Love and Honor: The Coltrane Saga, Book 7

by Patricia Hagan

  Kurt’s eyes moved over her hungrily. It had been a long time, and she was ravishing. “Watching ballet doesn’t arouse quite the same emotions as a bullfight, cara,” he murmured.

  “Oh, I think it depends on what you’re searching for. Beauty, as well as savagery, can be found anywhere. It’s all in how you view it.”

  Their eyes met and held. Kurt wondered whether she would let him kiss her if they were alone…while Kit felt a tremor deep within her as she remembered how it had felt when he did.

  Around them, the crowd shouted over the matador in the ring, but they were oblivious to it all. Finally Kit gave herself a mental shake. She swung about easily, effortlessly, to drop the few feet to the ground below. She did not want him to see the effect he was having on her, and was afraid that if she tarried, he might.

  Kurt followed her, as she had feared…and hoped he would.

  “I’m wondering what brings you here,” he said.

  “I like to watch the matadors practice.”

  “Strange interest for a young lady.”

  “Why? Women attend bullfights.”

  “But they don’t hang around the pens with the men, wearing men’s clothing.”

  Kit laughed. “Who says that men are the only ones who have the right to wear denim?”

  “You seem more at home in black velvet.”

  She stopped walking and turned to look up at him, frostily declaring, “You were out of place that night.”

  Kurt pretended to contemplate her accusation. “You’re right. It was out of place. I can think of other places for that kind of…dancing.” His tone, the heat in his eyes were filled with sensuous innuendo.

  “I don’t call that dancing,” Kit snapped.

  “No,” he agreed somberly. “I think it’s called…desire.”

  “Then that explains why you don’t understand the similarity between dancing and bullfighting!”

  Kurt did not respond, and she thought perhaps she’d bested him in their war of wits. She reached out to untie the reins of her powerful chestnut Hispano, and swung up into the saddle. She turned to stare down at him in triumph, but her grin quickly faded.

  He was furious! His face was red; his nostrils flared ever so slightly. His eyes glittered with rage as they swept over her stallion. “Where’d you get that horse?” he demanded hotly.

  Kit trembled beneath his wrath although she did not know why. She suddenly felt strangely defensive and shot back, “He’s mine!”

  “I asked you where you got him.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  Kurt reached up and grasped her around her waist, and pulling her roughly from the saddle. As he set her on her feet he growled, “Dammit, woman, I asked you where you got that horse!”

  “And I told you,” Kit hissed at him indignantly, jerking out of his grasp, “it’s none of your business.” She tried to mount once more, but he grabbed her arm. She whirled about, intending to slap him, but he caught her arm and held it.

  “I’m going to ask you one more time, goddammit,” he said between clenched teeth. “Where’d you get that horse?”

  Kit kicked him in the shin, and he held her so that her back was against him as she struggled in his arms.

  A few men passing saw their struggle and stared but continued on their way. They knew that she was the señorita Coltrane, and he was Kurt Tanner; they weren’t about to stick their noses in his business.

  Kurt gave her a rough shake. “Okay, little tiger, we’ll just go talk to the local law and see what they do to señoritas who steal horses.”

  Kit stopped struggling and cried, “What did you say?”

  “That’s my horse.”

  Kurt released her, and she turned to face him, saying incredulously, “What do you mean—this is your horse?”

  “That’s a Hispano, little girl,” he informed her furiously, “and I paid a lot of money for him. I had him all of two days before he was stolen, right from the barn outside my house.”

  Stunned, Kit bounced back to challenge, “Where’s your proof? He’s not branded.”

  “As I said, I only had him two days. I hadn’t got around to putting my brand on him. Where’s your proof? Where’s your bill of sale?”

  Kit started to tell him how she’d come to own the magnificent horse. Then she reconsidered and asked instead, “Where is your proof, Señor Tanner?”

  “I have a bill of sale from a breeder in Morocco. I bought him at a ranch just outside Tangiers. Now…” Kurt drew in his breath and let it out slowly. He did not want to lose his temper, but she had his horse, which meant that his quest was only half over, goddammit. He intended to find the bastard who’d stolen him. One of his hands had told him that a known bandido by the name of Galen Esmond had been hanging around that day, asking for work. He had disappeared about the same time as the horse. “So, are you going to tell me where you got him, or do I have you arrested for horse stealing?”

  Kit gave her long hair a haughty toss. Lifting her chin defiantly, she said, “He’s not your horse. He’s mine. I won him in a race, fair and square. If you don’t believe me, ask Dr. Frazier’s vaqueros. They are my witnesses that I’m the legal owner. And if he was stolen from you, which I don’t believe for one minute, I suggest you take that up with the man I beat in the race, because it’s no concern of mine.”

  Kit swung up into the saddle again. “Pegasus is mine now.” For emphasis, she tugged the reins sharply and dug the heels of her boots into the great stallion’s side. He reared up on his hind legs, forelegs slashing the air menacingly, Kurt leaped back out of the way.

  He watched her ride away. For the moment he decided to do nothing except talk to Dr. Frazier’s men and learn what he could about how Kit Coltrane had won his horse—and about the man she’d won him from. But eventually, he silently vowed, feeling the muscles in his jaw tighten, he’d have his horse…and Kit Coltrane.

  Chapter Seven

  Kit could hear the music from downstairs. Her mother was having a small dinner party for some friends visiting from Barcelona. She’d been polite and genial throughout the evening, but had feigned a headache so she could slip away before coffee and cognac. Escaping to her room, she locked the door and worked feverishly on the letter she was writing to Kitty. She had found paradise…but she needed her grandmother’s help to make it exclusively hers.

  That morning, after the unpleasant encounter with Kurt Tanner, Kit had just wanted to be alone. The last place she could expect solitude was at home where her mother was always entertaining guests, so she had ridden to one of her favorite sanctuaries—a spot just across the Rió Turia north of town. There on a knoll with a breathtaking view of the river, she spent the golden afternoon contemplating the idiotic charges of the brash and presumptuous Kurt Tanner. His claim was absurd. Where was his proof that the magnificent horse was his? But what was his motive for lying?

  Kit had shaded her eyes against the sun as she looked toward the horizon where a little farmhouse stood. Kit had known the old man who had lived there, Gaspar Gaspencia. She had enjoyed visiting him, and sometimes he’d invited her to share a simple meal of tortillas, fish, and his own special blend of gazpacho. Kit smiled wryly to think how she loathed her mother’s sumptuous dinner parties yet was delighted to eat country fare with Gaspar.

  They had been friends, and she had loved to hear him talk of his past as a wanderer, a special glow in his eyes as he related faraway adventures. He had finally settled here, buying the little farm with his life’s savings, eking an existence from the field of golden carnations he grew so lovingly to peddle at the flower market in Valencia. He talked of one day planting a vineyard on the slope to the river, for he said the soil was fertile and rich, and he could produce grapes to make the best wine in the region. Only that dream did not come true, and Kit had been saddened to hear of his death recently when she had gone to visit.

  As she stood there that morning, fate had stepped in. She had turned at the sound of a carriage app
roaching. A man dressed in a plain brown suit, with friendly eyes, had waved at her amiably. He had asked if he had reached the Gaspencia farm, and Kit had replied that he had. Then he had taken a wooden post and hammer from the carriage and pounded the post into the ground. On top of that he nailed a sign. Her interest piqued, Kit walked over to read the notice. It proclaimed that the property was to be sold for back taxes.

  Suddenly an idea hit her. Kit had quickly asked the man how much taxes were owed. He told her, explaining that he was only posting the sign because the law required it, but he was probably wasting his time since the man who owned the adjoining land had already made a bid for the property.

  When he left, Kit’s heart had pounded with excitement. This was the answer to her prayers. Twenty acres! She didn’t need a larger place. With a little fixing up, the house would be fine. She’d have room for a few horses, and what was to stop her from making Gaspar’s dream come true? She could plant a vineyard, and she would certainly keep the field of carnations. And she would not be isolated, because it was not far to Valencia.

  She mentally calculated the amount she needed to offer just a bit more than the bid the adjoining landowner had made. The tax office man was not supposed to have told her the amount, but he was a talkative sort, and it hadn’t taken much prodding. If only she could use a little of the trust fund her Grandpa Travis had left her, she could buy the property. She had forced her racing brain to calm down, reminding herself that the money was not to be hers until she reached her twenty-first birthday. And even if she could persuade her father, who was the trustee, to release some of it, her mother would be violently opposed.

  That was why she was now writing her Grandma Kitty. All Kit needed was a loan until she was old enough to claim her inheritance. Kitty would understand, she always did. Of course, there would be quite a ruckus when her parents found out, but decided that she would worry about that later, after the papers were signed. It might take some time, but sooner or later they had to realize that she intended to live her life the way she wanted.

  She finished the letter, sealed it, and laid it aside to mail first thing in the morning.

  She opened the glass doors to the terrace and stepped outside. It was a chilly night, but lovely, with a honey-colored moon creating thousands of dancing lights upon the sea beyond. It was, in fact, such a glorious night that she felt a sudden urge to go once more to the ranch that she hoped soon would be hers. It was perhaps a half hour’s ride, and the road was good. As a precaution against danger she would wear the gun and holster she kept hidden in the barn. Her mother would have a fit if she knew that her daughter carried a gun, much less knew how to use it, Kit mused with a grin.

  She put on denim trousers, a flannel shirt, and her worn leather jacket and boots. Then she tiptoed down the back hallway and stairs. As she was making her way through the kitchen, Carasia came in from the dining room with a huge tray of dirty dishes. “Where are you going?”

  Kit held a finger to her lips. “Riding. Leave the back door unlocked so I can get back in.”

  Carasia shook her head. Giving her a look that said she thought Kit was crazy, she went on her way to finish cleaning up from the dinner party. Kit could hear the sounds of the party—music, laughter, the clink of glasses. Her mother loved to entertain, and people enjoyed her parties. Kit would not be missed.

  Hurrying to the barn, she wondered what her father would say when he came home that weekend. If her mother had even noticed Pegasus, she no doubt thought he was just another horse from Doc Frazier’s ranch. Her father, however, would know that Pegasus was rare and expensive. He’d ask questions—questions that she would have to answer truthfully. He was not going to like it when he heard that she’d been racing and betting with vaqueros. Well, Kit was not one to worry about the future—she faced problems as they came along. She had stories of her Grandpa Travis to thank for that philosophy. “Play the hand you’re dealt, Kit,” he’d say, “and don’t worry about the next deal of the cards till they’re shuffled.”

  She saddled Pegasus, who pawed the ground in anticipation. They left the barn and skirted across the back pasture lest one of the guests be outside for a breath of fresh air and see her in the moonlight. Then, when she was a good distance away, Kit turned back to the main road, which would lead her toward the river.

  She passed dense groves of orange trees and breathed in the sweet fragrance. Kit loved the peace and quiet of the night, the gentle breeze that kissed her face as she rode slowly, lost in thought, lost in the sheer joy of being alive in a world she adored.

  She soon reached the little ranch, delighted by the sight of the dilapidated house perched on the hill. Why, she mused curiously, did houses fall apart so quickly once no one lived in them any longer? It was as though the very spirits of the inhabitants kept the walls alive, and once they left, there was nothing to hold the structure together. Well, she’d take care of that soon enough. Necessary repairs would be made, and by spring she’d have flowers blooming in window boxes. The grass would be green and soft, and she’d walk barefoot, delighting as clover tickled her toes. The barn, now a dull gray color, would have to be painted bright red. Pegasus would have a special stall, and…

  Kit stopped, nerves suddenly taut.

  Excited over being at the ranch once more, she had dismounted and tied Pegasus to a tree.

  She had begun to walk up the hill toward the house when she heard a sound—like someone stepping on a twig in the dense forest to her left. Drawing her gun, she moved quickly into the shadows and waited.

  She heard only silence, broken occasionally by a night bird mournfully calling his mate. Chiding herself for being so jumpy, Kit reminded herself that once she moved in, she’d be all alone here. She would have to get used to noises or she’d be a bundle of nerves.

  She stepped from the shadows and began to walk toward the house again. She wanted to see the view of the river in the moonlight. Reaching the porch, she thrilled to the breathtaking sight. It was as lovely as she’d imagined. No wonder the old man had loved it here.

  Kit stepped from the porch and began to turn around and around dreamily, arms wrapped about herself. Humming quietly, she began to dance in the dappled nighttime wonderland.

  “You’re even more beautiful by moonlight.”

  Kit instantly drew her gun, whirling about to aim it at the ominous shadows of the house. “Come out or I start shooting,” she tersely commanded. Kurt Tanner stepped out into the moon’s luminous glow. An amused smile was on his lips as he came toward her. “I’ve got an idea you wouldn’t miss, either.”

  “I never miss,” she assured him, “and I’ve a mind to prove it. What the hell are you doing spying on me?”

  When he stood a few feet away from her, his smile faded. “I like to keep an eye on my property, señorita, and that Hispano belongs to me, regardless of how you came by him.”

  Kit holstered her gun and laughed. “Are you so greedy that you have to make up lies to try and get what you can’t have? I hear you’re rich. Why didn’t you offer to buy him?”

  “I already bought him once,” Kurt grimly reminded her. “I hear that your family also has money, so I didn’t figure that a rich spoiled brat like you would be interested in any amount I offered.”

  She was stung by his insult. “That’s right. I don’t want anything you’ve got.”

  He raised an eyebrow and grinned lazily. “How do you know?”

  Fury snapped within her like a whip. “Because I find you an insufferable, egotistical bastard, Kurt Tanner! You may be used to getting your own way, but not from me! The Hispano is mine, I won him fair and square, and if he was stolen from you—which I doubt—then I suggest you question a man named Galen Esmond. How he came into possession of the horse is no concern of mine.”

  “I have a bill of sale.”

  Kit narrowed her eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

  Kurt reached into the pocket of his leather vest and took out a folded slip of paper. “See f
or yourself,” he said, handing it to her.

  Even in the dim light Kit could see that it was indeed a bill of sale for a horse whose description matched Pegasus.

  “How do I know it’s the same horse?” she asked, not yet ready to concede ownership.

  “You have to take my word for it.”

  “Why should I? I won the horse from Esmond, and nothing else concerns me.”

  “It should, seeing as how he stole Pegasus from me. You’ve no legal right to him.”

  Kit turned thoughtful. If he was telling the truth, then she would have to give up the horse. Even though she didn’t trust Kurt Tanner, she felt instinctively that he was being honest.

  “Very well,” she relented. “I suppose I’ve no choice but to give you the benefit of the doubt. But that doesn’t mean I intend to turn my horse over to you just like that!” She snapped her fingers, her lavender eyes sparkling defiantly in the silvery light. “I m willing to make a deal.” Her voice was a taunt. “Are you?”

  “You’re in no position to make a deal, señorita,” Kurt responded. “I might find you irresistibly beautiful”—his gaze passed over her appreciatively—“but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you keep my horse. All I have to do is show this document to the local law, and you’ll have to turn him over. I don’t even have to go to that much trouble—I have a feeling Colt Coltrane wouldn’t approve if you refused.”

  “You’d go to my father…or the law,” Kit said scornfully, “because you’re afraid to accept a challenge from a woman. You’ll dance with a woman, and dare to kiss her, but when it comes to real courage, you don’t know what it means.”

  Her taunts smarted, but he could not help being impressed by her boldness. “What kind of wager did you have in mind?”

  “One that proves I deserve to own such a fine horse,” Kit replied confidently.

  Suspicious, Kurt prodded, “Go on.”

  “Hispanos are known for their courage and agility, that’s why they’re used in the acoso y derribo. It’s dangerous, but the Hispano can stand the challenge of an angry bull better than the average horse. It takes an experienced rider to handle such a spirited animal.”