The Rogue

by Janet Dailey

  “Why did you have to make him choose?” she cried, feeling her emotions being ripped apart. “You knew he would choose you, didn’t you?” Diana accused, tears filling her eyes. “He always has picked you over me! Always!” Her hands doubled into fists.

  “Diana, don’t be ridiculous.” He took a step toward her.

  “It isn’t fair!” His broad chest offered an easy target for her blurred vision. She struck at it with her clenched fists, her breath breaking into angry sobs. Holt caught at her wrists, giving her a hard shake that snapped her head back.

  “The Major made a business choice,” he insisted. “There was nothing personal in it.”

  The rough shaking had stopped her sobbing breaths. Now hysterical and mocking laughter bubbled in her throat. “Wasn’t there?” Diana returned. “He’s never needed me. Why should he? He had you.” The tears began rolling down her cheeks, stream after stream.

  “You don’t know what you are saying,” Holt muttered.

  Diana could no longer see the blurred outline of his angular, male features. She was drawn inside the circle of his arms, her head forced to rest against his shoulder. She felt the point of his chin against her forehead, his hand uncertainly stroking the black silk of her hair.

  “It’s true, Holt,” she mumbled against his shirt. “It’s been true ever since you came here.”

  “No, Diana, it isn’t,” he said firmly.

  Lifting her head in order to see his face, Diana found herself staring at his mouth, so well defined, strong, and male. Her mouth was open to speak, but no words came out. His hand stopped its stroking to cup the back of her head. Inch by slow inch, his mouth moved closer until his warm breath was playing over her nose and cheek and teasing her lips. Diana’s heart fluttered in anticipation. She was keenly aware of the male contours of his body against her curved shape. His gaze roamed over her face, coming to a rest on her parted lips.

  His mouth made feather-light contact with hers. “I swore I wouldn’t get near—” Holt cut off the end of the sentence he muttered against her lips and gave in to a compulsion stronger than his resistance.

  Diana trembled at the initial hard and expert pressure of his kiss. As the first response tingled through her, she felt him stiffen a warning instantly before he abruptly broke it off. When he didn’t, her eyes opened onto his profile and the intense concentration etched there.

  As if sensing her gaze, his low voice ordered: “Listen.” Her head moved in dazed protest. “Something is bothering the horses,” he explained in the same low, almost whispering, tone.

  Over the hammering of her heart, Diana finally heard the disturbed sounds, curious whickers and alarmed snorts and restless movement. Yet there was no indication of panic.

  “The stallion?” Diana made the suggestion a question.

  A grimness settled into Holt’s face. “Yes.” He released her. “The stallion.”

  His long strides carried him to the study door. Diana followed him at a running walk. There was no sign of the Major as they passed through the living room and out the screen door. Once outside, the direction of the sounds became discernible. They were coming from the large paddock where the mares and colts had been penned.

  A half-moon gleamed silvery-white in the night sky to light their path. Holt vaulted the first fence they came to, not waiting for Diana as she climbed over it. She heard someone behind her and glanced over her shoulder to see Rube hurrying toward her.

  “It’s that goddamned white stallion, ain’t it?” Rube hauled himself over the fence after her. “I heard the mares stirrin’ an’ knew right away what was excitin’ ’em.” He talked as he walked, a steady stream of chatter that Diana ignored.

  Holt reached the paddock fence, ahead of them, climbing the rail to get an overall view of the pasture area. Diana joined him, hooking a knee over the top rail for balance, and Rube did the same.

  “There he is!” Diana pointed to the far end of the paddock.

  On the other side of the distant fence, the moonlight glistened on the white coat of the stallion. He was pacing back and forth along the fence, seeming to float over the ground. Animated, his muscled neck arched, head tossing, his tail held high and streaming out behind him like a white banner, the stallion issued low, whickering calls to the mares, cajoling, coaxing, and persuading. They were slowly succumbing to his equine charm, the uncertainty of alarm leaving their responses.

  Diana was mesmerized by the sight, unaware of the other ranch hands who had joined them, drawn by the disturbance. Deaf to their whispered exclamations, she didn’t hear the word from Holt that galvanized them all into action. Nothing pierced the entrancing scene until the shouts and whistles from the men scattered the shadowy shapes of the mares grouped near the far fence line. The white stallion froze into an alert statue of animated expectancy, eyeing his two-legged enemies. Tossing his head, the stallion pivoted with the grace of a dancer and sped into the night.

  “So that was the wild stallion.” The Major was standing at the fence, slightly winded, excitement and grimness quarreling with each other in his expression. “I wish I’d gotten a better look at him.”

  “Magnificent, isn’t he?” Diana murmured.

  “Like no mustang I’ve ever seen,” he admitted.

  With the stallion gone, the men began to filter back, talking among themselves. Holt’s familiar shape separated from the others to come to the fence where Diana and the Major waited. The moonlight bronzed his lean features, making silver chips of his eyes.

  “He’ll be back,” he predicted flatly. “We’ll have to keep a man on watch, take four-hour shifts.”

  “I agree,” the Major said, although he hadn’t been consulted.

  “Maybe we’ll be lucky and he’ll give up after a few unsuccessful attempts to steal our mares.” Holt stared at the dark mountains where the stallion had fled.

  “No doubt he will.” The Major glanced at them. “The two of you, did you—”

  “You don’t need to worry about losing Holt,” Diana interrupted. “We’ve come to an understanding. He’ll continue running things and I’ll stay out of his way. I will keep on working with the horses, halter-breaking the new foals, and I thought I’d help you with the bookwork, but that’s all.”

  Diana was already regretting the emotional scene with Holt at the house. It had exposed her weaknesses. Even though they enjoyed a mutual and powerful sexual attraction, there was too much bad blood between them, Guy, the Major, and the bitter rivalry. In a sense, Holt was still her enemy. She gave him this victory.

  “Then it’s all straightened out,” the Major said.

  This time it was Holt who replied: “Yes, it is.” His gaze locked briefly with Diana’s, measuring and steady. Then it was sliding to her father. “Excuse me, Major. I need to arrange the watches with the men.”

  “Go right ahead. Have a good trip tomorrow.” When Holt moved off in the direction of the men, the Major turned to Diana. “Shall we go back to the house?”

  “Yes.” She stepped down from the fence rail. “Where is Holt going?”

  “He’s flying to California to look at a stallion there. I am relieved you and Holt came to an understanding,” her father said as they started back.

  “Yes.”

  “I have always wished the two of you could get along. Holt would have made a good husband for you. He’s hard-working, loyal . . . but,” the Major sighed, “it wasn’t to be. It’s a good thing I didn’t try any parental matchmaking.”

  Diana nearly stopped dead at his comment. “Is that why you hired him? As a prospective husband for me?” She could have added: Is that why you groomed him and trained him to take over the ranch?

  “Good heavens, no!” He laughed at her suggestion. “I hired him because he had the qualifications to fill the position I had open at the time. It was . . . three or four years later before I began to think of him in conjunction with you. By then you had already made a habit of rubbing each other the wrong way. I hoped the friction
between you might spark something more. When it didn’t, that was that.”

  “And you never said anything.”

  “No. The last thing I wanted for you was a loveless marriage,” he said.

  “Love can sometimes be an ugly thing.”

  “You are thinking of Rand and what happened between the two of you,” the Major guessed. “It wasn’t love he felt for you, or he wouldn’t have spread those stories about you. Love is a warm and wonderful thing.”

  Diana’s heart nearly stopped beating. “You heard those stories?”

  “Yes, I heard them,” he admitted.

  “I—”

  “It isn’t necessary for you to explain,” interrupted the Major. “Just forget them.”

  And Diana could tell by his tone of voice that he didn’t want to hear an explanation. He wanted the subject dropped and forgotten by both of them. Slipping her fingertips into the front pockets of her jeans, she let the conversation drift into less turbulent channels. Somehow it didn’t ease her conscience to learn the Major had heard the stories and chose to ignore them.

  The stallion paid a second visit to the mares the following night. The accompanying noise awakened Diana and she had trouble getting back to sleep. It was late when she rose that morning. The Major had already breakfasted and was taking his morning rest.

  At loose ends, Diana strolled out of the house toward the stables. The sun was already warm on her skin. By afternoon, it would be hot. A haze covered the mountains, a cloud shadow racing across the slopes.

  “Diana!”

  She turned at the sound of her name, recognizing Guy’s voice. She hadn’t seen him at all these past two days, not since he had hurled those embittered words at her and ridden away to bring the mares up.

  A breath-stealing pain swept through her at the long, effortless strides that were carrying Guy to her. Did he know how strongly his mannerisms sometimes reminded her of Holt? Diana mentally shook away the thought and noticed the flowers in his hand.

  As he stopped in front of her, his gaze, uncertain and intent, searched her face. “A peace offering.”

  She took the bouquet from his hand. “Wildflowers. They’re lovely, Guy.”

  His tension seemed to melt at her response. “I did it deliberately—chose wildflowers, I mean,” he explained with a self-conscious laugh. “I thought about buying flowers in town, but these are you. You are a wildflower, Diana—delicate, untamed, and vulnerable to man’s intrusion. The other day I was trying to make you grow where I wanted you to grow. You can’t do that with a wildflower. I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”

  Why did he have to be so thoughtful and considerate? She was so tired of hurting people and letting them down. It would have been better if he had stayed angry with her . , . better for him. Diana couldn’t let Guy continue to idealize her.

  “I was rude when I refused you so abruptly. The only excuse I have is that I had other things on my mind,” Diana said.

  “We all have times when we don’t want to be with people.” His look was adoring.

  Diana stared at the yellow flowers, drawing in a grim breath. “You shouldn’t be so understanding, Guy. It isn’t natural.”

  “The only thing that comes natural to me is loving you.” His voice changed its pitch becoming vibrant and husky. “It seems that I’ve loved you all my life, Diana.”

  “Don’t say that.” Her hands tightened around the flowers, crushing the stems.

  “All right, I won’t say it anymore.” But they both knew it wouldn’t change the fact. “I was coming up to the house to see you. I have to drive into Ely to pick up a part. I thought maybe you’d like to ride along. It’d give you a chance to get away from the ranch and maybe do some shopping.”

  The idea was appealing. Instead of refusing his invitation, as she knew she should do, Diana accepted it. “Are you leaving now?”

  “In about an hour. I have a couple of things to do first, and”—he glanced down at his work clothes, dusty, with horsehairs clinging to the denim fabric—“I want to clean up.”

  “That’s fine,” she agreed.

  The hour’s delay gave Diana a chance to change and leave word with Sophie as to where she was going. Dressed in a gypsy skirt and a white peasant blouse with a gathered neckline, Diana went in search of Guy. He wasn’t in the ranch yard. Since he hadn’t mentioned which vehicle they’d be taking, she walked to the fourplex.

  Pausing at the screen door of the largest unit, Diana knocked once, calling, “Guy?”

  A fan whirred loudly inside, circulating the warm air. Without hesitating, Diana walked inside. Her head was tipped at an angle, listening for sounds of movement. It had been several years since she had been inside these living quarters. The living room, dining room, and kitchen were all one room, with two small bedrooms branching off of it, as well as a bath. Everything was neat and orderly, almost impersonal. Then Diana noticed a pair of trophies sitting on a shelf. Curious, she walked over. They were marksmanship trophies with Guy’s name inscribed on the gold plate. A wooden rifle rack was on the wall above them, empty.

  A bedroom door opened and Diana turned. Holt stared at her, halted in the act of closing the door. Diana, too, was motionless, her breath lodged in her throat, her heart skipping beats all over the place.

  There was no doubt he had just stepped from the shower. His wet hair glistened darkly. His chest was bare, a sheen of moisture on the muscled flesh. Dark trousers emphasized the slimness of his hips and the width of his shoulders. Primitive and dangerous, there was a funny curling in the pit of her stomach.

  His eyes made a slow, insolent sweep of her, twin tongues of silver lightning licking over the straining swell of her breasts against the white fabric and the draping folds of her skirt at the hips. Her senses reeled under the sensual impact of his look.

  “Are you here to welcome me home?” His voice was taunting, derisive, and cynical.

  “I ... I didn’t know you were back.” Damn! Why was she stammering like some silly teen-ager? He unnerved her, yes, but did she have to show it so plainly?

  “I got back about twenty minutes ago.” He closed the bedroom door, continuing to face her, his feet slightly apart in a stance that suggested command.

  “I was at the house. I didn’t hear you.”

  The fan was on the kitchen counter behind Holt. My God, Diana thought, I can smell him, the soap, the shaving cologne, the musky animal scent of him. A suffusing heat enveloped her, heady like potent wine.

  Holt glanced pointedly around the room. “Are you making an inspection tour of the premises?”

  “I am riding into town with Guy. I was supposed to meet him in an hour.”

  Suddenly the temperature in the room seemed to drop below the freezing point. His features became encased in a bronze mask that was aloof and forbidding. The silent messages that had been disturbing her were broken off.

  “What are you doing here?” Holt asked in a cold, flat voice.

  Confused, Diana thought the reason for her presence was obvious, but she explained, anyway. “I didn’t see Guy out in the yard. He had said something about cleaning up, so I came here.”

  “He isn’t here.”

  “Obviously—”

  “I mean,” Holt interrupted her laughingly defensive reply, his manner grim and snapping, “he doesn’t live here anymore!”

  Diana was too startled by his announcement to respond immediately. “Where . . .? Why . . .?” She stammered out of her stunned silence.

  “Do you really think he’d live under the same roof with me, considering how much he hates my guts?” he hurled with the lashing force of a whip.

  Diana recoiled under the sting. “I didn’t think. When—” She couldn’t get the rest of the question out.

  “He slept in the barn the night we got back. The next day he cleaned out that old trailer and moved his things into it. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you.” Holt was sarcastic. “With the seclusion and privacy of the trailer, he could have ent
ertained you for a couple of hours in the evening.”

  “I have barely seen Guy since we came back, and spoken to him even less!” she flared.

  “You always were easily bored with him,” he said with disgust.

  “Do you think I don’t know how I treated him in the past? Do you think I’m not sorry now?” Her protest came in a passionate rush for understanding.

  “Are you trying to make up for it? Is that what you’re saying?” Holt challenged. Then he immediately backed off, muttering, “What the hell does it matter? You’ve taken him out of my reach, Diana. There isn’t anything I can do to stop you. He’s yours ... to play with or destroy.” He turned away.

  “I don’t want him.” She stopped, staring at the faint, crisscrossing scars on his back. Her forefingers remembered the ridges they had felt when they had caressed his flesh. Her memory was jogged to that long-ago summer when she had first seen them, and Diana repeated the question she had asked then: “Those scars on your back—how did you get them?”

  She watched the constricting of his muscles as Holt stiffened at her question. With rigid strides, he walked to the kitchen counter and removed a glass from the cupboard.

  “Go find Guy.” He deliberately ignored her question.

  Holding the glass under the faucet, he turned on the cold-water tap. Drawn by an irrepressible urge, Diana followed him. A step behind him, she stopped, her attention riveted on the pale golden marks on his otherwise tanned skin.

  “Did . . . someone whip you?” she murmured. Her hand reached out to trace the fading white lines. “Why?”

  At the touch of her fingers, the glass crashed to the sink as Holt pivoted, grabbing her hand in a vise-like grip, crushing together the slender bones of her fingers. A deadly fury blazed in his eyes.

  Her head was tipped back, the waving curtain of raven-black hair swinging free of her neck. In an effort to ease the pain of his bone-crushing hold, Diana swayed closer to him. She could feel his solidly muscled thighs through the folds of her skirt. The physical contact suddenly drove out all her fear. Her eyes, the darkly brilliant blue of a sapphire, smoldered with the ache she felt, the longing to know again his possession.