Ride a storm Read online

  He radiated a casual and sure strength, something of the cattle he'd wrestled and the horses he'd broken carried within him, as well as showing in the depth of his chest, the knotted muscle in the long length of sun-browned arms visible below the rolled sleeves of a denim shirt faded nearly white. His legs were incredibly long and lean, molded by Levi's nearly as faded as the shirt.

  "Ma'am?"

  She shook her head slightly, trying to remember why they were here. He was a devastatingly at-

  tractive man. She recognized her appreciation of that fact as being purely clinical, and yet, absurdly, she looked for an answering appreciation in the astounding depths of those eyes. Despite his earlier and altogether too intimate comment, not a flicker of interest disturbed that flatly impassive surface.

  Once, she had enjoyed the fact that men seemed to find her almost irresistibly attractive. Now their interest tended to last until precisely the moment they saw her move.

  She decided, peevishly or vainly, not to move until she had finished conducting this interview, even though it pained her to stand for too long, and particularly when she was standing so stiffly upright so as not to give away even a hint of her handicap.

  And then he destroyed it all by glancing at the cane on the floor in front of him, bending over easily to retrieve it, and moving toward her, his expression unchanged.

  "Would you like this?"

  She snatched it from him, and thumped it into the floor close enough to his toe that he had to pull back to avoid getting stamped on. She noticed the narrowing of his eyes, the tiny sparks of danger that flitted through those placid indigo pools.

  She sank back onto the sofa. She did not offer him a seat, though he did not seem particularly offended. He also did not seem particularly intimidated by her summons, which annoyed her.

  "I'm Dace Stanton," he finally said, his voice calm, and sure, but indicating that he wanted to get down to business and be on his way.

  Obviously, he didn't find her even remotely attractive. She wondered if it was the cane that al-

  lowed him to dismiss her so readily. Or maybe he was married. Her gaze flicked quickly to his unadorned ring finger, and then she reddened when she saw that those alert eyes had not missed the fact, though it brought no change to his expression.

  She decided she disliked Dace Stanton for reasons other than that he had made her angry by jumping a horse he had no right to be jumping. Twice, in the space of a very few minutes, he had managed to remind her of something she was putting the entire force of her will into forgetting. Limitations.

  Once, this might have been the kind of man she would have, almost playfully, tested her charms on. There had been quite a few men whom she had wooed and won just for the fun of it. Of course, she had had to get rid of them when they started getting jealous of her dream. And they always did, because her dream had demanded everything, an almost impossible single-mindedness of purpose.

  Lionel had been the only man who shared her zeal. Their understanding of the price of their dreams had gone a long way in making their relationship seem so strong. Or rather, she corrected herself, giving it the illusion of strength. Once the chips were down...

  She sniffed and raised her chin a notch. She did not return the courtesy of introducing herself to Dace Stanton. She squinted narrowly at him, hoping to make him uncomfortable- The man looked totally at ease, resting his weight on one hip, eyeing her sardonically. Once he shifted his black cowboy hat from one hand to another, though the gesture wasn't nervous at all. It made him look entirely at home; she almost expected he might start whistling, he seemed so totally at ease and

  unintimidated both by the richness of his surroundings and the barely contained bristling of the head honcho's daughter.

  His eyes flicked around the room with casual interest, and then strayed to the view. Finally he looked back at her. He ran a strong hand through the dark, drying silk of his hair, and cocked his head at her.

  "The boss said you wanted to see me.. .ma'am."

  "I'm the boss," she informed him coldly.

  His features had been impassive. Now they became icily remote. A hood fell smoothly over his eyes, darkening them to a shade that approached pitch. He shifted his weight, but not with discomfort. A certain rigidity had entered the loose-limbed way he held himself. He nodded blandly at her, acknowledging the message, but a muscle flickering in the line of his jaw indicated that his temper was being carefully leashed.

  'The way you treated that horse this afternoon was utterly irresponsible." Her voice was frozen, devoid of the shards of shattered dreams that being around this man had pushed uncomfortably into the forefront of her mind.

  The flickering in his jaw stopped abruptly. His eyes narrowed incredulously on her. "I've never treated a horse irresponsibly in my life," he said tersely.

  For a moment she was left wordless. He meant it. And his passion for horses was evident in each terse word. She had the uneasy notion his feeling for horses could easily match her own.

  Then she had the uneasy feeling it would be dangerous to assume she had anything in common with this man. She glared defiantly at him. "The

  facts speak for themselves. What if he hadn't cleared that fence?''

  The man was silent for an uncomfortably long time. Finally he spoke. "Oh. That." His tone was dismissive.

  "You could have killed that horse if you'd hit the "

  "I happen to know that particular fence could be knocked over by a feather," he cut her off. She caught an astounding note in the arrogant rasp of his voice. Sheepishness?

  "Now how would you know that?"

  He studied the well-worn pointed toe of his boot for a moment. "The gate isn't fastened. And the top hinge is missing."

  She did not want to be cheated out of her angry speech, though undoubtedly a gate in that condition would go over at the rap of a feather, never mind a hoof. "Well, if you're so familiar with the condition of that gate, isn't it your bloody job to fix it?"

  He studied his other toe, thoughtfully. But, even though his head was ducked, she could see the tide of brick-red rising up the strong column of his throat.

  "I took it apart in the first place." He raised his head abruptly. His chin rose proudly. The sheepishness was gone from his expression. It was proud and unapologetic. His eyes met hers unflinchingly.

  "You practically dismantled the fence so that you could jump it?" she asked in amazement. "Why? Does that beat getting down and opening it? That takes laziness to new limits, doesn't it?"

  His chin tilted at an even haughtier angle, a light that could only be called dangerous burned in the fathomless depths of his eyes.

  "For one thing, I haven't dismounted from a horse to open a gate since I was three, and for another "

  She almost laughed aloud at his foolish cowboy pride coming first, though his eyes warned her it would be very foolish to laugh right now—boss or no.

  "And, for another, no one has ever accused me of being lazy. I work hard, and I do my job well. You don't know a thing about me, lady. I apologize if my jumping the horse appeared foolhardy and reckless ... from a distance. But that certainly doesn't give you the right to attack my character. Do you understand me?"

  She watched him wide-eyed. He'd been a magnificent specimen before, but now he was incredible. For all that his tone had remained measured and infinitely reasonable, his eyes were sparking, his nose flaring. Cadence was stunned to find herself placed on the defensive, and she didn't like it one bit.

  "I understand you," she informed him with icy hauteur, not allowing him to see for one minute that she'd been briefly intimidated by him. "However, it seems to me that the welfare of the cattle are your first responsibility and that they certainly could have pushed over that gate."

  "Maybe," he said tautly, "but when was the last time you saw a cow in that particular field?"

  She felt herself go crimson under his piercing gaze. "I don't generally concern myself with where

  the cattle ar
e/' she said snootily. Dammit, she realized he had her on the defensive again.

  "And do you generally concern yourself with what the cowhands are doing?" he asked softly.

  "If I feel an animal is being abused, I'm going to say something about it!"

  "I told you I wasn't abusing the animal."

  "Oh, good. I have your word on that."

  "My word is worth a lot in this part of the country." His voice held a note of lethal softness. "Look, Miss Copperthorne, I appreciate your concern for the animal..."

  His tone struck her as being mildly sarcastic.

  ".. .but the situation was not as it appeared. I wasn't in any way being reckless. I was well aware of the animal's capabilities, and my own."

  She was sure her mouth had dropped open at his tone. He was indicating that this interview was over! She snapped her mouth shut and glared at him.

  "How on earth would you be aware of a cow horse's capabilities over a fence?"

  He looked her directly in the eyes, his face absolutely devoid of apology. In fact, a wicked trace of humor seemed to be flickering deep beneath that sapphire surface of his eyes.

  "I guess," he drawled, "it would be safe to assume I've jumped that particular pony before... ma'am."

  "That is exactly my point," she gasped icily. "I do not consider it safe to be jumping cow horses. Neither you nor the horse had been trained for that activity."

  He shrugged a large shoulder with a laziness that was given lie by the scathing intelligence of his eyes. "What are you really angry about?" he asked

  softly. "I jumped the horse. I admit it. It never occurred to me that I needed training to do it. I didn't break my neck, and I didn't come remotely close to injuring the horse. So what do you want from me?"

  She had to bite her tongue to keep the furious flow of words back. She wanted to call him every name she could think of, and then fire him besides. It humiliated her that he knew the anger was about something else. But she didn't want to make a complete fool of herself by losing control—and she didn't want to fire him, either. She had a feeling he'd just shrug, pick up his saddle and be gone.

  And there was one other reason to leash her temper. She had to know. She was burning to know.

  So she looked away from him, fought her temper and finally looked back with something approaching composure.

  "All I want to know is why," she finally managed to say huskily. "Did you go to all that trouble just to shave a few seconds off the ride in?"

  He hesitated, his gaze thoughtful. Something in him seemed to relax, a touch of the wariness left his eyes. "No, ma'am."

  "Then why?" she prodded.

  He looked at her levelly. Shrugged. "I like it."

  For a split second his guard was completely down, and she felt the shock of recognition tingle up her spine. That was what she'd recognized when he'd jumped. That was what had brought the tears pricking to her eyes, and the lump to her throat.

  He'd understated it. He didn't just like it. He loved it. She had seen it in the smoothness of that jump, in the utter confidence his guidance had bestowed on that clumsy little cow horse. For a

  moment, she had glimpsed herself in a stranger pounding over a field and clearing a fence, in his passion for that fence and for the capabilities of the horse beneath him. She had felt the impact of it from half a mile away.

  "You can go," she said tersely, not looking at him, staring down at the hands knotting and unknotting in her lap.

  He hesitated. She could feel his eyes resting on her. Then he spun on the heel of that well-worn cowboy boot and strode out of the room.

  The room was tinged pink with the light of the setting sun when her father found her, sitting there, staring.

  "Well, dear, did you accomplish what you set out to do?"

  "Yes." It was true, though when she'd angrily called the barns earlier she had not even been aware herself what was really going on.

  Dace Stanton was stronger than she. It was that simple. Her heart had recognized it as soon as she'd witnessed him and that fence. He was strong enough to complete the task that had been too big for her, that had destroyed her. Damn him to hell.

  Her voice had a weary note in it when she addressed her father again.

  "I found the man who can ride Storm Warrior."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Dace cursed soundly as the board splintered under the pressure of the screw. The wood of the gate was too rotten to take a new hinge. With silent temper he turned and hurled the hinge as far as he could, and then turned back to the gate. Bracing his one leg on the bottom bar, and one arm on the top one, he threw his weight behind the board, and the nails groaned until the piece of fence wrenched free. It gave him less satisfaction than he had hoped to break it over his knee—the wood was rotten and gave way easily, with a whisper rather than a snap.

  4 'Hell/' Dace snorted with disgust.

  "Thinking of anyone in particular?"

  Dace whirled in surprise. Sloan sat, not three yards from him, astride the big Appaloosa he favored.

  Dace was pretty sure the man was part Indian. He could come up on a person with impossible quiet—and he could read minds. Because Dace had been thinking of someone in particular when he'd finally given in to the demands of his temper—not that he was going to admit that to Sloan.

  Dace plucked his shirt off a fence post, wiped the sweat from his glistening arms and face, and then nodded at the partially dismantled gate.

  "Wood's rotten. We'll have to put in a new one."

  Sloan nodded, without a great deal of interest. "You been up to anything else I should know about?" he asked casually.

  Dace shot Sloan a wary glance. He'd told Sloan about his meeting with Princess Copperthorne. He'd been pretty sure she was going to be talking to Sloan anyway, and he'd been prepared for his walking papers. But Sloan had only told him mildly to fix the gate and not jump the cow horses. If Cadence Copperthorne had talked to Sloan about the incident, he didn't mention it, and Dace grudgingly admitted to himself that she probably hadn't involved Sloan. Which for some reason didn't lessen the anger he felt when he thought about her one little bit. And he thought about that snooty redheaded witch more than he wanted to.

  "I've been meaning to go into town and do some raping and pillaging," Dace said dryly, "but I've been working on this gate since dawn. Maybe on my coffee break, though."

  Sloan chuckled amicably. "Sarcastic pup. Just wondered why she'd want to see you again, that's all."

  Dace felt himself go rigid. He forced his muscles to relax under Sloan's interested gaze. "Does she?" he asked flatly.

  "Asked me to tell you to go around to the big house around eleven. You got no idea what it's about?"

  "No, sir."

  Sloan was not in the least deterred by Dace's cool use of a formality to try and curb his friendly interest. "Guess she might want to have tea with you." He slapped his thigh happily at his humor.

  Dace glared at him, and Sloan gazed down at him with wicked amusement.

  "You ain't scared of her, are you, Dace?"

  "Scared isn't exactly the right word," Dace muttered.

  "She's a beautiful woman," Sloan noted casually.

  Dace shrugged. "She might be—if she didn't look as if she'd been sucking lemons."

  The friendliness left Sloan's face. "You might remember how bad she's been hurt."

  "Plenty of people have been hurt," Dace came back quietly, "and they don't use it as an excuse to make everybody else in the world miserable along with them."

  "I thought maybe you would see it weren't just her hip that got busted." Sloan was looking at him with disappointment. "It was her heart. Damn it, son, you should know about hurting hearts."

  For a moment, Dace felt as if he had been slammed in the stomach. Yes, Lord, yes, he knew about hurting hearts.

  But he wasn't sure Cadence Copperthorne possessed such a thing. He recalled her—that pinched face, the coldness in her eyes and tone, the utter arrogance of her. And a
ll that combined with an unearthly beauty, flaming red hair and huge eyes. Brown, but so generously flecked with amber that he had come away with the impression that her eyes were gold. Lioness eyes. And that was how he had her pegged: a huntress. The type of woman—bad leg, or no—who brought men to their knees with total ease, and who enjoyed doing it besides.

  "Everybody thought she'd marry her coach," Sloan offered offhandedly. "They were pretty much inseparable. He rode, too. He ain't been around much since the accident, though."

  Personally, Dace was not sure he blamed the man, though it wouldn't do to tell Sloan that. Sloan felt a stubborn loyalty for his "Princess/' and there wasn't going to be any arguing about it.

  "I'll go see her at eleven," Dace said. He picked up the hammer and used the claw end of it to wrench another rotting board from the gate.

  "If you headed back now, you could grab a shower first," Sloan hinted with a meaningful glance at his watch.

  Dace turned and looked at him levelly, and then turned back to the gate.

  He was aware he looked—and likely smelled— as if he'd been working. But dammit if he was going to let that redheaded vixen think he'd rush out and shave and shower just because of her royal summons. If he stayed as he was, she might get the message that he did not particularly appreciate being summoned at her whim.

  Sloan was still sitting there, looking expectant. Dace flashed him a look.

  "I'm not going courting," he said grimly. He was pretty sure he caught a faintly disappointed look before Sloan had the good sense to turn and ride away.

  He was coming.

  Cade stood at the window, watching the tall cowboy walk down the dusty road toward the house. She was surprised. Most cowboys needed their horses to look graceful and strong. Earth-bound they were about as graceful as ducks wobbling out of water. But Dace Stanton walked with a powerful and ground-eating stride, his spine

  straight and his shoulders back, an innate pride and a subtle sensuality in his movement.