Song of the West (2 page)

Waiting until the door closed behind him, Samantha walked over and dropped wearily onto the stump used for splitting wood. Resting her back against the fence, she breathed deeply, devouring the brisk, cold air. The strain of caring for her sister in addition to running the house and cooking the meals, including, over his objection, Dan's predawn breakfast, had taken its toll.

“A few more days,” she whispered as she closed her eyes. “A few more days and I'll have adjusted to the routine and feel more like myself.” The heavy corded jacket insulated her from the bite of the cold, and she tilted back her head, allowing the air to play on her cheeks as her mind drifted on the edge of exhaustion.

***

“Funny place to take a nap.”

Samantha sat up with a jerk, confused and disoriented by sleep. Her eyes traveled up to the speaker's face. It was a lean face, skin bronzed by the sun and stretched tightly over cheekbones, all lines and shadows, hollows and angles. The eyes were arresting, deep-set and heavily lashed. But it was their color, a deep, pure jade that caught and held her attention. His dusky gold hair curled from under a well-battered Stetson.

“Evening, ma'am.” Though he touched the brim of his hat with due respect, his extraordinary eyes were faintly mocking.

“Good evening,” she returned, struggling for dignity.

“Person could catch a bad chill sitting out too long after the sun's low. Wind's picking up, too.” His speech was slow and thickly drawled. His weight was distributed evenly on both legs, hands deep in pockets. “Oughtn't to be out without a hat.” His comment was accompanied by a fractional movement of his head toward her unadorned one. “Hat helps keep the heat in.”

“I'm not cold.” She feared for a moment her teeth would chatter and betray her. “I was . . . I was just getting some air.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He nodded in agreement, glancing behind her at the last, dying brilliance of sun as it slipped behind circling peaks. “Fine evening for setting out and watching the sunset.”

Her eyes flashed at the teasing. She was embarrassed to have been caught sleeping. He smiled a slow, careless smile that crept unhurried across his face. The movement of his lips caused the hollows to deepen, the shadows to shift. Unable to resist, Samantha's lips curved in response.

“All right, I confess. You caught me napping. I don't suppose you'd believe I was just resting my eyes.”

“No, ma'am.” His answer was grave, with just a hint of apology.

“Well.” She rose from her seat and was dismayed at how far she still had to look up to meet his eyes. “If you keep quiet about it, I'll see to it that you get a piece of the apple pie I baked for dinner.”

“That's a mighty tempting offer.” He considered it with a long-fingered hand reaching up to stroke his chin. “I'm partial to apple pie. Only one or two things I'm more partial to.” His eyes roamed over her in a thorough and intense study that caused her heart to pound with unaccustomed speed.

There was something different about this man, she thought swiftly, something unique, a vitality at odds with lazy words and careless smiles. He pushed his hat back farther on his head, revealing more disorderly curls. “You've got yourself a deal.” He held out his hand to confirm the agreement, and she placed her small hand in his.

“Thanks.” The single word was breathless, as she found her speech hampered by the currents running up her arm. Abruptly, she pulled her hand away, wondering what it was about him that disturbed her equilibrium. “I'm sorry if I was short before, about Dan's horse.” She spoke now in a rush, to conceal a reaction she could not understand.

“No need to apologize,” he assured her, and the new soft texture in his tone both warmed and unnerved her. “We're all fond of Mrs. Lomax.”

“Yes, well, I . . .” she stammered, suddenly needing to put a safe distance between herself and this slow-talking man. “I'd better go inside. Dan must be hungry.” She looked past him and spotted his horse, still saddled, waiting patiently. “You didn't stable your horse. Aren't you finished for the day?” Hearing the concern in her own voice, she marveled at it. Really, she thought, annoyed, why should I care?

“Oh, yes, ma'am, I'm finished.” There was laughter in his voice now, but Samantha failed to notice. She began to study the mount with care.

It was a magnificent animal, dark, gleaming chestnut, at least sixteen hands, she estimated, classic lines, fully flowing mane and proud, dished face. Arabian. Samantha knew horses and she recognized a full-blooded Arabian stallion when she saw one. What in the world . . . ? “That's an Arabian.” Her words interrupted her thoughts.

“Yes, ma'am,” he agreed easily, entirely too easily. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion as she turned to him.

“No ranch hand is going to be riding around on a horse that's worth six months' pay.” She stared at him, and he returned the steady survey with a bland poker face. “Who are you?”

“Jake Tanner, ma'am.” The slow grin appeared again, widening, deepening, then settling as he lifted the brim of his hat at the introduction. “Pleased to meet you.”

The land baron with the women at his feet, Samantha's brain flashed. Anger darkened her eyes.

“Why didn't you say so?”

“Just did,” he pointed out.

“Oh.” She tossed back her thick fall of hair. “You know very well what I mean. I thought you were one of Dan's men.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He nodded.

“Stop
ma'am
ing me,” she commanded. “What a mean trick! All you had to do was open your mouth and say who you were. I would have stabled Dan's horse myself.”

“I didn't mind.” His expression became annoyingly agreeable. “It wasn't any trouble, and you had a nice rest.”

“Well, Mr. Tanner, you had a fine laugh at my expense. I hope you enjoyed it,” she said coldly.

“Yes, ma'am.” The grin widened without seeming to move at all. “I did.”

“I told you to stop . . .” She halted, biting her lip with frustration. “Oh, forget it.” Tossing her head, she took a few steps toward the house, then turned back crossly. “I notice your accent has modified quite a bit, Mr. Tanner.”

He did not reply, but continued to stand negligently, his hands in his pockets, his face darkened by the late-afternoon shadows. Samantha spun back around and stomped toward the house.

“Hey,” he called out, and she turned toward him before she could halt the reflex. “Do I still get that pie?”

She answered his question with a glare. His laughter, deep and rich, followed her into the house.

Chapter Two

The sound of the slamming door reverberated through the ranch house as Samantha struggled out of her jacket and marched into the living room. At the sight of her sister's face Sabrina slipped down into the pillows, picked up the novel lying on her lap and buried her nose in its pages. Dan, however, did not recognize the storm warning in his sister-in-law's blue eyes and flushed cheeks. He greeted her with a friendly, ingenuous smile.

“Where's Jake?” His gaze slid past her. “Don't tell me he went home without a cup of coffee?”

“He can go straight to the devil without his coffee.”

“I expect he wanted to get home before dark,” Dan concluded. His nod was sober, but his eyes were brilliant with merriment.

“Don't play innocent with me, Dan Lomax.” Samantha advanced on him. “That was a rotten trick, letting me think he was one of your hands, and . . .” A giggle escaped from behind the paperback. “I'm glad you think it's amusing that your sister's been made a fool of.”

“Oh, Sam, I'm sorry.” Warily, Sabrina lowered the book. “It's just hard to believe anyone could mistake Jake Tanner for a ranch hand.” She burst out laughing, and Samantha was torn between the pleasure of seeing her sister laugh and irritation at being the brunt of the joke.

“Well, really, what makes him so special?” she demanded. “He dresses like every other cowboy I've seen around here, and that hat of his has certainly seen better days.” But, she remembered, there
had
been something special about him that she had not quite been able to define. She firmly dismissed this disquieting thought. “The nerve of him.” She rounded on Dan again. “Calling you boss, and ma'aming me in that exaggerated drawl.”

“Reckon he was just being polite,” Dan suggested. His smile was amiable and pure. Samantha sent him the look that terrified her students.

“Men.” Raising her eyes, she searched the ceiling in hopes of finding the answer there. “You're all alike, and you all stick together.” She bent and scooped up the sleeping Shylock and marched into the kitchen.

***

Time at the ranch passed quickly. Though her days were full and busy, Samantha fretted for some of the physical outlet that had so long been part of her life. At times, the confinement of the house was suffocating. Years of training and discipline had left her with an inherent need for activity.

Unconsciously, she separated her life into three categories: the pre-Olympic years, the Olympic years and the post-Olympic years.

The pre-Olympic years were a blur of lessons, piano teachers, dance instructors, her mother's gentle but inescapable admonishments to “be a lady.” Then, the first time she had gripped the lower bar of the unevens, the new chapter had begun.

By the time she was twelve years old, she had remarkable promise. The gymnastics instructor had informed her mother, who was more distressed than pleased at the praise. Though her mother had objected to more intense training, Samantha had ultimately prevailed.

The hours of training became months, county meets became state meets, and national competitions became international competitions. When Samantha was picked for the Olympic team, it was just another step down a road she was determined to follow. Weariness and aching muscles were accepted without hesitation.

Then it was over, and at fifteen she had found it necessary to alter what had become a way of life. College had to be considered, and earning a living. The years passed into the post-Olympic period, and she remembered her days of athletic competitions as a dream. Now her life was shifting again, though she was unsure as to the direction. The mountains and plains were calling to her, inviting her to explore, but she buried her desires, remaining indoors to see to her sister's needs. Dan is a busy man, she thought as she prepared lunch, and Bree needs someone within calling distance during this critical period. When she's better, there will be plenty of time to see the country.

She arched her back and rubbed a small spot of tension at the base of her neck. The kitchen door opened and Dan burst in, accompanied by Jake Tanner. Samantha met the amused green eyes levelly, though once more she felt treacherously at a disadvantage.

Her hair had been carelessly scooped on the top of her head that morning, and now, with their usual abandonment, stray locks were beginning to escape confinement. She was dressed in a black ribbed sweater that had seen too many washings and ancient jeans, splattered, faded, patched and too tight. She resisted the urge to raise her hand to her tumbling hair, forced a smile and turned to her brother-in-law.

“Hello, Dan. What are you doing home this time of day?” Purposefully, she ignored the tall figure beside him.

“Wasn't too far out,” Dan explained. Slipping off his jacket and hat, he tossed both over the hooks provided. “Jake was giving me a hand, so I figured it was only neighborly to bring him back for lunch.”

“Hope I'm not imposing, ma'am.” The slow smile spread, once more rearranging the angles of his face.

“No imposition, Mr. Tanner. But you'll have to settle for potluck.”

“My favorite dish—” he paused, giving her a cheeky wink “—next to apple pie.”

Samantha sent him a withering glance and turned away to warm the previous evening's stew.

“I'll just go tell Sabrina I'm home,” Dan announced to the room in general, and strode away. Samantha did her best to ignore Jake's disturbing presence. She stirred the stew busily.

“Smells good.” Jake moved over to the stove and lounged against it. Samantha went to the cupboard to get the bowls.

When she turned back to place them on the round kitchen table, she noticed that he had shed his outdoor clothing. The slim-fitting jeans, snug and low on narrow hips, accentuated his leanness. His flannel shirt fitted over his broad shoulders and hard chest before tapering down to a narrow waist. The athlete in her immediately responded to the firm, well-proportioned body; there was not an ounce of spare flesh on him.

“Don't talk much, do you?” The drawl was there again, the exaggerated twang of the previous evening. Samantha turned her head, prepared to freeze him with her eyes.

His face was barely inches from hers as he slouched by the stove. For a moment, her mind ceased to function.

“I really have nothing to say to you, Mr. Tanner.” She struggled to keep her voice cold and detached, but she could feel the blood rush to her face.

“Well, now, we'll have to see if we can change that.” He spoke with easy confidence as he straightened to his full height. “We're not much on formalities around here. Just make it Jake.” Though his words were spoken with his usual lazy delivery, there was an undertone of command. Samantha's chin rose in defense.

“Maybe I prefer to keep things formal between us, Mr. Tanner.”

His lips were curved in his careless smile, but in his eyes she now recognized that special something that separated him from an ordinary ranch hand.
Power.
She wondered how she had missed it at their first meeting.

“I don't think there's much chance of that.” He paused and tugged at a loose lock of his hair before adding with irritating emphasis, “Ma'am. Nope, I don't think there's much chance of that at all.”

Samantha was saved from coming up with a suitable rebuttal by Dan's reappearance. She began to spoon the stew into ceramic bowls, noting to her dismay that her hands were not altogether steady. This man was infuriating her with his arrogantly lazy confidence. I have never met a more irritating male, she thought. He thinks he can switch on that rugged cowboy charm and women will drop in droves at his feet. Well, maybe some do, but not this one.

“Okay, Sam?” Dan's voice shattered the electric silence.

“What? I'm sorry, I wasn't listening.”

“You'll keep Jake company over lunch, won't you? I'll have mine in the living room with Sabrina.”

She swore silently. “Of course,” she answered with an impersonal smile.

Within a short time, Samantha found herself sitting across from the man she wanted most to avoid.

“You've a fine hand with dumplings, Sam.” Her brows rose involuntarily at his easy use of her nickname, but she kept her voice even.

“Thank you, Mr. Tanner. It's just one of my many talents.”

“I'm sure it is,” he agreed with an inclination of his head.

“You haven't changed much from the girl in the picture in Sabrina's parlor.” Samantha was astonished.

“You'd have been about fifteen,” he continued. “A bit skinnier than you are now, but your hair was the same, not quite willing to stay bundled on top of your head.” Samantha's blank expression had turned to a frown at the word skinnier. She remembered the photo clearly.

“You'd just finished winning your second medal.” She had indeed been fifteen. The picture had been snapped at the moment she had completed her floor routine. It had captured the look of stunned triumph, for she had known in that instant that a medal was hers.

“Sabrina's just about as proud of you as you are worried about her.” Samantha said nothing, only staring into the lean, handsome features. His brows rose ever so slightly, a movement that would have gone unnoticed had she not been so intent on his face. For a moment, she forgot the thread of the conversation, caught up suddenly in a series of small, irrelevant details: the curling gold that spilled over his brow, the tiny white scar on his jawline, the thickness of his long lashes. Confused, she dropped her eyes to her bowl and struggled to bring her thoughts to order.

“I'd forgotten Bree had that picture,” she said. “It was a long time ago.”

“So now you teach. You don't look like any gym teacher I ever knew.”

“Oh, really?”

“No, ma'am.” He shook his head slowly and considered her through another mouthful of stew. “Don't look strong enough or old enough.”

“I assure you, Jake, I'm both strong enough and old enough for my profession.”

“What made you become a gym teacher?” His sudden question caught her off balance, and she stared at him.

“Well, I . . .” Her shoulders moved restlessly. “Our mother was a fanatic on lessons when Bree and I were growing up.” She smiled in spite of herself. “We took lessons in everything, Mom's theory on being well-rounded. Anyway, Bree found her talent in music, and I developed a knack for the physical. For a while, I focused on gymnastics, then, when the time came to work, it seemed natural. Bree taught little people to play the classics, and I teach bigger people to tumble.”

“Do you like your work? Are you happy with it?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she retorted. “I like the activity, I like being involved in a physical type of work. It can be frustrating at times, of course. Some of the girls I teach would rather be flirting with their boyfriends than learning gymnastics, I suspect.”

“And you yourself are more interested in calisthenics than men?” The question was delivered with a broad masculine smile.

“That's hardly relevant,” she snapped, annoyed that she had lowered her guard.

“You don't think so?”

Samantha scraped back her chair and moved to the stove. “Coffee?”

“Yes, ma'am, black.” It was unnecessary to turn around; she felt the slow grin crease his face as clearly as if she had witnessed it with her eyes. She set the cup down on the table with a bang. Before she could spin back to pour her own, her hand was captured in a firm grip. There was nothing soft about the hand. It was hard and masculine.

Completely outmatched in the short battle that ensued, Samantha discovered that under the lean, lanky exterior lay an amazing strength. Deciding that it was undignified to grapple in her sister's kitchen, she allowed her hand to rest quietly in his, meeting his laughing eyes with a resentful glare. Her heart began to pound uncomfortably against her ribs.

“What do you want?” Her voice came out in a husky whisper. His eyes left hers to travel slowly down to the generous curve of her mouth, lingering until she could taste the heat on her lips, as real as a kiss. Taking his time, he moved his gaze back to her eyes.

“You're jumpy.” His observation was laconic, as if none of the heat had touched him, though she herself was beginning to suffocate. “Powerful strong for such a little bit of a thing.”

“I'm not little,” she retorted. “You're just so big.” She began to tug at her hand again, feeling a near desperate urgency to shake off the contact that was infusing her with an unexplained weakness around the knees.

“Your eyes are fabulous when you're angry, Sam.” His tone was conversational. “Temper agrees with you. You grow beautiful with it.” He laughed and pulled her closer.

“You're insufferable,” she said, still struggling to escape his grasp.

“For telling you you're beautiful? I was just stating the obvious. I'm sure it's been mentioned to you once or twice before.”

“You men are all the same.” She ceased her struggles long enough to aim a lethal glare. “Always grabbing and groping.”

“I don't grope, Samantha.” His drawl was feather-soft. For an instant, the cocky cowboy vanished, and she glimpsed the man, shrewd and ruthless, beneath. Here was a man who not only expected to have his own way, but would. “And the next time I grab you, it won't only be to hold your hand.” Releasing her, he leaned back in his chair. “You have been warned.”

***

Later, as Sabrina napped and the house grew still around her, Samantha found herself staring blankly at the pages of a novel. Scowling, she tossed it aside and rose from the sofa to pace to the window. What an infuriating man. Obviously, he considers himself irresistible. She began to wander the room, attempting to block out the effect his blatant virility had had on her.

It was too bad, she decided on her fourth circle, that all those good looks, all that strength and appeal, had to belong to such a rude, arrogant man.