A Silver Lining (5 page)

Smells of bacon, eggs, and sausage assaulted her. Heather wrinkled her nose, shot evil glares at each man, daring them to make one comment, and then rolled her shoulders back as she crossed her arms.

"Mornin', Heather,” said Duke. He gave a nod toward the Brad Pitt-look-alike. “This chap sitting to my right is Tony Billings, vet extraordinaire. I can't figure out why the girls call him Handsome Tony. And this older gent is Jim Breedlove, our resident farrier."

Heather blinked, and cocked her head in confusion. “Ferret?"

Jim laughed. “A farrier. I take care of the horses’ hooves. Hoof care, trimming, balancing, putting the shoes on. All that."

"Oh.” She bit her lip. “I would think a veterinarian would do that."

Handsome Tony shook his head. “I'm usually too busy with the cattle. I maintain the correct procedures for the beef to be labeled as organic."

"Free-range cattle?"

"Yes, but also maintaining that the medical services, medicines, and vaccinations fall under the USDA organic guidelines."

"Lincoln decided to go organic about ten years ago,” Tristan told her. “It's a demanding market right now so he made the right decision. And since we're a medium-size operation, our profits have escalated."

"Go Grandpa."

Mabel placed a full plate in front of her.

"No, thank you,” Heather said and pushed the plate away.

"Eat your breakfast. You have a busy day,” Tristan ordered.

They eyed each other, staring without blinking. In that moment, it became a contest to see which one would back down first.

"I don't eat meat,” she replied.

"Then eat the eggs."

"I don't like eggs."

"Then eat the toast."

"It's burnt."

"Hide it with jam."

"I have a figure to maintain."

"You just gotta argue, don't you?"

"I'm not the barbarian who dragged an innocent woman out of bed in the middle of the night to shove animal by-products down her throat."

"Again, it's morning."

"Again, there's no earthly reason to be up at four a.m."

"You've got stalls to muck out."

Heather placed her palms on the table and scooted her chair back. There was a collective indrawn breath from the observers around the table.

"I suppose it's too much to hope that you might have stevia for some coffee? No? Of course not,” she muttered to herself. “That's only in civilized places, I suppose."

She turned to leave the kitchen.

"Where are you going?” Tristan demanded.

"I refuse to destroy any more of my clothing, so I'll be back when I've located suitable replacements."

She strode away with a wave of her hand.

At the top of the stairs she glanced toward her grandfather's room where a DO NOT DISTURB sign hung on the door.

"Figures,” she muttered to herself. “The one person who gets to sleep in is the one dying."

"Hey,” Tristan called from the bottom of the stairs. “Heather."

"What?"

"Come here."

"Giving orders now?"

"Come here please."

Heather sighed and marched back down the steps, halting when she saw him holding something out to her.

"What's this?"

"Some clothes."

She hesitated taking them until he prompted her.

"There's a shirt, some thick socks, and a pair of old jeans. I know they're probably too big, but I figured they would suffice for now."

She cocked an eyebrow at him questioningly.

Tristan shrugged. “I didn't want you ruining any more of your clothes."

Heather's heart started to thump, and she didn't quite know what to say. The gift was nothing, worthless really, only it brought a tingle over her fingertips as they gripped his clothing.

"Thank you,” she mumbled.

He cleared his throat and backed up. “Yeah, so, I'll see you at the stable."

She nodded and hugged the clothes to her chest, watching until he turned and walked quickly away.

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This time she set things up differently.

The day before had challenged her resolve, tested her commitment, and taxed her strength. Every muscle in her body ached from labor she wasn't used to. Aerobic exercise had nothing on slinging a shovel and moving hay. And though the work continually became easier and less complicated as she moved down the line, it was unequivocally boring.

So she brought out her MP3 player, set up the speakers, found her Linkin Park collection, and turned it all the way up. The heavy rock/punk sound overlaying the rap echoed down the long barn corridor, which provided an excellent amplifier and allowed Heather to sing at the top of her lungs.

She danced her way through the work, clearing her mind of everything except the focus of her goal. Eight done. Then nine. Pretty soon she had half the stalls done. The sun was shining overhead, so she wrapped a bandanna around her mouth and nose, switched off the music, lifted the wheelbarrow handles, and deposited the manure at the recycling compound.

Once the manure had been delivered, Heather dumped the wheelbarrow, ripped off her mask, and ran all the way back to the house.

Once she had showered off the grime of the day, she headed to her grandfather's room and walked in without knocking. He lay on his bed, looking very small and fragile among the wires and monitors. His skin was translucent, with dark veins bulging out of his arms. He seemed to be slowly disintegrating before her eyes. Unexpectedly, a surge of sadness flashed through her. She hadn't had enough time to get to know him.

"Pretty soon I'm gonna be nothing more than a memory,” he wheezed, startling her. She hadn't realized he'd been awake.

"Such maudlin thoughts,” she replied as she pulled up a chair and sat, flinging her feet upon his bed.

"'S truth,” he said with a shrug of one pitifully thin shoulder.

"How long did you smoke?"

"I started at age twelve and stopped when my doc said I had lung cancer. Let me tell you, this is a helluva way to die."

"Want me to put your boots on?"

He cackled, but the laugh hurt her ears. “I'm old, girl. Time to go meet my maker, be with my Gloria."

She raised one eyebrow. “So you believe in heaven?"

"Don't you?"

"I believe that you don't have to look very hard to find hell."

"That's not what I asked."

She remained silent for a moment as she gathered her thoughts. “For a time I thought anyplace was better than the land of the living,” she admitted in a quiet voice. “But I discovered I'm too much of a coward to find out if there really is a heaven."

"You're a Hart, and we're made of sterner stuff."

Heather had to smile at that, and they fell silent once again, only this time, for some reason she couldn't name, she didn't feel on edge as she had before. For the first time in a long time, she felt comfortable talking about the shadows that haunted her, perhaps because her grandfather now faced his own shadow, the looming specter of death.

"Your father had always been a dreamer,” he said, filling in the silence. “Avery was always by my side, but Jack lived in daydreams. He ran off to California, and I didn't hear from him again until after you'd been born. Your mother sent me a letter and a picture."

"I hate my father,” she replied in a voice devoid of any emotion.

"Yes."

"If you leave me the ranch when you die, I won't ever invite him here. I just want you to know that."

Lincoln Hart gave a huge sigh and closed his eyes. “I don't wanna talk about Jack. Tell me what you've learned the past couple of days."

"I've learned I hate horses."

Her grandfather gave a rusty laugh. “Hard to run a ranch if you don't like horses. What did Tristan make you do?"

"The polite term for it is mucking out the stalls. However, shoveling shit is pretty...shitty.” She grinned, liking her own play of words.

"Grunt work is never pleasant. And what does Tristan have planned for you next?"

"I got one more day of cleaning stalls, and then who knows. Perhaps picking up cow pies from the pasture?"

"I'll talk to him."

"No,” she said sharply. “No special treatment because of my last name. I won't have my competition crying foul."

"All right. No favors granted."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far,” she protested. “I still got a month to go."

The sun had barely started its descent as she stepped back outside, wearing her new string bikini, to make her way to the pool. The evening had turned a little cooler, but not much, making it the perfect swimming temperature. She felt rested and relaxed after her talk with her grandfather. The old man seemed to be all right.

The pool had been built after she had visited the first time. Her grandfather had told her that it was a gift to his workers so they could have some place to relax whenever they had time off. But due to his failing health, the area around it had fallen into a state of neglect, much like the house. Her three-inch stilettos were ridiculous for navigating along the broken concrete path, but she didn't care. She knew she looked fantastic. And she could feel the stares of the men following her. This is what she wanted, what she craved: the lust of nameless, faceless men. She would reel them in, make them salivate for just one look from her, and then kick them hard where it hurt most.

It was a game she knew well. In her opinion, men were only good for one purpose...to give her things. So she used them and then lost them when she'd had her fill. Some called her a bitch, some a slut, but what the hell did it matter? After all, once upon a time she had been in that position. Used. Discarded like trash.

Damaged beyond repair.

Heather figured a little payback to the male race was exactly what she needed.

At the poolside, she dropped her towel onto a lounger, slipped off her heels, and put a toe into the water to test the temperature.

She then moved to the low diving board, jumped once, and dove in with a clean splash. She swam one lap, then another, and when she had completed her third, her gaze caught a pair of worn boots standing near the water's edge. She stopped swimming and looked up at Tristan, whose frame was silhouetted against the twilight sky.

His arms were crossed over his chest, never a good sign, but one that provoked Heather to turn on her tease.

"Come on in; the water is fabulous. And I don't mind if you skinny-dip."

"The stalls aren't done. If they're done daily, it would probably only take an hour or so. If weekly, then the better part of the day. It's been two days, Heather!"

"I finished half of them."

"And the other half?"

"I'll do them tomorrow."

"What don't you understand? Finish the stalls!"

"Don't yell at me! I'm doing the best I can."

Tristan sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Heather—"

"You never once said I had to be finished in a day,” she shot back. Tired of treading water, she swam to the side and hauled herself out.

She saw his eyes widen a bit at her state of dress, or state of undress, as the case may be. The water sluiced over her skin, caressing her body like a lover's touch. She slicked back her hair and caught his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. The air around them suddenly thickened as lust hit her fast and hard. Her nipples tightened with need. Her pussy turned slick with desire. And the next thing she knew, she was in his arms, meeting his kiss with a savage hunger.

He didn't use any finesse or seduction, and he really didn't have to. She matched his desperation, as if she were lost in the desert and had just found an oasis. Where this urgency came from, she had no idea. It wasn't a feeling she'd ever experienced before, and she wasn't quite sure if she liked it. She didn't want to need him, she didn't want to crave him, and yet she couldn't get enough.

He nibbled at her lips, sucking on each one before sliding them apart. His tongue entwined with hers, initiating its own mating ritual. The lust that welled inside her was like a vortex, and she was helpless to avoid it.

She snaked her arms around his neck and rubbed her body against his like a cat wanting to be petted. She could almost hear her own purr. She twirled the hair at the nape of his neck, accidentally hitting his cowboy hat and knocking it off-center.

The movement seemed to shock Tristan out of the sensual haze that engulfed them. His head snapped back and he stared at her with wide eyes. His chest heaved. “Tristan?” She reached for him again.

But whatever spell had woven around them had already shattered. Without a word, he jerked away from her and turned to walk briskly back to the house.

Heather watched him, more upset than she cared to admit, and wondered what on earth had caused him to freak out like that. She tried desperately to ignore her tiny inner voice that asked why seeing him walk away from her hurt so much.

Fury washed through him, and he didn't know quite what to do to alleviate it. He was pissed at Heather's game, her manipulation of him, and his need of her. He literally ached inside with the desire to impale her, to fuck her until they both lost consciousness.

He was getting too sentimental, that was the problem. Giving her the clothes was his first mistake. His second had been letting her slide with taking three days to muck out the stalls.

Now he seemed to be stuck with a permanent case of blue balls. He reached down to adjust the tight denim confining his hard-on. Even the touch of his own hand excited him to the point of bursting. Jacking off in the shower had become routine the past couple of nights, and though that provided some relief, looking at her every day didn't help ease the situation.

And damn if she didn't meet his challenge, though he didn't expect her to cave too quickly. His next assignment would really test her mettle. And if that failed, then he'd think of something else that would frustrate her enough to give up the notion that she deserved the ranch.

When it came to taking care of this ranch and the men who worked it, Tristan knew he was the best choice. The only one, because Heather Hart had the look of someone desperate for money.