How to Lasso a Cowboy (40 page)

MAUREEN MCKADE

 
WINSTON TAYLOR EASED
back on his horse's reins, bringing the animal to a halt. He rested his crossed wrists on the saddle horn as the gelding blew noisily and swished his tail at the ever-present flies. Ahead of him, orange, red, and coral rays streaked out from behind deep purple mountain peaks and violet clouds. However, it wasn't the spectacular sunset that captured Win's attention.

Instead, it was the small cluster of corrals and buildings set against the breathtaking backdrop that made his heart slide into his throat. A barn with a pole corral disappearing around its side had been added since he'd been here with his pa, but little else had changed in the ensuing ten years.

Ten years since he'd felt a sense of home and belonging.

Ten years since he'd seen Caitlin Brice.

Unease shot through him, making him question his good sense in responding to the telegram. He'd stayed away all these years, even when his father had made his annual visits
to his old friend Tremayne Brice. Win had hoped to protect Cait by his absence.

With his pa dead, the Brices were the closest thing to kin Win had, and he'd broken his self-imposed exile because they needed his help. Seeing Cait again would be difficult, and he was thankful her father would be there to act as a buffer between them.

Suddenly impatient, Win clucked his horse into motion. The sooner he found out why they sought his help, the sooner he could accomplish his task and disappear from Cait's life. Again.

As he drew nearer, the cabin door swung open. A shadowed figure stepped onto the porch and froze, obviously seeing him. He tipped his low-crowned hat off his forehead, affecting a reckless nonchalance.

He drank in her appearance, from the practical trousers that enhanced her long slender legs and slightly rounded hips, to the loose shirt that camouflaged the gentle curves beneath it. Despite the men's clothing and rifle gripped in her hands, there was no doubt Cait had blossomed into a beautiful woman.

The ten years evaporated as Win recalled with startling clarity the smoothness of her bare skin, and the way she'd arched against him, giving herself freely without regard to the repercussions of being with
him
. He'd been fifteen-year-old Cait's first man, and he'd been little more than a boy himself at seventeen.

He sucked in a deep breath and willed his body to ignore the insistent rush of lust that bolted through him. Even after all these years, Cait made him feel like a rutting stallion.

Her lush lips curved downward and her backbone stiffened. Although he couldn't see her eyes clearly, he knew their blue depths would be snapping with that fierce Brice temper—full of fire and passion.

God, he'd missed her. Not just the woman, but the childhood friend he'd known since they'd been knee-high. She was the only friend he'd had while growing up, despite the fact they'd only seen one another two months out of each
year. His shoulders slumped as he realized his abrupt leave-taking ten years ago had destroyed whatever affection she'd harbored for him.

Isn't that what I intended, to ensure she wouldn't pine for me?

He dismounted gingerly, ignoring the twinges in his legs and back from long days in the saddle. After wrapping the leather reins around the hitching post, he faced the woman once more. “Hello, Cait,” he said in a voice husky with disuse.

“Win.” Her voice was cool but she set the rifle down, leaning it against the porch rail.

“I got the telegram.”

She crossed her arms, unintentionally drawing his attention to her modest bosom. “I reckoned.”

He dragged his gaze back to her face and frowned at her terseness. Where had the talkative girl gone? “The message said you needed me.”

Cait flinched, then her lips settled into a grim line. “I need your
help
.”

He shrugged. “Same thing.”

She glared at him and opened her mouth, then abruptly closed it. She looked beyond him, anger radiating from her ramrod-straight figure.

For a moment, Win was tempted to tell her why he had left so abruptly all those years ago, but the impulse passed. She might understand his reasons, but it wouldn't make her hate him any less. “You and your pa sent for me. Why?”

She continued to stare over his shoulder, then finally relented and motioned with her chin toward the new circular enclosure. Win turned his head and spotted a magnificent black horse prancing around in the corral. His breath caught and held as he watched the stallion shake its regal head, its mane flowing like an ebony river. The animal must have been concealed by the barn when Win had arrived because he surely would have noticed him.

“He's our hope to breed and sell more than the run-of-the-mill cattle horses,” Cait continued, her voice not quite
steady. “He's got champion blood running through his veins.”

“Wild?”

She nodded and slid her hands into her pockets. “Me and Pa caught him in the foothills about a month ago. We got half his mares, too.” Her voice possessed a hint of pride.

Win whistled low. “You did good.”

Cait's lips curled downward. “Except he won't let anyone near him.” She cleared her throat. “Deil can't be tamed.”

“Deil?”

“The stallion. It means ‘devil' in Scottish.”

Win turned back to the stallion, surprised to see it watching them, as if knowing he was the subject of their conversation. “If he can't be tamed, why did your father send for me?”

“Because Pa figured you were the only man who had a chance.”

Win smiled. Tremayne had always respected the abilities of both Win and his father, Adam, to gentle even the most savage horse. He glanced around. “Where is Tremayne?” He grinned wryly. “In town drinking his supper like he and Pa used to do?”

There was a long moment of silence. “He's dead,” she said without emotion, her arms crossed tightly.

Win reeled with shock, his mind unwilling to accept the flat pronouncement. “When?”

She shrugged. “Two weeks ago.”

“I'm sorry,” he managed to say past the godawful lump in his throat. Tremayne had been more like an uncle than a friend.

“Me, too.” Cait's reticence slipped and Win glimpsed the pain beneath her tough-as-gristle exterior. Suddenly, Win saw a little girl in the woman's place. Young Cait had caught a butterfly, and ran to him, eager and excited to share her treasure. But when she opened her hand to let it fly away home, the green and blue butterfly was dead. Tears had dribbled down her rosy cheeks and Win, two years older, had comforted her with an awkward hug and a gentle punch to her arm.

Win wanted to do the same now, but suspected Cait would thump
him
this time, and it wouldn't be a friendly cuff.

Cait cleared her throat and the brief vulnerability vanished. “I'm sorry about your father, too.”

“Thanks, but it's been two years.” He paused, and couldn't help adding with more than a hint of accusation, “You didn't come to the funeral.”

Her slender fingers curled into her palms and her lips thinned. “Pa was there.”

Win took a deep breath, knowing he would only stir up the past more than he had already if he told her he'd missed her. “I wish you'd wired me about Tremayne. I would've liked to pay my respects.” His words came out harsher than he'd intended.

“It only would've made things harder.” She stared past him again. “I didn't need you.”

Win studied her proud carriage and sighed. “No, you never did, did you?” he said too softly for her to hear. Fighting both annoyance and guilty acknowledgment, he fished around for a less-painful subject. “When did you build the barn and second busting pen?”

Her defensiveness eased, but her taut shoulders revealed continuing wariness. “Six years ago for the barn. The corral was put up last month, right before we rounded up the wild horses.” She motioned to the barn and the network of corrals beyond the copse of trees. “This was Pa's dream.”

Win nodded. “I remember. It was all he talked about—building a horse ranch where folks would come to buy the best horses.” He studied the pale oval of her face through the growing dusk. “It was your dream, too.”

Cait gazed into the fading brilliance of the sunset. Her skin reflected the orange tint of the western horizon. “It still is.” She motioned toward the stallion again. “On his deathbed, Pa asked me to bring you here to tame Deil.”

She faced him, then, and met his gaze. “If it were up to me, I wouldn't have sent you that telegram.” She paused, and confessed hoarsely, “I never wanted to see you again.”

After all the years of believing what he'd done was the right thing, her confession shouldn't have hurt, but it did. Yet he'd brought it on himself. He'd wronged her and her father, and had tried to make it right by disappearing from their lives. But he owed them, and Tremayne's last wish would be his penance. He'd tame the stallion so Cait could attain the dream for both her and her father.

“I understand,” Win finally said. “I'll leave as soon as the stallion's ready.”

All emotion seeped from Cait's features. “I'll pay you a dollar a day plus room and board.”

“You don't have to—”

“Yes, I do. This is strictly business.” Steel glinted in her eyes.

“I ain't likely to forget,” Win said dryly.

“See that you don't. You can sleep in the barn. Breakfast is at six.”

“Fine.”

Cait grabbed her rifle, spun around, and marched back into the cabin. She paused in the doorway and called over her shoulder, “I'm a light sleeper and I keep the rifle next to the bed.” With that not-so-subtle warning, Cait entered the cabin.

A light flickered and swelled from within, dappling pale light onto the porch. Win remained rooted in place, watching her shadowy figure against the thin curtains until a cool breeze smelling of rain blew across his face.

Win unwrapped his gelding's reins and led his horse toward the barn. He paused by the corral where Deil stood motionless, neck arched imperiously as he stared down at Win.

“So, Deil, are you really the devil?” he asked, meeting the stallion's haughty gaze.

The devil reared up on its hind legs and trumpeted a shrill whinny.

Win instinctively stepped back, even though Deil had no chance of touching him. The first raindrops began to patter against the hard ground, giving Win an excuse to retreat.

Deil would definitely be a challenge, but taming the stallion would be a cakewalk compared to trying to tame his mistress.

AFTER
lighting the kerosene lamp, Cait lowered herself to the rocking chair, which had been her father's favorite place in the evenings. Ever since his death, she'd felt comforted by the rhythmic motion of the chair. Sometimes she closed her eyes and remembered how she used to clamber into his lap when she was small and demand he tell her a story.

Sitting there now, Cait could almost hear the faint Scottish burr in his low, rumbly voice. A tear rolled down her cheek, surprising her. She didn't think she had any left, but informing Win of her pa's death brought back the razor-sharp sorrow.