Secrets and Lies: He's a Bad Boy\He's Just a Cowboy (34 page)

But Heather Tremont had been like no woman he’d ever met before. She’d been indignant when she’d spied him and when he’d tried to tease her, she’d refused to laugh. But she’d challenged him. By taking his horse. And he’d never yet come up against a challenge he hadn’t taken and won.

Now, as he watched her try to keep her balance upon a high-strung gelding, he almost grinned. Served her right for keeping him up all night wondering what it would feel like to kiss her lips, to drown in her sky-blue gaze, to touch her man to woman in the most intimate of places.

He shifted, resting his back against the fence and forcing his thoughts away from his sudden arousal.

“Pull back on the reins,” he said. “Let him know who’s boss.”

“That’s the trouble,” she threw back at him. “He already knows! And it’s not me!”

Turner swallowed a smile. She had guts—he’d give her that. She’d blanched at the sight of Sundown, a burly sorrel with a kick that could break a man’s leg, but other than inquire about Nutmeg, her usual mount, she’d climbed into the saddle and gamely tried to command a horse who was as stubborn as he was strong.

“Uh-uh. No hands on the saddle horn,” he reminded her as Sundown gave a little buck of rebellion and her fingers searched frantically for any sort of purchase. “That goes for the mane, as well.”

“I know, I know!” she snapped.

She pressed her legs tighter around the gelding, and Turner’s eyes were drawn to the tight stretch of denim across her rump. Her waist was tiny, but her hips were round and firm, in perfect proportion to her breasts. He saw the stain of sweat striping her back and the resolute set of her mouth.

He wondered what she would taste like. Yesterday, riding so close to her, the scent of her skin had driven him mad and he’d thought long and often about pressing his lips to hers. But, so far, he hadn’t gotten close enough or been stupid enough to try to kiss her.

“How long is this going to take?” she asked, yanking hard on the reins and swearing under her breath when Sundown didn’t respond.

“As soon as I think you’re ready to take him out of the paddock.”

“Humph.” She set her tiny little jaw and a gleam of determination flared in her eyes. She worked the reins again and the gelding reared, but she hung on, refusing to be dismounted.

Turner forced his mouth to remain grim, though he wanted to smile. Crossing his arms over his chest, he settled back against the fence to enjoy the show.

Heather decided the lesson was a disaster.

While he leaned his back against the rails of the fence and watched her put her mount through his paces, she tried to stay astride Sundown, who fought the bit and pranced this way and that.

“You know, I’d work a lot better with Nutmeg,” she grumbled when Sundown tried to buck her off for the third time. She managed to stay in the saddle, but only because she finally grabbed hold of the saddle horn.

“You’ll never make a rodeo queen,” Turner said. He shifted a piece of straw from one side of his mouth to the other.

“Oh, gee, all my dreams, down the drain,” she tossed back, but laughed a little. She was hot and dirty and tired. After spending most of the day in the kitchen, she’d changed into jeans and had been astride Sundown for two hours, and her legs ached.

“You know, Heather, you might like me if you let yourself.”

She nearly fell off the horse. The last thing she expected was any conversation from him about their relationship—or lack of one. “Me? Not like you? Whatever gave you that impression? Just because you invaded my privacy, forced me to ride with you and then came up with this harebrained idea of having you teach me, on
my
free time, mind you, all I wanted to know about horses but was afraid to ask, now, why would you think I didn’t like you?”

A bevy of quail suddenly took flight and Sundown leapt high. Heather scrabbled for the reins and the saddle horn, but the horse shifted quickly. She pitched forward. The ground rushed up at her and she hit the dirt with her shoulder, landing hard. Pain exploded through her arm, and she sucked in her breath.

Turner was there in a second. Concern darkened his eyes as he reached to help her to her feet. “Are you okay?”

“You’re the teacher,” she snapped. “You tell me.” But her arm throbbed and she held it against her body.

“Seriously, Heather.” With a gentle touch she thought he reserved only for horses, he poked and prodded her shoulder. Eyebrows knit, he watched her reaction. “Hold your arm up, if you can.”

Wincing, she forced her elbow high into the air. Like fire, pain shot through her bones. She gritted her teeth. Again his fingers touched her shoulder. “Ooh!”

“That hurt?” he asked.

“It all hurts.” Especially her pride. The last thing she wanted to do was fall off in front of him. She sent Sundown a scathing look. “Idiot.”

“Well, I see your sweet temper is restored,” he said, and relief relaxed the hard contours of his face. For a second she was lost in his silvery gaze and her silly heart skipped a beat. His hands were warm and tender, and beneath his rough cowboy exterior Heather spied a kinder, gentler man—a man with a sense of humor and a man who did seem to care.

“Good as new,” she said sarcastically, for she didn’t want to glimpse into Turner’s soul. It was easier to hate him than to have a current of conflicting emotions wired to her heart.

He tried to help her up, but she ignored his hand and found her feet herself. The less he touched her, the better.

“I think that’ll do it for tonight.”

“Oh? You’re not one who believes that you have to climb right back on a horse if you fall off?”

He eyed her speculatively, his gaze searching her face, and her breath was suddenly constricted in her throat. “You enjoy putting me down, don’t you?” When she didn’t answer, he stepped closer and the twilight seemed to wrap around them. “What is it you’ve got against me, Heather?” he asked, and his hand reached upward, barely touching her chin.

“I don’t have anything against you,” she lied.

“Oh, yes, you do, lady, and I intend to find out just what it is.” His thumb stroked the edge of her jaw and she felt as if she might collapse, so weak went her knees. Instead, she knocked his hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” she said, her voice breathless.

“Afraid?”

“Of you? No way.”

“You’re a liar, Heather Tremont,” he said slowly, but didn’t touch her again. “And I don’t know what you’re more scared of. Me or yourself.” He whistled to Sundown and caught the gelding’s reins in the hand that had so recently touched her skin. “You’d better go into the house, Heather, and have Mazie look at your shoulder.” His lopsided grin was almost infectious. “Unless you need the paramedics, I’ll see you same time, same place tomorrow.”

“How long will these lessons last?” she asked, rubbing the pain from her upper arm.

His gaze focused on hers again—hot, flinty and male. With a sardonic twist of his lips, he said, “We’ll keep at it for as long as it takes.”

Heather’s heart dropped to her stomach and she knew she was in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.

* * *

L
UCKILY, HER SHOULDER WASN’T
sprained. Mazie clucked her tongue, Jill was absolutely jealous that Heather was spending so much time with Turner, Maggie didn’t much care, but Sheryl, the girl who’d been with the Lazy K longer than any of the others in the kitchen aside from Mazie, seemed to grow more quiet. Heather caught Sheryl staring at her several times, as if she wanted to say something, but the older girl would always quickly avert her eyes and hold her tongue. Heather didn’t pay much attention.

Even with her bruised upper arm, Heather was still able to do her kitchen duties, sketch without too much pain and meet with Turner every evening. Despite telling herself that being with him was a torture, a punishment she was forced to endure, she began looking forward to her time alone with him.

They rode through the forest on trails that had been ground to dust by the hooves of horses from the Lazy K. He showed her an eagle’s nest, perched high over the ridge where she’d first spotted him astride his horse all those days ago… . It seemed a lifetime now. He pointed out the spring that fed the river and let her wade in the icy shallows. They raced their horses across the dried pastureland, laughing as grasshoppers flew frantically out of their way; and they watched the sun go down, night after night, a fiery red ball that descended behind the westerly mountains and brought the purple gloaming of dusk.

Often he touched her—to show her how to hold the reins, or tighten the cinch, or guide the horse, but the impression of his fingers was always fleeting and he never showed any inclination to let his hands linger.

One night, when they were alone in the woods, standing at a bend in the trail, she felt the tension that was always between them—like a living, breathing animal that they both ignored.

He was on one knee, pointing to a fawn hidden in the undergrowth. Heather leaned forward for a better view and her breast touched his outstretched arm. He flinched a little, and the tiny deer, which had stood frozen for so many seconds, finally bolted, leaping high as if its legs were springs, and making only the slightest sound as it tore through the scrub oak and pine.

The wind died and the hot summer air stood still. Heather felt droplets of sweat between her shoulder blades, and she moved a step back as Turner stood. “I—uh, guess we scared him off,” she said, her throat as dusty as the trail.

“Looks that way.” He was so close, she could smell the scents of leather and horse that clung to his skin.

She moistened suddenly dry lips and wondered why she didn’t walk back to her gelding, why she didn’t put some distance between herself and this man she barely knew. There was something reckless about him, an aura that hinted at danger and yet was seductive. He touched her shoulder, and she nearly jumped at the heat in the pads of his fingertips. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the raw hunger in his stare.

She expected him to yank her close, to cover her yielding lips with his hard mouth, to feel the thrill of passion she’d read about in so many books. The naked hunger in his expression tightened her diaphragm about her lungs.

“We’d better get back,” he finally said, his hands dropping.

Disappointment ripped through her.

“It’ll be dark soon.” Still he didn’t move.

Heather’s throat constricted at the undercurrent of electricity in the air. She licked her lips and heard his breath whistle past his teeth.

“Come on!” Grabbing her arm roughly, he strode back to the horses. “We don’t want to be late.”

“No one’s waiting up for us,” she replied, surprised at her own boldness as she half ran to keep up with him.

“For the love of Pete,” he muttered. Stopping short, he pulled on her arm, whirling her so that she had to face him. The darkness of the forest seemed to close in on them and the night breathed a life all its own as the moon began to rise and the stars peeked through a canopy of fragrant boughs. “You’re playing with fire, here, darlin’,” he said, his voice tinged with anger.

“I’m not playing at all.”

He dropped her arm as if it were white-hot. “Then let’s go home, Heather, before I start something neither one of us wants.”

She wanted to argue, to protest, but he scooped up the reins of his horse, climbed into the saddle and kicked Sampson into a gallop.

Heather was left standing in the darkening woods, wondering why he seemed to want her desperately one second, only to reject her the next. She was certain she hadn’t misread the signals. Turner wanted her; whether for just a night or a lifetime, she couldn’t begin to guess. But he wanted her.

Yet he wouldn’t break down and admit it.

She hoisted herself onto Sundown’s broad back and followed Sampson’s angry plume of dust. Turner was probably right, drat it all. Whatever there was between them was better left untouched.

* * *

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
H
EATHER
and Sheryl were assigned to inventory the pantry. The room was close and hot and Heather counted while Sheryl wrote down the information.

“Sixteen quarts of beans…three tins of beets…five carrots—”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Turner,” Sheryl said suddenly, causing Heather to lose track of her tally of the corn.

“I—well, I’ve been taking riding lessons from him.”

Sheryl lifted an arched eyebrow. “And that’s all?”

“Yes—”

“Good,” she said, seeming relieved. “The man’s trouble, you know.”

Heather bristled a little. “His reputation doesn’t interest me.”

“Well, it should, because Turner Brooks is bad news. He doesn’t care about anyone. I’ve seen the girls come here, year after year, and without fail, one of them falls for him. They get all caught up in the romance of loving a cowboy, and he ends up breaking their hearts. Not that he really intends to, I suppose. But they all start seeing diamond rings and hearing church bells and the minute they start talking weddings and babies, Turner takes off. He’s out for a good time and that’s it,” Sheryl said, shaking her head. “And it’s not really his fault. His dad’s a drunk and his mother’s dead. Some people say that the old man killed her—either from neglect or booze, I’m not really sure. But she’s gone, and before she died, they had horrible fights. Turner never lets himself get too involved with any woman.”

“Is that so?” Heather responded, wanting to close her ears. Why should she believe this girl?

Sheryl’s eyes were suddenly clouded, as if with a private pain. She touched Heather lightly on the shoulder. “Look, for your own good, stay away from Turner Brooks. He’ll cause you nothing but heartache. You can’t expect a commitment from a man who’d rather sleep on a bedroll in the snow and cook venison over an open fire than enjoy the comforts of a feather bed and hot shower. You like the good life—I can tell. You want to be an artist and live in a big city and show your work in some fancy gallery, don’t you?”

Heather could barely breathe, but she managed to nod.