How to Lasso a Cowboy (42 page)

Cait stumbled to her knees beside him and rested her hand on his shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

The coughing eased and Win spat out gritty sand. He nodded with a jerky motion, still rattled by the close call. “Just bruised.”

He began to push himself to a sitting position, and Cait helped him with a steady pressure on his back.

“You're bleeding,” Cait suddenly said. “Let me take a look.”

Win glanced down at his throbbing arm and blinked at the red stain across his sleeve. “It's nothing.”

Cait glared at him. Knowing he wouldn't win this argument, he carefully held out his arm and was relieved to find it didn't feel broken. He'd earned enough broken bones through the years to know what it felt like. “I've been cut worse shaving.”

Cait rolled her eyes at the phrase they'd both heard for years. “You, Pa, and Uncle Adam—one of you could be dying, and it'd be, ‘I've been cut worse shaving.' ”

Win grinned. “You're one to talk. You said it yourself one time.”

“My one and only time.” Cait unbuttoned Win's cuff and rolled up the bloody sleeve. Her fingertips brushed his skin, leaving pockets of warmth, and she leaned so close that her flowery soap scent rose above the sour scent of sweat and fear. “When Pa told me I'd never have to shave, I cried.”

Win remembered the scene vividly. “You cried more over that than your broken collarbone.”

Cait huffed a soft laugh. “I don't think Pa knew what to do with me.”

“Good thing I was around.”

Cait lifted her head and her eyes were almost warm. “I guess it was.” Her attention returned to his injury and
her tone turned businesslike. “Let's go to the porch and I'll clean this up and bandage it for you.”

Although Win figured a tied bandanna around the wound would suffice, he didn't argue. He didn't want to disturb the fragile harmony between them.

Leaning on her more than necessary, Win relished the feel of her arm around his waist and her unique scent that reminded him of a field of wildflowers. He'd doubted he'd ever touch her again, even in friendship, after her chilly reception last evening. Exaggerating the seriousness of a minor wound was a small sin to have her so close.

She settled him on the rickety rocker on the porch and he wished he dared pull her onto his lap. As children they argued over who would get the rocker. Sometimes they decided by playing a marble game where they would take turns trying to hit each other's marble with their own. The first to miss lost. But more often than not, they ended up scrunching together on the chair.

“Do you still have your topaz cat's-eye?” Win asked curiously.

Cait paused before entering the cabin and studied him blankly, then comprehension filled her face. She dug into her pocket, drew her fist out, and opened her hand. In the center of her palm lay a golden brown marble. She shrugged and shoved it back into her pocket. “It got to be habit carrying it around.”

Amazed that she still had it, much less kept it with her all the time, Win realized maybe
his
Cait wasn't long gone. That maybe the spirited but gentle-hearted Cait he'd known most of his life was hiding behind this woman's cool reserve.

“Do you still have yours?” she asked, still standing in the doorway and gazing at him intently.

For a moment, Win would've traded everything to have his lucky marble in his pocket, but he'd lost it long ago. “No.”

Disappointment flickered across her face, but all she said was “Oh.” Then she went into the cabin without another glance.

 
ONCE INSIDE THE
cabin, Cait leaned against the door and forced herself to breathe deeply. Between Win's close encounter with Deil and the unearthing of long-ago feelings, she felt shaky and uncertain. Her heart gradually slowed its rapid gallop.

Memories she shared with Win unsettled her, and they jumbled with images of Deil trampling her father. She recalled with horrifying clarity the moment she believed Win would be struck down in the same manner as her father. Terror and helplessness slashed through her, leaving her weak and nauseous. If Deil had killed Win, too . . .

In two long strides, she crossed the room and seized the cool metal rifle in her trembling hands. Damn her father's last words—a man's life was worth far more than a broken promise.

She jerked open the cabin door and stormed out.

Win glanced up from the rocking chair, his injured arm resting in his lap. “Cait?”

She ignored him, intent on her mission. Reaching the corral that held Deil, she lifted the rifle stock to her shoulder and sighted down the barrel at the center of the stallion's forehead.

“What the hell are you doing?” Win demanded.

His appearance so close startled her, ruining her perfect aim. “Stay back.” She hardly recognized the growl as her voice.

Deil stared at her, motionless, his head held high as if daring her to squeeze the trigger. Cait was more than ready to take that dare.

Suddenly, Win jerked the rifle from her grip and she made a wild grab for it. Stepping back, he kept it out of her reach.

“Give it back!”

“Not until you tell me why you were going to shoot him.”

She made a final attempt to retrieve the weapon, but Win evaded her again. Fury thrummed through her as she breathed heavily. “He's a killer!”

“I'm not dead.” Impatience made Win's words curt.

“Pa is!” The truth burst out before she could stop herself. “Deil attacked Pa, trampled him. I dragged him out of the corral before Deil could finish him, but he'd been hurt so badly . . . so badly.” Her breath hitched and she dropped her chin to her chest, unable to bear the sympathy in Win's eyes.

“The doc did what he could but Pa was bleeding inside and it was only a matter of time. I was going to put down the stallion then, but Pa wouldn't let me. He said—” Her voice broke and she cleared her throat noisily. “He said Deil was my only hope of holding on to the ranch. He made me promise to send for you to tame Deil.” She finally lifted her chin and met his stunned gaze. “And now Deil almost killed you. He
is
the devil. He has to be put down before he kills anyone else.”

Win's jaw muscle flexed. “Why didn't you tell me?”

Cait turned away, incapable of facing him as she spoke the words that condemned her. “
I
was the one who talked Pa into going after the wild horses.
I
was the one hell-bent on
capturing Deil.
I
was the one who insisted on taming the stallion. If I hadn't been so stubborn, Pa would still be alive.”

She felt his solid presence at her back. “If your pa didn't want to go after them, he wouldn't have. And if he thought Deil couldn't be tamed, he wouldn't have tried.”

Cait whirled around to find his face inches from hers. “We
shouldn't
have tried, but we did, and now he's dead.” She glared over his shoulder at the stallion. “And
he's
still alive.”

Deil tossed his head and pranced around the corral, muscles rippling beneath his shiny black coat. As much as Cait loathed him, she admired him just as passionately. He was the most magnificent stallion she'd ever seen. How could such a beautiful creature be so evil?

“I wish you would've told me this before I started,” Win said wearily, rubbing his brow.

She pursed her lips, unwilling to confess that she'd been shamed by her guilt.

“Very few horses are actually killers,” Win continued, eyeing the stallion. “Even though he trampled your father, I don't believe Deil is a killer. I'm just going to have to take things slower.”

“You're crazy.” How could he continue to work with Deil now that he knew the horse's true nature? “He nearly trampled you, too.”

“I got cocky,” Win admitted. “I figured he was just like all the others. Now I know better. I'll be more careful. Besides, your pa thought I could break him.”

“Pa was out of his head with pain and fever.”

“Then why did you send me that telegram?”

Cait's mouth lost all moisture. “I made a promise.”

“And I'm going to keep my end of that promise.” Win glanced at the rifle, then held it out to her. “Can I trust you not to do anything foolish?”

Cait's desire to shoot the stallion had faded along with her rage and she took the weapon from his hand with a small nod. Her gaze fell to the drying blood on his forearm. “That wound needs to be tended.”

“I'll take care of it. It's just a cut.” He smiled and cupped her cheek, brushing her skin with his callused thumb. “Honest.”

Cait studied his hazel eyes, seeing an echo of the sincerity and tenderness that had been there so many years ago. She nodded, afraid if she touched him—even to treat a wound—she'd be forced to confront feelings she'd laid to rest a long time ago. “I have to clean out the barn, then I plan to work with the mustangs.”

“Deil's mine,” Win said firmly.

“All right.” Cait swallowed her apprehension and stated her conditions. “But if he attacks you again, I won't be stopped a second time.”

Win nodded somberly. “Fair enough. But I don't plan on giving Deil another chance to get that close.”

“Pa didn't either.”

“I'm not your pa.”

Cait recognized the stubbornness in Win's eyes and knew there'd be no way to talk him out of working with the killer stallion. She only hoped her pa had been right in placing his faith in him.

Because she'd lost her faith in Win a long time ago.

CAIT
concentrated on threading the leather traces through the worn harness. Ever since her father's death, she'd let things go around the ranch, including cleaning and repairing the tack, which had been his job since he had been more patient and skilled. However, she couldn't tempt fate any longer. Shabby equipment led to serious injuries, sometimes death, if it broke at an inopportune moment. Cait understood the necessity but that didn't mean she liked the task.

A sweat droplet trailed down her cheek and, using the back of her wrist, she swiped away the irritation and stifled a hiss of pain. She'd started working with the wild mares again two days ago, after Win's close brush with Deil, and had earned muscle aches and bruises for her labor.

Although she'd told Win she could handle the work, she was beginning to wonder if she really could keep up with the chores. There were a dozen wild mares, two of which were heavy with foals and three that had already foaled in the last month that had yet to be handled. The eight she'd managed to set a saddle on still had hours of training before she'd be able to sell them.

Glancing up from her task, she spotted Win through the crack in the barn doors. She could see him in profile and his lips were moving, but she couldn't hear his voice. He was probably talking to Deil again.

Ever since Deil had nearly trampled him, Win had done nothing but remain in the stallion's presence. Sometimes he sat on the top rail; other times he rested his crossed arms on the rail and leaned into it. And every time she'd walked by the corral, Cait could hear Win talking to Deil in his soothing timbre. She usually hurried past, hating how her body responded to the seductive resonance of his low voice.

That hypnotic voice was what made him so different from other bronc busters. He didn't just slap a blanket and saddle on a horse, then jump on and claw leather. Nor did he whip the animal until it flinched like a beaten dog every time a person came near. No, Win first gained the horses's trust, ensuring the spirit remained and only its body was tamed.

He'd worked the same magic on her, and his presence here now was a constant reminder of her naiveté and lost innocence. When he'd gone, he'd left a fifteen-year-old to face the consequences of their actions alone. She could never forgive him for that.

Suddenly feeling tetchy, Cait laid aside the harness and stood, stretching her back and shoulders. The popping joints sounded ominously loud in the barn's silence. She strode outside, determined not to look in Win's direction. However, her traitorous gaze defied her intentions and fastened onto his denim-clad backside, framed by brown formfitting chaps. A plaid shirt spanned his broad shoulders and
was tucked into his narrow waist. His body had filled out in the intervening years, transforming a wiry boy's body into a man's lean, rock-hard one.