by Janet Dailey
“What the hell are you trying to do?” he gasped and looked up at her with a frowning scowl. “They were just starting to heal and you damned near broke them all over again.”
“You hypocrite!” She hurled the accusation at him.
“What are you talking about?” He straightened slowly and carefully, holding his rib cage and continuing to frown.
“You, pretending to be so righteous and upset because I was out so late with Andy Rivers!” Her scornful gaze raked him with disgust. “Trying to claim that you felt responsible for my reputation because I’m staying in your house. It was all lies! And I nearly believed your forked tongue. You come on ‘holier than thou,’ like Big Brother, and not ten minutes later, you’re trying to proposition me into your bed!”
“It isn’t like that, Sharon,” he denied roughly.
“Oh, no?” she scoffed. “I told you last night and I’ll tell you again. I’m not interested in what you have to offer, Ridge! I’m greedy. I want more than you can give me.”
As she started to leave the room, Ridge tried to take a quick step to stop her and flinched at some inner shaft of pain. “Sharon.” His hard voice called after her. “The last time you accused me of encouraging you. If I stepped out of line tonight, it was after I got encouragement from you.”
“Then that makes us even, doesn’t it?” She stopped long enough to throw the words at him.
For an instant, Sharon was held there by the sight of him, a lone figure in the middle of the room. His feet were planted slightly apart and his long arms were hanging loosely at his sides. His head was up and level. Nothing could be read in his features, ruggedly drawn in impassive lines. But it was the unstated things Sharon saw—the absolute self-reliance and the proud strength.
“Yes, we’re even,” Ridge acknowledged in a voice that rang flat and hard.
Turning, Sharon entered the hallway and walked past his room to her own. With unnatural calmness, she undressed and hung her dress up properly. It was as if she was trying to be as controlled and unaffected by events as Ridge appeared to be.
But when the lights were off and she was alone in the dark, it didn’t seem so important anymore. Lying in bed, she slowly began to shake with sobs. As they grew stronger, she turned into her pillow and tried to muffle the sound in the feathery mass. It muted her crying and sopped up the tears running from her eyes.
A radio was turned on in the next room—Ridge’s bedroom. The strains of a melancholy country song took up the silence. With it playing, Sharon didn’t have to worry about Ridge hearing her, so she stopped holding back the violent ache that wrung her heart.
She finally cried herself into an emotionally exhausted sleep with the radio still playing its music in the background.
The next morning, Sharon drenched her puffy eyelids in cold water until her skin felt taut and frozen. She didn’t take any pains with her appearance, skinning her hair away from her face and twisting a rubber band around its toasted-gold length. Her jeans were an old pair with patches on the seat, and her blouse was plain white cotton with a buttoned-down collar and long sleeves that she had rolled back at the cuff. Its whiteness, so close to her face, only emphasized her colorless, frozen complexion.
Her suitcase lay open on the bed, her underclothes lining the bottom of it. Gathering her few clothes on hangers in the closet, Sharon carried them to the bed and laid them beside the suitcase to begin folding them. As she slipped a blouse off its wire frame, she heard footsteps approach the door to her bedroom.
Since rising, she had ventured no further than the bathroom. No sound had come from the adjacent bedroom, so she had presumed that Ridge was still asleep—until she heard the footsteps. When she first awoke, the clock had shown the time as barely six in the morning. Evidently Ridge had been up before that.
The doorknob turned and the latch clicked in release. Her hands faltered slightly, then continued folding the blouse with steady precision. She didn’t look at the door when it swung open, although her raw nerves were tensely aware of Ridge standing in the opening.
“I thought I heard you moving around in here,” he said.
She laid the folded garment in the suitcase and reached for the next blouse, flicking a brief glance in his direction. But that swift look took in everything about him from the jeans and work shirt he wore to the impassive mask blanking out all expression from his male features except for the lazy sharpness of his blue eyes.
“If you want breakfast, you can fix it yourself,” she informed him, her voice flat and emotionless.
“You’re leaving,” Ridge stated.
“Brilliant deduction.” But her voice was too dry to put any sting in it.
“I thought you’d stay a couple more days.” He sounded calm as he moved into the room, coming toward the bed.
“I only came to look after you while you were laid up,” Sharon reminded him, her voice cool as she folded the blouse, laid it beside the first, and picked up the next one. “You’re on your feet. You don’t need me anymore, so there isn’t any reason for me to stay, is there?”
She made a project out of buttoning the blouse, waiting for his response to her faintly challenging question, even at this stage hoping against hope that he would express regret to see her go.
“No, I guess there isn’t,” Ridge agreed easily, and frissons of pain broke over her nerves.
“Then there’s nothing left to be said, is there?” she said tightly and pushed the half-folded blouse on top of the others in a short burst of raw impatience.
When she reached for the pair of jeans, she suddenly felt his hand under her chin, turning it so he could see her face. Except for that one brief glance when he’d entered, Sharon had kept her head averted, never looking directly at him. She quickly jerked her head away, but not before his alert gaze had swept the tautened skin around her eyes and the drained look of her complexion. She braced herself for some comment, but none came. Nor was there another attempt to inspect her face.
“As soon as I’m packed, I’ll call home and have someone come pick me up,” Sharon said into the silence.
“There’s no need to have someone make a special trip over here to get you. I’ll have one of the men drive you home,” Ridge stated, showing that his arrangements were final by turning and leaving the room.
Alone again, Sharon pressed the jeans against her quivering chin. There had been no arguments, no protests, no regrets from Ridge, only a calm acceptance of the news that she was leaving. She asked herself what she had expected, but there wasn’t any answer to that now.
When she finished packing, she discovered Ridge had left the house. She glanced out the kitchen window and saw him standing with Hobbs and another cowboy beside one of the ranch’s pickups. With a touch of grim wryness, Sharon realized he’d wasted no time carrying out her transportation arrangements.
She left the house by the back door, carrying her suitcase, and crossed the yard to join the men standing by the truck’s cab. She was painfully conscious of Ridge’s gaze watching her all the way, its shuttered look never altering under the hat pulled low on his forehead.
“Have you got everything?” Ridge took the suitcase from her and passed it to the cowboy to be stowed in the bed of the truck.
“Yes.” Everything that was hers to take.
His steady gaze was leveled at her, not allowing her to look away. “Thanks for coming.”
A flash of bitter and taunting mockery broke across her tautly held features. “It was the neighborly thing to do.” There was a twist in the smiling curve of her mouth.
Sharon swung away and climbed into the passenger side of the pickup. Ridge stepped away from it as the motor turned over and revved to life. Before the truck pulled away, he had already turned and begun talking to his foreman. Her eyes were painfully dry as Sharon stared out the front windshield.
Chapter Ten
“Okay, Huck, now it’s your turn.” Sharon looped the reins around the chestnut’s neck and made sure the ha
ckamore was properly adjusted roughly three fingers above the flaring nostrils before she swung into the saddle.
The sleek gelding stood quietly, waiting for the command to move away from the fence where the bay filly stood tied, finished with her morning training session. A faintly satisfied smile touched Sharon’s mouth as she walked the chestnut into the dirt corral. With six horses contracted to break and train, she usually split them into two groups, working one in the morning and the other in the cool of late afternoon. The spoiled and unruly chestnut was an exception, the only horse she worked morning and night. Two weeks of that steady routine were showing results, even if they hadn’t changed the horse’s mischievous personality.
Her opinion of the animal’s worth was slowly being revised—upward. She put the chestnut through his paces—walk, trot, canter, change leads, round turns—until she was satisfied the horse was working nicely and responding well to the pressure of the hackamore.
Bringing the horse down to a walk, she reached forward and patted the sleek neck under the flaxen mane. “I think you’re ready to start learning a ‘fancy whoa,’ Huck,” she said and watched the horse’s ears swivel back to catch the sound of her soft voice.
The fancy whoa was the sliding stop where the horse seems to sit on its haunches and screw its tail into the ground. Sharon changed her grip on the reins, taking one in each hand in a “squaw’s hold.” She lifted the chestnut into a slow jog and waited until he was relaxed in the gait, then squeezed lightly with her legs to urge his hindquarters forward. At the same time, she applied slight pressure with the left rein. The instant the chestnut began to respond, she slacked off the left rein and tightened the right rein, then continued alternating the pressure. She sensed the horse’s confusion as it came to a slightly jerky stop.
After reassuring the gelding with a few soft-spoken words, Sharon put him into a trot again and repeated the procedure. It didn’t take too many times before the chestnut started to lower its rump the minute he felt the leg pressure. She gave him time to balance himself before she checked his head.
There was a strong sense of accomplishment in knowing the chestnut had stopped challenging her authority and struggling stubbornly to have his own way, and had begun to enjoy learning. More than the other green horses, Huck had given a purpose to these last two weeks since she’d left Latigo. Except when she worked the horses, Sharon lived in an emotionless void, one day sliding into another, the dull ache inside always with her.
As she debated whether to test the chestnut’s response at a lope or to wait until the evening session for the next step, Sharon heard the pickup truck drive into the ranch yard. Absently her glance swung around to identify the visitor. A queer sense of panic rushed through her nerves when she recognized Ridge climbing out of the cab. She jerked her gaze to the front and struggled to calm the leaping of her pulse. It was the first time she’d seen Ridge since leaving his ranch that Sunday morning.
All over again, she had to come to terms with these occasional meetings that were bound to occur as long as they lived on neighboring ranches. After overcoming her teenage infatuation with him once already, it didn’t seem fair that she had to go through this anguish again. Sharon kept consoling herself with the knowledge that she had succeeded once, so she could do it again.
As the chestnut circled the corral at a jogging trot, she saw Ridge approach the fence instead of going to the house. He moved with loose-limbed ease, obviously recovered from his stiffness. She jammed her hat further down on her forehead and lifted the gelding into a canter.
Tension ripped through her nerves when Ridge climbed the fence and sat on the top rail to watch her working the horse. Sharon wanted to scream in frustration. The blaze-faced chestnut was sensitive to the change in mood and began acting up, breaking stride and dancing skittishly around a turn.
Irritated with herself, Sharon slowed the gelding to a walk, trying to settle him down. The horse did a side-stepping jig, refusing to stride out cleanly, and tossed his head. She reined him to a stop, but the chestnut wouldn’t stand still, moving nervously beneath her.
It was a lost cause, she realized. The horse was picking up her tension and agitation. It was pointless to fight the chestnut and risk souring his training to this level. As she gave up and walked the horse toward the fence where the bay filly was tied, she noticed her mother was standing at the fence with Ridge. Sharon avoided his eyes.
“Are you quitting?” her mother asked. Then she commented sympathetically, “He was working so well.”
“I’ve pushed him a lot lately,” Sharon replied, as if that explained the chestnut’s actions this morning.
Ridge vaulted lightly to the ground and walked to the chestnut’s head, catching hold of the bridle and rubbing its nose while Sharon dismounted. Without looking at him, she hooked a stirrup on the saddlehorn and began loosening the cinch.
“He isn’t even warm,” Ridge observed, running a hand down the horse’s chest.
“I ride him morning and night so I don’t work him ‘til he’s hot,” Sharon explained shortly. “I don’t want him going stale on me when he’s still learning.”
She was stiff with tension, all her muscles tightly coiled and her nerves on edge. There was an electricity in the air, crackling in the stillness broken only by the idle stomping of a hoof and groaning of saddle leather.
Her mother came forward. “There’s fresh coffee at the house. Would you like a cup, Ridge?”
“Not now, thanks,” he refused. “I’ll give Sharon a hand with the horses.” Turning, he untied the filly’s reins and prepared to lead her to the barn.
“I can manage without any help,” she insisted, feeling brittle and breakable.
“I know it,” he replied easily and calmly. “But I want to talk to you.”
Sharon flashed an anguished look at her mother, but her only response was a pair of raised eyebrows and a faint smile. If Ridge was determined to talk to Sharon, nothing would stop him. Her mother knew that. Gritting her teeth, Sharon scooped up the chestnut’s reins and headed for the barn.
The barn was full of hay dust and horse smells, shadowed and cool, as Sharon led the chestnut into his stall and clipped on his halter before removing the hackamore. Ridge led the filly into the adjoining stall and began unsaddling her, working in silence.
Unbuckling the double cinch, Sharon hauled the saddle off the chestnut and swung it onto her hip. She scooped the saddle blanket and pad off the horse’s back and headed for the tack room with her double burden. Ridge followed her, not seeming to pay any attention when she stole a glance at him. The saddles were heaved onto their racks and the blankets and pads draped over them to air out the horse sweat.
The continued silence grated on her nerves as they returned to the respective stalls of their horses. Sharon picked up a currycomb and began brushing down the sleek chestnut while it nosed at the manger full of hay. Her jaw was clenched so tightly shut that her teeth hurt.
“You wanted to talk to me,” she finally challenged Ridge, without breaking the rhythm of her brushing strokes.
“Yeah.” The sweep of a second currycomb filled the pause that accompanied his bland acknowledgement. Sharon waited, the moment stretching out. Almost idly, Ridge said, “Those wildflowers you picked finally died. I threw them out yesterday.”
“I’m surprised they lasted so long.” She couldn’t seem to keep the curtness out of her voice.
“So was I,” he replied.
There was another interminably long silence. Sharon finally threw him a tight-lipped glance over the back of the chestnut. “Is that what you wanted to tell me?”
He stopped abruptly and rested his arms on the filly’s dark back, the currycomb hanging loosely from his fingers. His head was tipped to the side, his rolled hat brim at an angle that shaded his expression. He swore softly under his breath and pushed away from the horse, his hard gaze boring into hers.
“I’ve come to accept your terms,” Ridge stated.
�
�My terms?” Her mouth stayed slightly open. In puzzled confusion, she watched him walk around the horse and come to the corner of the stall where she was standing.
“Yes, your terms,” he repeated and reached into his bulging shirt pocket.
Instead of taking out a cigarette as Sharon expected, he removed a small square box and stepped forward to push it into her hand. She stared at the ring box, then hesitantly opened it, darting him a wary look. His features remained cut in stern lines.
A pear-shaped diamond sparkled in its mounting on a narrow, gold band. A raw joy flamed through her, but Sharon was afraid to believe in it. She lifted her gaze and searched his face.
“Why are you giving me this?” There was a trace of hoarseness in her low-worded question.
His blue glance flicked at the ring then back to her. “You said that’s what you wanted,” he reminded her with a certain flatness. “I can’t get you the marriage license until we get blood tests. And we’ll have to work on the kids you wanted.” She felt the pinning thrust of his gaze. “I believe those were the three things you said you wanted—in that order.”
Her fingers gripped the small jewelry box, a tremor of pain running through her. That was what she had said she wanted, but foolishly, she had left out love. She was angry and hurt, somehow feeling insulted.
“Well?” Ridge prompted roughly.
The hurt blazed in her hazel eyes. “This has to be the most unromantic proposal I’ve heard in my life!” she retorted, snapping the box shut and ramming it into his hand as she pushed her way by him.
But Ridge was no longer hampered by his injuries. His hand grabbed her arm before she had taken two strides away from him and spun her back around. Impatience and irritation flared in his eyes.
“What do you expect me to do?” he demanded. “Get down on one knee and beg for your hand in marriage?”
“That would be equally laughable!” She pulled her arm free of his hand with an angry yank and turned again.
