Authors: Janet Dailey
Western Man
JANET DAILEY CAPTURES THE
HEART OF AMERICA! LOOK FOR:
The Four Volume
Calder Saga:
This Calder Range
Stands a Calder Man
This Calder Sky
Calder Born,
Calder Bred
The Best Way to Lose
For the Love of God
Foxfire Light
The Glory Game
The Great Alone
The Hostage Bride
The Lancaster Men
Leftover Love
Mistletoe and Holly
Night Way
The Pride of Hannah Wade
Ride the Thunder
The Rogue
The Second Time
Separate Cabins
Silver Wings, Santiago Blue
Terms of Surrender
Touch the Wind
Western Man
PUBLISHED BY POCKET BOOKS
“We Used to Have Some Good Times Together.”
Lifting a hand, Ridge trailed a finger along her cheekbone and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Didn’t we?”
“Yes.” Sharon didn’t trust herself to say more. There was a poignant drift of memories back to that time he had recalled. . . . She had built so many dreams from those innocent evenings in Ridge’s company. She had wanted so much to believe he loved her that she had exaggerated every slow dance, every kiss, out of all proportion.
Long ago Sharon had stopped trying to second-guess his motives, so she didn’t allow herself to wonder whether he was caught in a past memory when his calloused fingers laid themselves against the curve of her neck and the warm pressure of his mouth covered her lips. . . .
Books by Janet Daily
Calder Born, Calder Bred
Stands a Calder Man
This Calder Range
This Calder Sky
The Best Way to Lose
Touch The Wind
The Glory Game
The Pride of Hannah Wade
Silver Wings, Santiago Blue
For the Love of God
Foxfire Light
The Hostage Bride
The Lancaster Men
Leftover Love
Mistletoe & Holly
The Second Time
Separate Cabins
Terms of Surrender
Western Man
Nightway
Ride the Thunder
The Rogue
For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or [email protected]
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
 | POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 |
Copyright © 1983 by Janbill, Ltd.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Simon & Schuster Inc., 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
Originally published by Silhouette Books.
ISBN: 0-671-87521-3
First Pocket Books printing May 1986
10 9 8
Map by Ray Lundgren
POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Printed in the U.S.A.
WESTERN
MAN
The ranch-house kitchen was filled with the warm smell of chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven. When the last cookie on the metal sheet pan joined the others cooling on the paper spread on the counter top, Sharon Powell turned to carry the sheet pan to the table where the bowl of cookie dough sat.
Her hazel-eyed glance fell on the empty chair pushed away from the table, where a half-finished glass of milk remained along with two cookies, each with a bite taken from it. Her reaction was a combination of alarm and exasperation.
“Tony?” Sharon tossed a potholder onto the table and laid the cookie sheet, hot from the oven, on to it. There was no response to Tier querying call, although she strained alertly to catch any sound. Muttering to herself, Sharon started out in search of the toddler. “Now I know why they call them terrible two-year-olds. I turn my back on him for two minutes and he disappears.”
This time she didn’t have to search far or long to
find the boy. As soon as she entered the living room, she spied him standing at the screen door, stretching a small hand to reach the latch. A wry shake of her head sent her short, toffee-colored ponytail swaying.
“Come on, Tony. Let’s go back to the kitchen.” Sharon started across the room to retrieve the adventurous little boy. “Don’t you want to help Sharon finish baking the cookies?”
Just before she reached him, he turned. The tow-headed boy’s expression was animated with excitement, his blue eyes gleaming. “Horses, horses,” he declared and swung around to press his face against the wire-mesh barrier.
With a sinking feeling, Sharon glanced through the screen toward the corral by the barn. A flaxen-maned chestnut horse had nudged the gate open and was taking its first tentative step to freedom. The five other horses in the corral, horses Sharon had contracted to train, were crowding into line behind their chestnut leader.
Her gaze never left the horse warily stepping through the opened gate as she scooped Tony off the floor and swung him onto her hip. She didn’t dare leave him alone in the house while she chased the horses back into the corral. Heaven only knew what he’d get into; mischief seemed to be his middle name.
Sharon fumbled with the screen-door latch for a second, then pushed it open to race from the house. The sleek chestnut threw its head up and snorted in alarm at her approach. Her boots
skimmed down the porch steps while Tony rode on her hip, laughing with delight.
“Huck! You spoiled, good-for-nothing animal! Get back in there!” she shouted at the troublesome horse, cursing its latest trick of opening the corral gate.
As the chestnut lunged to make good its escape, Sharon ran an intercepting course that would place her directly in the path of the horses and hopefully prevent them from bolting down the ranch lane to the road.
It wasn’t easy doing that with Tony on her hip. She didn’t dare set him on the ground. With his penchant for adventure, he’d get right into the thick of things, ignorant of any possible danger to himself. In the back of her mind, there was a silent tribute to her mother, who had probably coped with many similar situations raising her two children on this western Colorado ranch.
At her shrill whistles and waving arm, the chestnut horse broke stride. Its hesitation provided Sharon time to get in front of the horses. For a second, she thought the other horses pressing the lead chestnut from the rear might prod it into charging against her.
“Wave your arms and yell real loud, Tony,” she enlisted the boy’s help in raising a commotion to turn the horses. He thought it was all great fun and threw himself into this new game with such abandon that Sharon nearly dropped him.
The horses swerved, hooves clacking. She had stopped them from galloping down the lane, but
herding them back into the corral was another thing. It became a frustrating game of tag. Sharon was able to contain them, but she couldn’t coerce the horses to re-enter the fenced enclosure. If only she could get one inside, chances were the others would follow, but each time Sharon tried to lure the horses in, they shied away from the open gate.
Her cowboy boots were not designed for running over rough ground for long periods. Her leg muscles soon began to feel the strain, while Tony was getting heavier and heavier, his weight more awkward to balance. Her arm ached from holding him on her hip, and he didn’t help the situation. Weary of the game, Tony wanted it to stop so he could pet the horses. His whining and demanding protests wore on her already frazzled nerves. She was hot and tired, choking on the dust churned up by the milling horses.
Sharon paused a second to catch her breath, wondering how on earth she was going to get the horses back in the corral on her own. Neither her parents nor her brother were due back until evening. She felt doomed.
From out of nowhere it seemed, a brown streak flashed by Sharon. It only took her half a second to recognize Sam, Ridge Halliday’s cow dog. She overcame the impulse to turn around and locate its owner. The well-trained dog had already driven the loose horses into a tight circle and was pressing to herd them through the gate. All that was needed to accomplish the feat was her assistance.
With a burst of flagging energy, Sharon pushed
forward. The flashy chestnut made one bold attempt to break from the pack, but the efficient cow dog smoothly turned it back. There was a rippling toss of the horse’s flaxen mane, then it whirled and trotted meekly through the corral gate. The other horses followed single file.
While the dog guarded the opening, Sharon rushed to shut the gate. When she set Tony on the ground to secure the gate latch, the muscles in her arm vibrated uncontrollably from the prolonged strain of holding the child. As soon as the gate clicked shut, the panting dog ducked under the lower rail and trotted back to its master, obviously located somewhere behind her.
“Doggie, doggie.” Tony lost interest in the horses to begin chasing the smaller, four-footed prey, his clutching hand outstretched in a supplicating gesture.
“Stay here, Tony,” Sharon ordered sharply, fully aware the cow dog was not a pet. It required an economy of breath to speak, making her voice tautly low and impatient. “The doggie will bite you.”
She spared a glance in Tony’s direction long enough to ascertain that he was hesitating, unsure whether or not she was telling him the truth. There was the crunch of an unhurried stride approaching her from behind.
“Did somebody forget to shut the gate?” Ridge Halliday’s low, drawling voice ran over her weary body with a soothing laziness.
“No. Wonder Horse in there,” Sharon flicked an
irritated look at the gleaming chestnut horse as it began walking docilely toward the gate where the humans were gathered, “opened the gate. Would you bring me a piece of that baling wire by the barn.”
She pushed the waving sweep of caramel-colored hair off her perspiring forehead. She was marking time, postponing the moment when she actually had to look at Ridge, and knew it. But she needed the respite to marshal her carefully practiced, light-hearted friendliness.
