Ride the Thunder (19 page)

Stiffly she walked to where the two ranch hands were separating the gear. “These are mine.” She identified the items belonging to her.

As Jordanna picked up the small suitcase, the Basque shepherd gathered up the rest of her things. “I will show you where you will sleep, Miss Smith,” he said with an ingratiating nod of his head.

Her father, brother, and Max followed Tandy up the stairs while she crossed the living room with Jocko
toward the plain wooden door. It opened into a bedroom. The monastic interior contained a dresser, a crude chair, a nightstand, and a bed covered with a heavy quilt. The bed was wider than a single, yet a few inches short of being a double. The austerity of the room seemed to match the man who slept in it. Jordanna had envisioned lying again with him too many times in the past not to be disturbed by the prospect of sleeping in his bed. It was agitating to discover the thought of his caresses still had the ability to arouse her, even when she was angered by his attitude.

The shepherd noticed the thinning of her lips and guessed the cause. “You must make allowances for Brig’s harshness, Miss Smith,” he said in his softly accented voice. “We do not have much contact with women of your breeding. He has, perhaps, forgotten how to treat someone like you.”

“I doubt if he will thank you for making apologies for his behavior, Jocko.” Jordanna breathed out a silent sniff.

He overlooked her reply to inquire, “Your accommodations are satisfactory?”

“Yes.” She had to agree. The shepherd wouldn’t understand her objections to the choice of sleeping quarters.

“If you wish for anything, I will be in the kitchen.” With a faint nod, he moved toward the door.

“Thank you.”

After he’d left the room, Jordanna remained standing in the same place. The sheer masculinity of the room was overpowering. She felt its effect in the shallow quality of her breathing and the racing skip of her heartbeat. Her gaze strayed to the bed that could snugly sleep two and she pivoted from the sight of it. Jordanna discovered she was rubbing her wrist, where his hand had been, the sensation lingering. Her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands to fight the sharp ache inside.

She heard footsteps on the stairs and left the room through the open doorway as her father descended the
steps ahead of the other men. She walked swiftly to the base of the stairs to meet him. The troubled darkness of her hazel eyes relayed a silent message of concern and misgivings.

“I want to talk to you, Dad,” Jordanna requested, in a voice husky with urgency.

He appeared momentarily impatient at her demand, but he paused at the foot of the stairs to ask Tandy, “Is there someplace where we can check-fire our rifles?”

“You can test them out back.”

“We’ll need something for targets. Paper plates will be fine, or tin cans.”

“I’ll find something,” Tandy promised and started for the kitchen. “I’ll meet you outside, in back of the house.”

“Max, would you mind going back upstairs after my rifle?” Fletcher glanced at the curly-haired man standing on the second step.

“I don’t mind,” Max assured him and turned to mount the stairs.

“What’s the matter, Jordanna?” It was her brother who asked the question.

“This situation is intolerable.” She addressed the answer to her father. “You know what it’s like to live day-in and day-out on the trail, Dad, and how nerve-wracking it can be if you aren’t compatible with the people along on the hunt. The . . . rancher’s attitude toward me is going to make it impossible for all of us.” She kept her voice low so it wouldn’t carry to the other rooms.

“You are exaggerating,” Fletcher insisted with an indulgent smile that refused to take her seriously. “So he did make a mistake about your relationship to me,” he shrugged his lack of concern over that. “There’s no need for you to take it as a personal insult. Where is your sense of humor, Jordanna?”

“I’m just supposed to laugh it off, is that it?” She was angry, because there were memories she could not laugh away.

“It would certainly ease the tension around here if you pretended it was a joke,” he reasoned.

“I can’t stretch my imagination that far.” The retort trembled from her lips, the turmoil inside surfacing in her words.

“What happened that night at the party?” Christopher frowned. “Did he make a pass at you?”

“You could say that,” Jordanna admitted with a bitterly soft laugh. She turned to her father to accuse: “If only you had mentioned that Brig had been at the party . . . If I bad suspected who he was before we had arrived . . .” Jordanna stopped.

It wouldn’t have made any difference. If anything, she would have been more eager to meet again the man who had made such a profound impression on her. Now, faced with his low opinion of her, she wanted only to escape it.

“If McCord made a pass at you the last time you met, he obviously found you attractive.” Her father didn’t see why that should add to the difficulty of the present situation. “More than likely, he still does. Instead of losing your temper and making the misunderstanding worse, you should try a little charm, Jordanna. He’s agreed to take you on the hunt. Now make him like it.” Fletcher paused to absently murmur to himself, “In fact, it might make everything very easy.”

“Easy?!”

He looked startled to discover he’d spoken the thought aloud, but hurriedly defended it. “Yes, easy. As you pointed out, the hunting trip could become uncomfortably tense if his resentment of your presence continues.”

In agitation, Jordanna turned from her father. “Let’s cancel the trip. We can find another reputable outfitter and guide to take us at the last minute if we pay them enough. Or we can go another time.”

“No.” His swift, decisive denial was followed immediately by a hand clamping on her arm. Rarely had Jordanna ever seen her father angry, but he was now.
His nostrils were flared and his mouth was pinched in a tight line. “We’ll go now! And with McCord! I’ll never have another set-up like this! I could never arrange anything this perfectly again!”

“What do you mean ‘set-up’?” Christopher demanded. “What are you talking about, Dad?”

His head jerked to the dark piercing eyes of his son, as if he had forgotten Kit was there. Instantly Fletcher released Jordanna’s arm, and the harsh lines of anger were wiped from his expression. Jordanna was puzzled by the swift change of mood that reminded her of a chameleon taking on protective coloring to hide himself from the enemy.

“I mean that I’ll never have a better chance to get my trophy ram. McCord is guiding exclusively for me, taking me to an area that hasn’t been heavily hunted and one that he’s become thoroughly familiar with. The fact that he isn’t a professional guide is in my favor this time. He won’t be holding back a ram with trophy horns for any favorite client.”

Jordanna glanced at her brother. He looked withdrawn and contemplative. She had the feeling she was being shut out from something important, but didn’t know why she had that impression.

“But you weren’t this upset when Brig wanted to cancel the hunt?” she remembered, using the rancher’s given name with unconscious ease.

“He said that in the heat of the moment. I knew once he’d cooled off he would retract it, whether you were my daughter or my mistress.”

Bewildered, Jordanna didn’t understand how her father could have been so confident. She had believed completely that Brig had meant every word. Canceling the hunt hadn’t simply been an empty threat.

“How did you know that?”

“Because I bought him. He’d already seen the down-payment and knew the color of my money.” Her father sounded so cynical and calculating that Jordanna felt hurt.

“You bought him?” She was skeptical that Brig
McCord could be bought at any price. He was too self-possessed, too self-sufficient for that.

“Do you find that hard to believe?” Fletcher laughed at her in that stranger’s voice. “The severe winter wiped him out. He was going to lose this place until I met him in July.”

“But you couldn’t have known that then?” Jordanna protested.

“I didn’t. I had him investigated. After all, I wanted to be sure I was dealing with a reputable person,” he defended his action. “I’m paying him top dollar for this hunt, plus a sizable bonus if I get my trophy ram. I bought him and McCord couldn’t afford to tell me ‘no sale.’ ”

“Why did you get so angry with me?”

“Because McCord is in my pocket. He’ll make the hunt. I resented your suggestion that we should cancel. You are my daughter. But I won’t cancel this hunt, not even for you, Jordanna.”

“If it’s so important for you to get this trophy ram,” Christopher inserted, “why are you dragging around the dead weights of two non-hunters, Max and me?”

“How could I refuse your request to come hunting with me when I’ve waited so long to hear it, Kit?” Fletcher countered. “As for Max, I didn’t invite him along. You’ll have to speak to McCord about him. Until he proves to be a burden, I can’t make a complaint. If and when he does, you can be sure I’ll say something.”

“Fletcher?” Max appeared at the head of the stairs. “I can’t find your rifle. It isn’t up here.”

“It isn’t?” Her father raised an eyebrow in surprise, then glanced toward the front door. A look of chagrin passed over his face. “You’re right. It isn’t. It’s downstairs by the door. I’m sorry for sending you on a wild goose chase, Max.”

“That’s all right.” Max started down the stairs.

“You’d better get your rifle, Jordanna. Tandy is waiting outside for us,” her father reminded.

Entering the bedroom, Jordanna picked up the worn scabbard with her rifle inside and a box of ammunition. She returned to the living room and trailed behind her father and Max Sanger to walk with her brother. Outside, she lagged behind, eyeing her father with confusion and concern. Christopher fell back with her.

“I’ve never heard Dad talk like that, Kit,” she admitted.

“He’s probably never let you see that side of him before. You are daddy’s little girl.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He has always shielded you from what he considers the unpleasantries of life. He’s taken you all over the world, Jordanna, so your eyes would be dazzled by so many different sights that you wouldn’t see what’s in front of your nose.” Sadness was mixed with his cynicism.

“Was that . . . really our father talking?”

“A man doesn’t accumulate the wealth and power that he has without learning how to use and manipulate people for his personal benefit. Our father expects the best. He won’t settle for less. And failure is something he won’t tolerate. He’ll fight it as savagely as any beast he’s ever hunted. He won’t give up . . . on anything. He’d cut out his own heart first.”

“No.” Jordanna rejected the image her brother had portrayed. He didn’t argue, but his look said he felt sorry for her. “You don’t know Dad as well as I do,” she insisted.

Tandy was waiting for them by the woodshed in back of the house. “I’ve set up some paper plates to use as targets.” He motioned toward the white circular objects tacked against a back cushion of hay, some eighty strides in the opposite direction of the pasture.

“That looks fine.” Her father nodded his approval and glanced at Jordanna. “Do you want to go first?”

The rear screen door slammed. Jordanna didn’t have to turn around to know Brig McCord had stepped out side.
Some inner sense made her aware of his presence. He
momentarily
unsettled her and she gave a negative shake of her head.

“You go ahead, Dad,” she insisted.

A built-in radar system seemed tuned to his approach. Jordanna made a project of unfastening the flap of her scabbard to remove her specially made. .30-06 rifle. When Brig McCord entered her side vision, her nerves quivered, but she refused to acknowledge him with a look. Gripping the French walnut stock, she removed the rifle and handed the leather scabbard to her brother.

“Hello, McCord.” Her father nodded and walked to within twenty-odd feet of an outcropping of granite rock. “We decided to check our rifles after the journey here and adjust our scopes.” He glanced to Jordanna who was loading hers. “I’ll take the plate on the right.”

“Okay.” Steadfastly, she avoided looking at the tall, broad-shouldered man to her left.

Her father’s first shot hit the plate dead-center. The horses in the corral milled nervously in surprise at the sound. With an unhurried spacing of his shots, he emptied a round into the paper disc. The accuracy of his shots cut out a black bulls-eye in the center of the plate.

“Your turn.” Fletcher stepped back to reload.

Jordanna moved to a spot parallel with her father. Lifting the rifle to her shoulder, she sighted the target through the scope. Conscious of the pair of hard brown eyes watching her, she steadied her arm. The first shot went wide of the center, betraying her nervousness, but the rest formed a cluster in the middle of the plate. Lowering the muzzle of the rifle, she glanced over her shoulder at Brig McCord. The haughtiness of challenge was in the tilt of her chin.

“Are you convinced I can shoot?”

He stood relaxed, his hands on his hips, his gaze directed at the paper target. Leisurely, the gaze swung to her. “I’m convinced you can hit a paper plate at eighty yards.”

Seething, Jordanna realized she had invited that remark. She should have kept silent. She was angered by her own foolishness.

“That’s a beautiful rifle,” Max commented. “May I see it?”

“Sure.” Turning her back on the target, she handed the rifle to him.

Max double-checked to make sure it wasn’t loaded before running a caressing hand over the smooth wooden stock. “It’s a beauty,” he repeated absently. As he held it lengthwise in front of him, the muzzle of the rifle was accidentally pointed at Brig.

Jordanna saw the flash of anger thin his mouth as Brig took a sideways step forward out of the rifle’s line. His hand grabbed the barrel and pointed the muzzle into the air.

“Hey! What the . . .” Max began in surprise, the rifle nearly jerked from his hand by Brig’s sudden action.

“Don’t ever point a gun at me,” was the low, ominous warning.

“It isn’t loaded. I checked,” Max protested.