by Cates, Tory
By noon only a couple of the best of Hunt’s students were still eagerly climbing the chute gates when Petey loaded a fresh section of horses. Most of the students were crumpled beneath the tiny pool of shade cast by their large hats, their exhausted faces streaked by trickles of sweat running through thick layers of dust. A few would be sidelined for the rest of the day with sprained ankles and twisted wrists. Some were already making plans to escape at the earliest moment, having decided that there must be easier ways in the world to earn a little respect. All were walking gingerly, the insides of their thighs having been skinned down to raw patches of flesh.
When even Halstrom groaned at the question “Who’ll take chute one?” Hunt called a lunch break.
The two long tables in the main dining hall each seated two dozen, and every chair was filled by the time Sadie and her helpers began carrying in the food. The steaming bowls were heaped with brisket, which had been slowly cooking over a low fire of tangy mesquite wood for nearly a day—plus fresh vegetables from Circle M’s own plots, home-baked yeast rolls, corn on the cob, and enough iced tea to float a rowboat.
Shallie, sitting at an inconspicuous spot as far from Hunt as she could manage, was astounded by the ferocity with which forty-eight hungry young men could eat. She’d barely cut into the tender meat on her plate before half a dozen voices were calling out for various dishes to be passed around a second time. Once the single-minded clanging of utensils against crockery leveled off, the clamor of voices began, each one rising to be heard above the others. The camaraderie sweeping the room encompassed Shallie as well.
“Couldn’t believe it when I bucked off that first horse this morning,” the lanky fellow to her left observed. Shallie recognized the class star, Halstrom, and commiserated with him.
“Mr. McIver’s tough,” he went on, “but he sure as heck got me mad enough to stick on every horse after that first one.”
“You certainly did,” Shallie agreed, suppressing a chuckle at the proud swell of accomplishment in his voice.
Halstrom stopped and openly inspected Shallie from behind his thick glasses. Finally the light of recognition dawned on his face. “Hey, you’re with the Double L, aren’t you? I’ve seen you working a few shows.”
“I own the Double L with my uncle,” Shallie answered.
“You do?” Halstrom asked in amazement. “A lady contractor? That’s a new one on me. But what the heck, as long as you keep bringing stock as good as the Double L brings, it’s fine with me.”
Shallie grinned. Maybe there was hope for the upcoming generation of rodeo cowboys.
“Hey, guys,” Halstrom called out to his buddies. “This here’s the half owner of the Double L. A lady stock contractor.”
For a few seconds the conversation and clanking of silverware ceased while the cowboys appraised the strange specimen presented to them. From the next table came a comment.
“This ain’t no bull. I drew a Double L horse at a show in Hereford. Zeus I think was the name. Anyway, that is the rankest animal I ever tried to stay on.” Other voices joined in. “Best roping calves around.” “Always a good weight and they run true.”
All around her, talk ran thick with the morning’s pumped-up energy. Snippets of tales of victories won and only nearly missed reached her ears. As her gaze swung from one sun- and windburned face to another, Shallie could think of no other gathering in the world where she’d be more pleased to be accepted. Then, from across the room, Hunt’s eyes caught and held hers.
Even at that distance, Shallie felt his magnetism disarm her. There was a mocking challenge in his look that made her squirm and look away. Mechanically, she put a forkful of food into her mouth. It could have been sawdust as she chewed drily through the now tasteless lump. Under his scrutiny, even the most automatic process required the utmost concentration. Every motion of her jaw was a forced effort. She glanced up. Hunt’s attention had been claimed by a student. Shallie began breathing again.
This is ridiculous, she thought. Exactly what gives him the power to turn me into a frightened rabbit caught out in the open by a fox? As she sawed furiously through a piece of brisket, Shallie decided she would leave as soon as the meal had ended. There was no law that said she couldn’t drive the rig back herself.
After lunch she grabbed her overnight bag and headed out to the corral to load up Pegasus. Her first shock was finding that the horse was gone. The second was discovering the Double L semi had disappeared as well. She threw her bag on the barren ground and ran back up to the house. Hunt and a few students were lingering over coffee.
“Mr. McIver.” It cost her an effort to keep her voice calm. “May I have a word with you?”
“Why certainly, Miss Larkin. It would be my pleasure.”
“I assume you can tell me where my truck and my horse are.” Shallie planted her hands firmly on her hips, reinforcing the no-nonsense tone of her question.
“Right at this moment, I’d say they are probably about sixty miles northwest of Austin. I sent Petey to take them both on back up to the Double L, and the way that maniac likes to haul a . . . ah, cover ground, I’d have to say that he’s at least that far along.”
“You sent Petey home with my truck and my horse and without me?”
“Sure. You’ll be needing a good hand to fill in until you find someone to replace that weasel Hoskins, and Petey was itching to see some new country, so—”
“So, you just sent him on his way without so much as a word to me. Technically what we’re talking about here is theft, horse and truck.”
“I suppose you’re right. Technically, that is.” His light, mocking tone infuriated Shallie as much as his packing her horse and truck off.
“Just how am I supposed to get home?”
“They have airplanes where you come from?” he continued to tease. “Don’t worry. I’ve made a first-class reservation for you on the late flight to Albuquerque. At Circle M’s expense, of course. I even called your uncle to tell him when to pick you up at the airport.” Turning away from her, as if they had nothing further to discuss, Hunt called to the students, “Let’s ride some broncs, boys.”
Chapter 8
The afternoon ground by in a turgid haze. Accustomed to working from the moment the sun crept over the Sandia Mountains to the moment she dropped, exhausted, into bed, Shallie was like a wild animal penned in a beautifully upholstered cage. The enforced idleness grated on her nerves. She picked up one magazine after another, only to toss each one aside unread. The instant she left her thoughts unoccupied, however, they returned with a maddening persistence to the moment when Hunt’s lips had pressed against her own. Then, as if she could outrun those troubling memories and the disturbing effect they had on her, Shallie would begin to pace. She followed a monotonous circuit that always took her back to the window that faced down on the arena.
As she marched past the window, her resolution crumbled and she glanced out. A cowboy with a video camera clung to the fence. As each rider emerged, the cameraman carefully taped his performance. Hunt hovered over it all, gesticulating wildly as he coached his students.
The long, slow hours speeded up as Shallie’s thoughts were drawn to the forceful man. She knew that on one level he evoked in her a very basic, uncomplicated response. He was a potently sensual man and obviously used to women reacting to him. But Shallie sensed another, deeper level and suspected that her attraction to Hunt emanated from it.
So what, she snapped at herself, storming away from the window. What did it matter how many levels, dimensions, and facets Hunt encompassed? They were all contained within an identity forbidden to her: rodeo cowboy. She jerked the curtains shut and lay down. Though sleep wouldn’t come, Shallie willed herself to rest for several hours.
The sun was closing in over the tops of the oaks when she again gave in to the impulse to take up her vigil by the window. As she watched, Trish emerged from the main house and strolled down to the classes still in progress. She was wearing a low-cut knit
top and a pair of skinny jeans tight as sausage casings. As she sauntered up to the arena, all action halted as heads swiveled to follow the exaggerated flick of her hips. An icy coil of jealousy unwound deep in Shallie’s stomach when she saw Hunt join the pack tracking Trish’s approach.
Why shouldn’t Hunt be attracted to her? Shallie asked herself. Trish was everything that she wasn’t—elegant, ladylike, beautiful, and sexy. Shallie looked down at her work-worn hands studded with blisters and calluses and remembered Trish’s slim, well-manicured hands.
A sudden, sharp rap at the door startled Shallie, tearing her from the depressing comparison.
“Dinner in half an hour on the patio, miss,” Sadie announced in her peevish voice.
The last thing she felt up to was an intimate soirée with Trish and her matched set of McIver amours. Shallie decided that a good soak was just what she required to brace her psychically for the encounter.
She went to the bathroom and turned both brass knobs on full blast. A roar of water spewed into the sunken, marble-swirled tub. She rummaged through the cabinets and discovered an ample supply of bath oil. Obviously a number of female guests had passed through the Circle M. She chose a foaming sandalwood-scented variety and poured it under the gush of water. The scented steam penetrated far into her dust-dried membranes and brought them back to life. Shallie emptied her mind of the confusing swirl of conflicts clouding it and simply luxuriated in the warm, wet buoyancy. By the time she’d finished, Shallie’s skin was glowing with a delicate apricot sheen and she felt almost up to facing Hunt.
The dinner was as light and elegant as the luncheon menu had been homespun and filling. A bowl of crushed ice topped by jumbo shrimp boiled to a pink lushness dominated the table set up on the patio. Flickering lanterns cast a soft light. The pool in the background was lit from underneath and glowed like a shimmering sapphire. On its surface floated huge magnolia blooms plucked from the nearby trees. Their sweet odor perfumed the gentle air.
“Pretty fancy spread, eh?” Jake McIver’s voice cracked out of the darkness, startling Shallie. “Hunt ordered it up. That boy developed some mighty exotic tastes back there at that Eastern school.” The haughty swell of Trish’s laughter made Shallie uneasy, as if she were the butt of some joke she knew nothing of.
“Come on, pull up a chair. Hunt didn’t have all this shrimp flown in from the coast so that we all could stand around staring at it.” The three of them gathered around the table set with the finest china and stemware. A dry white wine gleamed in the glass at Shallie’s place. There were platters of the thinnest prosciutto ham rolled around crisp wedges of honeydew melon, and an assortment of other hors d’oeuvres were brought in. Shallie nibbled at them, glorying in the array of fresh, unadorned flavors. But she couldn’t entirely relax and enjoy the delicacies because she started at every sound, expecting Hunt to enter at any moment.
The sound of a recording of a Chopin piano étude blended seamlessly with the night sounds of the crickets and owls. It was one of Shallie’s favorites. She had liked classical music ever since studying piano as a little girl, but the Country and Western–dominated world of rodeo gave her scant opportunity for indulging her taste.
“I hope you don’t mind my choice in music.” Hunt’s voice emerged from the darkness.
“When has what I minded ever mattered a whit to you?” Jake responded crankily. “Only damned cowboy I ever heard of listened to that classical stuff.”
“Just because a man rides broncs,” Hunt countered, “doesn’t necessarily mean that all he can enjoy is Johnny Cash and Toby Keith.” Hunt’s hand entered the circle of light cast by the lantern. He pulled out the empty chair beside Shallie and sat down. She flicked a sidelong glance in his direction as the light fell upon his face. He seemed to fairly beam with a healthy, scrubbed vitality. It shone from his face in the tan that had been deeply burnished by his day in the sun.
On her other side she watched Jake McIver’s expression change from one of puzzled intentness to outraged anger. He stiffened, his chin jutting forward.
“That’s Maggie’s piece, isn’t it?” he exploded.
“Is it?” Hunt retorted archly.
“You know damned well it is. I told you I never wanted to hear that piece of music played in this house.” Jake grabbed the remote control and clicked off the Chopin.
The contrast between the amplified sound and the night silence was sudden and jarring. As it fell over the party, Shallie wondered just who Maggie was. Her speculations were interrupted by Trish.
“Those junior rodeo riders just love you, don’t they, Hunt?” Her compliment seemed simperingly obvious to Shallie.
“They’re a good group,” Hunt answered without elaboration.
“They’re going to be a lot better after they’ve had the benefit of your expertise,” Trish cooed.
Shallie wanted to gag, but she knew that flattery, combined with the kind of sultry look Trish was shooting at Hunt from the depths of her smoky eyes, had strangely predictable effects on most men. Shallie comforted herself with the thought that she’d be gone soon and the trio seated around her could return to whatever perverse games they played to keep themselves amused.
“Expertise?” Jake hooted, emerging from his sulk. “I wouldn’t call the season Hunt had last year, or the year before for that matter, the work of an expert. Where did you come out in the standings, Hunt? Or don’t they bother with classification that far down the line? What surprises me is that he could hornswoggle anyone into coming to his rodeo school.”
Knowing the depths of Hunt’s feelings about rodeo, Shallie considered Jake’s comment almost cruel. But if Hunt was offended by it, he didn’t reveal it. “You’re one hundred percent right, Jake. I didn’t make the standings the past two years. But I led them for four years before that, and there are a few people who have memories that can stretch back farther than a few months.”
“Well, you better not stretch them too far or we’ll end up having all the old has-beens hobbling out on their canes, with their hearing aids turned way up so that they can teach the young whippersnappers how it was done in their day. Maybe I’ll get out there tomorrow and show them how Jake McIver used to twist a bronc in the old days.” Jake cackled with delight at the image.
Trish looked from one McIver to the other with an animal-like avidity, hoping for even more emotional warfare. Shallie thought she would have made the perfect spectator at a Roman circus.
“Or how Junior McIver used to ride.” Hunt’s comment caused the old man’s mood to darken with the rapidity of a summer squall.
Shallie was mystified. But the name “Junior McIver” did ring a bell somewhere in her distant memory. Then it came back to her: Junior McIver, son of Jake, father of Hunt, a onetime bronc-riding buckle winner. She couldn’t remember, though, what had ever happened to him.
“That’s right,” Jake agreed grimly. “It’s never hurt the Circle M to have a champion in the family. A champion who’s still on top, at any rate. The has-beens are fine for teaching rodeo schools, but they sure as hell don’t help bring in the big-money contracts.”
“Listen, old man.” Hunt’s voice was dangerously low. “I don’t get into that arena to provide free advertising for the Circle M.” He turned sharply away from his grandfather. “Shallie, we’d better get on the road. You wouldn’t want to miss your flight.”
Relieved to have an escape from the tension-filled atmosphere, Shallie quickly rose to her feet.
“Now, don’t run off like that,” Jake protested. “The boy knows I was only kidding. Only having some fun with him.”
Shallie froze, caught between the two men’s conflicting wishes. Hunt put an arm around her and guided her toward the door.
“We really do have to go now. It’s a long drive to the airport and Shallie has expressed her strong desire to leave.”
Shallie muttered her thanks to Jake McIver for his hospitality and promised to give his best to her uncle.
“And remembe
r to tell him it was you who came up with that little trade we made,” he called after her.
Outside, Shallie felt as if she could breathe again after the constriction of the emotionally charged scene on the patio. Hunt held open the door of his forest-green Porsche for her. The bag she had thrown down when she discovered the semi missing was safely tucked in the back. For a long time the only sound was the powerful hum of the well-tuned engine. When Circle M was just a speck of light in the rearview mirror, Hunt spoke.
“You’re probably wondering why I put up with him.”
Shallie didn’t answer, but she very definitely was reviewing several possibilities. Hunt’s acceptance of his grandfather’s verbal abuse was inconsistent with everything else she sensed about his character. He had too much pride, too much dignity to tolerate it unless there was a good reason. Shallie remembered the glances Trish and Hunt had exchanged, and one strong possible reason entered her mind. An even stronger one popped up to complement it: If Hunt could swallow his pride long enough, he stood to inherit all of Circle M. What a cozy setup that would be for him and Trish. All these thoughts flickered across the screen of Shallie’s consciousness in less than the time it took Hunt to draw two breaths and continue.
“I’ve been tempted to leave. But I couldn’t, not now. My grandfather is a difficult man but I think I understand him better than anyone else alive.”
Shallie heard a grudging admiration in Hunt’s appraisal. Hesitantly, she asked, “Where is your father now?”
“Dead.” Hunt dropped the word. “Drank himself into an early grave. I suppose that’s one way to escape from my grandfather, but not one that ever appealed to me. Anyway, after he left, pretty early on in my life, it fell to me to maintain the McIver dynasty of champions.” The laugh that accompanied his last statement was dry and brittle.
