by Janet Dailey
As Mark led the way toward the one-time barracks complex for soldiers that had been turned into a lodge and dining room for tourists, he immediately began informing Flint about the fort's history.
"That big white building there used to be the post headquarters, but they use it for a museum now. This was really a pretty famous fort, not just during the settling of the west, but during the world wars, too."
Casey knew that Mark had become enthralled with the history of Fort Robinson over the years and it really didn't matter to him whether Flint was interested or not. He was going to hear about it anyway.
"On the other side of the highway as we came in," Mark continued, "is where Chief Crazy Horse—you know, the one who was with Sitting Bull at Custer's Last Stand—was killed resisting soldiers who were trying to take him into a cell. This is also where the Cheyenne Indians came led by Dull Knife when they fled their reservation in Oklahoma. When they refused to return to Oklahoma and were starved in an attempt to force them to make the long trek back in the dead of winter, they fought their way out of the Fort. Of course, most people know all that stuff anyway." Mark made a deprecating gesture with his hand.
"How do you turn him off?" Flint laughed toward Casey as he held open the large door into the Lodge.
"You don't. You wait for him to run out of gas." Her glance at the sheepish expression on her brother's face was teasing and vengeful.
"Well, it was a pretty famous place," Mark defended himself while his long legs carried him into the lobby.
The trio had barely entered the dining room and seated themselves at a table when Mark was set upon by two blond-haired boys.
"Hey, Mark, we were just talking about you." The taller of the two thumped Mark soundly on the back.
"Kevin, Kyle!" Mark laughed as he tried to dodge a matching blow from the other one. "What are you doing here?"
"We convinced dad to take us to a movie since mom deserted us in favor of going to Scottsbluff." Casey had difficulty trying to figure out which one of the twin sons of Mrs. Grassick was speaking.
"She took my mom along leaving me at the mercy of my sister's cooking, until Flint rescued me." Mark's eyes sparkled with laughter.
"After you finish eating—or better yet, come and eat with us." The short one grabbed Mark's arm to pull him along and emphasize his invitation. "Dad's sitting right over there. We just ordered. Then you can come to the show with us later on tonight."
Mark glanced questioningly at Casey, the eagerness to join them glowing in his eyes.
"Go ahead," she nodded. "As long as Mr. Grassick doesn't mind running you home."
"He won't mind," the taller of the twins assured her.
The silence that followed the departure of the boisterous boys lasted through the first part of their meal. Despite her earlier anger toward her brother, Casey found herself wishing he was with them, anything to ease this silence that was making her so uncomfortable.
"You're very quiet tonight," Flint finally observed, his gray eyes studying the sudden flush in her cheeks. "I hope Mark's teasing hasn't upset you. Brothers are like that, you know."
"Of course it didn't. Why, he teases me like that all the time." The brief hesitation in her denial made it difficult for her to meet his gaze. "Besides, it's a well-known fact that I can't boil water."
"Can Smitty cook?"
"Smitty? How should I know?" This time her puzzled eyes met his squarely. "What has that got to do with it anyway?"
"From all I've heard, it's an accepted fact that you two are going to be married. It would be convenient if one of you could cook." One corner of his mouth slanted upward in obvious mockery.
"How quaint!" Casey retorted sarcastically. "If we were planning to get married, which we're not, it wouldn't be any of your business whether or not one of us can cook." She couldn't bear his teasing about her lack of culinary skill. It was an anger brought on by her own vulnerability that flamed through her words. "Tell me how you rate your girl friends on their cooking?"
"They're all capable of a good TV dinner." Flint's eyes crinkled into an audacious smile, though the rest of his expression was completely sober.
There was no doubt he was making fun of her short temper now, which only angered Casey further.
"No doubt a big he-man like you only attracts the feminine type." The smile on her face clashed with the fire in her dark eyes. "The ones with long hair and frilly white gowns. And of course, you have such broad shoulders for them to lean on."
"I think you're turning into a prickle poppy again."
"Well, if I am, it's your fault." Most of her anger subsided under the irresistible warmth of his smile.
"It's interesting to watch you when you get angry. Your face turns into a combination of snapping eyes and blushing cheeks, a most attractive combination."
That was the first compliment that Casey had ever received from Flint and it had the most disturbing effect on her pulse. She lowered her gaze to her empty plate, wishing she were some sophisticated person who could shrug off such an idle compliment with a witty remark.
"Let's take a walk around the Fort before going back to the ranch," Flint suggested, rising from the table and coming around to pull out Casey's chair.
She was too aware of her new reaction to him to do more than nod agreement. Waiting discreetly to one side as he paid for the evening meal, Casey noticed the glance of admiration the girl at the desk gave him. She couldn't help wondering what it would be like if they were on a real date together. Casey immediately tried to banish the thought, telling herself that a man like Flint would never be even slightly interested in a countrified girl like her. Still it was an exciting thought that wouldn't completely go away.
"Should we walk around the parade ground first?" Flint asked as they stopped on the wide veranda of the Lodge. At Casey's agreement, they descended the steps and walked toward the large oval surrounded by buildings.
The sun was pleasantly warm and the slight breeze carried the scent of freshly mown hay. There was little activity around the oval. Only at a distance could be heard the sounds of automobiles and tourists. At the near end of the parade ground was the present flagstaff, the American flag lifting gently in the wind.
As they walked slowly past the building housing the fire station, Casey spoke. "It's easy to imagine this side of the ground lined with cavalry barracks. Sometimes I can close my eyes and hear the call to 'boots and saddles.'"
"Mark was right about Fort Robinson. It's been an important post for over a hundred years." Their pace slowed as they rounded the oval near the commanding officer's quarters. Casey paused a moment.
"In a way, I hope a lot of people don't discover this place," she mused. "I don't really mind tourists coming to visit it and taking horseback rides along the trails once-ridden by Red Cloud and Crazy Horse. I just don't want it becoming all commercialized. So much of the flavor of the old fort is still here that I wouldn't like it to change."
"American people are learning that there are some things that can't be exploited for their monetary value, but should remain unchanged so that future generations can appreciate their individual aesthetic value." Flint glanced down at Casey, a smile curving his mouth. "And that is as solemn as I'm going to get! It's a beautiful evening, an inspiring location, and most of the time, enjoyable company. I refuse to spoil them with discussions of the meaner side to the human race."
His hand rested on the back of her waistline with remarkable nonchalance, considering the havoc it wrought with her stomach as it turned upside down. Flint changed the subject, but Casey couldn't really concentrate on anything of any depth. She was too totally aware of him as a man.
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Chapter Eight
CASEY HAD LEARNED A LOT about Flint that night during the walk around Fort Robinson and the long ride home. He had talked of his parents and grandparents, of his three brothers and one baby sister. For a time it had seemed they were growing closer, at least Casey felt that w
ay. But their arrival at the Anchor Bar ranch had stifled that. A disgruntled Smitty was waiting for Casey, not hiding his disapproval of her accompanying Flint to dinner regardless of the fact that it had started out as a threesome. For the first time Casey had found herself resenting Smitty's possessive attitude.
To make matters worse, Flint had taken Smitty's ownership of Casey's company as fact and silently withdrew to his office. The evening that had been so pleasant ended on a sour note. At least it was true for Casey and Smitty, but she wasn't sure that Flint really cared one way or another.
She tried to force herself to accept the fact that she was probably no more than a diversion to him. What she had found hard to figure out the last three days since that night was what Flint meant to her.
That was the main reason Casey had ridden out to Yucca Meadow alone. She wanted time to rationalize her thoughts and put the recent events in their proper perspective. Checking on the year's new calves was a secondary motive. She nudged Tally, her buckskin gelding, to the top of a small bluff, halting him a few feet from the sheer drop to gaze at the panorama of rolling hills. But the struggles of a small red brown object below captured her attention. The breeze carried a weak and plaintive cry.
Casey didn't need the pricked ears of her horse to tell her that the cry had come from the same red brown object. She turned her horse toward the more sloping side of the bluff and let him pick his own way down to the calf. All the while her eyes scanned the surrounding hills looking for its mother. Casey knew of nothing more dangerous than a cow protecting her offspring. Strangely enough there wasn't another animal in sight. There was one possible explanation—the calf had come from a first-year cow whose maternal instincts hadn't fully developed.
A hundred feet from the calf Casey halted her horse. A rusted ting of barbed wire had become twisted around its feet. The white stockings were stained with bright red blood. Two coyotes appeared mysteriously on a nearby hill. Casey knew she didn't have much time to waste. The darkened sand near the calf's legs and the lack of any further struggle on his part told her clearly that the little tyke had lost a lot of blood. All she could do was free him from the wire and transport him back to the ranch house over the saddle of her horse.
The calf was too weak to resist as Casey dismounted and approached him, the wire cutters from her saddlebag in her hand. She knew she had nothing to fear from the coyotes since the presence of a human would keep them at a distance. Large, pain-filled brown eyes stared up at Casey as she quickly began snipping the barbed strands and gently unwrapping them from the calf's legs. She was careful to avoid the rusted prongs while silently wishing for the heavy leather gloves she had left on the kitchen counter. At last the calf was free, but he was too weak to do anything about it.
Casey struggled to manoever the heavy calf into her arms. He was like a dead weight when she finally managed to rise to her feet. Yet somewhere the calf found strength to emit one frightened cry. She had taken one step toward her horse, still standing where she had left him about fifty feet away, the reins dragging the ground, when she saw the buckskin's head turn toward the hill to Casey's left. The quick glance she cast occurred at the same time that a questioning bellow rang from the hill.
Casey's heart sank to her boot tops as she recognized the cow trotting purposefully down the hill. There was only one cow in the whole Anchor Bar herd with long, twisting horns like that, a throw-back to a distant strain of Texas longhorns that her father had used some years back when he was doing some experimental breeding. Crazy Woman, Mark had dubbed her. Even as Casey measured the distance between herself and her horse, she knew she didn't stand a chance of making it carrying the calf.
Yet, illogically, Casey hurried toward her horse, the calf still in her arms. Mingling in with the sound of the cow's hooves striding through the grass and sand came other sounds of creaking saddle leather and horse's hooves. From the corner of her eye, her heart leaping from fear into her throat, Casey saw the spotted rump of Flint's Appaloosa charging down the hill toward the cow. A rope snaked out from Flint's hand, a wide loop settling perfectly over the spreading horns, jerking the cow off her course toward Casey.
"The pickup and trailer are over by the west gate!" Flint shouted, his mount twisting and straining to keep the bucking and bellowing cow under control.
Casey didn't waste any time slinging the calf over her saddle, mounting and riding away. When she reached the pickup, she hurriedly fixed a place for the calf in the rear, lowered him gently into it and loaded her buckskin into the trailer. She had barely finished when Flint came galloping over the hill to join her.
His turbulent gray eyes rolled over her swiftly, the stormy havoc in his gaze doing nothing to improve the trembling that had weakened her knees. He sent his horse up the trailer ramp with a slap on the rump, locked the door in place and turned back to Casey. The savage expression on his face seemed to be set in stone, so harshly carved were the lines.
"I'll…I'll ride in the back with calf." Her voice rushed in to save her from the tempest that seemed to be brewing.
Flint crawled into the cab of the truck, slamming the door with frightful violence. The truck jumped into gear as it jolted its way over the rough road back to the ranch house.
"It'll be all right," Casey soothed, arranging the calf so that it lay partly on her lap. But she was trying more to comfort herself than the calf.
Sam Wolver, with his uncanny perception, met them at the main gate. He hopped into the rear bed of the pickup with Casey and began examining the wicked wounds on the calf's legs almost before the pickup ground to a halt. When Sam lifted the calf out of the truck, Casey hopped out to follow him. She wanted to be anywhere as long as it wasn't facing those unsettling gray eyes.
"Casey! I want to talk to you." Flint's voice was calm, but completely uncompromising.
"The…the calf." She motioned helplessly toward Sam, who was walking swiftly away.
"Sam can take care of it?"
"Listen, Flint McCallister." The best defense was a good offense, Casey decided, drawing a deep breath as she plunged in. "I've just had a very unnerving experience and I'm not in the least interested in hearing any lectures from you. Right now I only want to be concerned about that calf. We can't afford to lose any of our stock."
"Now you listen, Casey Gilmore!" His hand shot out and jerked her arm back just as she was turning away. "Didn't you learn anything from your father's accident? Even he let someone know where he was going. If Sam hadn't seen you ride out that way, I would never have known where you were. Whatever prompted you to try to take that injured calf away from his mother alone?"
"In the first place, that calf was badly hurt." Her temper was slowly mounting and fighting back her initial trepidation. "And in the second place, that cow was nowhere in sight when I first got there. For all I knew it could have been a first-year calf. And in the third place—" Casey wrenched her arm away from him "—you don't have any right to tell me off!"
There was a breath of amusement in his voice and face at her sudden flare of temper. It frustrated her that he should find amusement in her anger.
"That's not the kind of language for a lady to use?"
"I'm not a lady. I'm a prickle poppy, remember?" She tilted her head back to gaze defiantly at the gray eyes under the mocking, lifted brows.
"I'm beginning to wonder what's behind those thorns of yours," he murmured.
In one lithe, fluid movement his hands captured her waist and drew her to him as his mouth settled possessively over hers. In angry resistance, her hands moved to his chest to push herself away. Then the incredible warmth of his kiss swept through her, removing all thought of resistance, replacing it with an irresistible desire to respond. Casey felt her fingers curl into his shirt and the hard, muscular chest beneath it. A pulsating weakness spread through her body. She was drowning in a whirlpool of bliss and she wanted to savor every moment of it. Part of her was shocked by the almost total physical response his kiss was generating.<
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When his lips slowly lifted from hers, Casey was left in a state of supreme loss. She tried to swallow, to hold back the rising flood of breathlessness. His catalytic kiss had set off a fire, the flame of which was reflected in her eyes.
"I'd bet you've never kissed Smitty like that before." The words spoken by Flint's husky voice were like a pitcher of cold water to Casey.
"Why…why do you say that?"
"Because if you had, you'd either be married or having an affair. The first I know isn't true. And those innocent eyes of yours tell me quite dearly that the second isn't true either."
Casey stared up at his arrogantly sure eyes, feeling the shame that he should be able to know so completely about her. Oh, why did she have to react so wantonly to him? Her mind sobbed even as her eyes drank in the attractiveness of his face.
"You're lucky Smitty wasn't here to see what you just did," she retaliated.
"It takes two, Casey." Flint's gaze lazily rested on her still warm lips, softly swollen by his kiss. "I don't think anyone could believe that kiss was against your will."
She was impotent with frustration. The war of her conflicting emotions couldn't decide whether to melt into his arms or slap his face. So Casey did neither. She turned on her heel and escaped, a low throaty laugh of triumph dogging her feet.
IT WOULD NEVER DO, Casey scolded herself, to become attracted to Flint McCallister, worse yet to fall in love with him. That was exactly what was going to happen if she didn't watch her step. Sound advice, she decided even as she stared at him seated just a little in front of her in the family living room. Her throat tightened as she studied the way his auburn brown hair waved away from his forehead with careless perfection and the strong, chiseled lines of his profile like the sculpture of a Roman god. Inevitably her eyes were drawn to the sensuous curve of his mouth that had rocked the very foundation of her existence this afternoon.
"What do you think of the idea, Casey?" The knowing gray eyes turned toward her.
