by BJ James
She was as aware of it as he. He saw it in the depths of thoughtful silences, the unexpected tremor of her hands. He heard it in a faltering word, a phrase lost, then recaptured in an exasperated rush.
There was no help for it. It was a part of them, buried not nearly deeply enough. Smoldering. Waiting.
He watched her across the corral, as she petted and praised The Lady. Watched and admired the proud, straight back, the unerring and certain moves of a small woman who commanded rougher and bigger creatures out of knowledge and respect.
“Horses, cattle,” Steve muttered under his breath. “Men.”
Gitano snorted and pranced at his shoulder, impatient for the promised ride. “Quiet, boy.” He ruffled the dark mane flowing over a bowed neck as he looped the reins over a rail. “I know we have time to make up, but you’ll have your turn.”
He’d been riding for two weeks. Since the day Dr. Bonner stopped by, looking more like Doc Holliday than a modern day man of medicine with his boots and hat and a heavy mustache drooping over his mouth. Eyes twinkling, drawing a stethoscope, not a gun, the medic had given Steve a clean bill of health.
Grateful to be done with enforced idleness, Steve had resumed training and exercising the other horses. But not The Lady, or Lorelei. The rapport between Hank and both mares continued strongly, the rewards were spectacular, to disrupt it would border on criminal.
Disrupting it would mean the end of her visits to the Broken Spur. He knew it would come someday, but he wasn’t ready to face that time, nor to explore the reason he dreaded its coming.
“Thirty days,” Hank declared, pleased with her progress. Steve shook free of his distraction. “Thirty days?”
“The Lady’s had thirty days under the saddle,” Hank explained, speaking of the training she’d given the horse once it was broken to the saddle. “A solid foundation.” Created in her patient way of asking, not demanding, reward, not punishment. “The major work from now will be reinforcing and refining what she’s learned.”
Running her hand down the mare’s flank in a final rewarding gesture, she stepped away. “Pedigree, confirmation, ability, she has it all. With her willingness to learn and work, that makes her an exceptional horse.”
Steve said nothing, wondering where this was going.
“Have you considered keeping her?”
He’d thought of little else since he’d first seen the mare on the same ranch that produced Gitano. “You forget, I have debts to pay, or there won’t be a ranch for her.”
“Maybe.” Hank was pensive, her argument falling into place even as she spoke. “Maybe not.”
Steve snorted impatiently, tossing away a sliver he’d torn from the fence. “Apparently our debts are as different as our lives. There’s nothing indefinite about what I owe and when. Without a good price for the horse, I won’t make it.”
“Put her into competition. She’ll be good in the ring.”
“You’re suggesting the prize money would cover what I owe?” His laugh scoffed at her. “Dream on.”
Hank ducked through hewn rails to stand by him, catching his wrist. “It needn’t be a dream. When other ranchers see what she can do, they’ll be lining up for a colt bred out of her. The bank would extend the loan if she and Lorelei were offered as collateral. Better yet, some of the ranchers would pay for the sire to be a stallion of their own. Or, if you wish, in lieu of payment the stallion might be offered to stand at stud, adding to your bloodlines.” Pausing for only a moment, she admitted honesty, “I would, and forgo the first colt out of The Lady in the bargain.”
“You’re joking!” He didn’t move, didn’t take his wrist from her insistent grasp. “You have to be, or you’re crazy. What you’re suggesting would take years.”
“Of course it would, but I’m neither joking nor crazy.” The idea that had been forming in her thoughts for days grew more exciting as she spoke. Taking her hand from his wrist, she gestured toward the rim of the canyon and its unstable terrain. “Think of the combination. The Lady’s a cat. Black Jack is as surefooted as a mountain goat on steep trails. You’ve seen that for yourself.”
To his own everlasting concern, the vision never left him. A beast more savage than tame, a fey and beautiful woman, galloping over treacherous ground.
Unmindful of his silence, fervor mounting, she persisted. “Imagine what it would mean. You have Gitano and Lorelei. Add to their colts those produced by Black Jack and The Lady and you have the makings of a unique breed.
“There are other stallions worth considering, bloodlines that could enhance your own.” With astonishing ease, she ticked off the names of some of the best horses in the world, revealing a salient knowledge of horses and their breeding. “Titan, of the Rocking M, a strong Kentucky-bred thoroughbred standing better than seventeen hands. A good horse, better than good. Then there’s Bailarin, a wonderful Arabian imported from Spain by Jubal. You know Jubal, you’ve seen his stock.”
The list grew. Horses Steve had only read about, and never expected to see. The best of their respective breeds, commanding astronomical fees for stud.
“Last, but far from the lesser,” Hank continued her enumeration, “Midnight, a Morgan stabled by David Drescher. Fire and Ice, a pair of Norwegian Fjords from Hacienda Desierto. There are Andalusians, Manchesters, a Peruvian Paso. The list is endless.” Pausing for breath, she smiled up at him, her face flushed, her eyes bright and fervent. “A veritable melting pot to choose from, or not. And when you have...” A graceful gesture offered him the ultimate prize. “The Cody Horse of the Broken Spur.”
Steve tensed out of surprise. “Where did you hear that? What do you know about the Cody horse?”
“You told me.” Lady ambled to the fence, stretching her neck over it to snuffle at Hank’s shoulder. She was too intent on Steve to notice. “The Cody horse was one of a couple of things you were clear on when you were hurt.”
A frown carved lines in Steve’s brow. “We haven’t talked of that anymore, but it seems I babbled my life history to you.”
“Only disjointed words and phrases. An occasional name.” One a woman’s name. Angie.
“Words and phrases, but enough.”
“It goes no further,” she assured him.
“I didn’t think it would.” His plans for the ranch were no secret, just something he wasn’t quite ready to discuss openly.
Hank was startled by the easy comment. “You weren’t so trusting a short time ago. What made you change your mind?” Her gaze searched his face, looking for the catch. “Or have you?”
“Any man who witnessed you at work would have to be a fool not to believe in your integrity. He would have to be an even bigger fool not to know that it applied to all aspects of your life.”
“Integrity?” She angled her hat back a notch and lifted a dubious brow. “Benedict integrity?”
“Yeah.” She was her father’s daughter in many ways. From the first acre of land acquired to the last, the Benedict empire had been predicated on a foundation of moral rectitude. Jake had capitalized on his neighbors’ misfortune without conscience, but their troubles were never of his making. If Steve had learned little else in his days in and around Silverton, he’d learned that. Jake might fight tooth and nail for the canyon, but he would fight fairly. As would his daughter.
“Even an obstinate idiot has to admit the truth,” Steve confessed. “Especially when it hits him in the face.”
Hank chuckled, diffusing an undercurrent of tension. “You said that, not I.”
“And you won’t let me forget it.” He ventured the prediction, hardly cognizant of it as the low, smoky sound of her laughter danced over him again, fanning embers so carefully banked.
“Never in this life.” Her lingering smile was a flash of white in her tanned face. The guardedness was gone, the need for carefully worded conversation forgotten as caution was tossed aside in the excitement of her plans for The Lady. Invisible armor had fallen away leaving her vulnerable, touchable.
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br /> It would have been so easy to take her in his arms, answering needs of body and soul. Instead, he settled for a touch, a stroke of a finger, allowing himself a morsel when it was the feast every part of him demanded. Tracing the path of a shadowy blue vein that disappeared into her hair, he managed a hoarse comment. “I would be disappointed if you did.”
Hank slanted a glance at him, meaning to toss a biting observation into the teasing fray, and found herself speechless. He had leaned close, so close she could brush his lips with hers by simply rising on tiptoe. She was shocked that she wanted the feel of his mouth, the taste, more than she ever thought possible.
His hand hovering at her temple, light, incredibly gentle, sent shock waves through her with the power of a hurricane. She tried to concentrate on what she’d meant to say, but the beat of her frenzied heart swept it from her mind. Mesmerized by him, wondering and bewildered, she saw a subtle change in the gold-spangled darkness of his eyes, and heard the swift shudder of his indrawn breath.
He leaned closer, as if compelled by a force beyond his control. The scent of him filled her. One move, the barest turn of her head, and his mouth would be hers.
Only one, she thought, wanting it desperately, but afraid. Her eyes closed, her head turned away in anguish. She was afraid. Not of him, but of herself.
His fingers curled, the heel of his hand and his knuckles resting against her cheek only a moment before moving away. He stood without speaking, without touching her, simply looking down at her. Beneath his searching gaze, without his touch, Hank felt lost and disappointed.
Disappointed. The thread of their conversation surfaced. She clung to it like a lifeline. Her voice was low and blue, rusty with unanswered needs. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”
He smiled, but only with his lips. His eyes were dark, the golden light of laughter gone from them. “You won’t.”
Neither pretended to understand or misunderstand. Silence tent a chasm between them, a bittersweet retrieve. But only that.
Gitano pawed the dust, and flung back his rippling mane. The jangle of bit and stirrups set up a clatter recalling the real world. Steve was first to respond. “I’m being summoned. When there’s a saddle on his back, Gitano expects to fly, not stand.” Tucking his thumbs in his back pockets to keep from reaching for her again, he cast a glance at The Lady. “How about it? Are you up to a run?”
“No,” Hank blurted. Riding with him was the last thing she dared. Spending another minute in his company was more than she trusted herself to deal with rationally. “I have to go.”
“Do you?” Skepticism colored his tone. “Tell me why.”
“I have chores to do.”
“Sandy will see that they’re done.”
Hank shook her head. “I need to go home.”
“But not to pressing chores.” Something in him wouldn’t allow her the luxury of the lie.
Catching her lip between her teeth, she stared out over the floor of the canyon. Grass, standing knee-deep, swayed in a current of air unperceived by human senses. She watched it dip and weave, a golden sea without ebb. From the early days of her childhood, she’d found escape from the turmoil of her life in this peaceful place. Now that peace was lost.
Rousing from her thoughts, she backed away. “I have to go. I have to think. This is all new to me.”
“Is it?” Closing the space between them, he cupped her chin in his palm. “Can you truly say you haven’t thought of this moment for weeks? Haven’t we both known what was happening, and that this was inevitable? I want you, Savannah.” His voice was uneven with passion. “I’ve wanted you from the first. Can you deny you haven’t felt the same?”
“It isn’t that simple.” An adamant jerk of her head sent her braid tumbling down her back.
“Isn’t it?” His thumb brushed over the corner of her mouth, and her lips parted in a muted gasp. His point made, his dark gaze commanding hers, he murmured, “Will you deny this? Can you?”
“It isn’t that easy,” Hank insisted doggedly. Spinning away from his touch, she faced him again safely out of reach. “There’s more to deal with than desire, or lust.”
“This is you and me. It doesn’t involve the Broken Spur or the Rafter B. Run from it as long and hard as you like, but you can’t hide. It will always be there. Always.” His mouth quirked in a grim smile. “You and me, Benedict.”
Shaking her head again, she backed further away, unable to deny his point or explain her own. “I need time.”
“You’re running.”
“I’ve never run from anything in my life.”
“Maybe not, until now. Admit it, Benedict, you’re running from me.”
“No!” she insisted, but found no words for more.
He laughed, a mocking note. “Just when I’d convinced myself you weren’t capable of lying.”
“I’m not running from you, Steve Cody. I’m taking time to sort what’s between us in my mind. I’m entitled to that.”
“How much time?” he wondered, mockery replaced by an even more infuriating indulgence. “How long will it take you to accept the inevitable?”
“A week,” she shot back at him, choosing a measure of time arbitrarily, out of desperation.
“A week,” Steve agreed. “In seven days, we’ll meet here. You can tell me what you’ve decided over dinner. Eight o’clock?”
“Eight will be fine.”
“If you aren’t here in a week, I’ll come to you.”
“I’ll be here,” she flung at him. “Count on it.”
She started to go. Catching her arm, he brought her back to him. Their bodies did not touch, yet the electricity between them was nearly palpable. “One more thing.”
“Only one?” The look she tossed up at him was hot with anger.
“One.” A short and clipped answer, his patience was nearly at an end.
“What would that be?” she drawled, pretending she didn’t feel the charge, the hunger.
“Come as Savannah, if there’s really such a person. I’m tired of the macho Hank Benedict.” Making yet another point, he released her abruptly, as if the feel of her were abhorrent. “Now, go.”
Ripping Gitano’s reins from the rail, he vaulted into the saddle. Folding his arms over the pommel, reins dangling loosely from his fingers, he leaned down. “Seven days, Savannah. Be here, or on the eighth I’ll be knocking on your door.”
Before she could lash back at him, he wheeled the horse in a dancing turn. Ready and eager, Gitano needed no urging. Their red wake sifted down on her, and standing in the murky cloud, she watched until horse and rider vanished from her sight.
The cadence of pounding hooves faded, became an echo of itself, and faded again. Then there was a silence that seemed to close in on her. Hurrying from it, she sprinted for the truck, wishing she went to Black Jack instead. She needed a good, hard ride. One that demanded every bit of her concentration, leaving room in her mind for nothing but the rigors of the range.
When the door slammed with the hollow thunk that warned one day it would truly fall off, she gripped the steering wheel. “I’m not running,” she muttered to a man who wasn’t there. “Not from you.”
A turn of a key and the engine fired. Hank made no move for the gears. Listening to the heavy, steady thrum, she faced an inescapable truth. She hadn’t lied, she wasn’t running from Steve Cody.
Reaching blindly for the gearshift she dragged it into position. Her boot stamped down on the accelerator, tires spun and skidded. The truck rocked and rattled, slipping over the road, gaining the traction to settle itself. One final fishtail to the right, corrected by one to the left, and she was in control, zeroing in on her destination.
She drove as she rode, too fast, too furiously, but asking no more of the machine than of herself. And somewhere on the bumpy ride to the Rafter B, she faced the truth. No, Savannah Henrietta Benedict was not running from Steve Cody, she ran from herself.
“Hell!”
Vibrating wire
snapped from his straining grasp, writhing and lurching like something alive, retracting with a metallic screech into a remembered coil. Cursing under his breath, Steve stripped off his gloves, dragging a streak of blood over the top of his hand. An irritated glance determined the cut of a barb was only superficial, thanks to the glove and none to Steve.
He’d worked too long and done too much, pushing his body beyond endurance, hoping to quiet his mind. What he’d succeeded in accomplishing in seven days, in terms of the ranch, was astonishing. In terms of personal success? He laughed shortly. The list was meager, and far from successful. All he could tally were battered hands, a mean temper, and a mind filled with images of the woman who could have taken the canyon from him, and hadn’t.
What did it mean? What did she want? What did he?
Questions that had no answers. Matters unresolved.
“Tonight,” he muttered, ignoring his bleeding hand as he slipped on his gloves again. “Tonight decides it.”
Struggling again with the wire, he wondered what the night would decide.
“Well, sis, I see you’re still here.”
Hank turned from her scrutiny of the horizon and the building storm to look blankly at Sandy.
“You’re still here,” he repeated in response to her vague reaction. “Seven days in a row you’ve stood here looking to the east, and Black Jack gets a little fatter and a little sassier every one of those days.”
“It’s going to rain.”
“Maybe.” Silver-streaked hair gleamed in the late afternoon sun as he nodded, scotching a circuitous argument. “Maybe even a boomer. Be a few hours yet, time for a ride.”
“The rest won’t hurt him.”
“Nope,” the foreman agreed in his usual mild fashion. Spinning his stained hat in callused fingers, he leaned a shoulder against a veranda support. “Won’t do his temper any good, either. Being cooped up so long, I mean.”
Hank raked a hand over her loosely drawn hair, smoothing back tiny tendrils curling riotously in the unusual humidity. She said no more, hoping for once Sandy would just go away.
