by Lisa Jackson
So much for the solitary ridge rider…. Another fantasy.
Clucking gently to the mare, Heather followed the trail that led to the river. The air was fresher there, though the drone of insects was constant. She smiled as she spied the natural pool she’d discovered, a deep hole that collected and slowed the water where the river doglegged toward the mountains.
“I deserve this,” she told Nutmeg, as she slid to the ground, and without a thought to her horse, stripped quickly out of her clothes, dropping them piece by piece at the river’s edge. She ran along the rocky shelf that jutted over the dark water and with a laugh, plunged into the cold depths.
Frigid. So cold she could barely breathe, the icy water engulfed her, touching every pore on her body, sending a shock wave through her system. The river sprouted from an underground spring and the water was close to freezing. She didn’t care. After battling the heat of the kitchen oven and the hot summer sun all day, the cold water was refreshing. She felt alive again.
Surfacing, she swam to the far shore, feeling the tension slip from her muscles as she knifed through the water. As the sky darkened, she dived down again, touching the rocky bottom with her fingers before jetting upward and breaking the surface. Sighing happily, she tossed her hair from her eyes and nearly stopped breathing.
She wasn’t alone.
A tall, rugged man stood on the shelf of rock jutting over the water’s edge. Dressed in dirty jeans, scratched boots and work shirt that was unbuttoned to display a rock-hard chest, he stared down at her with eyes the color of gunmetal. His lips were thin and compressed, his tanned face angular and bladed.
Without a doubt, this was the very man she’d seen earlier riding the ridge.
Her heart nearly stopped.
Romantic fantasies fled.
She didn’t know this man, didn’t know what he was capable of. He could be dangerous, and from the looks of him she didn’t doubt it for a moment. Though his brown hair was streaked with gold, there was something about him, something about the arrogant way he stood in front of her bespoke trouble.
He was nearly six feet or so and looked to be in his midtwenties, and Heather wanted to crawl behind the nearest rock and hide. But, of course, it was too late. In one hand he held the reins to his mount, a huge buckskin gelding, in the other, he dangled her clothes off one long, callused finger.
Heather swallowed hard and wondered just how menacing he really was. She didn’t want to find out.
“Lose something?” he asked in a lazy drawl.
She rimmed her lips with her tongue. What could she say? She was obviously naked—the clothes had to belong to her. She decided to take the offensive before things really got out of hand. “Just put them down,” she said, eyeing her shorts swinging from his finger. She treaded water in the deep part of the pool, hoping he couldn’t see too much of her body through the darkening ripples of the river.
“I’m not talking about these.” He tossed her shorts, T-shirt, bra and panties close to the water’s edge—almost within her reach.
He was playing with her! Dear God, why hadn’t she told anyone where she was going? Feeling a fool and very much afraid, Heather swallowed back a lump of fright in her throat and studied him more carefully. A cowboy, no mistaking that. His Stetson was pushed back on his head, displaying a ring of grime that matted brown hair to his forehead. His jean jacket was torn and dirty, his Levi’s faded and tight, his shirt, a plaid cotton that was open to display a dusting of hair on a sun-bronzed chest. He looked hot and tired and disgusted. “Your horse,” he prompted, and her gaze flew to the edge of the forest where she’d left Nutmeg grazing only minutes before. The mare was nowhere in sight.
“Oh, no—”
“She’s halfway back to the stables by now,” he said, and his flinty eyes showed just a flicker of amusement. “Looks like you have to hike or hitch a ride with me.”
For a fleeting instant she thought he was handsome, almost sexy, in a coarse sort of way, but she didn’t dwell on his looks as she was busy trying to keep herself covered.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll make it back,” she said, knowing that riding with him would only spell trouble.
“Will ya, now?” he drawled in a voice as rough as sandpaper.
“Yes.” She eyed her clothes and prayed for the cover of darkness.
“What’s your name?”
Did it matter? “Heather.” Anything to get rid of him so she could fetch her clothes and get dressed.
“Hmmm. You work in the kitchen?”
“That’s right.” So he was one of the men the girls were fawning over.
He didn’t say anything to this bit of news, just stared down at her, and she wondered at the picture she must make—pale skin beneath the dark ripples, hair wet and plastered to her head, face awash with embarrassment, white legs moving quickly as she tried to stay afloat. “Look, if you don’t mind, I really could use some privacy.”
A slow smile spread across his chin. “What if I do mind?”
Drat the man! Her fists curled for one frustrated second and she started to sink, her chin sliding under the water’s cool surface. Sputtering, she accused, “You’re no gentleman.”
“And I doubt that you’re much of a lady,” he said, working the heel of his boot with the toe of the other.
Heather nearly jumped out of her skin. He wasn’t really thinking of diving in and joining her, was he? To her horror, he kicked off both boots, yanked off a pair of dusty socks and started pulling his arms out of the sleeves of his jacket. “Wait a minute,” she said, surprised at the breathless tone of her voice.
“Wait for what?”
“Whatever it is you think you’re going to do—”
He stripped his jacket and shirt from a torso as tough and lean as rawhide. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him and only a smattering of gold-brown hair that arrowed down over a tanned, hard chest and a washboard of abdominal muscles. Lean and mean. Even in the darkness she saw a bruise, purple and green, discoloring the skin across one shoulder. “I don’t think I’m gonna do anything. I know I’m goin’ for a swim.”
“But you can’t—” she cried, as his shirt and jacket fell onto the pile of boots and socks.
“Why not? I’ve been swimmin’ here since I was ten.”
“But I’m here and…”
“You won’t bother me.” A devilish, off-center smile flashed in the coming darkness and he didn’t pause once at the waistband of his jeans. They fell away with the pop, pop, pop of buttons.
Heather averted her eyes. She’d never seen a naked man before, and she was certain this man wasn’t a good one to start with.
“You’re not the first girl to swim here with me.”
“That’s comforting,” she said, her voice filled with sarcasm. “And I’m not a girl—”
“That’s right. My mistake. You’re a lady.”
Heather felt a tide of color wash up her neck. She was out of her element. Way out of her element. And yet she was fascinated as, from the corner of her eye, she saw him yank off his jeans and in one lithe motion, dive into the river. She caught a glimpse of white—his underwear as he dove—and that was all it took. As quickly as he was in, she was out, scrambling into her clothes.
Dear God, how had she gotten herself into this mess? One minute she was fantasizing him and the next he was there, taunting her, teasing her with his smile, playing dangerous games with his gaze.
Her hands were cold, her body wet and her clothes clung to her skin. She didn’t bother with her bra or panties; she was only interested in covering up as much as possible in the shortest amount of time. Heart thundering, icy fingers fumbling, she found the tab of the zipper of her shorts just as she heard him break the surface of the water. All she wanted to do was get out
and get out fast!
She started for the path.
“Leavin’ so soon, darlin’?” he yelled across the rush of the river. “I didn’t scare ya off, now, did I?”
Miserable beast!
He still thought this was a game! She tried to ignore the challenge in his words. “I was done anyway.”
“Sure,” he taunted.
“I was.” What did it matter? Just take off, Heather. Leave well enough alone!
“Well, you sure as hell weren’t troublin’ me.”
“Good. Because you troub—you bothered me.”
He chuckled, deep and low. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Take it any way you please,” she threw back, not understanding the emotions that seemed to have control of her tongue. The man scared her half to death, yet she was fascinated by him. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five or -six, and yet he wore the jaded cynicism of a man twice his age.
“You’d better be careful of that tongue of yours,” he said and, from the corner of her eye, she saw him swim closer, his head above water, his gaze never leaving her. “Could get you into a heap of trouble.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“My pleasure.” Again that deep, rumbling chuckle. At her expense. He reached the ledge and threw his elbows onto the rocks, content to stretch in the water. Heather was mesmerized by his sinewy forearms as they flexed.
There was something about him that got under her skin, something irritating, like a horsefly caught under a saddle that just kept biting the horse. Though she knew she was playing with fire, she couldn’t just walk away, letting him think that he’d bested her—by seeing her naked and forcing her, for propriety’s sake, to leave.
A plan of revenge started to form in her heart. Oh, but was she willing to pay the price? He obviously worked at the Lazy K. If she angered him, he might make the next two months of her life miserable. But it was worth the gamble. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Didn’t give it to you.” His gaze found hers again, and for some reason she had trouble finding her breath. “Turner Brooks.”
Not just one of the cowboys. Turner Brooks was nephew to the owner of the Lazy K. A drifter who followed the rodeo circuit. A man with a past that she’d only heard snatches of. Something about his father and a woman…maybe a girlfriend… Then there were the rumors of all the hearts he’d broken over the past few years—women along the rodeo circuit waiting for his return. “What’re you doing back at the Lazy K?”
“Got to work between rodeos,” he said.
“Aren’t you good enough to make a living out of riding broncos?” She heard the sarcasm in her voice, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, damn him, he grinned again—that irreverent I’ve-seen-it-all kind of grin that caught her by surprise and made her heart beat unsteadily.
“I’m good,” he said, his dark gaze moving slowly up her body and causing a tingle to spread through her limbs. “Very good.”
Her throat turned to dust. She swallowed with difficulty.
“I just came here to help out and earn a little extra spending money. Hurt my shoulder a while back and it’s givin’ me some trouble. Thought I’d take a rest.” His gaze hadn’t left her face, and she felt as naked as she had in the water. Though she was dressed, she knew that she had no secrets from him; her clothes were little shield. He’d seen her completely unclothed, had his fun at her expense; now it was time to turn the tables on him. She eyed his pile of clothes, wondering how he would feel if she took his worn jeans and work shirt. As if he guessed her intent, he clucked his tongue. “Don’t even think about it unless you want more trouble than you can even begin to imagine.” She bit her lower lip. Stealing his jeans seemed too childish and not punishment enough. Besides, he would catch her. But not if she took his horse. What more humiliation for a cowboy than to have a mere woman steal his pride and joy? No more had the thought entered her head than she turned and caught the gelding by the reins.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warned. “Sampson doesn’t like people he doesn’t know.”
“Then I guess I’d better introduce myself,” she ridiculed. She wasn’t going to let him bluff her. She climbed into the saddle and kicked the big buckskin, pulling hard on the reins. In a ripple of muscles, the horse whirled and leapt forward, covering the open ground at a breakneck pace. Heather clung to his mane and leaned forward as Sampson’s long strides carried her into the woods. Trees rushed by in a blur. Heart pounding madly, she prayed the gelding’s hooves were sure because the forest was gloomy, the trail uneven. She felt a quick little thrill of showing up the cowboy, and yet she knew that what she’d done was dangerous. Turner would never forgive her.
She glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to find Turner, wet and naked and furious, yelling and running barefoot through the trees. But Turner didn’t start hollering or giving chase, and that worried her. He didn’t seem the kind of man to roll over and accept defeat so easily.
She could imagine the consternation in his gray eyes, the anger holding his features taut.
A loud, low whistle pierced the forest. Heather’s skin crawled. The gelding slammed to a stop, nearly pitching her over his head.
“Hey—wait a minute,” Heather whispered, giving the buckskin a quick kick.
Another whistle curdled the air and sent a shiver of dread down Heather’s spine.
With a snort, Sampson wheeled and Heather was nearly thrown to the ground. She wound her fingers more tightly in the gelding’s coarse mane and pulled hard on the reins with her other hand, but the stubborn rodeo horse had a mind of his own.
“No, you don’t,” Heather commanded, as Sampson broke into a lope and headed back to the river. Back to Turner. Back to whatever terrible punishment he intended to mete out. She could do nothing but hold on. “You miserable lump of horseflesh,” she muttered, still yanking on the reins, but the gelding had the bit in his teeth and he didn’t even break stride.
Damn, damn, damn and double damn! Now what? Within seconds the forest seemed to part and the river rushed before her, a night-dark swirl that cut through the canyon. Turner, dressed only in his jeans and boots, was sitting on the rocks, his face a stony mask, fury blazing like lightning in his eyes. Drops of water still clung to his hair and drizzled down his chin.
“Nice try,” he said to Heather’s mortification.
“You are a bastard.”
“Just as long as I’m not a gentleman,” he drawled, shoving himself to his feet and dusting his hands.
“Never.”
“Good. Glad that’s settled.” He walked over to the gelding, and before Heather could scramble off, he’d hopped onto Sampson’s broad back, wedging his thin hips between Heather’s rump and the back of the saddle.
“Hey—just a minute—”
“At least I’m not a horse thief.”
“It was only a prank.” Heather’s mind was racing and her heart pumped wildly. “Look, I’m sorry. Now, I’ll walk back to the ranch—”
“Too late. We’re doin’ this my way,” he said, clucking to Sampson and taking the reins from Heather’s reluctant fingers. His arms surrounded her, his scent filled her nostrils and his breath, hot and wild, seemed to caress the damp strands of her hair. Lord, what a predicament!
Her heart was drumming so loudly, she was sure he could hear its loud tattoo. The back of her shirt, still damp, was pressed into the rock-solid wall of his chest and his legs surrounded hers, muscle for muscle, thigh to thigh, calf to calf. Worst of all, her buttocks were crushed intimately against the apex of his legs, moving rhythmically as the horse headed home. One of his hands held the reins, the other was splayed firmly over her abdomen, his thumb nearly brushing the underside of her breasts.
“I’ll walk,” she said again, h
er voice a strange whisper.
“No way.”
“Then you walk.”
“Sampson can handle us both.”
But I can’t handle you! she thought, clenching her teeth in order to keep her wild tongue silent. She’d just try to pretend that he wasn’t slammed up so close to her that she could feel the tickle of chest hair through her T-shirt. She’d attempt to ignore the scents of river water mingling with musk and pine as he swayed in the saddle so intimately against her. She’d disregard the fact that his breath blew gently against the nape of her neck, causing delicious tingles to spread along her skin, and she wouldn’t even think about the fact that his body was molded so closely and intimately to hers that she could scarcely breathe.
They rode in silence. The sounds of the night—the flurry of air as bats took flight, the gentle plop of Sampson’s hooves, the drone of insects and the steady rush of the river fading in the distance—were drowned out by the rapid beat of her heart and her own ragged breathing. This was crazy! Being alone with him was dangerous and tricking him had been asking for trouble. Why, oh why, had she been so impulsive and foolish?
“Look, really, I can walk….” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and caught the hard line of his lips.
“And have me be accused of not being a gentleman?” he replied with more than a trace of derision. “I don’t think so.”
“But—”
Sampson broke free of the woods, and beyond a few dry fields the ranch loomed before them. Harsh security lamps flooded the parking lot, drenching the barns and stables in an eerie blue-white illumination, and the ranch house, two stories of sprawling night-darkened cedar, was surrounded by dusky pastureland and gently rolling hills. The windows were patches of warm golden light. The French doors were swung wide and on the back deck several couples were learning the Texas Two-step to a familiar country tune by Ricky Scaggs. Some of the soft notes floated on the breeze and reached Heather’s ears.
