"I'm a fresh air fiend anyway." Shep cut off the air-conditioner and rolled down the windows from his console.
"Yeah, me too. Nothing like a lungful of diesel fumes to kick off the day." Deanna couldn't keep a straight face at the sharp look aimed at her. It softened with a white-toothed grin.
"If it blows your hair too much, just holler."
"Spoken by a man who must know his way around women." What kind of woman made a man like Shep tick?
"Nope, just their hair. Consideration of that is one of those universal rules integral to man's survival. You know, like never leave the toilet seat up."
With a laugh, she focused on the country surrounding them while Shep fiddled with the radio. He probably went for the fresh-scrubbed and wholesome as milk type—someone who was equally at home in the kitchen and the stable instead of the deli and the office. Definitely not her.
Resigned, she enjoyed the wind whipping her hair about her face and eyes. Although it had been cut for just such abandon, whether clipped up off her neck or down as it was now, Deanna rarely had the chance to test it. The rushing air seemed to carry away her problems, enabling her to appreciate her surroundings and the country music station's corny parody of the Perils of Pauline.
The villain tied Sweet Sue to the railroad tracks. The train was coming. Things couldn't look any more hopeless. Corny as it was, Deanna related to Sweet Sue's desperation. In her mind she could see C. R. with the black cape and sleazy mustache framing her and then the ransacking and then... just like in the chorus of the radio song, "Along Came Jones"—Shepard Jones, that is.
She gave her companion a startled look and burst out laughing. "Get outta here."
"What?" he asked, clueless.
"Along came Jones." She waved her hands, directing and singing along with the chorus. "Get it? I mean, is that weird or what?"
Shep's mouth thinned to more of a grimace than a smile. "I don't see the connection. I ran you off the road and then rescued you. The name is the only similarity, and Jones is one of the most common names—"
"Forget it. It just struck me funny." Men! No sense of whimsy She settled against the headrest once more as the song gave way to an advertisement for some bug killer for farm and ranch use, but at the announcement of the upcoming weather and news brief, her relaxed humor turned to alarm. What if her story was aired? God, spare me please, I just need a little time...
She listened, breath still, for her name, but the broadcast leaned more toward national and international headlines. In no time at all, the music started again. Once again, she could breathe easily and savor the moment in silence.
Although there were no horns blowing or hordes of people waiting impatiently at every corner for a light to change, the ride took Deanna back to carefree hours spent in the taxi with her dad. While city born and bred, he'd been a cowboy at heart. Country music and TV Westerns were a mainstay at the Manetti household. What would he think now if he saw the coppery sea of cattle grazing on a sun-parched plateau in the distance instead of rush hour traffic frozen around him? She could almost hear him singing along with the radio, belting out lyrics about being footloose and fancy free in the middle of Montana. Had she been chasing his dream and not her own?
"The cattle look like their coats are polished," she observed as the Jeep passed them by. "Are they yours?"
"The cows aren't, but the land is. I lease it for grazing to one of the bigger spreads. Helps pay the taxes at least, till I can get up and running with my horses."
So Hopewell was much bigger than its meager home place suggested. Although he fell back into silence, Shep's remark triggered the latent entrepreneur in her. With this kind of collateral, there were any number of opportunities Shep might consider as a means to fulfill his dream. Why he wanted to train four-legged beasts that would eat him out of house and home, not to mention fill a litterbox in one visit, was beyond her, but it was possible.
Even though Deanna was clearly out of her element, she wouldn't mind the all's well euphoria of this windblown country-song moment and the companionable presence of her host as part of her life. In the back of the Jeep as the road became rougher along with the landscape, a symphony of rattling paper and plastic interspersed with the occasional bottle-tapping timpani played like a lullaby, while the bags of groceries kept time to an upbeat rendition of Western swing.
At Shep's intrusive chuckle beside her, Deanna realized she'd lost herself in woolgathering longer than she thought. Worse, she'd started singing aloud with the chorus again, not just in her mind.
"I wouldn't quit my day job for a recording contr—" Shep swerved the Jeep with a clipped, "Well, I'll be a—"
Before embarrassment could claim her, their vehicle was bouncing like a speeding taxi over road construction across the shallow ditch running parallel to the road. Her exclamation of astonishment had hardly rolled off her lips when Shep steered the vehicle straight up a dry grassy incline. With the grinding and groaning of gears echoing the outrage of the jouncing, banging grocery bags in the back, she finally saw the reason for his sudden and erratic behavior. Grazing at the edge of some scrub trees crowning the hill was the sorrel stallion that had forced her off the road the day before.
"What are you going do?" She braced herself against the dash of the vehicle with her hands.
Ahead, the horse lifted its head, ears pricked. It stood frozen for a moment, like a magnificent statue glistening red in the sun, then reared on its hindquarters in defiance. Its golden mane and tail unfurled as it bolted, racing along the wood's edge and down toward a steep-sided valley.
"Corral that son-of-a-prairie-biscuit," Shep steered the Jeep after it.
"In this?" Glad for the seat belt that kept her from bumping her head on the roof, Deanna glanced sideways at her companion. There was no telling exactly what he said under his breath, but the renegade stallion had shattered his laid-back attitude.
The sorrel left a trail of dust, amplified by the Jeep pursuing it. Head bent in determination, Shep maintained a tight hold on the wheel and Deanna held what breath was not jolted out of her. The Jeep careened over a raised slab of rock on the floor of what was turning into a canyon with higher and higher rocky cobalt sides. "You can't possibly catch him in this."
"No, but if I can herd him into the draw up ahead, there's an old gate there that just might hold him until I can get back with Patch. You game?"
His excitement was infectious. Or was it the challenge Deanna found impossible to ignore as she nodded, grinning like a fool. Thank heaven they were strapped in a Jeep with a roll bar... and that they hadn't seen the mustang again yesterday while riding Patch, who had no such safety devices.
Each time the stallion pivoted and tried to run back, Shep steered the Jeep into his path to head him off, honking with a horn that sounded like it hadn't quite cleared puberty. She thought the vehicle surely would turn over, but it soon became obvious that the cowboy at the wheel had done this before and knew just how far to push it. All he needed to do was wave his hat out the window and holler—
"Yee-hah!"
...exactly what he just did, she thought, as startled as she was incredulous. Gripping the dash with one hand and the window frame with the other, Deanna definitely preferred to ride the trail from her dad's old La-Z-Boy.
The stallion tried doubling back again, this time with more determination than ever. It was almost as if the animal sensed the trap ahead. With Shep leaning out the window and whipping his hat overhead in big circles, his long stretch caused his foot to slip off the gas pedal and the Jeep threatened to die.
He jerked the vehicle out of gear to slow down. "Take over," he shouted, unbuckling his seat belt and reaching for the door handle.
"Get outta here!"
In a flash, Shep braked and was out running toward the charging horse.
"No wait, not really—" she called after him in disbelief.
Waving like a wild man, he blocked the stallions path where the Jeep couldn't maneuver.
<
br /> Deanna fumbled at her own seat belt for what seemed like an eternity. She climbed into the driver's seat as the vehicle, left in neutral, began to drift. Frantic, she stared at the worn sketch of the gears on the shift knob. It had been years since she'd managed the gearshift on the family's old station wagon. In fact, she rarely drove in the city at all, having had to store her car in a garage in Jersey due to the high cost of parking.
Ahead of her, the stallion moved like an express train toward Shep. Its ears were laid back, the stretch from its head to tail level. Hooves pounding the earth, the horse sped closer and closer, but the cowboy just stood there.
"What, have you got a death wish or something?" Deanna revved the engine the way her dad did when waiting for the red light to go green.
To protect the man from being splattered like a bug on a grill of a moving car, she jammed the shift into first gear. Her mechanical steed roared and jumped forward, but the front wheels struck a sharp rut, the wheel jerking in her hands.
"Whoa, speed bump," she gasped. Easing up on the accelerator, she shifted into the next gear before cracking down on it again. As the gears found their teeth, the Jeep surged ahead in sporadic persistence.
Andretti, eat your heart out. She engaged the third gear and the fourth with NASCAR determination. Ahead she saw the stallion less than a length away from trampling Shep down.
No way she could intercept it. Deanna gripped the wheel, bracing for the inevitable when the sorrel pivoted with a sharp right, rolling Shep to the side. Or had the man jumped? She swerved into the path of the horse to head it off, wondering if it could jump a Jeep with the same ease it had brushed off its master.
"Cut him off!"
A glance in the side mirror confirmed that Shep was up and cheering her on. Maybe the animal was afraid of vehicles, she thought, heartened by the encouragement. After all, Shep wouldn't urge her into the path of those thundering hooves if it weren't.
"Heeyah!" Caught up in the excitement, Deanna dared to release her left hand from the wheel to wave at the oncoming horse. If only Pop could see her now.
The mustang was coming head on and something was flying from its mouth, as if it were snorting and blowing puffs of lather like some rabid wild thing. Snatching her hand back inside, she seized the wheel with the panic that shot straight from her clenched fingers to the feet she locked on the brakes. The tires dug into the dirt, throwing the rear end every which way in a whirlwind of dust, while she struggled to keep it straight.
It was impossible on the dry, rock-studded terrain. As if a giant had picked up the back of the Jeep on one side, the vehicle lurched in a precarious tilt.
Deanna's scream was cut short by the slam of the rear wheels on the dirt. Something glass shattered in the back. The whole vehicle bounced a couple of times, but somehow, she regained control. As she shifted down to slow her reckless pace, the transmission growled and shrieked in bone-chilling protest.
"Not reverse! You'll drop the transmission!"
She barely heard Shep's warning. All she knew was that she had to stop and let the horse go wherever it darn well pleased.
Again Deanna hit the brakes and closed her eyes. Moving at a slower speed, the vehicle came to a jerky halt, coughed, sputtered, and died in a surrounding cloud of dust. She braced for the horse to run it over, for the crash of metal and foam-snorting muscle. Instead, Shep's voice penetrated her fear-frozen state. "Hold tight, Slick."
Opening her eyes, Deanna saw that the stallion had turned once again, and Shep was on its heels howling like a banshee. Weak-kneed, she stumbled out of the Jeep, watching the horse head into an offshoot of the valley. Just visible in the overgrown brush nearby was an old gate made of rusty wire and boards split and weathered by the elements. The minute Shep reached the gate, he dragged it across the opening, closing the mustang in.
Her mouth dry and her heart beating a mile a minute, Deanna stood by the hot vehicle as Shep approached it. He was smiling at her, not the least perturbed that she'd almost busted his Jeep's transmission. She stepped out of his way to avoid his purposeful stride, only to be gathered up in his arms and swung around.
"We got him!" Shep whirled her about once more. Suddenly, he gave her big kiss on the cheek. "Not bad for a city gal. I'll make a wrangler out of you yet."
City gal... wrangler—what was wrong with this picture? The answer was lost, swept away by the rush of his infectious excitement. All she knew was that she wished she could preserve the moment. Instead, she bobbed her head like one of those spring-necked toy dogs that rode in a car back window.
Robbed of breath by the triumphant high—or was it the dancing gaze that dipped into her own?—Deanna stood in the wiry circle of Shep's embrace. His damp, work-hardened body pressed her softer one against the warm metal of the vehicle. Her heart fell over itself with the male essence of dust, sweat, and soap assailing her nostrils.
The sun kindled a sobering light in the umber-dark look that slid from her eyes to her mouth. Deanna's knees quivered like gelatin. She was no femme fatale, but she knew when a man was going to kiss her. She held her breath, bracing and yet knowing that she would yield the moment his lips touched hers.
Leaning ever so close, Shep brushed her cheek to cheek as he reached around her, inside the Jeep, and retrieved a coil of rope from behind the drivers seat. "I better secure the gate before he takes a notion to bolt."
Feeling as intelligent as one of those dippy toy dogs, Deanna tried to pull herself together as Shep turned away. "Sure," she called after him, unsure of anything.
What the devil had just happened? It was one thing to wax nostalgic with her charming, good-looking host, but somewhere between daydream, reality, and roundup, her imagination crossed a line she hadn't even seen—one she vowed she'd never cross again.
Nine
While Shep reinforced the blooming gate with the blooming rope, Deanna focused on rebagging the scattered groceries, as though that would distract her from the emotional riot over what had just happened... or not happened. It wasn't as if she'd been waiting all day for Shep Jones to kiss her; she mopped up the juice from a bottle that had cracked against the spare wheel well. Everything else had simply scattered, like her wits. But unlike her wits, the groceries were unscathed... except for the juice.
By the time she repacked the supplies and slid into the passenger seat, Shep returned to the Jeep. His mischief had returned along with that toe-curling boyish grin of his. Behind him, the stallion circled in its makeshift enclosure, snorting with indignation.
"I can't believe we got him." He gave Deanna an appreciative look as he turned the key, oblivious to the flip-flop it instigated in her chest. "Much obliged, partner."
It was probably just the adrenaline rush from all the excitement that caused her irregular heartbeat.
The vehicle roared to life under its master's acceleration, muting her hapless, "No problem."
At least she didn't owe him a new transmission for her inadvertent slip into reverse while still rolling ahead. Right now, all Deanna wanted was to get away from the spot where she'd nearly made a fool of herself. When would she ever learn how to read men, really read them? She thought that he was going for a kiss, not a stupid rope.
The Jeep struck a bump, reminding Deanna to fasten her seat belt as she grazed the headliner with her head. After dropping the visor to see to the condition of her hair and finding nothing but an old map clipped to it, she used the side view mirror instead. She was a little pale but didn't look too worse for wear, at least on the outside.
And it could be worse, she thought, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. If she had dropped the transmission, they might—heaven forbid—have had to rely on the stallion to get them home. With a shiver, she glanced in the side view mirror where the horse was now reduced to a tiny image in their dusty wake.
Home? The word stuck in her mind. They weren't going home. Shep was. She had no home. Deanna swallowed the sudden well of self-pity rising in her throat before she lost a
ll dignity and cried. She was made of sterner stuff.
"So how'd you like your first roundup?" Shep fiddled with the tuner on the radio again.
"Great!" Deanna answered with forced enthusiasm to cover the fact that her heart still hadn't settled on a normal beat from the near miss with the horse, not to mention the near kiss. The man thinks horse, so talk horse. "Weren't you afraid that stallion would run you down?"
Shep pulled his hat down low to protect his eyes from the western sun, but his mouth was sheepishly tilted. "The thought did cross my mind, though to step on a man goes against a horses grain. All it usually wants is out."
"But does the horse know that?" She was going to be just fine. Nearly getting run down by a wild stallion was enough to make anyone a basket of nerves. And it certainly was the closest to living on the edge Deanna had ever been. "Like maybe he never read the training manuals, you know?"
"Those of my personal acquaintance did. That's all I can tell you for sure."
At least he put on no pretense. Unlike C. R., this cowboy was what he was and made no apologies for it. Not that she had seen a thing he needed to apologize for. The guy sitting next to her was the real McCoy. If only she'd met him first.
It was another half hour before they reached the main street of the ramshackle ghost-town-turned-homestead. Smoky ran out to meet them, barking and tail wagging. Breaking away from a few of the horses grazing in a fenced pasture behind the old bam, Patch—the one-eyed horse—came trotting up to the front corral. His nicker split the air as the motor of the Jeep died.
"Looks like Old MacDonald's welcoming committee," she said, as a yellow tabby cat leaped up on the hood and stared at them through the windshield. "But, if I have my nursery song right, you're short a chicken, a cow, and a pig."
"Tick's got a couple of laying hens down by his trailer, the cows are grazing elsewhere, but the only pig around here is in the freezer." Shep grabbed most of the bags in the back of the Jeep and started toward the house, once again all business. "Do you mind getting the rest? I want to saddle up and go after that red before he breaks out. He doesn't have enough room to work up a jump, but he's a wily buzzard."
Winsor, Linda Page 8
