The Girl with the Golden Spurs (3 page)

Finally they both got their breath. She glanced up at him, thinking he’d release her. But he didn’t, and somehow that was unbearably exciting.

She tilted her head a little to better study the mystery of Cole Knight, not that she could see much more than the sensual line of his mouth and his hard jawline. Still, he had a nice, kissable mouth. The mere thought of her lips against his caused a violent shiver to dart through her stomach.

How could she be attracted to him?

She wasn’t. It was just that she’d nearly died. Cole had saved her. Maybe it was only natural to feel some temporary
affectionate bond with a man who saved your life even if he was your natural born enemy.

Cole bent his head and stared down at her lips with the same scary, burning intensity she remembered from the thicket, only now, her heart skittered faster.

The wind was warm on her face, but his stillness and watchful silence as he held her caused butterflies to dance in her stomach. Her heart was beating so fast it felt like it might burst. She’d never come close to such a wild dark thrill as Cole Knight, never dreamed of it even.

Until this moment, in his arms, she’d been a child. Even before he lowered his face to hers, she lifted her lips and parted them, half-hoping he would be as bad as people said and steal a kiss from her.

Instead his mouth grazed her cheek so softly she could barely feel his breath. Still his gentle kiss left her aching. Without thinking, she wistfully traced a fingertip across her mouth. His eyes watched her, and maybe they dared her. Before she even knew what she was doing, her fingertip left her lips and traced the shape of his.

His mouth was hard and warm. Just touching him there had her body thrumming and sent heat through her like a lush wild wave. Her other hand inched up his wide chest and flexed around his neck. Then with an unfathomable yearning that bordered on pain, she pushed her innocent body into his, until her breasts were flat against his hard chest.

“Oh, God.” He groaned, sucking her fingertip inside his lips for a moment before his black head dipped closer to hers. “You smell sweeter than the sweetest rose.”

She stood on her tiptoes, hoping, aching for more.

It was worth nearly getting killed on a horse—well worth
it—to be here like this with him
.

The moment went on and on, endlessly. Just when he might have kissed her, a horse with Lizzy’s daddy on its back
thundered out of the brush. When a swarm of her relatives followed, shouting and cursing, Cole pushed her away from him.

Caesar pulled his stallion up in front of her, his face purple as dust whirled around them.

“Lizzy, what in the hell are you doing?” Caesar’s horse thrashed closer. “Get away from that devil, girl!”

Uncle B.B.’ s handsome face was as stern as her father’s. Even Aunt Nanette and her sons, Bobby Joe and Sam, who were Lizzy’s age, looked grim and unforgiving.

Lizzy lifted her chin and stepped in front of Cole to shield him from her family. Not that Cole was the type to cower behind a woman even for a second. He seized Lizzy’s hand firmly in his and swung her along beside him.

Oh, how she liked his doing that. Standing beside him gave her a new confidence, and she squared her shoulders. To her surprise, her voice was quiet and level, a woman’s voice. “Daddy…he saved my…”

Her father’s bushy, amber eyebrows snapped together as he stared at her fingers knotted in Cole’s. His lips thinned as he hunched forward in his saddle.

Lizzy recognized the signs his temper was on the rise and, removing her hand from Cole’s, nervously rubbed her bare arms, which were sunburned and bloody with scratches. Tatters of her blouse fluttered against her exposed rib cage.

“Daddy, he didn’t hurt me. He didn’t tear my blouse. Mother—he saved my life.”

As if mortified by Lizzy’s conduct, Joanne looked away.

Caesar’s blazing eyes remained fixed on Cole. “
You, boy!
Yes, Knight, I’m talking to
you! You
get the hell off my land!”

“You stole this land, Kemble. You and yours. You drove my brother away! But you can’t bully me.”

“
You
stay away from my daughter!”

Cole smiled lazily. “Well, I’d say that’s more her choice than yours, wouldn’t you?”

Cole’s gaze softened as he regarded her, and Lizzy felt herself melting like hard chocolate on a hot stove.

“Of all the impudent—” To his men Caesar roared, “Boys, throw this damn trespasser off my land!”

“My land!” Cole snapped.

When Kinky Hernandez, Daddy’s loyal foreman, along with half a dozen vaqueros, materialized out of the thicket, Cole’s expression darkened. His low voice was hoarse, almost a growl, as he reached out and squeezed Lizzy’s hand one last time. “Maybe you’re not calling all the shots anymore, old man.”

“He’s right, Daddy! Leave him alone! I’m all grown up! You can’t tell him or me what—”

“Get on your horse, boy—”

Cole whistled, and his big horse trotted up to him like a trick horse in a rodeo. Before he swung his long leg over his saddle, Cole glanced down at Lizzy with another hot look and a smile that cut off her breath and filled her with unbearable joy.

He tipped his hat to her. “See ya ’round, little girl,” he said in that gentle tone that mocked her father and made butterflies fly in her stomach.

“See ya,” she whispered, bringing her fingertips to her lips, unable to say more, not even goodbye.

Dismounting, her mother slipped up beside her. “If you’re smart, you’ll forget you ever met that no-good scoundrel,” she said. “No telling what he would have done to you if we hadn’t—”

He would have kissed me…maybe
. The thought made Lizzy ache.

“He’s the son of thieves and ingrates—troublemakers and gamblers, the whole lot,” her father asserted. “I ran his no-
good brother off a few years back when he threatened to sue me, and I’ll do the same to this one—if you don’t leave him the hell alone.” He drew in a savage breath at Lizzy’s dazed expression. “Take her back to the house, Joanne. Talk some sense into her.”

Lizzy barely heard them. She was too busy watching Cole ride away, too busy wondering if she’d ever see him again.

Even when her mother took her by the arm, she turned her head, still watching the spot where she’d glimpsed the last of his broad shoulders.

“Forget him, girl. He’s a Knight and you’re a Kemble. He doesn’t want you. He wants our land. And he’ll do anything—he’ll use you in any way—to get it. He wants the ranch—not you!”

Oh, if only, if only she’d listened.

BOOK ONE

Smart Cowboy Saying:

Letting a cat out of the bag is a lot easier than putting it back.

—Anonymous

Eleven years later

South Texas

The Golden Spurs Ranch

P
awing and snorting, hooves clattering on concrete, Domino exploded out of the barn as if a dozen of Satan’s meanest horse flies had flown up straight from hell and stung him on his powerful rump.

“Whoa, boy! What’s lit into you?”

It was late April. The last of the wildflowers sweetened the warm air that smelled of grass, cattle and horse.

Caesar Kemble leaned back in the saddle and pulled in on the leather reins. “You’re mighty anxious for our morning ride, aren’t you, fella? More anxious maybe than me. Which is saying one helluva lot.”

A few yards away in front of the blazing sea of wildflowers that surrounded the vast ranch house, dozens of spurs sparkled like golden Christmas ornaments in the branches of the thin-leafed, thorny mesquite tree.

Caesar scowled. “Damnation!”

To some, the tree was a pretty sight against the glow of the sky this time of year, but he hated that tree. Hell, he
should have cut the damn thing down years ago. Trouble was, the Spur Tree had stood there for more than a hundred years and was part of the ranch’s tradition. Not that the spurs had anything to do with something as joyous as Christmas. They represented loss and pain and death and suffering—but courage, too. When a man or a woman left the ranch, their spurs were hung on the tree.

It had taken a lot from a lot of men to hold on to this ranch. His daddy’s spurs hung there. So did Jack’s, his oldest brother’s.

The tree was more than a tree. It had a strange power, more power than most churches. Many a time Caesar had watched a vaquero who was feeling low come and stand in the shade of the Spur Tree for a spell.

Caesar lowered his Stetson to avoid looking at the tree. He was king of these million acres that bordered the Gulf of Mexico on the east and spread out to the west, at least he told himself he was. And he ruled with more authority than many true kings governed their kingdoms or generals commanded their armies. From his birth, there had always been people trying to steal his empire from him.

Jack, his older brother, had been the golden boy, the heir apparent, Daddy’s favorite, until he’d broken his damn fool neck in a fall off a bronc in the dunes near the bay. Nobody had ever crossed Jack. Nobody had ever dared say maybe Jack should have had better sense than to ride off alone on an animal like that in the first place.

Coming to power after Jack’s death, Caesar had become a helluva lot more spoiled than Jack had ever been. He was used to being obeyed—instantly. Just like Jack, he hated being crossed. Maybe that was the reason that thorny tree stabbed such a big hole in him. His enemies weren’t just outsiders.

Children—you thought they were yours—until they
com
mitted the unforgivable crime of growing up and showing
you different
.

He’d had such grand plans for his children, especially Lizzy, his first,
his
favorite. She’d been born a mere hour before Mia. Oh, but how he’d reveled in that small victory.

Free-spirited, softhearted urchin that she was, Lizzy had attempted a defiant grin when she’d slung her spurs at the tree. Yes, the memory of her slim shaking fingers tossing those spurs before she’d left for New York was burned into his soul like a brand.

The crybaby in the family had dared to stand up to him.
First by loving that no-good Cole. Then by leaving
.

Nor would he soon forget the rainy afternoon of Mia’s memorial service three months ago when he’d hung his second daughter’s spurs on a branch beside Lizzy’s while Mia’s husband, Cole, yes, Cole, fifty vaqueros and five hundred mourners had watched. Joanne, who never cried, had sobbed beneath the Spur Tree, while Lizzy, who was ashamed of crying and too wary of Cole, had watched from the nursery window while she rocked Cole’s fretful, month-old baby daughter, Vanilla. After the plane crash that had left Mia dead and Cole so dazed he couldn’t remember people, not even his little daughter, Lizzy had come home for a while.

For the first time, she’d helped Caesar run things. She’d been surprisingly adept at dealing with the books and figures and computer work. Just when Caesar had begun to get used to having her around, she’d left again.

Yes, sir, the mere sight of that tree was enough to make his temple throb for hours. Ignoring the pain in his head, he jammed his own spurs against Domino’s flank and yelled, “Giddyup, boy!”

Horse and rider flew until the Spur Tree was well behind them.

Both daughters had fallen for the same ruthless, vengeful
man. Now they were gone for good—one dead and one simply foolish, irresponsible and ungrateful. And he still had Cole to put up with.

Lizzy had damn near gutted him alive by leaving Texas. As if his little girl, who could barely sit a horse, could make it in the cold cruel world without him pulling strings.

I’m all grown up now, Daddy. I’m twenty-three. I’ve got
a college degree. It’s time I left home
.

You’re a big grown-up crybaby, that’s what you are
.

He’d said that because she hated the fact that she had a soft heart and wept more than most girls her age. Then he’d gone for the guilt button.

You can’t leave your daddy now that you’re old enough
to be of some use to him around here for a change—after all
the trouble you’ve put him to raising you—

Lizzy, who’d been more trouble than most kids, had kissed him on the cheek as he’d turned away from her and said a tear-choked goodbye.
I know I’m a crybaby. I know I
was trouble, but I have to grow up sometime. And, Daddy,
you were trouble for me, too
.

If only she’d been born a boy. Maybe everything would have been different. Why couldn’t she have been more like Sam, his nephew? Hell, for that matter, why couldn’t Hawk and Walker have been more like Sam? Sam had loved the ranch so much he’d moved in with Caesar when he was ten and still lived on the ranch, although no longer in the main house.

His sons, Hawk and Walker, were a worthless pair for sure. He’d never been as close to them as he had to Lizzy. Neither of them gave a damn that he’d built an empire for them. Although they were as different as night and day, if he advised or corrected one of them, they stuck together. After Caesar’s recent quarrel with Walker over the artist he’d chosen to do the murals depicting ranch life for the new Golden
Spurs museum, Walker had stormed out in a huff. Hawk had followed suit. Who knew where they were keeping themselves these days. And even the board had sided against Caesar, as well, and the painter had stayed.

Now Caesar had his sons’ responsibilities to see about in addition to his own. They’d been in charge of organizing the grand opening of the museum and the celebration of the ranch’s 140th anniversary, which were scheduled during Thanksgiving week.

The whole thing was ridiculous. Because of various crises the ranch had faced recently, the board had trumped up the museum and celebration to restore faith in the ranch’s name. There would be tours, lectures, a big party and a horse and cattle auction during the week-long festivities. Caesar had thought the celebration was ill-timed to say the least, especially since it would be during a holiday, but he’d been outvoted by the family and the board.

If Hawk could just walk off, maybe Caesar could, too. Maybe it was time he did what the damn bunch wanted and turned the ranch over to the smart-ass suits in San Antonio. Let them come down and run the ranch and this ridiculous celebration they’d dreamed up.

But if he did, the ranch would go to hell in a handbasket. Sam, for all his talent, didn’t look at the big picture. The board would diversify into more profitable business ventures than cattle. They wanted the Golden Spurs name on cattle equipment, hunting vehicles, leather goods and guns. They were interested in farming and government subsidies and environmental research, but not a single one of them was a real rancher.

“Times are changing faster than you are, Dad,” Walker had yelled at him before he’d left.

The board—and even Sam—had made him furious when they’d told him the same thing.

But, hell, had any of them been named rancher of the decade?

Caesar had a cell phone clipped to his wide belt and a phone number in his breast pocket. The girl that went with the phone number was an exotic dancer in Houston. Last Saturday night he’d watched her perform a wanton cowgirl routine on stage with a real live horse.

She was nineteen—younger than his kids and nephews, but old enough, well worth the hour-long plane ride from the ranch. She had implants, big hair, fake eyelashes, but there was nothing fake about those legs of hers that went forever or the megawatt smile she’d flashed him or the promises she’d made with her big blue eyes and soft hands when she’d gotten off her horse and had done that lap dance wearing a silver, sequined cowboy hat and not much else.

He thought about Joanne and the cold, loveless years of their marriage. Maybe it was time he hung his own spurs on the tree and kicked his heels up, too. It had been a while since he’d had any fun with a woman.

He pulled Cherry’s number out of his pocket and memorized it. Then he put it back and grabbed his cell phone. His body heated as he leaned forward and nudged Domino with his spurs.

The gelding’s walk was a wonderful kind of tap dance. Domino was the best horse Caesar had ever had, a real genius.

It was only nine in the morning, and already the temperature had to be in the high eighties. But that wasn’t why Caesar felt as hot as a billy goat in a pepper patch.

Should he call her? He stared up at the deep azure sky unmarked by clouds and felt beads of perspiration pop out on his forehead. It would get way hotter, and so would he.

He punched in her number, and a recording answered. He waited a few seconds, before he got up the nerve to stammer hello.

A woman’s soft voice interrupted and said, “Hi there—”

His big hand shook so hard, he punched something and broke the connection. Then he cursed himself for being such an idiot.

Thank God he’d hung up on her. Gulping in a breath, he attached his cell phone to his belt again.

Heartbreak and grief and disillusionment were supposed to age a man, but Caesar knew he looked and felt much younger than he was. Maybe it was all the hard, physical work he’d done on top of the constant mental challenge of running his empire.

Not
his
empire…the family’s…and it was a big family, not just his immediate family…a difficult family with more than a hundred members… Which meant there were a lot of calves sucking off a single tit, which meant the ranch had to produce.

The ranch had been established during the first half of the nineteenth century, turbulent years in south Texas. Land in Texas had gone from Spanish rule to Mexican rule to the Republic of Texas rule to American rule and then to Confederate and then back to Union rule in the space of sixty years. During this period of chaos, land titles and old Spanish land grants had been the original Caesar Kemble’s for the asking… or as some said now…for the stealing.

Not that the ranch had been easy to defend even back then. Mexican bandits had marauded constantly and stolen cattle. Northern cattle markets had been uncertain. Drought had plagued the ranch, until a constant source of water had been found.

Through all the disasters, generation after generation had bought land and never sold. The challenges in modern times were no less formidable than they had been during frontier times.

The Golden Spurs was constantly being sued. Only Caesar’s
love for the land had sustained him through these rough and challenging times.

Not too long ago, a lowlife thief had trespassed on Golden Spurs property to steal gas pipes. He’d used a blowtorch to cut the pipe into movable sizes. The pipe had had a little gas in it and had exploded. The injured thief had sued for damages.

Caesar had blown his stack when the plaintiff’s attorney had grilled him on the stand. As a result the thief had walked away with a huge settlement.

Ever since, his lawyers worked hard to keep him out of the courtroom. Under tough questioning, even after hours of tutoring from his attorneys, he couldn’t be trusted not to speak the truth as he saw it.

So, he stuck to what he was good at—ranching. Cowboying had never been work to him. He’d given the ranch and his family his best years. Not that fifty was old. Still, it was an age when a man thought about his purpose and his legacy, especially when he’d made a helluva lot of sacrifices and had asked others to do the same—and they hadn’t.

All his children and his nephews wanted was the money. Right now they were pestering him for a bigger share of the mineral revenues.

As if they needed more money. Oil money was like play money to them. They bought anything their hearts desired—mansions, foreign luxury cars, airplanes, jewels. The money had made even wimpy little Lizzy confident enough to strike out on her own and try to prove she was somebody.

What the hell was that all about? New York? Crazy town. Too far from Texas. Too many people. City people. None of them with a lick of sense. He’d talked himself blue in the face, trying to get her to come home, but she was as stubborn as her mother.

You were somebody the day you were born, girl. You were
born my daughter
, he’d thundered yesterday morning when he’d called her.

But, Daddy, that doesn’t mean anything
.

It means a helluva lot to everybody in this state but you
.

That’s just the problem. I don’t deserve to be famous or
rich. I didn’t do anything. And you…you’re always saying
I’m wimpy….

I never ever say that, baby girl
.

You do! When you’re mad, you do!

Then it’s time you saddled up and changed all that
.

I wasn’t born to be a cowgirl. It’s either born in you, or
it’s not. At least that’s what you always said, Daddy
.

Hell, was your smart-mouth kid throwing your own pearls of wisdom back in your face?