Secrets and Lies: He's a Bad Boy\He's Just a Cowboy (33 page)

Damn, damn, damn and double damn! Now what? Within seconds the forest seemed to part and the river rushed before her, a night-dark swirl that cut through the canyon. Turner, dressed only in his jeans and boots, was sitting on the rocks, his face a stony mask, fury blazing like lightning in his eyes. Drops of water still clung to his hair and drizzled down his chin.

“Nice try,” he said to Heather’s mortification.

“You
are
a bastard.”

“Just as long as I’m not a gentleman,” he drawled, shoving himself to his feet and dusting his hands.

“Never.”

“Good. Glad that’s settled.” He walked over to the gelding, and before Heather could scramble off, he’d hopped onto Sampson’s broad back, wedging his thin hips between Heather’s rump and the back of the saddle.

“Hey—just a minute—”

“At least I’m not a horse thief.”

“It was only a prank.” Heather’s mind was racing and her heart pumped wildly. “Look, I’m sorry. Now, I’ll walk back to the ranch—”

“Too late. We’re doin’ this my way,” he said, clucking to Sampson and taking the reins from Heather’s reluctant fingers. His arms surrounded her, his scent filled her nostrils and his breath, hot and wild, seemed to caress the damp strands of her hair. Lord, what a predicament!

Her heart was drumming so loudly, she was sure he could hear its loud tattoo. The back of her shirt, still damp, was pressed into the rock-solid wall of his chest and his legs surrounded hers, muscle for muscle, thigh to thigh, calf to calf. Worst of all, her buttocks were crushed intimately against the apex of his legs, moving rhythmically as the horse headed home. One of his hands held the reins, the other was splayed firmly over her abdomen, his thumb nearly brushing the underside of her breasts.

“I’ll walk,” she said again, her voice a strange whisper.

“No way.”

“Then
you
walk.”

“Sampson can handle us both.”

But I can’t handle you!
she thought, clenching her teeth in order to keep her wild tongue silent. She’d just try to pretend that he wasn’t slammed up so close to her that she could feel the tickle of chest hair through her T-shirt. She’d attempt to ignore the scents of river water mingling with musk and pine as he swayed in the saddle so intimately against her. She’d disregard the fact that his breath blew gently against the nape of her neck, causing delicious tingles to spread along her skin, and she wouldn’t even think about the fact that his body was molded so closely and intimately to hers that she could scarcely breathe.

They rode in silence. The sounds of the night—the flurry of air as bats took flight, the gentle
plop
of Sampson’s hooves, the drone of insects and the steady rush of the river fading in the distance—were drowned out by the rapid beat of her heart and her own ragged breathing. This was crazy! Being alone with him was dangerous and tricking him had been asking for trouble. Why, oh why, had she been so impulsive and foolish?

“Look, really, I can walk… .” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and caught the hard line of his lips.

“And have me be accused of not being a gentleman?” he replied with more than a trace of derision. “I don’t think so.”

“But—”

Sampson broke free of the woods, and beyond a few dry fields the ranch loomed before them. Harsh security lamps flooded the parking lot, drenching the barns and stables in an eerie blue-white illumination, and the ranch house, two stories of sprawling night-darkened cedar, was surrounded by dusky pastureland and gently rolling hills. The windows were patches of warm golden light. The French doors were swung wide and on the back deck several couples were learning the Texas Two-step to a familiar country tune by Ricky Scaggs. Some of the soft notes floated on the breeze and reached Heather’s ears.

The couples laughed and danced, and Heather wished she were anywhere else in the world than imprisoned in the saddle with this cowboy. How could she ever have thought of Turner as a romantic figure, riding alone along the ridge this afternoon?

A few animals stirred as they passed the corrals, and Heather noticed some of the ranch hands. Their boots were propped against the lowest rail of the fence, the tips of their cigarettes pinpoints of red light that burned in the night. A thin odor of smoke mingled with the dust and dry heat.

Turner rode into the main yard, and several of the cowboys, lingering near the paddock, glanced their way and sniggered softly amongst themselves.

Great.
Just what she needed—to be branded as Turner’s woman. No doubt they made an interesting sight, both half-dressed and wet, wedged tightly into the saddle.

She didn’t wait for an invitation. When Sampson slowed, she swung one leg over the gelding’s neck and half stumbled to the ground. Without a word, she spun and started for the back of the house.

“Aren’t you gonna thank me?” Turner called.

She stopped, her hands clamped into tight little fists. “Thank you for what?” she asked, inching her chin upward as she turned to face him again. “For humiliating me? For forcing me to ride with you against my will? Or for being a voyeur while I swam?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said lightly, but his eyes didn’t warm and his jaw remained stiff.

“Go to hell!”

“Oh, lady, I’ve already been,” he said with a mocking laugh that rattled her insides.

Heather turned again, and without so much as a backward glance, she hurried up the back steps to the kitchen and tried not to hear Turner’s hearty laughter following after her like a bad smell.

She barely got two steps into the kitchen when Mazie, seated at the small table in the corner, glanced up from balancing the kitchen’s books. “Trouble?” she asked.

“No—”

“Your horse came back alone. Zeke’s none too happy about that and he was worried sick about you. He was just about to send out a search party. You’d better talk to him.”

“I will,” Heather promised. She wanted to drop through the floor. Mortified already, she didn’t need to be reminded of her carelessness with Nutmeg. “Where is he?”

“In his office,” Mazie replied, staring for a second at Heather’s state of dress and tangled hair before turning back to her books and chewing on the end of her pen.

Heather ran up the back steps and slid into her room. Jill was on her bed, reading some teen-idol magazine. She glanced up when Heather shut the door behind her.

“What happened to you?” she asked, eyeing Heather with a curious gleam.

“I went swimming.”

“In your clothes?”

“No,” Heather said managing a smile. “I just didn’t have a towel to dry off.”

“Heard you lost your horse.”

“That’s the abbreviated story.” In the mirror, her reflection stared back at her. Without makeup, her hair wet and limp, she looked about twelve years old. Turner Brooks probably thought she was just a kid.
Except he’s seen all of you—breasts, the triangle of hair…

“Great,” she muttered, swiping a towel from the vanity and rubbing it hard against her long blond hair.

Jill tossed her magazine aside. “So what happened? And I don’t want the
Reader’s Digest
condensed version.”

“It’s boring,” Heather replied, lying a little.

“I doubt it.”

Heather stripped out of her dirty clothes and stepped into clean underwear, a denim skirt and pale blue shirt. She clipped a silver belt around her waist, combed her hair into a quick ponytail and contented herself with fresh lipstick.

“Does this have anything to do with Turner Brooks?” Jill asked. She drew her knees beneath her chin and smiled knowingly up at her roommate. “I saw Turner ride out that way.”

“Did you?” Heather turned her attention back to the mirror in order to hide the tide of embarrassment she felt climbing up the back of her neck.

“Isn’t he something?” Jill sighed contentedly.

In the reflection, Heather saw the girl close her eyes and smile dreamily.

“He’s just the kind of man I’d like to marry.”

“Turner Brooks?” Heather was aghast. The same slow-talking, sarcastic man she’d met? What kind of a husband would he make?

“God, he’s beautiful.”

“But there are rumors…about his past.”

“I know, I know, but I don’t care.” Jill grinned wickedly. “Besides, a man with a past is a little more interesting, don’t you think?”

“What I think is that Turner Brooks is a conceited, self-centered jerk who—”

“So you did run into him!” Jill’s eyes flew open. “Oh, I wish I’d been there with you.”

“Me, too,” Heather replied under her breath. Before Jill could say anything else, she hurried out of the room and clambered down the stairs. She had to face Zeke and explain that she hadn’t meant to lose Nutmeg, and hope that he wasn’t too angry with her.

Zeke’s office was in the front of the house and with each step Heather felt a mounting sense of dread. She couldn’t lose this job. She just couldn’t! All her dreams of art school and escaping Gold Creek would turn to dust if she didn’t save enough money to move away from her mother’s little cottage.

Steeling herself, Heather tapped lightly on the door.

“It’s open.”

Mentally crossing her fingers, she entered. The room was small and cozy. Filled with rodeo trophies, Indian blankets and worn furniture, the office smelled of tobacco, lingering smoke and leather. Antlers of every shape and size were mounted on the plank walls, and sprawled in one of the cracked leather chairs in front of the desk was none other than Turner Brooks himself. He turned lazy eyes up at her, and Heather nearly stumbled on the edge of the braided rug.

“Come on in,” Zeke ordered, his voice softer. He was a man few people forgot. With snowy-white hair and thick muttonchop sideburns, he was a big man—over two hundred and twenty pounds and six foot one or two. Though he was huge in comparison to Turner, Heather barely noticed the older man. All her senses were keyed in to Turner—the slant of his knowing smile, the mockery in his gray eyes, the smell of him, a scent that seemed to cling to her nostrils. “You’ve already met my nephew.”

Turner nodded in recognition and Heather swallowed hard. “Yes. Earlier.” She forced her unwilling eyes back to her boss. “Look, Mr. Kilkenny, I need to talk to you.”

Zeke leaned back in his chair and the old springs creaked. “So talk.”

“I mean in private.”

Zeke smiled. “We got no secrets here, Heather. At the Lazy K, we’re all family.” He waved her into the chair near Turner’s. “Sit down and tell me what’s on your mind.”

Balancing on the edge of a chair, Heather tried not to think about the fact that Turner was only bare inches from her, that at any moment his hand could brush hers. “I…I’m sorry about losing Nutmeg. I was careless. It won’t happen again.”

“No harm done,” Zeke said, rubbing his chin. “Nutmeg hightailed it back here for her supper. But it could’ve been worse.”

“I’ll be more careful,” Heather promised, surprised she was getting off so easy. The horses were the life and blood of the ranch, and Zeke Kilkenny had a reputation of caring more for his animals than he had for his wife of twenty-odd years.

“Well, I know you haven’t been around horses much—you livin’ in town and all—and you’re a good worker. Mazie says you’re one of the best helpers she’s had in the kitchen and she’s trained more’n her share, let me tell you.”

Heather could hardly believe the praise. From Mazie? The woman who single-handedly was trying to work her to an early grave?

“I could warn you off the horses, but, the way I see it, that’s unnatural. Horses and men—or women—they just go together.” Zeke leaned forward, and his smile was friendly. “Turner here came up with the perfect solution to our little problem.”

Heather’s blood ran cold. A suggestion from Turner? She tried to say something but for once her tongue tangled on itself.

“Why don’t you tell Heather your idea,” Zeke invited.

Turner leaned closer to her. “I thought that you might need some lessons handlin’ a horse.”

“I don’t—”

“And Turner here’s offered to teach you,” Zeke cut in, so pleased he beamed. “You couldn’t get a better teacher. Lord, Turner could ride before he could walk!” He chuckled at his old worn-out joke, and Heather felt as if her life were over.

She imagined the grueling lessons where Turner would take his vengeance and his pleasure in making her ride so long, she’d be sore for weeks, by having her groom every horse in the stables, by having her clean out every stall and shed on the ranch. The summer would never end. When she found her voice again, she held on to the arms of her chair in a death grip and said, “Surely Turner has more important work here—”

Zeke waved off her reasoning. “Always time to get someone in the saddle. So that’s it. Starting tomorrow, right after you work your shift, you’re Turner’s!” He slapped the desktop and the phone jangled.

The meeting was over. Heather stood on leaden feet as Zeke picked up the receiver. Riding lessons with Turner Brooks? She’d rather die! He’d be merciless. Life as she knew it would end. She’d spend too many grueling hours with Turner the Tormenter!

“Cat got your tongue?” he asked as he followed her to the door.

“You’ll regret this,” she warned.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he drawled with a sparkle of devilment lighting his eyes. “Matter of fact, lady, to tell you the truth—I’m lookin’ forward to it!”

CHAPTER TWO

T
URNER SLAPPED HIS HAT
against his thigh and dust swirled to the heavens. Why in God’s name had he told Zeke he’d like to show Heather how to handle a horse? She must’ve made him crazy last night, because this was the worst idea he’d come up with in years! It didn’t help that he hadn’t slept a wink the night before. Nope. All night long he’d thought of her, how her white skin had looked in the darkening water. He’d seen her nipples, hard little buds in the frigid depths, and he’d grown hard at the sight. She’d done her best to cover up, but he’d noticed the slim length of her legs as she’d tried to tread water and cover her breasts at the same time. The sight had been comical and seductive. Had she been a different kind of woman, he’d have spent the night with her.