Sandra Marton - Taming of Tyler Kincaid

by The Taming of Tyler Kincaid

  "Okay," she said, "that's it. Any man still here two sec­onds from now can collect his pay and get himself off Espada, pronto."

  The men dispersed quickly, and she turned back to Tyler and her stepfather.

  "You're behaving like children, the both of you."

  Tyler gave her a look that said this had nothing to do with her.

  "Look," he said to Jonas Baron, "I understand your dis­tress. I'm sure it's, uh, difficult, coming on a scene like, well, like the scene you came on. Finding your stepdaughter in my arms must have been unsettling."

  "In your arms?" Jonas snorted. "That's a nice way to put it. Truth is, if'n I hadn't come along to break things up, you'd have been up in the hayloft next."

  "Dammit, Jonas!" Caitlin shoved her face at her stepfa­ther's. "What you saw was none of your business."

  "'Course it is. You're my daughter. No man wants to see his daughter bein' pawed."

  "Oh, for heaven's sakes!" Caitlin stamped her foot in fury. "I am not your daughter, I'm your stepdaughter, as you have gone out of your way to remind me a hundred billion times in the last couple of years. And I wasn't being pawed. Hell, if anything, I was the one doing the pawing." She slapped her hands on her hips and glared at both men. "You know what?" she said in disgust. "You two deserve each other."

  Tyler and Jonas both watched as the slender woman with the pale gold hair slipped an arm around Caitlin's waist. The women marched to the main house without looking back.

  A moment passed, and then Jonas cleared his throat.

  "All right," he said gruffly. "The girl spoke the truth. This is jes' plain dumb. You let go, I'll step back and we'll start from there. Deal?"

  Tyler hesitated, then shrugged his shoulders. "Deal," he said, and let go.

  Jonas grunted, rubbed the circulation back into his arm and looked at Tyler. A slow smile curled across his mouth.

  "I got in a good shot there, across your cheek."

  Tyler wiped a hand across his face, looked at the blood on his palm, then at Jonas.

  "Yeah. And you're going to have black-and-blue marks for a month."

  "Maybe."

  The two men fell silent, then shot each other quick, grudg­ing smiles, but Jonas's smile turned into a glower.

  "You're Kincaid."

  "Yes."

  "Abel hired you?"

  "Your stepdaughter did."

  Jonas's pale eyes narrowed. "Did she, now."

  Tyler smiled. It was a quick smile, the kind Jonas recog­nized from his own youth as the smile of a man as good with his head as he was with his hands.

  "She hired me to work with the horses. I'm good at gentling the skittish ones."

  The old man nodded. "I'll just bet you are." He bent down and picked up his hat. "Caitlin says you have business with me."

  "I do." Tyler looked Jonas in the eye. "Important busi­ness."

  Jonas nodded again. "Well, go get yourself cleaned up, then come on to the house and tell me what it is." His eyes swept over Tyler, taking in the scuffed boots, the faded jeans, torn shirt, bloodied cheek and cool, unreadable green eyes. "You look like a drifter and you might be good at gentlin' horses, Kincaid, but I get the feelin' that isn't what you do for a livin', nor is it what brung you to Espada."

  Tyler flashed that hard, quick smile again.

  "I'd heard you were a tough man, Baron, and a smart one. I don't usually put much store in secondhand information but it looks as if what I heard was right, on both counts. I'll see you in twenty minutes."

  "Fifteen," Jonas replied, and headed for the house.

  Twenty minutes later, Tyler knocked on the door—the front door—of the Baron house.

  He'd showered, changed his jeans and shirt and brushed the dust off his boots. He'd never gone into a meeting as important as this one in anything but a suit and tie, but jeans were all he'd packed. Besides, he had the feeling confronting Jonas Baron in a suit would only make the stubborn old so-and-so think he had the advantage.

  He smiled as the door swung open. "Carmen," he said pleasantly—but the woman in the doorway wasn't Carmen.

  It was Caitlin.

  She'd changed what she'd been wearing, too. No jeans, this time. She had on a blouse in a shade of pale pink that made him think of magnolia blossoms and a blue denim skirt. Her legs were long and bare, her toenails neat and unpolished in a pair of tan leather sandals. Her hair was wet, as if she'd just come out of the shower, and curled around her face in soft little tendrils. Her eyes were icy, her mouth unsmiling, but that didn't keep him from remembering how hot those hazel eyes had been a little while ago, or what it had felt like when he'd parted that pink mouth with the tip of his tongue.

  Heat curled in his belly and he felt a flash of anger, at himself and—even though he knew it was unreasonable—at her. This was no time to let his anatomy do his thinking for him.

  His smile disappeared.

  "I'm here to see the old man."

  Caitlin raised an eyebrow. "Call him that to his face again and you'll find yourself heading out the door quicker than you came through it." She stuck out a hand as Tyler started past her and poked a finger into his chest. "I want to be sure we both understand what happened before, Kincaid."

  "What's to understand?" Tyler said pleasantly. "You were upset and angry. I caught you off guard, or maybe in a weak moment, and that's the only reason you behaved the way you did."

  Her eyes widened. "Yes. But how did you—"

  "How did I know you'd deny what really happened?" He smiled coldly. "Trust me, McCord. It was easy."

  "I'm sure there are women somewhere on this planet who appreciate Neanderthals." Her voice was as chilly as his. "But I can assure you, Mr. Kincaid, I am not one of them." She stepped aside, motioned him in with an autocratic jerk of her head. "My stepfather's waiting in the library. I'll show you to it."

  Tyler followed her down a long hallway. Her head was high, her spine rigid; she was treating him as if they'd never shared those mind-blowing kisses, as if she'd never moaned as he cupped her breast.

  Anger swept aside reason. He caught hold of her shoulder and swung her to face him.

  "Do you ever admit to having an honest emotion, lady?"

  "All the time." She wrenched free of his hand and flashed the kind of smile he figured Marie Antoinette must have shown the crowd just before the blade of the guillotine dropped. "I just did, in fact, but maybe it rolled right on past

  I don't like you, Kincaid. In fact, I hope to hell I never see you again. Is that honest enough?"

  "No." He looked at her mouth, his gaze lingering, then into her eyes. "It's not honest at all. We weren't talking about whether or not you liked me. Hell, McCord, if it comes to that, I don't like you much, either."

  He felt a rush of pure satisfaction to see her face turn pink but she held her ground, lifted her chin and looked straight back at him.

  "You're right. I suppose I have to bear some responsibility for that—that unfortunate mistake down by the bunkhouse."

  "A mistake," he said, and she thought she heard a whisper of amusement in his voice. "Is that what you call it when you go crazy in a man's arms?"

  "I did not go crazy," she snapped. "You're the one who's crazy, if you really think I—"

  A door banged open somewhere down the hall.

  "Caitlin? Girl, where the Sam Hill are you? And where in hell is that boy? He don't show up in the next minute, you tell him I've decided to forget about talkin' to him."

  "You want to see him," Caitlin said, "you'd better get a move on. Thanks to you, he's in a terrible mood."

  "You let me worry about Jonas Baron's mood."

  His tone was soft, the smile on his lips pure male arrogance as he reached out, cupped her chin and tilted her face up to his. Was he really going to try to kiss her? Anger rocketed through her—anger, and something else.

  "Let go of me," she snarled.

  "Have dinner with me Saturday evening and we can talk about which of us is crazy."


  "I'd sooner have dinner with an armadillo."

  "I'll pick you up at seven."

  "You show up at the door Saturday evening, the only thing you'll pick up is buckshot." Caitlin twisted against his hand. "Dammit, Kincaid, let go!"

  Tyler laughed softly. "Seven. And don't be late. If there's one thing I admire, it's promptness in a woman."

  "You're unbelievable."

  "You see?" He flashed a grin so cocky it set her teeth on edge. "You just gave me a compliment, McCord. Our rela­tionship is changing already."

  "Caitlin?" Jonas's bellow roared through the hall. "Where are you? And where's that young fool thinks he can rough up an old man and get away with it?"

  Caitlin pulled away from Tyler. Her heart seemed to have lodged in her throat and she tried to ignore its high, rapid beat.

  "Dream on, Kincaid," she said, trying for a light tone.

  Tyler's eyes darkened. He reached for her, pulled her into the curve of his arm, held her hard against him.

  "That's a fine idea, McCord," he said softly. "I'll dream about what I want to do to you and you dream about what you'd like me to do. And Saturday night, we can make those dreams come true." He saw her eyes widen with shock, saw the sudden flutter of her pulse in the hollow of her throat just before he bent his head and kissed her. She made a little sound, just as she had the first time, and he parted her lips with the tip of his tongue. Her taste shot through his blood like a drug. For one wild moment, he wanted to back her against the wall, put his hand up her skirt, and take her right there, while the wildness beat inside him...

  Dammit!

  Tyler fought for control, let go of her and stepped back. "Now," he said, as she swayed unsteadily, "you can show me to the library."

  Her eyes flew open. She stared at him, her face flushed, and then she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. "I'd sooner show you to hell."

  Her voice trembled and just before she turned her back to him, he thought he saw tears in her eyes. He almost reached out to her but what for? It was all illusion. It had to be. This was a game, that was all, and she played it well.

  He followed her down the hall to a pair of massive, half-­open doors. He could see Jonas Baron beyond them, standing in the center of a room crowded with ancient leather chairs and sofas, his dusty boots planted firmly on the delicately faded pinks and buffs of what had to be an Aubusson carpet.

  "Mr. Kincaid is here," Caitlin said stiffly.

  "And about time." Jonas jerked his head toward a mahog­any sideboard. "Pour us some bourbon, girl."

  "Pour it yourself," she said, and slammed the door on her way out.

  Jonas chuckled. "My stepdaughter's not very happy with me jes' now." He eyed Tyler narrowly. "You look better, cleaned up."

  "So do you," Tyler said politely.

  The old man smiled, crossed the room to the sideboard and took out two crystal glasses and a bottle of bourbon.

  "Twenty years old," he said, holding the bottle to the sun­light that streamed through the windows. "Slips down your gullet like silk." One bushy brow rose. "I s'pose you'd prefer somethin' else, boy. Beer, or wine, or maybe even some of that there colorless slop the Russkies drink."

  "Actually," Tyler said, "I'm pretty much a bourbon man, myself." He held out his hand, took the drink Jonas poured him and smiled. "And if you call me `boy' one more time, I'll have to deck you."

  "I got three sons make the same threat all the time." He looked over the rim of his glass and frowned. "We meet be­fore?"

  "No." Tyler sipped his bourbon, gave a nod of satisfaction. "No, we haven't."

  "Didn't think so. I may forget names, from time to time, but I never forget a face. Still, there's somethin' about you seems familiar. Where'd you say you was from?"

  "I didn't."

  Jonas sank down in a leather wing chair, motioned Tyler to sit across from him but Tyler shook his head.

  "I'd rather stand."

  "Suit yourself." Jonas reached for an elaborate humidor, opened it and held it out.

  "Have a cigar, Kincaid. They're straight from Havana."

  "Smuggled in?" Tyler said, and smiled. "Thanks, but I'll pass."

  "You don't strike me as a man who'd pass up a good cigar 'cause it's illegal."

  "I'm not." Tyler watched as Jonas bit off the end, spat it into a crystal ashtray, then lit up. "I just happen to think that putting an old boot in your mouth and lighting it up might taste better than smoking a cigar."

  Jonas's eyes narrowed. He looked at Tyler, his mouth twitched and he laughed. "Not at all afeared of me, are you?"

  "I've never met a man I've been afraid of."

  "How about my stepdaughter?" Jonas took a puff on the cigar. "You afraid of her?"

  "I'm not going to discuss your stepdaughter with you, Baron, except to tell you a man has to be a fool to put himself in a position where he has to be afraid of a woman."

  Jonas grinned. "My philosophy, exactly. I've lived by it for years." He paused, looked at Tyler and frowned again. "You sure you and I ain't met before?"

  "Positive."

  "I jes' keep thinkin' you look like somebody I know. Kincaid, huh? You got a brother or a father I might have done business with?"

  Tyler could feel the knot forming in his belly.

  "It's possible you knew my father," he said carefully. "Perhaps that's why I look familiar."

  "Mebbe." Jonas crossed his legs and looked up at him. "He a rancher?"

  "I don't know."

  "You don't know?" Jonas smiled. "What do you mean, you don't know? Your old man's occupation a family secret, or somethin'?"

  Tyler took a deep breath. "I never knew my father. Or my mother, for that matter."

  "Well, I'm sure that's tragic, Kincaid, but I can't see how it involves me." Jonas looked at the grandfather clock in the corner. "It's getting late. I have some phone calls to make."

  "Amazing," Tyler said softly, "how that cowpoke accent of yours just disappeared."

  The old man looked up, his pale eyes flat. "Amazing," he said, just as softly, "how you're still here when I just dis­missed you."

  Tyler's teeth glinted in a humorless smile. "I don't `dis­miss' very well, Baron. In fact, I don't `dismiss' at all."

  Jonas got to his feet. "Maybe you need to be tossed out on your tailbone, boy."

  "You're an old man," Tyler said quietly, "and I'd hate to hurt you but so help me, you put a hand on me again and you'll regret it."

  Jonas stared into Tyler's eyes. A shudder seemed to ripple through his body and then he gave a curt nod.

  "My wife would never forgive me if we bloodied up her precious rug." He folded his arms and smiled, the very picture of a man in control of himself and everything around him. "If you have a point to make, get to it."

  Tyler lifted his glass to his lips, drank off the last of the bourbon. It went down his throat smoothly, just as silken in taste as Jonas Baron had promised, but it did nothing to ease the knot in his gut. He'd lived without knowing who he was—­who John Smith was—for an entire lifetime. Why, suddenly, did it seem to matter so damned much?

  "Kincaid? You got something to say, say it."

  "You were right, when you said I wasn't what I seemed. I'm not a drifter, Baron. I'm not even a ranch hand. Not any­more." He put the glass down and looked at Jonas. "Did you ever hear of Kincaid Incorporated?"

  "Finance? Land development, that sort of thing? Yeah, I might have. So what?"

  "I'm that Kincaid."

  "And you come walkin' onto my land, take a job wrasslin' stock?"

  Tyler shrugged his shoulders. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now I'm offering my credentials so you won't think I'm crazy."

  "Might think you're crazy anyways, you don't get to the point. Why are you here?"

  Tyler tucked his hands into his pockets and began to walk slowly around the room, pausing every now and then to look at a painting or a bit of sculpture while he struggled for con­trol. Finally he turned and looked at Jonas.
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  "I was born in Texas."

  The old man stared at him. "Fascinatin'." He went to the sideboard and refilled his glass.

  "In fact, I was born right here, on this ranch."

  "On Espada?" Jonas lifted the glass to his mouth. Bourbon sluiced gently over the rim. "Well," he said, and barked out a laugh, "fancy that."

  "But I don't know who gave birth to me, or who my father was."

  "Uh-huh." Jonas took another drink. The glass trembled in his hand and he set it down, very carefully, on the sideboard. "As I said, this is all fascinatin' but it's got nothin' to do with me. I keep whelpin' records of calves and horses. The gov­ernment takes care of everybody else."

  Color striped Tyler's high cheekbones. Why in hell had he ever come here, or thought he could do this? He was not a man to talk about himself to anybody, and certainly not a man to bare the dark secrets of his past. And yet here he was, dumping the dirty little story of his birth at the feet of a man he'd disliked on sight.

  "So," Jonas said, "is that it? I sure hope so, considerin' I got those calls to make."

  "No," Tyler said sharply, "that's not it." Dammit, he'd come this far, made a fool of himself already. There was no sense in backing down now. "You had a couple of married men working for you, the year I was born. Their wives were pregnant.."

  "'Their wives were—" The old man slowly exhaled. "I see. Well, I'll tell you what, Kincaid, I'd like to help you but I ain't never had a man named Kincaid workin' here."

  "That wouldn't have been his name," Tyler said gruffly.

  "Ah. Well, it don't matter. This would go back a piece, wouldn't it? Twenty-five, thirty years? And I don't have no recollection of—­"

  "Thirty-five years," Tyler said. "I was born on Espada, thirty-five years ago, on or about 18 July—"

  Jonas stiffened. "July 18, you say?"

  "Yes. And I was hoping.. .Baron?"

  The glass fell from Jonas's hand and rolled across the car­pet. Tyler reached him in two quick steps, caught hold of him and eased him into a chair.

  "Baron," he said, looking down into the white face that suddenly looked every one of its eighty-six years, "don't move. I'll get help."

  "Don't need help."