by Thea Devine
But no, she couldn't believe that, even of her father; he was not avaricious. He was kind and ambitious, and he loved running the ranch and the comradery of the roundup and the cutting out of the herd and driving them across the Bozeman Trail to Mingusville or Medora. He loved the wheeling and dealing with the newly incorporated meat processors, and he loved preparing his advantageous reports to his own shareholders, a small consortium of friends who had financed the ranching operation to give themselves an outlet for their own burgeoning rail, overland, and meat processing busi-
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nesses.
Though he was not a ranchman born and bred like Deuce Cavender, he was successful, and she could not understand why buying into the Sweetland syndicate was so seemingly urgent that he would use anything at hand — even her—to accomplish that end.
It was almost as if he were following her thoughts. "I need the Santa Linaria. This is going to be a down year for us because of the aborted drive from Texas. We didn't get the infusion of new blood that we need. Santa Linaria will be like a shot in the arm to the herd, do you understand? The breed is tough, resilient. They need very little water; they feed on any kind of roughage, so feed costs are reduced; they don't need the same kind of coddling. And from that we get more meat, and leaner meat for processing. And if we can breed them up with our tall horns, we'll have something else, I'll tell you. It could revolutionize the market." He stopped abruptly at the expression on her face.
"It's that desperate?" she asked gently.
"We'll go under this year if we don't buy in," he said plainly.
She was silent, so silent for such a long time. He wondered what she was feeling. He himself did not at all consider he was sacrificing her; if anything, he had made a good bargain for both of them. There wasn't a man around for a hundred miles that could care for her or give her the things that Cavender could. Moreover, Cavender wanted her. It was nothing he had said or given away. It was just his rank determination, on the cutting edge of what he knew would be disaster for Hal Ryland, to have her in just this way. Ryland admired it, even in his desperation.
Kalida drew in a harsh breath. "I hate him," she ground out. "Oh, I thought I hated that man before, but it's nothing to how I feel now, for how he has forced you to
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your knees, to have you beg for one stinking share in his wretched syndicate. He could have done it without bargaining for me. Just like he could have kept Malca back, all those years ago. But he didn't —he didn't; he needs to abuse his power. He needs to step on people. He doesn't want anyone to succeed but himself. Well, that's fine, Papa. And yes, I know you think it's not a bad bargain for me. I know you have my best interests at heart, and ii: fact, if I were any other kind of woman, this proposal would be heaven-sent, despite the strings.
"But not me, Papa. I'm going to fight him. I'm going to thwart him."
"Kalida . . ." Her father knew there was a tinge of urgency in his voice, but he couldn't help it. She was so damned stubborn! She hated Deuce so much! And now, instead of playing on her sympathy and her desire to help him, he had turned her against Cavender. He felt a moment of impotence, a helplessness to stop the waves of anger that convulsed her.
Her young-old eyes swept over him compassionately. "I understand it all, Papa. You promised him, didn't you? You told him you would convince me to accept his proposal. Yes, I see you did. What else could you do?" She slammed her fist down on the flat arm of the chair she sat in. "Oh, the bastard. It's just like him. Just what you'd expect." Her face hardened and her blazing eyes narrowed as she paused a moment for thought. Her firm, lovely mouth worked into a vindictive line, and she lifted her square, determined chin.
"All right." She came to a decision. "Bear with me, Papa. Please. I'm going to get out of it. I'm going to foil him. I don't care about going under, I don't. We'll save the herd somehow, I promise you, even if I have to drive them to Texas myself; but, Papa, I will not marry Deuce Cavender, to save you — or even if I had to save myself. I'd die first. I'd-"
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Chapter Two
Deuce Cavender reined in just by the Ryland ranch porch, swung his legs over the pommel of his saddle, and contemplated the unlikely picture of Kalida Ryland demurely awaiting his arrival.
His finely cut lips twisted in sardonic amusement. So the old man had only just told her. Look at how she slumped down in that porch rocker, as if this ungraciousness could fool anyone who had watched her grow up for these past seven years. Nor had she made any concession to the occasion. She was dressed just as usual in a crisp white shirt that was tucked into her heavy dark canvas skirt, and her dusty brown boots. A tan flat-crowned hat was slung carelessly over the back of the rush woven rocker.
He waited as she pointedly ignored his presence, and finally the taut silence impelled her. to lift her finely modeled head, which was enhanced by the way she had pulled back her midnight black hair into a braid that lay close to the nape of her neck and down her back. Her perfectly shaped black brows contracted over her narrowed blue eyes, and her lids lowered speculatively, shading her animosity behind a thick fringe of spiky black lashes.
His cool gray eyes assessed this rebelliousness, and his mirthless smile disappeared abruptly. "I am overwhelmed by your enthusiastic welcome," he remarked as he dismounted and removed his hat. "Good morning, Kalida."
Her jolting blue eyes attacked him. "A morning like any other, Mr. Cavender," she said pointedly as he propped one expensively booted foot on the porch steps and continued to regard her in that muscular see-all, know-all exasperatingly dominating way. "You could have saved yourself a trip," she added ungraciously, just as her father sauntered out of the house with a coffee cup in his hand and a determination to make things appear as normal as possible.
He was impeccably dressed as usual, and in a suit rather than the working gear he tended to wear more often than not. His open bluff face was more genial than usual, with its warm ready smile, but his blue eyes—paler than Kalida's, and as sharp — pinpointed everything to a nicety and missed nothing. He exuded a kind of strength this morning, as though he were sure that Kalida's avowed threat had no bearing on the ultimate outcome of the morning. Cavender's own strength assured that. And since Cavender was certain to overcome Kalida's objections, Hal Ryland could foresee nothing but a fortuitous aftermath for all concerned to what seemed to be an oncoming collision of wills.
He was able, therefore, to greet Cavender heartily and invite him to have some coffee. That offer was refused and they sat instead on the porch chatting about the state of the cattle market for a few moments while Kalida itched to claw Deuce Cavender's dark, rawboned face. His cool gaze grazed her from time to time, and she felt exposed, naked under those piercing gray eyes, resentful that he saw so much and thought he knew everything.
Kalida looked at her father pleadingly, but all his attention was focused on Deuce Cavender. Ryland was
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ignoring her and expecting her to be cooperative in the face of this unexpected arrangement between him and Cavender. She saw a muscle twitching in her father's jawline; the pretense was wearing. All of them knew why Deuce was here and what she was supposed to do.
Finally her father said, "It's time to saddle up, Kalida," and in his voice was none of the warmth with which he had spoken to her enemy. Now she was the enemy, the barrier to his express wishes. She hadn't thought he would be quite that adamant once he knew how much she detested the idea.
She felt as though she had no choice in the matter of riding out with Cavender. But that didn't mean she didn't have a plan. She had hoped she wouldn't need plots and devices, but it was obvious that Cavender's hold over her father was very strong. Well, so was she.
She bolted to her feet and strode across the corral purposefully, and when she reappeared, she was mounted sidesaddle. She expertly maneuvered her mount right up next to her gaping father, her hard expression warning him not to say a word.
"But Kalida �
� " he protested before he noticed. Kalida never rode sidesaddle. Then his mouth snapped shut as she interjected, "It's a genteel occasion, Papa; I'm pretending to be a lady, to suit the circumstances." Her voice for all its thick layer of sarcasm held a trace of bitterness.
She looked at Deuce Cavender, who had remounted and was waiting for her with a faint air of impatience. "Let's go."
She wheeled Malca around and cantered down the long dirt track into the pasture before she broke into a trot. He followed a little behind, letting her have her head for several hundred yards before he spurred his horse and raced after her.
He had to admire the fact that she fully intended to keep a distance between them, physically and mentally.
He did not underestimate her one whit. But he was as determined as she. He tracked her erratic weaving patiently until she led him through the northern acreage of the ranch.
This was the prime grazing land, and it was dotted here and there with small fenced-in corrals, empty now that the cattle were up in winter pasture.
She whipped around these, leading him in what looked like figure eights around the corrals. He was utterly puzzled as to her intent and feeling exasperated because Ryland had led him to believe that she would be receptive to what he had to say this morning.
But she was racing the wind around and down the field almost crazily, and he pulled up and eased down on his mount. He was not going to chase her; she obviously had something up her sleeve. He watched curiously as she primed Malca to jump one of the downed fence rails at the entry of the nearest corral.
He watched in admiration as her foot seemingly caught and she slid with a thud from her horse onto the dirt floor of the corral. What a delicious ploy; she was playing coy before she submitted to the inevitable.
He waited, but she did not move as he had fully expected her to. Damn, he thought; he had no time for these games. Irritated, he dismounted, tethered his horse to one of the fence rails, and climbed into the corral.
Kalida had still not moved, and she looked curiously young and defenseless stretched out in the dust. Warily he knelt beside her and touched the smooth skin of her face. She was warm and her color was good; the pulse at her neck throbbed strongly against his palm as he gently examined her head for bruises.
God, she was beautiful, he thought almost abstractedly. And damned strong willed. And heavy. He lifted the upper part of her torso onto his knees so that her head rested against his thigh and her lustrous black braid
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snaked down his leg and curled around his calf with an unerring possessiveness. He lifted it, feeling its weight, staring down at her perfectly featured face, hard put to tell if she really were unconscious. Beneath that flawless face was an intelligence that was very capable of deceit, he thought. And he wanted it, no matter what the cost o; the price.
He shifted her weight slightly, and as he did he noticed the barest flutter of her thick fringed mink-black lashes. So his assessment was right on the mark: This was a trick, and somehow she was planning to avoid hearing his proposal or to reject it in some decidedly picturesque way. The thought piqued his sense of humor. He was holding her in his arms and she still was giving nothing away. Lucky he was so sharp-eyed. But she must be tingling to know what he was going to do with her now, and she could not open her eyes to see, nor could she ask.
It was very unlikely she was injured; she was pretending for her own purposes to outwit her father somehow —and him. It was rather ironic that to accomplish this she had allowed herself to be at his mercy.
What was she counting on?
He considered her unusually tranquil face. At his mercy. God; marrying her would not be a business arrangement. He was half in love with her willful, all-fired stubbornness already, and the tenacity with which she carried her hatred for him. And now she not only hated what he was, she hated the fact that he had power over her father that her father did not even understand. And he knew she hated the fact he was rich and landed and had known every woman from Sweetland to the Judith Mountains, and she had made it quite plain she was not going to be another one of them.
And he was equally determined to have her. To discover the delights hidden deep within her, beneath those forbidding canvas skirts. To love her within an inch of her life.
To be the only one to taste those firm, perfect lips.
To kiss her until she begged for mercy —now.
And as he thought it, he lifted her tightly against his chest and bent his head so that his mouth slanted across hers, just touching. He could feel the swell of her right breast just beneath his arm and the warmth of her breath against his lips, and the wave of desire that jolted through him was breathtaking. He gave into it; his mouth covered hers softly, touching, exploring the contours of her lips gently with his tongue. It was not enough. Hadn't he known that? He wanted her warm and willing beneath him, giving, wanting him. And she lay as limp as a marionette, unaware of consuming fires and the depths of his desire. He groaned in frustration and lifted his head. Nothing had changed. He had not roused the sleeping princess.
Damn, he would awaken her, by God. "Princess Ka-lida," he murmured against her lips, and it sounded impossibly exotic and desirable. His mouth claimed hers again, invading this time, abrasive and intent, and his supporting arm moved so his large warm hand cradled her breast gently, but aching with a need to undress and explore.
She knew she couldn't take much more; it took every ounce of her will not to lift her hands and shove him away from her. She had to play it through the way she had planned, but the audacity of him! The snake! How could she keep still and not bite him with the viciousness she felt about the way he was making her feel. She wanted none of this from him; but her treacherous body was saying otherwise. Her response astounded her. She hated him!
She let herself stir—just a movement, and then another, and then she twisted her body against his encroaching hand and was shocked by the sense of his fingers brushing against her nipple.
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Her eyes shot open to find his face not an inch from hers and his eyes cold and mocking.
"Get your hands off me," she hissed, perfectly aware of how inadequate her anger was and that he could and would do whatever he wanted and there was little she could do to prevent it. And indeed, his rock solid arm tightened around her and she could feel him lifting her closer yet to him until once again his mouth was touching hers and she could not prevent the words that inevitably followed. "Marry me." A whisper. A statement.
She pushed against the cliff wall of his chest. "No!" She felt desperate suddenly, and helpless. Even though he held her close and fast, she felt as though he were stalking her mercilessly.
"Marry me." His lips brushed hers and she shuddered. He felt it clear through to the core of his body. "Kalida . . ."
"I won't!" She compressed her mutinous lips. "You're crazy!" He had to be; there was something inexorable about the expression in his eyes, something a touch primitive in his face.
"I am," he agreed huskily. "I'm glad you know it." His mouth crushed down on hers remorselessly. His hunger for her had to convince her if nothing else would. If she sensed it, or felt it as his tongue plundered the tender, untried recesses of her mouth, tasting, feeling, urging. There wasn't nearly enough time. "Marry me."
She heard the words somewhere in the back of her mind as she was trying to sort out the sensations she was feeling, and the betrayal of her body, and her wanton tongue that welcomed his with a shocking eagerness. "Never!" She barely breathed the words before he enslaved her mouth again, all hunger and voluptuous heat that enthralled her, unwilling as she was.
"Yes, oh yes, Kalida." His lips grazed hers now and she felt bereft. "Say yes." He nipped at her lower lip emphati-
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cally and drew it between his teeth to nibble at it.
"No . . ." Her resolve was melting fast at both the sensation of being held immobilized and being feasted upon. Her flailing hands were utterly useless aga
inst his iron solid body. He didn't even feel them. And she was feeling too much.
"I want you." The merest whisper of his most intense desire propelled her senses into a semblance of reality.
"You want a housekeeper," she snapped, pushing at him and catching him off guard so that his body slanted backward. Immediately she wriggled away and sat glaring at him. He sent her a mocking grimace and sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees.
"So now, Kalida . . ." His deep voice was harsh, unrelenting.
"You have a world of women to choose from," she said. "I want to go back to my world."
"Hell," he swore, and jacked himself up in one fluid motion. He reached for her hand and pulled her to her feet hard against his whipcord body. He held her arm against his chest in a grip like a vise, and her balled-up fist could not even attack him.
Her cobalt eyes darkened to dangerous navy. "Don't say a word," she grated as she tried unsuccessfully to wrench away.
"We're not finished, you and I," he promised harshly in a voice thick with some unidentifiable emotion. "Now that I've tasted you, my willful Kalida, no one else will have you. Take it as truth. You'll marry me . . . and nothing else enters into it." He loosened his grip on her arm abruptly, and as he released her, she saw her chance.
She breathed a sigh of relief—and crumpled to the ground.
She didn't expect him to slap her face so unsympatheti-
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cally. "Damn it, Kalida; stop your nonsense."
She smacked away his hand. "My legs gave out." She opened her eyes and looked up at him hunkered beside her appealingly. His expression was dark and skeptical. "I promise you."
