She raised her eyebrows. "Assertive."
"And impossible to resist, apparently. She drove up to a big sapphire claim on the Missouri and sweet-talked the miner into letting them work for him and take half of everything they found." He shook his head. "Hard to believe the miner went for it, but they got enough to save the ranch. Great Granddad kept a few of the stones as a reminder."
"The cabinet in the other room?"
"Yep. That's when the ranch got the name Montana Blue. And they, as the saying goes, lived happily ever after."
"That's lovely." She sighed. "Romantic."
"Maybe. Or maybe she wanted glittery stones and a more exciting life. Even great grandmothers can be suckers for wealth." The twist of his mouth didn't bode well for any woman dumb enough to be in his life.
Tom grinned at Poppy. "Mac is way too cynical."
She believed that without any trouble.
"You finished?" Tom asked. "Come on, I'll show you the famous sapphires." He stood and held out a hand to her.
She put her hand in his, rose, and left the room without looking at either Mac or Alice. She didn't have to look. Disapproval and dislike washed around her, as tangible as horse apples in the corral. She leaned close to Tom to murmur in his ear.
Mac stood so fast his chair hit the ground and Alice must not have been much slower, because when Tom stopped in front of the first cabinet and flicked on the lights, they were right there, crowding Poppy away from him.
She peeked over Alice's shoulder. Tiny spotlights picked out a collection of glassy pebbles, some only faintly colored, others brighter. Blue, green, pink, yellow, orange, and clear, they sat on mirrored shelves that increased the dazzle.
"Montana sapphires," Tom said. "Just as they come from the ground. And these," he lit the next display, "are what they look like after they've been cut."
Poppy edged around him to see better. The cut stones were all blue, ranging from a subtle, pale grayed blue to deep, rich sapphire. Round, oval, even a heart-shaped one, they sparkled like a king's treasure. Gorgeous, but even if she were the kind of woman to go overboard for glitz and glitter, she wouldn't let herself get lost in the display with Alice staring at her. Waiting for her to drool, or beg for one, probably.
"Mrs. Hamilton was asking about the sapphires too," Alice said. She smiled and waved at the woman, who had just shepherded Mikey through the front door, motioning her to join them.
Mikey ran across the room and grabbed Tom around the knees babbling about riding and how brave he was and—
Didn't the kid ever stop for breath? Poppy glanced at Alice, whose expression had gone soft and yearning. She gave Alice points for defusing the flirting. No one could be seductive with that little dynamo around.
"Mikey. Stop." His mother detached him from Tom's legs and clamped a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry, Tom. I'll try to unwind him before the ride. But tell me about the sapphires."
Mac smiled at her, a warm grin totally unlike the mocking one he'd directed at Poppy. The smile transformed his face and sent Poppy's will power puddling in the pit of her stomach. "They're mined here in western Montana. They're nice, but some of the sapphires from the central part of the state rival the best in the world."
He recounted the story again for Mrs. Hamilton. Alice glared at Poppy. Tom looked bored. Poppy watched Mac. Her palms tingled with the memory of last night, of having her hands all over his body. Her breath came short when she thought about the way he'd taken her hand and put it...
Eventually Mrs. Hamilton dragged Mikey off to breakfast, and Tom turned to Poppy. He assumed the expression of a man seeing his first beer of the day and leaned toward her. "You ready for a riding lesson?"
Mac and Alice stood close together, a team, and glared.
"Of course."
"Great. See you at the corral in about fifteen." Tom left without looking at Alice, whistling a cheery chorus of I Can't Wait.
Chapter 6
Poppy didn't want to look at Alice. Instead, she leaned closer to the dazzle of sapphires, but the mirrors reflected Alice's wide, tear-shiny eyes and she couldn't concentrate. Why in God's name did Tom insist on making his wife jealous?
Mac pushed past her into the hall, his expression grim. She followed. Slowly. And leaned against the porch rail to let her breathing steady. She had to convince Tom to stop before this emotional powder keg exploded.
Tom and Mac came around the side of the building and strode off toward the barn. She watched without paying attention, her whole focus on ways of ending this mess.
Alice came out on to the porch. "Admiring the view?"
"Mm-hmm." She should let Alice see her staring at Tom, but couldn't take her gaze off Mac.
"You should have let Tom or me know about the man in your cabin last night," Alice said. "Even if he didn't bother you, he might have hurt one of the other guests."
"He bothered me." She gritted her teeth and kept her gaze on Mac's loose-limbed saunter. At least watching Mac walk kept her head spinning too much to deal with minor annoyances, like Alice sniping at her. Like how mad the sniping made her. Like the guilt that swamped her when she thought about what it took to make a perfect hostess like Alice be rude to a guest.
She couldn't do this. "Alice," she said. "I'm not a threat—" The disbelief on Alice's face stopped her and she lost her temper. "He bothered me. And you should be bothered too. Even though you clearly don't care if he hurt me, it would be just as bad, publicity-wise, for you. Think about it."
As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. Her usual practical self didn't blurt out things like that. Didn't react so emotionally. But Tom made her mad. Alice made her guilty. Mac made her hot.
Not a good combination.
When she reached the stable, Mac and Tom had disappeared. Two horses tied to the hitching rack in front of the stable lounged hipshot, drowsing in the early morning sun. She raised an eyebrow at the bulky western saddles. She rode nice, simple English saddles. She'd like to see anyone take a five bar fence with one of these rocking chairs tied to the poor horse.
"Mornin', Ma'am." An unsmiling Moses came out of the barn carrying another one of the huge saddles. "Tom's in the barn." The chill in his voice could cause frostbite.
She leaned against the corral, rubbing her arms for warmth, to watch Moses saddle another horse and stalk back into the stable just as Tom came out. Moses's look of disapproval should have withered Tom in his tracks. Evidently Moses had an opinion about Tom's supposed interest in her. She sighed. And Tom had said this would be so easy.
"Hey, Poppy." Tom radiated good cheer.
"Hey, Tom." She didn't even try to look enticing.
"Smile." Tom whispered. "Alice's coming down the path."
"I can't."
Tom raised one eyebrow. "Jase said you were dependable. I'm depending on you."
Nausea roiled in her stomach when she realized that until she had a chance to talk him out of this charade, she'd have to keep up her act. "We can't do this. I can't. No more."
Mac shot out of the barn before Tom could answer. "You thinking about giving Poppy old D here?" He ran his hand down the horse's shoulder.
Her gaze followed as if hypnotized. He had beautiful hands. Big and strong and hard, like the rest of him. Big and strong and hard and male. That same hand had been on her last night. An itch started under Poppy's skin.
"D?" She ignored the sudden thunder of her heart and surveyed the shaggy brown horse. If she kept looking at him, she might throw herself at him and beg. "As in A, B, C?
"D as in Diogenes," he said. "We're big on honesty around here. Doesn't look like he'll find any honest men—or women—today, though." The horse nudged his arm and his tight mouth relaxed as he patted its nose.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Tom swung around to look at Mac, his face darkening.
"Think about it." Mac glared at him.
"Get off my case, MacLean. Your brief stops at the bedroom door."
"This isn't the bedroom.
"
They looked like a couple of dogs getting ready to fight. Poppy edged back a step and cleared her throat. "That's a strange name for a horse. I'm going to call him Trigger."
Mac made a face.
"Come on, Poppy." Tom turned away from Mac. "Let's get you set up with old—ah—Trigger here. You ever ride before?"
Mac shouldered in front of Tom before she could answer. "I'll take care of her," he said. "You go help Moses."
"No—" Poppy said.
Alice overrode her protest. "Tom? Come look at this cut."
Tom crossed to where Alice bent to peer at the leg of a horse tied to the corral fence.
Poppy sneaked a quick look at Mac through her eyelashes. Not sneaky enough, darn it.
"Too bad, honey. You're stuck with me." Mac grinned down at her, that evil grin that had turned his mouth into pure temptation last night in her cabin.
Her insides turned to mush.
"So, have you ridden before?"
Childishly, she wanted to say 'no', to let him go through the whole beginner ritual, and then race off like the Lone Ranger. But then, childish reaction had gotten her in this impossible situation. "Yes, I can ride. But I've never tried a western saddle." Her gaze followed Tom. Moses had joined Tom and Alice, and the three of them bent over the horse's leg.
"Doesn't look like he's coming back," Mac said. "You'll have to make do with me."
Anytime. She shrugged. "What do I do first?"
"Come on over here and get on. I'll adjust the stirrups."
She walked over to the horse, patting his neck and letting him whiffle over her hands. "Do I ride the same horse every day?" she asked.
"Pretty much. Unless there's a problem." He gave her legs a measuring look and adjusted the stirrup leathers. "This looks about right. You know how to get on a horse?"
"Pretty much," she mimicked and moved to stand at the horse's shoulder. Mac crowded behind her, so close she could feel him.
Her temper simmered when she realized he didn't believe her. She gave a mental shrug. He didn't mean it personally. People undoubtedly lied—or were mistaken—about their riding ability all the time. She stuck her foot in the stirrup and swung up onto the horse.
The large warm hand he had somehow planted right square on her bottom, 'helping' to guide her into the saddle, now that was personal. She swallowed a whimper as everything inside her went liquid.
"How does the length feel?" He looked up at her, a devil twinkling in his eyes.
Wonderful. A tingle swept through her from head to toe. Darn it, he knew exactly what his touch did to her. And she wouldn't admit it for anything. "A-about right."
"Stand up and let me check."
Just the thought that he might run his hand along the saddle under her produced such a rush of heat that the saddle might as well have been on fire. Obediently, she stood in the stirrups on trembling knees, grateful there'd only be an inch or two to fall if she collapsed entirely. His hands were perfectly steady. Maybe he played this teasing game with all the female guests. Maybe he liked the turn-her-on-and-leave-her-hanging game. She didn't want any part of that. Be honest. You like the game just fine. It's the leave-her-hanging part you don't like.
And then he did it. Slid his hand along the saddle, right under her. His fingers brushed the inside of her thigh and she bit her lip to keep from moaning.
"Sit back down," he said, drawing his hand out from under her. He lingered, cupping the curve of her bottom. "I need to shorten the leathers."
She plopped down onto the saddle. The horse shifted irritably and she patted his neck in silent apology. Mac fussed with the stirrups. The process required that he put his hands on her legs a lot, she noticed.
First he ran his hand down her leg. Then he ran his hand up the inside of her leg to the knee. Then he ran his hand between her thigh and the saddle. Just when she thought she might scream in frustration, he lifted her leg out of the stirrup and rested it on his shoulder. She grabbed for the saddle horn to keep her balance. Trust him to find the most impossibly erotic way to do anything, no matter what the results. Anyone else would just have asked her to lift her leg out of the way.
She looked down at him, standing between her wide-spread legs, and wondered if she might swoon. Forget that there was a horse in there too, this was seriously intimate stuff. Mac gazed back up at her, all innocence except for that devil grin quirking one side of his mouth.
Just before she lost her head and did something really stupid, like wrap her leg around him and pull him closer, he bent his head and adjusted the stirrup one notch. He lifted her leg from his shoulder and set it back in the stirrup and she swore she could feel his hand through the leather of her new boots. He walked around to the other side of the horse to repeat the process and she slumped back in the saddle, boneless as a cooked noodle. By the time he had satisfied himself that the stirrups were the correct length, she could have passed for a bowl of oatmeal.
"Okay," he said. "You're good to go. I'll show you how to hold the reins." He took her left hand and brought it to his chest, just as he had done the night before.
The memory of what had come next sent a wave of lust through her. Her fingers tingled and her heart pounded. Helplessly she glanced down at the front of his jeans. He chuckled and burning heat rose in her cheeks.
She tried for stern professorial, look-down-the-nose composure. "You are a truly wicked man."
"I know." His mouth took on an intimate curve, and she discovered a whole new level of yearning. He put the reins in her limp hand and showed her how to hold them. "Both reins in your left hand," he said, his finger tracing across her palm as he positioned the reins.
Electrical zings radiated from her hand straight to where she squirmed in the saddle.
"And then you close your hand around them—" He closed his big hand over hers.
She swallowed hard.
"To make him turn, you move your hand to the side." He demonstrated, somehow managing to brush his hand along the inside of her thigh on the left turn and across her breast on the right.
She swayed. He put a hand at her waist to steady her. It didn't help. She would burst into flame in another second if he didn't stop.
"Come on, try it out," he said. All the way to a large corral off to the side of the barn, he walked beside the horse, his hand resting just above her knee.
His touch burned all the way to her back teeth. He knew, knew exactly what his touch did to her. When he grinned up at her, she remembered the feel of his teeth on her earlobe and shifted restlessly.
Instantly his hands were on her hips. On her stomach and butt. "You want to sit like this," he said, tilting her pelvis. Oh, goodness. He gave a whole new meaning to pelvic tilts. Aerobics class had never been like this. She concentrated hard on breathing in and breathing out. She didn't want to think about the tingling awareness, the dampness, between her legs. She wriggled again, but he had left her side to open the gate to let her into the ring.
"Okay," he said, closing the gate and coming to her side. She tried to concentrate, but those hands, those wonderful hands, were on her again, moving her, melting her into mindless, boneless jelly. "Tilt a little," he told her. "More like this." Heat streaked through her as he leaned close to push her into position in the saddle. He stepped back, apparently oblivious to her imminent meltdown. "Go ahead, walk him around and get the feel of him."
In a daze, she touched her heels to the horse and guided him along the fence. She had the feel of Mac's hands. Trigger tossed his head and Poppy realized she'd automatically tightened the reins.
"Looser reins," Mac called just as she adjusted them. He gave her an approving—and surprised—look.
She had to pay attention. Not fair to yank at the poor horse's mouth because of a lust-induced coma.
Experimentally, she settled deeper into the saddle, letting her body adjust to the rhythm of the walk. The western saddle cradled her more comfortably than she'd expected. Without waiting for instruction she urge
d Trigger into a trot, and discovered that posting didn't work as well in a western saddle.
She tried to sit the trot and found herself bouncing like a beginner. She pulled the horse to a walk and glanced over at Mac. He didn't get the grin wiped from his face in time, and she stuck her tongue out at him. "Go ahead and laugh. I'd like to see you in a hunt seat equitation class."
"Not in this lifetime."
Poppy ignored him and nudged the horse into a smooth lope. Much better. With her pride still smarting, she turned the horse into a small figure eight, approving his quick change of leads in response to her cue. She pulled to a stop and waited for Mac's comment.
"You'll do," he said, one hand distractingly warm on her knee. "As soon as you learn to sit the trot." The grin came back. "You want to take up all the motion of the trot here." His hands were on her again. One on her stomach and one at the small of her back. "Just flex here." He pushed and her hips tilted. She moaned. "Just like sex."
"You're looking good." The light female voice startled Poppy out of her hormonal haze. Alice leaned on the corral fence. How much of the riding lesson had she seen? Too much, judging by her grin.
"Okay," Mac said. "I think you'll do just fine. Go tie him up while we wait for the others." He opened the gate.
Alice smiled up at her as she passed, such a change from the tense grimace of earlier that morning that Poppy stared. Could the woman be manic depressive? "Have a good ride," Alice said, and bounced off toward the house.
Poppy tied her horse and stood leaning against his shoulder. What had just happened? And then she understood. Of course. Not manic-depressive. Sneaky. Alice had sent her brother to seduce Poppy away from her husband.
The squishy feeling in the pit of Poppy's stomach combined lust, guilt, and hurt, with uncertainty and the French toast Chickie had been so proud of weighing in like cannonballs. What if Mac's interest was only pretense?
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