Charlene Sands (4 page)

“Come on, girl.” She clicked the reins gently, spurring Maple into a trot, the fresh air against her face invigorating. Wild grass and flat plains spread out before her, and the sun beat down, causing tendrils of hair to stick to her neck.

She rode for a long while, clearing her head and calming the riot of emotions that were always so close to the surface. She’d been somewhat of a recluse back in Turner Hill, trying to live her life without incident. But the memories of her father’s abuse and then her brother’s crimes had changed all that.

She’d had to start all over. Working that out in her mind wasn’t easy, and sometimes she needed these private moments of solitude to gather her thoughts. She’d put Theresa Metcalf to rest back in Turner Hill. She was Tess Hayworth now, but at times she just plain needed the reminder.

When she spotted a large cropping of lumbering oaks, the shade beckoned, and she rode toward the trees. Maple snorted and sniffed as they approached the cooler area with sunshine playing hide-and-seek between tall branches. “Cooler now, girl,” she said, patting her just below her mane as they rode into the haphazard row of trees.

Maple pranced sideways and snorted again, sensing something amiss in the trees. “What’s wrong, girl?” Tess couldn’t determine the source of the mare’s nervous behavior. She glanced through the shadows and directed the horse farther into the shade.

Two gunshots rang out. In close range. Maple spooked and took off running. Alarmed, Tess tried reining her in. “Whoa, Maple. Stop!”

But the mare flew out of the wooded area and cut across the plains so fast that Tess lost her hold on the reins. She tried for all she was worth to hang on, grabbing for the horn of the saddle. Her boots came out of the stirrups, and nothing but sheer will kept her upright.

For about three seconds.

Then she fell, landing hard on unyielding earth.

“She should’ve been back by now,” Clint said to Mr. Stewart, who stood pacing on the front porch. The man had gone into the house already, spoken with Greta, then come out again. Sonny was nowhere to be found, and when Stewart had caught sight of Clint, he’d called him over.

“Ain’t like Mrs. Hayworth to be late. She’s been prompt and efficient every other time I’ve come out to visit. Your cook said she went out for a ride and hasn’t returned.”

“Don’t know what to say, Mr. Stewart. She took off this morning on horseback.”

The man stood on the porch, dressed in a striped three-piece suit with sweat dripping down from his bowler hat. He glanced at his watch and shook his head. “I hope nothing’s happened to her.”

Clint wasn’t one to worry, but it was strange that she’d been gone so long. “Tell you what—I’ll take a ride out and see if I can find her. You go on inside. Give me half an hour and then if—”

Movement off in the distance caught his eye. He squinted and focused on Maple grazing out on the north pasture, an empty saddle on her back. “Damn. That’s her horse,” he said. “Looks like she might be in trouble.”

Mr. Stewart gazed at the mare. “Never a good thing when a horse comes back without his rider.”

Clint agreed on that notion and took off in a hurry to saddle up his gelding. Within minutes he was mounted and heading toward the grazing mare. When he noted that Maple’s saddle slanted down slightly off the left side, he knew that Tess was in trouble. Most likely she’d taken a fall.

Once he did a quick assessment and was assured the horse hadn’t been injured, he put a hand to Maple’s rear end and encouraged the mare back to the stables. “You’re okay, girl. Go on back home,” he said, nodding his head. The horse took off toward the stables, and Clint watched a ranch hand race up to attend to the riderless mare.

Clint traveled at a measured pace, hoping to track the path Maple had taken. Hayworth land was vast, and he could only venture to guess how far and in what direction Tess had gone. He’d give it some time, and if he couldn’t find her, he’d double back and get up a search party.

After traveling for half an hour, a cropping of tall oaks came into view off in the distance. He remembered from his boyhood those trees and their forest-like appeal, granting a cool respite of shade from the otherwise sun-soaked flat plains. Most likely she’d headed there for a rest.

“Let’s go,” he said quietly. His father’s gelding, Midnight, the fastest and most agile horse of the remuda, instantly understood. Already Clint had formed a bond with him, the horse aware of Clint’s direction simply by the intonation of his voice.

He was halfway to the oaks when Clint spotted something. He lowered his hat brim to cut off the sun’s glare and squinted, pulling back the reins and slowing down. A spot of orange-red contrasted with the dry straw-stained plains.

And when he got closer he recognized the shape of a downed body on the ground. Everything blended into the surrounding hues but that one speck of coppery red, and he was certain it was Tess’s long hair.

He rode hard and reached her quickly, dismounting and bending over her. She lay still. And quiet. Blood, now dried, lay at the back of her head, mingling into the tresses and matting the hair down.

He scoured her body for other injuries.

“Tess.”

She didn’t respond.

“Tess,” he said, tapping her cheek. “Wake up.”

She made a slight move, then scowled with closed eyes, a look of pain crossing her face.

He cupped her head in his hands and called her name again. “Tess. Wake up.”

This time her eyes opened, her eyelashes fluttering as she blinked.

“Stay still,” he said calmly, reassuring her. “You took a bad fall.”

She looked up at him and spoke in a whisper with soft wonder in her voice. “You came for me?”

“I found Maple out in the pasture.”

She continued to focus those blue eyes on him. Today they appeared lighter in color, like a fading winter sky. “I almost didn’t see you.” He took his hands from her face and gazed at her hair. “Good thing your hair is the color of a Texas sunset.”

She took a deep breath, then wet her parched lips with her tongue. “Hold on,” he said, then whipped his bandanna off his neck and blotted at the dried blood on her head very gently, managing to clean up the last remnants. “I’ll get you some water.”

He whistled and Midnight stepped up. He took the canteen and went back to Tess. Bending, he dripped water onto her lips. “Easy, now.”

No telling how long she’d been there with the sun beating down on her. The soft blouse she wore had ripped at the shoulder, leaving her arm exposed, reddened now from the intense heat. Her cheeks were sunburned and her skin bore a fine sheen of moisture.

She sipped the water, her mouth opening as he offered her liquid in small amounts. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I don’t know.”

“Lie still and don’t move.”

Clint roamed his hands over her arms cautiously, feeling for injury. He lifted her blouse and moved over her torso with finite precision. He was a healer of sorts. Of course, his expertise had nothing to do with people, but he could recognize damage when he saw or felt it.

Right now all he felt was soft, exquisite skin under his palms. He inhaled sharply, reminded of who Tess was and all his reasons for hating her. But she was injured and Clint couldn’t ignore that.

He scooted over to her side. “Can you wiggle your toes?” If she had feeling in her feet, there’d be no need to remove her boots just yet.

She concentrated for a second, then nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” He rode his hands up and down one leg, then the other. She wore a split riding skirt, and he attempted to lift the lower part to see her legs, but the material was twisted under her and he was able to see only to her knees. “Any pain here?”

“No.”

She watched him survey her body, those curious, untrusting eyes following his every movement. He couldn’t blame her. He didn’t trust her, either.

“What about your back? Don’t move, but are you in any pain there?”

Again she concentrated. “I don’t think so. I’m just stunned.”

“You’ve been unconscious for quite a while,” he told her. “It’s well after noon and you’ve been burned by the sun. No doubt you’re not going to feel well for a few days, but I can’t find any injury other than your head.”

She lifted her arm and felt the bump. “Oh! I do feel that.”

“You should. You hit it on a rock and bled some, but that’s over and done with. Now I need to get you outta this sun.”

“No, I want to go back,” she protested.

“Not yet,” he said before carefully scooping her. She was lighter than a sack of feathers and fit easily in his arms. “Hold tight.”

She roped her arms around his neck, and as he strode toward the copse of trees, her eyes closed shut and her head fell loosely against his shoulder. Her position, nestled up against his body, all curves and woman scents, might have sparked his desire had she not been injured. But Clint didn’t like seeing injury to animals—and he supposed that held true even for beautiful, deceitful, stubborn widows.

“Tess, you with me?”

She made a small female sound in answer.

He figured being upright didn’t sit well with her, so he hastened his steps until they reached the rows of trees. Still holding her, he reached for the woolen blanket rolled up on Midnight’s saddle and spread it out enough to lay Tess down.

He lowered her upon the blanket, then took off his shirt and bunched it up until he had a thick pillow to put under her head. “Still dizzy?”

She opened her eyes and looked at him, the impact of her grateful stare striking a chord within him.

“I feel better now, out of the sun.” Then she added softly, “Thank you.”

Clint nodded and then looked around, puzzled. “What happened to you?”

“Maple got jumpy.”

Maple was one of the tamest horses at the Double H. “Maple doesn’t have a jumpy bone in her body.”

“She does when there’s gunshots.”

He arched a brow, surprised by the news. “Gunshots?”

She closed her eyes briefly, contemplating, then the words flowed slowly. “I remember hearing two shots. That’s when Maple startled.”

“She threw you?”

“I managed to hang on for a time,” she said in a defensive tone that made him smile.

His smile seemed to annoy her and she turned her head away. Gratitude only lasted for so long.

Gently he pushed away the hair that had fallen into her face. “You’ve got two ripe apples for cheeks,” he said, then poured water over a clean spot on his bandanna and dabbed her face with the cloth. “This will help.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” She searched his face with a perplexed look.

“Would you rather I pull you by the hair and drag you back to the ranch?”

She chuckled at the absurdity of the thought. “No.”

He grinned and they shared a genuine moment of amusement. He continued to cool down her cheeks, chin and forehead as she watched him.

He poured water again and this time cooled her neck with gentle dabs. When he dipped farther to where her collar opened, he glimpsed her soft shoulders and began to dab there, as well, watching her face redden brighter than any damage the sun could do.

She reached for the bandanna and their fingers brushed. “Thank you, Clint. I can do the rest.”

He released the cloth and nodded. Seeing her lying there, her riotous long waves spread out and her body prone, for a second he knew what his father must have felt for this woman. For a second he felt true temptation, not created by lust and vengeance but by pure male instincts.

“Stay put and rest a while.” He rose and peered at her. “I’m going to take a look around.”

And he walked off to search for the source of those two gunshots that had spooked Maple and made her throw her rider.

C
lint returned to her with a frown on his face. That was more like the man she’d come to know. Yet slight pangs of awareness had stirred within when he’d tended to her injuries, his eyes concerned and his touch ever so gentle. He’d given her his shirt to use as comfort under her head, and she couldn’t help admire him, the broad expanse of his chest, the strength he displayed, the raw masculinity that Tess thought she was immune to, jumbled up in her dizzy brain.

She’d seen him with the ranch animals. They were drawn to him. They trusted him. She’d never seen animals respond to anyone the way they did Clint. Witnessing this compassionate side of him confused her and made her wary.

“It was a wolf.”

“Wh-what?”

“There’s a downed wolf about fifty yards from here. Shot twice.”

“Oh,” she said, attempting to sit up. Clint watched her struggle, standing over her, and once she managed it, he nodded in approval.

Then he offered her his hand. His grasp was firm and tight enough to secure her but gentle, as well. She stood to face him, her head spinning for just one moment.

He held her hand, and she didn’t dare release him for fear of losing her balance. He waited with patience for her to get her bearings, and finally the world righted itself.

“Who would shoot a wolf and not stay to help me?”

He cocked his head to one side and raised his brows. “Maybe they didn’t see you. Or maybe—” Then he shook his head. “Never mind. Let’s get you home.”

He bent to pick up his shirt. She grazed over his bare muscled chest once more and took a swallow as she watched him work the buttons and put it on. She handed him his bandanna and he placed it into his back pocket.

Midnight strolled over to him, the horse fully in step with him and his needs.

“Ready?”

She took in a sharp breath. “Yes.”

He lifted her up with ease and set her onto the saddle, then in one graceful movement he mounted the gelding. She was close to him, her body pressed to his, and then his hands were on her hips, adjusting her better into the saddle.

Once again sensations rippled through her that she had no cause feeling.

He set his hat onto her head, protecting her from the sunshine. “I lost your hat,” she mumbled, remembering the one Sonny had given her earlier.

“You won’t get the chance to lose this one.”

His arms came around her as he gripped the reins and spoke to Midnight. The horse took off at a slow, even gait. “You need a rest, you let me know.”

She nodded, swallowing past a big lump in her throat. Her head pounded now and it was a real chore sitting upright. They rode toward the ranch, and she found herself drifting off, her head falling back onto Clint’s shoulder.

She righted herself.

“Don’t fight it,” he whispered in her ear. “Just relax against me, Tess. Won’t be long before you’re in your own bed.”

Drowsy and tired of the fight, Tess gave in and let her head fall onto his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her just above the waist, holding her steady, and at times she felt the brush of his arm against her breast. Even in her dazed state, she thrilled at his touch.

When they reached the ranch, Clint set her away from him, carefully. “We’re back,” he said, his tone rigid now.

Tess sat straighter in the saddle and thanked heaven that the low brim of Clint’s hat shadowed her eyes from the ranch hands, who gazed upon both of them with more than curious stares.

Clint helped her down and immediately picked her up into his arms again, carrying her into the house. “Greta,” he called out. “Mrs. Hayworth is hurt. Bring some broth up to her room.”

He climbed the stairs effortlessly and kicked open her door. Walking inside, he carried her over to the bed. When he lowered her, she gazed deep into his eyes, her heart pounding, with a thank-you ready on her lips. She cast him a small smile that he didn’t return.

“Get some rest. Greta’ll be up soon to take care of you.”

He turned and walked to the door, then glanced back at her, his lips cocked up partially. “You want some company in that big ole bed, you know where to find me.”

Tess closed her eyes. She’d seen his tender side, and that had surprised her, but nothing staggered her more than the instant flash of desire his last words instilled. She could see herself lying with Clint in her bed, being taken into his arms and—oh, Lord—having him claim her.

She stirred with the unexpected notion, wondering if she’d lost her mind completely when she’d fallen.

The old Clint was back, arrogant and brash.

Oddly Tess felt herself softening to him.

Nothing frightened her more.

Her body ached from the fall and she had trouble resting. Even Greta’s broth and chamomile tea didn’t help much. She couldn’t sleep, her head ached, but she lay in bed contemplating about her life and this uncanny turn of events.

Someone had shot a wolf in the same cropping of trees where she’d ridden with Maple. It hardly seemed like a coincidence. But then, strange things,
small
things, had been happening around the ranch lately. Just enough to cause annoyance and some added costs.

But this time Tess was directly involved. She could have been severely injured today if she’d hit her head harder or had landed in a twisted position on the ground. She wondered if someone had deliberately set out to cause her injury. Maybe someone had wanted to frighten her. But then she had to consider that there had been a wolf in the area and maybe, just as Clint claimed, the shooter hadn’t seen Tess at all.

It was a mystery she may never understand.

When a knock sounded on her door, she sat upright on the bed. “Who is it?”

“It’s Sonny.”

“Oh, Sonny, please come in.”

Sonny opened the door and sauntered in, hat in hand, a real uncomfortable look on his face. Tess couldn’t remember him ever coming up to her room before, and judging by the sheepish expression on his weathered face, she was certain he’d rather be anyplace else. “Ma’am.”

“Hello.”

“I’m just checking on you. I, uh, I heard what happened out there today.”

“I’m fine, Sonny. Just a little sore.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Would you care to sit down?”

“No, thanks, ma’am.” He eyed the softly cushioned wingback chair in the corner of the room as if it were a rattlesnake. “I’ve got to be getting back outside soon.”

She accepted that, wanting to ease his obvious discomfort being inside her bedroom. He was tall and thin and lumbered over the bed. “Someone shot a wolf.” She cast him half a smile.

“That’s what I hear. Clint doubled back and brought it in. I don’t recall seeing a dang wolf that size before. Had a big belly to feed. Must have been preying on our young calves.”

“Oh, well, then, it’s a good thing he was shot.”

“Suppose so.”

“Do you think a ranch hand might have shot it? I can’t imagine it being anyone else.”

“I’ll question the men tonight and see if I can’t find out something. But don’t you worry about that. That’s what I came up here to say. You need to rest and get better, and I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Thank you, Sonny. You’ve been so helpful to me since…well, since Hoyt passed on. I don’t think I could’ve run this ranch without you.”

“Appreciate that. I do. But I’m just doing my job, same as always.”

Tess respected his humility, but the truth was the truth. “Hoyt could always count on you.”

Sonny lifted his eyes toward the ceiling, his graying brows rising some when he nodded. “That’s why I’m here, Mrs. Hayworth. I got years invested in the Double H, and Hoyt, well, he always knew it.”

Sonny cleared his throat. The sentiment behind this conversation taxing him, Sonny rarely spoke with emotion to her, but she sensed how he felt about the Double H. It was his home, too.

“Well…I just wanted to make sure you weren’t injured.”

“Just a bump on the head and some aches. I’ll be fine.”

“That’s good.”

He stared at her a moment and she sensed he had something more on his mind. “What is it, Sonny?”

He took in a sharp breath, then shook his head. “Nothing, ma’am. I’m just glad to see you’re feeling better.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind.”

He swallowed and put his hat back on his head. “I’d best get back out there.
The ranch doesn’t run itself,
you know.”

Something tightened in her stomach at those words. It had been Hoyt’s favorite saying.

Funny thing how Sonny reminded her so much of her late husband.

Clint poured whiskey into a cut-glass tumbler, two inches high, and looked around the quiet, empty house. There was a time in his youth when laughter and boisterous activity filled the rooms, the ranch hands, smaller in number then, ate their meals inside the kitchen with the Hayworths and they all seemed like one big family. Now Clint could hear the whisper of the trees outside and the eerie silence of the night.

He sipped his drink until he emptied the glass, then poured himself another and walked upstairs to his room.

He shed his boots and clothes and lay down on his bed as memories washed over him—memories he couldn’t quite get out of his head.

Painful emotions swept through him. He hated what the ranch represented. He knew that for fact. He hated that his father had put all his time and energy into building an empire at the expense of his wife and child.

He thought of the woman only steps away from his room, the young beauty that had managed to worm her way into Hoyt Hayworth’s life. He’d have to fight her to get the retribution he wanted.

And he damn well would—for his mother, as well as for himself. Melody Hayworth hadn’t deserved that treatment. Frail and broken by her disheartening marriage, she’d taken Clint away from the Double H ten years ago. He’d been sixteen then, but it had been just a year earlier when everything had fallen apart.

Clint closed his eyes and relived the days that had ended one young boy’s innocence.

“Mama!” Clint called out. “Mama, wake up!” Clint leaned over his mother’s twisted body at the base of the stairs. She’d stepped halfway down the staircase, walking on weak legs, before she’d tumbled.

At fifteen years old, Clint wanted nothing else for his birthday but the mare he’d seen run with the pack out on the northern tip of their property. The mustang had been his from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. She’d been wild as the wind, and Clint had tamed her. Eager for his ill mother to see him ride, he asked her to come outside. But he regretted that request as his mother lifted her head and smiled her sweet smile.

“I’m fine, Clint.”

Clearly she wasn’t fine. Tears sprung from his eyes. “I’ll go get Dad.”

She took hold of his arm. “No, your father’s busy. Just help me to my room.”

She passed out then and Clint became frantic. Greta appeared, slinging German words in his face. Finally, once the cook calmed, she ran for Sonny, the ranch foreman, and along with another ranch hand they managed to get his mother back to her room while another man raced to town to get Doc Reardon.

Clint overheard bits of the conversation Greta whispered so hotly to the foreman and he gained the information he needed. He rode Blaze hard and fast until he recognized his father’s horse. His mother needed her husband. She was so weak and delicate, and Clint feared for her life.

He stormed into the Stratton home, calling for his father. He’d gone to school with the Stratton boys; Brad was two years younger, and Georgie was a year older. But it wasn’t Brad or Georgie he found inside the house. As he rushed through their parlor to the kitchen, he stopped, his eyes widening in shock.

He’d caught his father by surprise. “What in hell are you doing here, boy?”

His father’s pants were unbuttoned, his shirt gone. And the widow Stratton was doing all she could to put her arms back through the sleeves of her emerald-green gown. Her hair mussed, her eyes dewy, Clint knew he would always remember with distaste the look of lust in her eyes.

“Mama fell,” was all he could manage before riding off angry and hurt, with the wind blowing tears off his face.

“What you saw, Clint—it’s nothing. You’ll understand when you’re a grown man,” his father defended after the crisis passed with his mother. “Jocelyn is a fine woman, healthy and giving. A man has needs.”

Clint had stared at his father, hating him even more then because, aside from all the ranch hands and employees knowing the truth, he’d realized that his mother knew, as well. He’d seen the injured look in her eyes when she glanced at her husband. He’d seen the longing there. And when she’d had enough of her husband, who’d been too wrapped up in his own wants, too selfish to pay her the attention she needed, Melody Hayworth took her son and left.