Winsor, Linda (16 page)

The
tall A-framed livery stable, which, with only one of its double doors open,
stood like a one-eyed, pointy-headed monster on the verge of exploding with the
shrieks of horses and the smashing of lumber. From her limited knowledge of TV
Westerns, only fire or a wildcat caused that kind of terror in a horse.

In
the other room, the scrape of a chair and a muffled exclamation told her Shep
was just as alarmed. The porch door opened and slammed in his wake as he darted
out into the yard, barefoot and struggling into his jeans. From the other end
of the buildings, a barking Smoky barreled around the corner ahead of Ticker,
who was as fully dressed as he'd been the night before, rifle in hand.

Excitement
clearing the sluggishness from her mind, Deanna pulled on the matching robe and
rushed out onto the porch just as Shep reached the half-open side of the barn
door. Suddenly, he lunged aside. From out of the black interior, a dark horse
streaked past him. Deanna looked down. She was barefoot, and the horse was
galloping straight for the house. She ducked back inside.

The
thundering of the horse's hooves competed with men's shouts as she scrambled to
find her shoes. By the time she emerged again, the livery stable lights both
inside and outside had been turned on. Arms folded across her chest against the
morning chill, she wobbled, stockingless, in her fashion pumps toward the open
door. "Can I help?"

Slowing
at the door with second thought, she spied one of the men from the shiny
trailer hustling around it, struggling to don his jacket.

"Thunderation,"
Ticker shouted above the heavy-hoofed scramble inside the barn.

But
it was an ungodly sound that warned Deanna to sidestep in time to avoid the
animal that trotted out of the barn—not a horse, but like one.

"Molly,
you buck-toothed daughter of..." Ticker, hot on the animal's trail,
stumbled and caught himself. "If I get my hands on your scrawny
neck..."

"Hey!"
the geologist from the trailer shouted, waving wildly to avoid being run down
by the irate critter.

Molly
turned in a scatter of dust and headed toward the house, but Ticker and Smoky
herded her back toward the barn... and Deanna. Eyes growing with each snort and
bellow of the mule, Deanna could almost feel its hooves pounding into her
chest. The vision spurred her frozen limbs into action. Darting around the
closed half of the barn door for cover, she slammed hard into the man trying to
open it.

Reality
slowed into clips of awareness, punctuated by the staccato of Molly's hooves
and the bizarre dance of arms and legs trying simultaneously to catch each
other. Deanna clung to Shep's solid torso as they tumbled, gravity refusing to
stop. Shep was atop her, shielding her from the hooves that took a fleeting
pause along with Deanna's heart, and then resumed somewhere beyond their heads.
Had she blacked out?

Shep's
voice penetrated her daze. "You okay?"

Deanna
nodded. She hadn't enough wind in her lungs to answer. She kneaded his chest as
if to prove that she was still alive and not a mangled mess from Molly's hooves.
Relief uncoiled her fear-drawn muscles in one sweep.

"Deanna?"
Shep rolled away from her in alarm.

The
abrupt withdrawal of his warmth exposed her to a cool rush of the early morning
air, prompting her to open her eyes. "What?" She lifted her head from
the dirt floor, looking about wildly. "I'm alive, aren't I?" She
clutched at her chest, as if to be sure. "Where'd that animal go?"

"Out
the back." A hand appeared in front of her face. It belonged to one of the
geologists, the one in the suit. "Can I help you up, Miss Manetti?"

Something
about the way he said her name sent a shiver along her spine. She stared at him
for a moment, disconcerted, and then accepted his help. "Thank you,
Mister..."

"Voorhees,
Jay Voorhees."

"Yes,
I'm sorry. Mr. Voorhees." Deanna straightened her robe and brushed as much
of the dirt off as possible. They hadn't been formally introduced last night,
but she'd heard Shep tell Ticker the geologist's name.

"Can
I help you into the house? You look as if you're about to swoon."

"Swoon?"
She ran her fingers through her hair. New Yorkers didn't swoon... did they?

"I
got her," Shep spoke up, no question at all in his voice or his actions as
he slipped an arm around Deanna's waist.

"You
can help me with the mule, young fella," Tick called from where he dug
into a barrel with a metal can. "All you gotta do is shake this feed to
get her attention, and she'll follow you right back to her stall there."

The
older man pulled a splintered stable door out of the way It looked as if it had
been kicked to bits. So did one of the other doors, but a solid bar blocked the
way of a beige horse with a dark mane and huge black nostrils that quivered as
it whinnied. Suddenly, it pulled back and circled inside the stall, as if
looking for another way out.

"Reach
inside and dump it in her feedbox," Tick said, not the least concerned
that the horse next door looked as though it would try to bolt through the
sturdy bar at any moment. He pointed to the box just inside the opening of
Mollys empty stall. "Stand back, and she'll trot right on in, happy as you
please. Then just slide that bar across to keep her there."

"I'll
be back in a minute, Tick." Shep pulled Deanna away from her leery study
of the snorting, whinnying horse. Even Patch—the horse she'd heard had walked
without flinching through firecrackers tossed in mischief during the last
Fourth of July parade—was becoming restless

"No
rush," Tick assured him. "We got everything under control." The
older man directed Voorhees out the back door where Molly disappeared, while he
moved to head Molly off from the other side in case she decided to act mule
stubborn.

"Just
remember," Tick reminded the greenhorn, "all you got to do is get her
attention with that feed. O' course, with that blamed stallion sportin' about,
she ain't actin' like herself so keep an eye out."

What
happened back there?" Deanna leaned into the crook of Shep's arm as they
walked toward the house. She loved horses—on television and at a distance. But
up close, they were too big for comfort. Would she ever get used to them?

"The
bay is in season and that red came courting."

Deanna
hardly heard Shep's answer. Like she was going to be around long enough to get
up close and personal with a horse.

"The
vixen kicked down the door to let him in, and Molly... well, she just got
caught up in all the excitement." Shep let the door slam behind them,
flipping on the light. "Sit down before you fall down and let me take a
look at that knee."

Knee?
What knee? Deanna looked down, tugging her robe out of the way, to see caked-on
dirt and a trickle of blood down her shin.

"What
made you run out there in the first place?" he asked, heading for the
sink. He took a clean cloth from the drawer and ran it under the faucet.

"Well
I..." Why
had
she run out? She was terrified of horses. "I
guess I just didn't want to be left alone." Now that was lame, really
lame. But then she'd been lamebrained ever since she'd heeded the call of the
West. Shep's explanation of the chaos finally caught up with her.

"Did
you say the girl horse kicked down the door and not the stallion?"

"The
mare,"
Shep amended, his wry but disarming grin spreading as he
squeezed the excess water from the cloth and knelt in front of her.

"The
shameless hussy!" Deanna exclaimed, adding with second thought.
"Although, I guess I wasn't a whole lot better."

Shep's
head came up so sharply, he nearly bumped Deanna's.

Heat
flushed her face. "No, n-not
that
way," she stammered, wishing
she had a rein on her tongue. "I meant that I'd made it easy for a guy to
lead me astray, away from my home and a good job and... and now I have nothing
but a beat-up sports car. You know, like I had a sports car life envisioned and
wound up with a wreck."

Deanna
grimaced at the sting of the wet cloth he pressed on her open cut despite
Shep's gentleness. Why hadn't she met the Jeep man before the sports car one?
She hadn't needed speed. She needed durability—someone to weather the terrain
of life.

"I
should have been content with public transportation and my job in New York. But
the idea of being in love and in charge of a department with a big salary and
fancy vehicle has me jobless and up to my neck in debt for a car that won't
run."

"'Stay
away from the love of money; be satisfied with what you have.' Deuteronomy, I think,"
Shep added after a short pause for thought. "Sometimes moving up in the
world isn't worth it. But hey, at least your car can be fixed." He rose
and walked back to the sink.

But
could her life—not to mention her heart? Deanna bit her lip as it quivered
under the weight of her hopelessness.

"And
who knows, maybe we can do something about your life, too."

"Like
a complete overhaul?"

"Nah,
I think you've still got a few good parts intact." Shep took a Band-Aid
and some antiseptic from a first-aid box he pulled from under the sink.
"Besides," he said, looking out the window as he rinsed the cloth
under the faucet. "The rest of that verse goes, 'For God has said, I will
never fail you. I will never forsake you.' He's the master mechanic. He can fix
anything."

"Yeah,
but I left Him. I haven't exactly been in regular touch."

"Been
there. Done that. Came home with my tail between my legs," he reflected
with a halfhearted grunt of humor. "But He took me back... a lot quicker
than I'd come to Him."

Shep
wrung the cloth dry and shook it out, before taking up the other supplies. When
he turned, the rippled planes of his chest had been splattered and streaked by
the force of the water splashing from the sink.

If
God was using Shep to save her, He could be making a real mistake. The most
reverent thought that came to Deanna's mind at that moment regarding the
straight-shooting rancher was
Holy
cow.

"You
look good in dirt," she quipped, unable to dislodge her gaze from his
searching one. She'd fallen for gorgeous before, but this was gorgeous
and
good.

At
Shep's disconcerted expression, she grimaced. Sheesh, she wasn't much better
than that mare. Here this guy was talking seriously about God and she was
flirting— kicking down a protective door she hadn't finished building yet.
Broadsided by a double shot of remorse and panic, she groped in silent prayer
for help.
God, are You there? I need some help here. I don't know what I'm
thinking. No, I'm not thinking,
I'm just
doing, and I'm not even sure
why or how. ..or if I should be having these thoughts at all. Have You sent
just a shepherd to protect my hide or a Shepard for my heart? I don't want to
get hurt anymore.

"So
do you."

Shep's
belated, husky reply, his closeness, melted away the psychological bar she kept
trying to put between them. Or was it his touch? One hand cradled the back of
her calf as he gently applied the antiseptic. The sting registered, shattering
the spell holding Deanna breathless and still. "Oh, oh!" she gasped,
erupting with a frenzied huffing and puffing to cool the burning wound.
"You're killing me here."

The
Band-Aid he applied firmly over her wounded knee finally assuaged its outrage.
The heat of his hand ironing it onto her skin sent pinpricks of awareness all
the way to the nape of Deanna's neck. Then he took it away.

Talk
about mixed signals!
Her
senses flashed and pinged like a tilted pinball machine.

"There,"
he said, as though caught in the same electric freeze-frame as Deanna, at least
on the surface. Was his heart doing flip-flops like hers? Were they supposed to
be doing flip-flops?

"You
mean you aren't going to kiss it and make it better?" she blurted out. Her
pulse accelerated even faster at her spontaneous reply. Her mother and Gram
kissed boo-boos and made them better. If Shepard Jones did, her brain would
scatter like a dandelion gone to seed. Shep's throaty "Nope" checked
the clamor of her thoughts but failed to rescue her from the warm cinnamon
depths of his eyes where she floundered, unable to escape.

If
there was another saucy reply floating around somewhere, it had sunk to the
bottom of her think tank, beyond retrieval. She rose with him as he
straightened to his feet. At first she thought it was Shep's eyes that coaxed
her from her seat, but his hands reinforced them. Through the silky material of
her robe, their gentle persuasion raised gooseflesh in their wake. Goose bumps
when she was anything but cold. Go figure.

With
the crook of a work-roughened finger, he cupped her chin, tilting her head back
so she could almost feel the night's growth of bristle on his face. His breath
warmed her lips. As he pulled her even closer, the silk of her gown and robe
did little to allay the effect of the masculine torso pressed against her. She
could feel his heart beating counterpoint to hers, a dizzying sensation if ever
there was one.

His
kiss was more of a caress, as tender as the touch of his fingers had been to
her battered knee, yet it raised her senses to a state of awareness that
transcended earthly senses. He wanted more; Deanna knew it. She wanted more as
well. Like Eve with the apple just within her grasp, Deanna inhaled the
sweetness of pure temptation, almost tasting it.

"Is
there a future worth chasing here?" Hoarseness riddled Shep's whisper of
the same question that haunted Deanna's mind.

Holy
Cow.
Is
there? Was there? Could there be—

"Well,
we got it." The out-of-the-blue statement shattered the magic moment
suspending the two of them. Shep all but recoiled as the helpful geologist
stepped into the kitchen, followed by a loud bang of the door.

"Don't
they teach you to knock in
geology school?"
he grumbled, crouching
down to pick up the first-aid supplies abandoned on the floor.

"Sorry,
I figured you'd want to know about the mule." Voorhees tossed up his hands
in surrender. "Guess I'm not the only one who got caught up in the
excitement." He backed out the spring-loaded screen door, adding with a
laconic twist, "Except mine was with a mule."

Shep
inhaled, stoking his breath for the thunder she saw gathering on his face, but
Jay Voorhees disappeared before it erupted, his footsteps fading in retreat.
When Shep turned back to her, his expression was as hard as the thick oak bars
across the stable doors.

Her
stallion was about to bolt... but not if she beat him to it. Pivoting away,
Deanna beat a leisurely path to the bedroom as if nothing at all had
transpired.

Nothing
had, she told herself as she shut out the walking, talking temptation that had
brought her to the brink of... of what exactly? She walked to the edge of the
bed and dropped on it, bouncing as though to jolt the answer from its dark
hiding place.

"
Is
there a future worth pursuing here, Deanna?"

Her
future was either on the run or in prison for a crime she didn't commit. His
was chasing that four-legged Romeo all over creation. The futility of a
relationship slammed Deanna like a freight train. C. R. had tied her to the
railroad track, but when

Jones
had finally come along, it was too late. The wheels had cut her heart in two.

She'd
have laughed at the mental picture, but it hurt too much.
God, please...
take it away.

Grabbing
a pillow, she hugged it to her chest, as though that might ease her pain. It
didn't. There was no relief. No matter what Shep
or
Deuteronomy said,
Deanna couldn't shake the doubt and its consequential guilt that repeatedly
overwhelmed her. Sure all things were possible, but were they probable?

God,
where are You? Did You send Shep my way just to show me what I might have had
if I'd been more faithful?

Outside,
an engine roared from the far end of Hopewell's only street where Ticker's
departing pickup cast a cloud of dust over the visitors' travel trailer.
Blinking tear-blurred eyes, she searched the stillness of the ghost town
through the window. Its sun-bleached buildings glowed iridescent in the morning
sun now peeping over the horizon. On the outside, it looked alive, but inside
it was as abandoned and empty as she felt—and haunted by what might have been.

***

Shep
didn't bother to go back to bed. He'd hardly slept anyway, cramped as he was on
the sofa. And his knee ached as though someone had shoved a screwdriver under
the cap and left it there. He must have aggravated it when he pulled Deanna to
the ground and scrambled to shield her from Molly's hooves. Popping a couple of
aspirin from a tin he kept in the livery, he washed it down with fresh water
from the hose.

What
on God's green earth had gotten into him? One minute he was trying to bandage
her bloodied knee and the next, he'd pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
And that question about a future—that was a masterpiece. It was like pulling a
perp's gun from inside his jacket and asking, What's this, buddy? He already
knew the answer and so had she, given the way she skedaddled.

He
owed Voorhees a debt of gratitude for stopping what could have been a disaster.
So why did Shep feel the urge to punch the man's face? Was it professional
embarrassment at having been caught doing something that went against their
training? Or was it that Shep still couldn't accept Voorhees's charge that
Deanna was a crook, not the victim?

"Morning!"

Shep
glanced up from the stable door he'd been repairing to see the subject of his
preoccupation appear in the opening of the barn, Tick's dog at her side. Or
maybe it was that Deanna Manetti was as out of place here with him as a
hothouse rose in the desert. He'd never seen jeans that glittered before, but
the sun in the open doorway glanced off their curve and taper, holding his
attention longer than he intended.

"Mornin'."
Shep shifted his focus to the project at hand. Some of the planks in the door
had been split and needed to be replaced, but most of them could be simply
renailed and braced.

Cutting
a wide path around the barred openings of the now empty stalls, Deanna
approached him. "So what do you want me to do today?"

He
looked up from the broken door in surprise.

"I
mean, the house is clean, and I've torn up everything I can in there, so I
thought I'd start on the barn," she explained with an exaggerated shrug.
"Gotta earn my keep, right?"

Shep
acknowledged her with a grunt. "Just don't spook the horses with those
fancy jeans." Heaven knew they spooked him— or at least the feelings they
provoked did.

"Okay,
they're too flashy for the boardroom or the stable, but they were free and they
fit." She flanked her concession with an impish grin. "So what do I
do?"

Shep
thought a moment. "You think you can reach just under the bar there and
grab those water buckets? They need emptying, rinsing, and refilling with fresh
water." He'd turned the animals out to drink at the water trough in the
corral, once they'd been fed, but hadn't gotten around to giving them fresh
water inside. "And the stalls need to be cleaned out and fresh straw put
down."