Breathless Innocence

by Lisa Jackson

  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 into 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?”

  “You can—soon as you catch your horse.”

  “Oh, no way…” She started to protest, knowing how stubborn the sorrel could be and how he hated to be saddled. Always before, Turner had seen that the gelding was ready to start the riding lesson. Tonight was obviously different. “What if he decides that—”

  “Do it.” Turner yanked the bridle from a fence post and threw it at her.

  She caught the jangling piece of tack by the bit and, stung by his attitude, said crisply, “Anything you say, boss.”

  His lips flattened a little, but he didn’t reply. Arms over his chest, a piece of straw in one corner of his mouth, eyes narrowed, he glared at her.

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “Has nothin’ to do with you.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  His eyes flashed fire for a second, then he tamped down his anger and glanced pointedly at his watch. “I don’t have all night. Go on—get him.”

  The task was an exercise in futility. Sundown had it in his thick skull that he wasn’t going to let Heather touch him. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the game of having Heather chase him around the corral. Nostrils flared, tail aloft, he pranced around the corral as if the evening wind had rejuvenated his spirit.

  “Come on, you,” she said, clucking softly to the horse, but no matter how she approached him, he let her get just close enough to nearly touch his sleek hide, then he bolted, hoofs flying, as he sent a cloud of dust swirling in his wake. Heather was left standing in the middle of the corral, her hand outstretched, the bridle dangling from her fingers.

  “Nice try,” Turner remarked on her third attempt.

  “Look, I’m doing the best I can.”

  “Not good enough.”

  Damned cowboy! Who did he think he was? How in the world had she fancied herself in love with him? Humiliation burned bright in her cheeks, and she decided right then and there that she’d show Turner Brooks what she was made of. Even if it killed her. Gritting her teeth, she started after Sundown again, slowly clucking her tongue, her gaze hard with determination. He breezed by, nearly knocking her over.

  “I’m gonna win,” she told him, and again the horse took off in the opposite direction.

  By the time she finally cornered the horse and threw the reins over his neck, the big sorrel was soaked with lather and she, too, felt sweat clinging to her skin and beading on her forehead. “You useless
piece of horseflesh,” she muttered, but gave him a fond pat. Despite his temperament, or maybe because of it, she felt a kinship with this hard-headed animal.

  She adjusted the chin strap of the bridle and led a somewhat mollified Sundown back to the side of the corral where Turner was waiting.

  “’Bout time,” Turner had the gall to remark as Heather tossed the blanket and saddle over Sundown’s glistening back. She tightened the cinch, making sure the horse let out his breath before buckling the strap. Thrilled at her small victory, she climbed into the saddle and picked up the reins. This was the part she loved, when she was astride the horse and she and Turner rode the night-darkened trails. “Now what?” she asked, her hopes soaring a bit.

  “Now take his gear off and groom him.”

  “But—”

  Turner looked pointedly at his watch and swore under his breath. “I can’t hang around any longer.” Without another word, he put two hands on the top rail of the fence and vaulted out of the corral. Once in the yard, he strode straight to a dusty blue pickup and hauled himself into the cab. There were a few silent seconds while Heather, still astride Sundown, sat stunned, disbelieving; then the pickup’s old engine turned over a few times and finally caught with a sputter and a roar of blue smoke. Turner threw the rig into gear and, spraying gravel, he drove off.

  “Terrific,” Heather muttered, patting the sorrel’s shoulder as the pickup rounded a bend in the lane and disappeared from sight. The rumble of the truck’s engine faded through the trees. “Just terrific!”

  Turner had been different tonight and Heather wondered if she’d pushed him too far in their last lesson, but she couldn’t think of anything she’d said or done that would provoke this kind of treatment. True, they had nearly kissed—she was certain of it—but nothing had happened. She kicked Sundown gently in the sides and rode him the short distance to the stables. Why did she even care what was going on with Turner?

  She spent the next half hour grooming the gelding and stewing over the cowboy who had touched her heart. Her emotions seemed to change with the wind that blew off the mountains. One minute she was angry with him, the next perplexed and the next she fantasized about loving such an unpredictable man.