Taming Blackhawk

by Barbara Mccauley

  She stared at her fire and smiled. Rand Sloan could just think whatever he wanted. What did it matter to her? She had to listen to her heart, and no one, especially some hard-nosed, temperamental cowboy, was going to stop her from doing what she needed to do.

  High, jagged mountain walls surrounded them, a magnificent sculpture of carved red rock and sandstone. A slow-moving creek wound through a small stand of stunted oaks and the ker-oke-ker-oke-ker-oke of dozens of frogs filled the warm, smoke-scented evening air. Grace glanced around at the splendor of nature, at the wide, darkening sky and jutting cliffs and felt…full. She’d never been anywhere so completely remote before, and it was impossible not to feel the touch of something so much bigger than herself.

  “Kinda gets to you, doesn’t it?”

  Her breath caught at the sound of Rand’s husky voice close behind her. She’d been so engrossed in the scenery, she hadn’t heard him come up.

  She drew in a deep breath and nodded. “A person could forget everything here. The pile of bills to pay, the mountain of work, all the dozens of daily problems that fill a life.”

  “Like pink pumps or leather sandals?”

  Grace heard the teasing tone in his voice and smiled. She didn’t turn around, afraid if she did, the moment of magic they were sharing would be gone. After another full day’s driving, with little more exchanged between them than a few grunts and an occasional token monosyllable from Rand, Grace was eager for conversation.

  “Hey, a person can’t help what they were born into,” she said lightly. Then after a moment she asked, “What about you, Rand? What were you born into?”

  He said nothing, and Grace worried that her question had stepped over that invisible line Rand drew around himself, the one that he never allowed anyone to cross.

  A warm breeze drifted over them, carrying the scent of smoke and juniper brush. The sound of the crackling fire and the creek frogs faded into the distance, as if nature itself were waiting for an answer. The silence stretched, hovered between them.

  When he finally spoke, she slowly released the breath she’d been holding.

  “My father was Comanche,” he said quietly. “My mother from Wales. She was an exchange student her last year at the University of Texas. My dad was taking weekend classes in horse husbandry. They met at the cafeteria, so the story went. She said he was staring so hard at her, she went up to him and told him to either stop staring or buy her a cup of coffee. They were married two months later, bought a small horse ranch in the town where my father was raised and settled in.”

  He paused, then went on. “One of my father’s brothers was furious that my father had turned his back on his heritage and married outside the reservation and his own people. There was a huge rift in the family. I remember when I was eight and one Saturday I went into town with my parents. We were at the hardware store. This man came in and stared at my father with more hatred in his eyes than I’d ever seen in all my life, then he turned around and walked out. My mother told me later that was my uncle.”

  Though Grace had never been exposed personally to such prejudice, she wasn’t so naive not to know it existed. It was just so sad, so incredibly sad. And the fact that it was family made it all the worse.

  “Did you ever see him again?” Grace asked.

  “Once,” Rand said, his voice tight. “The night my parents were killed. He looked at me with that same hatred in his eyes, then turned his back on me, said something to a woman who was with him, then got in his car and drove away. The woman took me to her house, and two days later I was adopted by the Sloans. I never heard from or saw that uncle again.”

  Grace couldn’t fathom turning her back on a child, let alone family. Her insides twisted with anger at a man she’d never even met. “And there was no other family to take you in? No place for you to go?”

  “There was another uncle, but he had already died before my dad. My parents had led a fairly solitary life on the ranch.”

  She turned then and lifted her face to his, saw the pain in his eyes. “What about the funeral?” she asked. “Didn’t you go to the funeral?”

  “Far as I know, there was no funeral. Since my uncle was in charge, he had my father’s body taken back to the reservation. I don’t know about my mom.” He looked down at her, frowned, then said softly, “Hey, what’s this?”

  He reached up and brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb. She hadn’t even realized she’d been crying. “I—I’m sorry for you, Rand. For your parents.”

  He cupped her chin in the palm of his hand, continued to lightly brush her cheek with his thumb. “It was a long time ago, Grace. Life goes on.”

  She closed her eyes, felt another tear slide down her cheek. “You were so little, you must have been so scared.”

  “For a while. The woman who took me to the motel with her was nice enough, and Mary Sloan was a good mother to me. I got through.”

  A child should do more than “get through,” Grace thought. She had such a wonderful, loving family and she knew that quite often she took them for granted, something she suddenly felt very ashamed of.

  With a sigh she turned her cheek into Rand’s hand. The rough texture of his callused palm against her skin, the scent of earth and horse and man, seeped into her senses.

  He wasn’t the only one who’d let his guard down, she knew. Perhaps it was the long, two days of driving, the fact that she was tired. Or maybe it was the spiritual and physical beauty of the canyon’s entrance playing havoc with her mind. Probably it was a combination of both. But no man had ever made her pulse race with just a look, made her body respond to a simple touch. No man had ever looked into her eyes and made her feel that he knew exactly what she was thinking. Knew exactly what she wanted.

  It terrified her that she wanted him. That he might know it.

  There was so much more to this man than what he let people see. So much more than the lone, rough and rugged cowboy. He might have “got through,” but not without scars.

  His thumb, still lightly brushing her cheek, felt gentle and soothing. The hard edge around his dark eyes had softened, the tightness around the corners of his mouth had eased. What would happen, Grace wondered, if she pressed her lips to his hand, if she moved into the heat of his body and slid her arms over those strong shoulders?

  She closed her eyes, and the innocent stroke of his thumb on her face sent tiny vibrations of heat shimmering through her body. It seemed as if the air around them had turned heavy and thick, as if the ground underneath them was shifting and tilting. She felt the heavy, hollow thud of her heart in her chest, wondered if he could hear it, as well. Grace held her breath, felt the burn of Rand’s gaze as he stared down at her.

  It would be so easy to let go. Two people strongly attracted to each other, alone on a mountaintop, sharing a tender moment. It would be easy to give in to her feelings, she knew. What wouldn’t be easy would be later, after that moment had passed and reality set in. That was the hard part. Or should she say the heart part. Because there was no doubt in Grace’s mind that—for her—making love with Rand would involve much more than a joining of their bodies. Did she dare risk it, knowing that heartache was a certainty?

  At the sound of the horses stomping their hooves, Rand dropped his hand, making the decision for her. Grace nearly protested, had to bite the inside of her mouth to keep from telling him that she wanted his touch on her. And more.

  “I’ve got to finish with the horses,” he said, his voice strained. “There’s a duffel bag of canned goods in the trailer. Why don’t you heat something up.”

  Grace might have laughed at his choice of words if her throat hadn’t seized up on her. For the second time since she’d met the man, he turned and walked away from her, left her feeling as if she were on a tightrope, struggling to find her balance.

  She watched him go, then let the breath shudder out of her as she headed for the trailer on wobbly knees, to find something to “heat up.”

  Two hours later Ran
d sat on the rock beside the fire Grace had built and sipped at a cup of strong, black coffee.

  This was the time of day he liked best. When the sun had just gone down and stars—millions of them—blinked in the huge night sky. He’d slept under those same stars dozens, if not hundreds of times, and each time he felt that same exhilaration.

  That same peace.

  It was probably the only place he’d ever found peace. Under these wide, open Texas skies. As far away from people and cars and paved roads as he could get. In a place like this, Rand could let himself relax. A person could forget everything here, Grace had said.

  And a person could remember…

  Rand Blackhawk, you stop fighting with your brother right now or I’ll have your father hang both of you on a fence post and you’ll eat your dinner there…

  Hey, Rand, I found a garter snake, how ’bout you and me and Seth put it in Mom’s bed and see how loud she screams…

  How do you like your new baby sister, Rand? Her name is Elizabeth Marie. Isn’t she the prettiest thing you ever saw…

  He remembered the strong smell of lemon cleaner after his mother had washed the kitchen floor, the sound of his father’s boots hitting the front porch when he’d take them off before coming in the house at night, his mother’s stern look if her sons didn’t keep their hands folded and eyes down when she said grace at the dinner table.

  That was all he had left of his family. Memories. He’d taken nothing with him of his own that night, only the blood-stained clothes he’d been wearing. He’d been given new clothes, a new home, a new name. As if nothing before had ever existed.

  That old, familiar ache spread across his chest. There were times he’d considered finding his uncle. Going to Wolf River and track the bastard down, confront him. Ask him why. But he never had. What good would it have done? Nothing would have changed. His parents would still be dead, and—so he’d thought— Seth and Lizzie.

  But now things had changed.

  Dramatically changed.

  He’d have to deal with those changes when this job was done, but he’d made no decisions yet. Had no idea which road he would take or what direction. Since the night of the accident, Rand had sworn he’d never let anything frighten him again. And he hadn’t.

  Not until now. Now he was scared to death.

  The fire popped, startling him out of his thoughts. He stared at the dancing flames, remembered Grace’s excitement earlier when she’d finally managed to ignite that first flame. It was clear she’d never started a fire before, but if there was one thing to be said about Miss Grace Sullivan, Rand thought with a smile, she was one determined lady.

  One sexy, determined lady.

  He’d always separated sex from business, never got intimately involved with any women he worked for or with. Women started to think they owned more of you than your time when things started to heat up. They started thinking picket fences, with little rug rat ranchers and ranchettes. He liked his life just the way it was. He went where he wanted, when he wanted, with whomever he wanted.

  And that’s how he intended to keep it.

  Rand picked up a stone and tossed it into the fire, watched the sparks rain upward. Why was he having such a hard time keeping himself under control with Grace? He wasn’t so stupid that he didn’t know hormones were messing with his ability to stay focused and disciplined. He wanted the woman, he’d be a fool to deny that. But he’d also be a fool to act on his attraction to her. He’d been a lot of things over the years, been called just about every name in the book. But he’d never been a liar. Not to himself or any other man.

  And never to a woman. He’d had a few short-lived relationships, but he’d been honest up-front. He wasn’t the type to settle down. He never would be. He’d been on his own for too long to change now.

  Grace was from that other world. That world where rose bushes grew behind picket fences, where bonnet-wearing babies cooed and home-cooked meals were on the table at six o’clock. The fact that she was rich only made it all the more complicated, but in the end it wouldn’t be the money that would be the problem. It would be who she was, what she would need. What she deserved.

  He’d already opened a door with her that he’d never opened with any other woman. Told her more than he’d ever told anyone about his past. It was time for him to close that door again.

  That’s exactly what he intended to do—keep his mind on his work and off pretty Miss Grace.

  And then she walked out of the darkness like some kind of mountain nymph, a smile on her face, and his breath snagged in his throat.

  She’d gone to wash up by the creek after dinner—dinner being a can of chili he’d brought and a bag of pull apart rolls Grace had picked up at a gas station convenience store earlier in the day while Rand pumped gas. She’d changed into a clean T-shirt, a fresh pair of jeans, and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. The smile on her face widened as she held out a paper bag.

  “Dessert,” she said, shaking the bag.

  She sat cross-legged by the fire and dug into her cache.

  He grinned and shook his head when she pulled out the contents—graham crackers, marshmallows and chocolate bars. He should have known it.

  While she busied herself unwrapping and assembling everything, he watched her. Her fingers were long and slender, without rings. He wondered about that. Why she wasn’t married, or at least engaged. She hadn’t mentioned a boyfriend; he hadn’t asked. He knew she’d made several phone calls to another volunteer named Tom. Her voice had softened every time he’d heard her speak to the man, and she’d turned away so Rand couldn’t hear what she was saying. He’d say that was a strong indication that she might have something going on with the guy.

  He was just making conversation, Rand told himself, when he asked, “So how long have you known Tom?”

  She glanced up, clearly surprised by his question. “Tom?”

  “Yeah, Tom. You know, one of the volunteers that’s supposed to meet us here in the morning. That’s his name, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, of course.” Grace reached for a long, skinny stick she’d found earlier, stabbed a marshmallow and held it over the flames. “Tom will be here in the morning with Marty. They’re both meeting us here.”

  She still hadn’t answered his question, Rand noted. Was she being evasive? Well, fine, dammit. It wasn’t as if she needed to explain anything to him, and it didn’t really matter to him one way or the other, anyhow.

  He gulped down the last of his coffee, waited for at least five seconds, then said, “So what’s he think about you coming up here alone with me?”

  “Who?” The marshmallow burst into flames. She yanked it out of the fire and blew on it.

  Rand gritted his teeth. “Tom.”

  “He doesn’t like it,” she said, and slid the marsh-mallow onto a graham cracker already layered with chocolate.

  “I wouldn’t like it, either. If I were Tom, I mean.”

  Grace shrugged. “It’s not his decision. It’s mine. Here you go.”

  Rand took the graham-cracker-marshmallow-chocolate sandwich she offered him. He had no idea why, but she was starting to annoy him. “He must be a real understanding, patient kinda guy.”

  She laughed at that, and the sound rippled on the cool night air. “Understanding and patient would be the last words anyone would use to describe Tom,” she said while she popped another marshmallow on the stick. “But I love him, anyway.”

  She loved him? Rand felt a muscle jump in his jaw. “If you love him, then what the hell are you doing gallivanting around Texas with me? How do you know I’m not some psycho socialite killer?”

  “I am not a socialite,” she said firmly, and stared at him as if he were psycho. “Rand, what’s the matter with you?”

  “If I had a girl, I sure as hell wouldn’t let her take off for parts unknown, alone with some stranger.” He knew he was out of line. But the thought of this guy she loved letting Grace run around and put herself in danger aggravated Ra
nd to no end. “Sounds to me like Tom needs to find himself a little backbone.”

  Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Are you trying to make me mad?”

  “Just making an observation.” He took a bite of graham cracker. “It’s your life, Miss Grace, but if I were Tom, I’d hog-tie you and lock you in the barn before I’d let you do something that just might get you killed.”

  “First of all,” she said tightly, “you are not Tom. Tom is not a sexist, thick-headed, chest-thumping gorilla, which you are.”

  “Now wait a—”

  “Second of all,” she went on, “I checked you out carefully before I drove to your mother’s house. I talked to at least six different men—and women—that you’ve worked for. If you’re a psycho killer, then you’ve managed to fool every person who knows you, and you’ve hid the bodies very well.”

  “I was just making an ex—”

  “And third,” she cut him off again, “I’d like to see you just try and hog-tie and lock me in a barn, mister. I’m not as completely defenseless and fragile as you seem to think. I guarantee you that you’d come away singing soprano.”

  Good God. He’d unleashed a tigress defending her cub. Obviously, she was in love with this Tom guy. But that realization only irritated him all the more. “Look, just because I insulted your boyfriend doesn’t mean that you—”

  “Fourth,” she snapped out, “Tom is not my boyfriend. He’s my brother.”

  Oops. He sucked in a breath. “Your brother?”

  “My brother.”

  Damn. He felt like an idiot. “Well, why the hell didn’t you say so before?”

  “You were too busy criticizing and making observations about someone you don’t even know to let me get a word in.”

  “You never once mentioned that this guy, Tom, was your brother,” Rand said. “Why didn’t you tell me before we set out?”

  She yanked the marshmallow out of the fire, frowned at how black it was, then slapped it between two graham crackers, anyway. “Because I knew you’d judge him, just like you judged me. You’d think because he wasn’t born with a bridle in his hand and raised on a ranch, that he wouldn’t know what he was doing.”