the Dutch door, ears pricked forward, liquid brown eyes watching her with interest. Tory patted the sleek neck, admiring yet again the glossy coat that was that odd and striking shade between red and dark brown that was known as liver chestnut.
“How are you, ol’ Macaroni?” she crooned, rubbing the velvety nose. The horse nickered softly. “Ready to play, hmm?”
Mac snorted and bobbed his head. Tory laughed. She loved a horse with personality, and Mac had it to spare. She patted him again, then reached for the halter and lead rope that hung beside the stall. Then she swung open the door to step inside.
When he saw the halter, Mac amenably lowered his head. As she slipped it over his head and fastened it, Tory felt a twinge of remorse. She’d always liked Mac, whom she had affectionately dubbed Macaroni rather than using his fancier registered name, better than the horse who had died. John Lennox, had, in fact, bought this colt on her recommendation. Although the other horse had taken several prizes in national cutting-horse competitions, and been valued—and insured, thank God—at a figure that staggered her, she’d always felt he lacked something, that indefinable quality that set a horse apart for her. Hobie called it “bottom,” that sense that a horse would run himself into the ground for you, if you asked it of him. That horse hadn’t had it. Mac did.
And just thinking it made her feel guilty. John’s Prize—a name that had always made her waver between mild amusement and an uneasy curiosity about the kind of man who changed an animal’s name to hang his own on it—had been an impressive creature. With near-perfect conformation and lots of grace and flash, he’d shown beautifully. But he’d also been a bit short on heart, and deep down Tory had thought that, good as he was, he never would have made it all the way to the top.
But he’d still been a good horse. And it had still torn a piece out of her when he’d died. Especially like that. She was grateful she hadn’t had to watch it happen, but hated that he had died alone and in pain. As had Firefly, the little bay mare who had been so willing, even if she had lacked any great talent. And then there was Arthur, the lovable, clownish Appy with the water phobia....
Out of the Dark Page 4
