Gift of Fortune (7 page)

Aileen smelled the fresh, clean, cold air of the range
clinging to him. She felt the hard muscles of his arms, felt
the intimate warmth of his breath against her temple, and
could no longer lie to herself. This man was dangerous to
her.

The week passed so quickly that Quint didn't realize it
was Friday night until Aileen dumped the thick folder of
weekly compositions on the kitchen counter. She brought
a huge stack home each weekend to be graded.

Early Saturday morning he was scheduled to participate
in a rodeo. He was tempted to cancel, but since he had
already paid the entry fee, he felt obligated to go. He could
also use the money he was confident of winning in at least
two of the events. Quint didn't tell Aileen where he was
going or what he was doing in the note he left for her on
the kitchen table.

He knew Aileen was asleep the moment he returned late
Saturday night, for the house had that muted feel to it that
it assumed once the echoes of human voices and movements had been absorbed by the walls. Quint knew that
silence well, having crept regularly out of windows of the
many foster homes of his teenage years to roam the night,
seeking something, anything, to calm the rage hammering
inside his skull.

When Quint entered the kitchen on Sunday morning, he knew immediately that Aileen was upset with him. Although she answered his greeting in a quiet, polite voice,
the rigid stance of her body signaled unapproachability. He
poured himself a cup of coffee.

She was all dressed up, wearing a belted, long-sleeved
dress the color of pine needles and high-heeled brown
pumps. She had tamed her bright hair into a complicated
knot that rested against her slender, elegant neck. It was
the sort of knot a man's hands itched to undo. Did women
fix their hair deliberately like that, knowing it drove men
crazy?

"Going somewhere or coming back?" he asked, watching
her over the rim of his cup.

"Coming back. I went to early service." She turned the
page of a spiral-bound notebook.

"Grading?" he asked.

"No. Planning the menu for the coming week."

"You're a very organized woman."

"Is that a criticism?" she asked, looking at him for the
first time since he had come into the kitchen.

Quint noticed that she was trying to keep her expression
disinterested and indifferent, but he thought he detected
hurt lurking in the blue depths of her eyes. He had some
fence-mending to do, and it wasn't just the fences out on
the range.

"Being organized is good," he said, "provided you leave
a little room for spontaneous action."

"Such as?"

Quint shrugged. "Watching a sunset. Listening to the
song of a bird. Smelling the new grass on a spring morning.
Taking in a movie on the spur of the moment. Going dancing. Stuff like that."

"Or stuff like going off for the weekend without telling
anyone where you could be reached?"

"Ah. So that's what's bothering you," Quint said. "I
thought it might be." Involuntarily, he rubbed his aching
shoulder.

"What's the matter? You got hurt? Or is it a hangover?"

"I got thrown."

Thrown on his rump over a woman, Aileen suspected.
Out loud she asked, "In a barroom brawl?"

Anger flared in him, but he beat it down. "Why is it
women always assume the worst about me?"

"Do they? I'm sure you'd know the reason for that better
than I."

Quint set his cup down forcefully. Had it been fragile
porcelain, it might have cracked. He took her arm and
forced Aileen to face him.

"Look at me, and let's get this out in the open."

"You don't owe me an explanation," she claimed
quickly, trying to sound convincing.

"The heck I don't."

"No, really-"

"Aileen, be truthful. Don't pretend indifference. You
know as well as I do that if I don't explain, the atmosphere
in this house will be cold enough to hang a side of beef."

Aileen opened her mouth and snapped it shut. Somewhat
shamefaced she said, "I'm just used to everyone on this
ranch telling if they're going to leave, where they're going,
and when they'll be back. Last year this saved the lives of
a couple of men during a snowstorm. Of course, if you had
a hot date for the weekend-"

"My date was with a cantankerous bull that didn't want
to be ridden and some ornery calves that didn't like being
roped."

Aileen blinked, sorting through this information. "You
went to a rodeo? I mean, you took part in it?"

"You sound as shocked as if I'd told you I robbed the
bank in town."

"Why wouldn't I be shocked? What if you'd broken your
arm, or your leg, or-"

"I didn't. And this was my last rodeo appearance. I only
went because I'd already paid the entry fee. No sense in
forfeiting it. And it was a way to earn some quick cash."

Aileen stared at him. Though Quint was good at reading
women, he wasn't quite sure how to interpret her expression. She was different. Educated. Classy. Not the sort of
woman who hung around rodeos or frequented honky-tonk
bars. Not the sort of woman he usually met. Her steady
blue-eyed stare unnerved him a little. "What?" he finally
demanded.

"Quick, easy cash? Is that what you're after?" she asked.
"Is that what you want from life?"

The unspoken criticism in her words sliced into his pride.
Wounded, he said, "First of all, there's nothing easy about
earning money rodeoing. And second, by quick I meant
extra. Additional. If you don't already know it, what ranch
hands earn doesn't rank on top of the pay scale."

Aileen blushed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that
rodeoing is easy. I know a number of men who've been
hurt, including Jennifer's dad. He's been a semi-invalid
since a bull gored him. It made life for the family very
hard. I know rodeo work is dangerous. I think it's
quite...." She broke off, unwilling to finish the sentence.

"It's what?" Quint asked, his voice challenging.

"You really want to know?"

"Spit it out."

"I think it's stupid. Why ride an animal that was never
meant to be ridden? Why risk being crippled or killed? This
makes no sense to me." She paused to study his face. Defensively she added, "You wanted to know what I thought."

"I did. I suppose most women feel the same way. Except
the groupies. They-" Quint swallowed the rest of what
he'd almost blurted out, realizing by the widening of
Aileen's eyes that mentioning the groupies had been a mistake.

Aileen folded her arms across her chest. She pictured
sexy young things wearing tight jeans and push-up bras
hanging on his arms, gazing at him adoringly. She didn't
particularly like the image. "Groupies? Of course. Every
male activity that has some glamour to it, even if it's
shoddy, will have a female following. And I bet they were
all over you."

Quint shrugged, his expression as sober as he could manage. It was obvious that Aileen didn't like the idea of
groupies surrounding him. That pleased him. "I never encouraged them," he claimed.

He wouldn't have to, she realized. This irritated her. He
wouldn't have to do a single thing and women would follow him, and the more disinterested he acted, the more
persistently they would try to catch his attention. They
probably unbuttoned their blouses, swished and swayed
their hips, and paraded shamelessly in front of him to get
him to notice them.

"But I bet you didn't discourage them," she said, her
voice cold.

Quint grinned. "When I was eighteen, nineteen, I naturally thought life couldn't get any better than having
women chase me. What red-blooded young buck wouldn't
think that?"

"And when you got to be twenty-seven, twenty-eight?"

He shrugged. "I still like women. I'm pretty sure I always will, so sue me."

Aileen leveled a long look at him.

Quickly he added, "But groupies no longer interest me."

"Yeah, right.

"Really. It's the truth."

"Why not? Seems to me you wouldn't have to woo them,
or wine and dine them to charm them into your bed."
Aileen saw his jaw clench and his eyes narrow and knew
she had crossed a line.

"Are you saying a rodeo bum isn't supposed to be
choosy? Have any standards? Is that what you're claiming?"

"No. I'm sorry if I implied that. I didn't mean it. And I
didn't call you a rodeo bum."

"You're too well brought up to say that out loud, but I
bet you thought it."

"I wasn't thinking that. Until a few minutes ago, I didn't
even know you followed the rodeo circuit."

"I never followed it full-time. I only entered events that
were near the spreads where I worked."

"To earn extra money."

"Primarily, but I won't deny that it wasn't also thrilling.
To a kid who'd been in and out of a half-dozen foster
homes and agencies, who'd been considered wild and incorrigible, a little applause, a little recognition, was like
salve on an open saddle sore. We didn't all grow up where
you were given gold stars or words of praise and validation."

Aileen looked at him for a long moment. "I can't even
begin to imagine what your teenage years were like."

"Darlin', you don't need to imagine my youth. I don't
need your pity," he snapped.

She had hurt his feelings again without meaning to. With
a pang she realized that behind that handsome, reckless
facade, he hid barely healed wounds and an easily hurt
pride. She would have to be more careful with her words.

"Looking at you, I'd never presume to offer you pity,"
she said. "I'm sure men envy you and women adore you."

"Horses and dogs like me too," Quint said, his tone selfmocking.

"I don't doubt that. You could probably charm the proverbial birds out of a tree as well," she said, matching his
ironic tone. Then growing serious, she said, "What I meant
was, I feel compassion for the boy who had no home."

"Well, the boy's all grown up, so save your compassion."

So much pain beneath that fierce pride. Aileen wanted
to touch him, to...What? He didn't want compassion, and
anything else was inappropriate. The tone of his voice told
her that the discussion of his past was closed. At least for
now. Aileen knew she wouldn't be able to leave it alone.
She was always interested in people, so how could she not
be intensely curious about Quint? She had never known a
man like him.

She glanced at him. He hadn't shaved this morning. The
dark stubble reinforced the aura of quiet danger that clung
to him. Men would hesitate to tangle with him and women,
if they had any sense of self-preservation, would cross the
street when they saw him coming. And here she was, sharing a house with him. Heaven help her. The pressure
around her lungs increased as if she had dived too deeply
into the gray-green water of an unknown river.

"Have you had breakfast?" Quint asked.

"Only coffee."

"Why don't I cook us some flapjacks?"

Visualizing chewy, bland pancakes, she said, "Why don't
we cooperate in fixing breakfast? There's a loaf of bread
that's beginning to go stale. It'll be just right for French
toast."

"Sounds good to me. What do you want me to do?"

"Set the table and pour juice. But first, get me two eggs
from the fridge and the milk."

"Yes, ma'am."

Aileen ignored his mock-serious tone of voice. She cut
the loaf of homemade bread into thick slices. Then she beat
the eggs with milk, added spices, and soaked the bread in
the fragrant liquid.

Quint sniffed. Whatever it was Aileen had added to the
milk reminded him of her scent. He didn't know if the
fragrance was due to perfume or was the natural smell of
her skin; he hadn't been close enough to her to determine
that. In any event, the scent made him think of the caramel
on top of the flan his Aunt Ramona used to make. She
wasn't really is aunt, but a kind woman who had taken him
in after his mother's death. Unfortunately, a stroke had
lamed her and sent him to his first foster home.

Dismissing thoughts of the past, he completed his tasks.
Then he brooded over their earlier conversation about easy
money and values as he watched her saute sausage patties
in one pan and French toast in another. His initial assessment had been correct. He would have to prove himself to
her, and that wouldn't be easy. She had high standards.
Then and there he resolved that he would not only meet
her standards, but surpass them. He would show her that
he was good enough for her.

While they ate, Aileen turned the conversation back to
the rodeo. "It's not that I disapprove of the rodeo as much
as I simply don't understand it. What would possess a supposedly sane man to climb on the back of a bull who's
been raised to be snake mean and chronically illtempered?"

Quint thought for a moment before answering her question. "I suppose the same thing that makes men climb
snow-capped mountains, or race cars at death-defying speeds, or surf killer waves. The challenge. The danger.
The satisfaction of doing it and surviving. The competition."