Secrets and Lies: He's a Bad Boy\He's Just a Cowboy (40 page)

Heather turned her attention back to her partner and started counting down the minutes until midnight.

* * *

T
URNER WAS WAITING FOR HER
. His silhouette was visible against the window as she stepped into the darkened barn.

“I thought you might have changed your mind,” he said.

“Never.” Running to him, she threw herself into his open arms and met his hot lips with her own.

“Not here… . Come on,” he whispered, taking her hand and leading her to the ladder that stretched to the hayloft. He followed her into the bower of fragrant hay and together they tumbled onto a mattress of loose straw. His lips found hers again and the hunger in his kiss told her that he would leave soon. There was a surrender in his movements that she’d never felt before, as if he hoped in one night to take his fill of her.

She met his fevered lovemaking with her own flaming desire. She closed her mind to the future, lost herself in the here and now and made love to him with all the passion and fear that tortured her heart.

“I love you,” she whispered recklessly, as she straddled him and her hair fell around her face and shoulders in thick golden waves.

Turner gazed up at her, his eyes glazed, his face flushed with desire. “Don’t say—”

“But I do, Turner,” she gasped.

He placed a finger over her lips, and she caressed it with her mouth and tongue, convulsing over him as he bucked upward and released himself deep within her. “Heather,” he cried. “Sweet, sweet, lady.” His arms were around her and he pulled her sweat-soaked body down to rest on his.

She felt tears fill her eyes, but she wouldn’t cry, not in front of him. Together they lay, entwined, their hearts beating rapidly, their breath mingling in the warm summer air. Turner’s arms were wound possessively around her and his lips touched her hair. They lay on their backs, staring through the open window near the apex of the roof, and watched the stars wink in the dark sky.

“I can’t stay here forever,” Turner said as he kissed her temple and plucked a piece of straw from her hair.

Her throat was so tight, she could barely whisper, “Why not?”

“I’ve got a life out there.”

Oh, God, not now! Please not now! Her world seemed to crack. “So you’re just a ramblin’ man,” she said, fighting tears and the sarcasm that poisoned her words. She’d promised herself that when he wanted to leave, she wouldn’t tie him down, but now she felt desperate to do anything,
anything
to stop him.

“I guess.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and told herself she wouldn’t break down, wouldn’t shed one solitary tear for this man whose heart was hard enough that he could walk away.

“You’ll leave soon anyway, too,” he said calmly, though his voice was rougher than usual. “You’ve got school in the fall—”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“Sure it does.” He levered up on one elbow and studied the features of her face so intently she looked away. “Heather, you have a chance—to do what you want. Go for it. Don’t let anyone take your dreams away from you.”

“Like someone took yours from you?” she guessed, and he stiffened.

“I always wanted to be a cowboy.”

“Little boys want to ride horses and shoot guns,” she said, touching his arm, feeling the downy hair beneath her fingers. “Grown men like to sit in offices, order their secretaries around and play golf.”

“Not this one.” He flopped onto his back and stared at the dusty rafters where a barn owl had tried to roost. “That’s the problem, Heather. I
like
my life the way it is. I’d die in a three-piece suit and a tiny office on the forty-third floor of some high rise. I’d rather hassle with my old pickup than drive a Mercedes. And I’d take a camp stove and a tent over a house in the suburbs any day. I wouldn’t be any good at frying hamburgers on the backyard grill and I don’t see myself coachin’ Little League.”

“You’re telling me there’s no room in your life for me.”

“Nope. I’m telling you there’s no room in
your
life for
me
.”

“I love you, Turner.”

“You don’t—”

“Shh.” She pressed a finger to his lips and fought back the urge to cry. He didn’t love her. Oh, he cared for her. That much was evident. But to him she was no more than his girl at one of the many places he called home. He probably had women waiting for him in every rodeo town in the West. Tears clogged her throat and burned her eyes. She leaned over and kissed him.

He responded, but his eyes were open and he saw the tears that she fought so bravely. With a sad smile, he wiped a tear from her cheek. “Don’t cry for me, darlin’. Believe me, I’m not worth it,” he said before his lips found hers again and he showed her a way to forget the pain.

* * *

H
EATHER DIDN’T SEE
T
URNER
the next day. He didn’t come in for meals and his pickup wasn’t in the yard. If Mazie knew anything, she was keeping her lips buttoned and Zeke wasn’t around.

All day long Heather’s stomach was queasy and her heart felt as if it had turned to stone. But he wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye.

The day dragged endlessly, and when finally she was finished shaking the rugs, hanging the kettles and mopping the floor, she tossed her apron into a hamper and ran outside. Heart in her throat, she walked to the stables.

Sampson was missing.

And Turner’s saddle wasn’t slung over the sawhorse near the corner of Sampson’s stall. She hurried down the cement walkways, her boots ringing hollowly beneath the glare of single bulbs.

In the broodmare barn she found Billy, pitchfork in hand, tossing fresh hay into a manger.

“Is—have you seen Turner?” she asked when Billy glanced her way.

“Not since daybreak. He’s gone.”

“Gone?” she replied, panic causing her heart to beat so fast she could barely breathe. Maybe Billy meant that Turner had driven into town for supplies with Zeke. Or maybe he meant that Turner had taken some of the guests on an overnight campout. Or maybe his father had gotten himself into trouble again and Turner had to bail the old man out. That was probably it. John had gotten drunk, thrown a few punches in a bar and—

“He took off just after dawn,” Billy volunteered, jabbing another forkful of hay.

“When will he be back?”

Billy’s jaw tightened. He stuffed the pitchfork into a bale of straw and yanked off his gloves. “I don’t reckon he’s comin’ back. Leastwise not this summer.”

Her heart dropped to the cold cement floor. “You’re sure?”

“Hell, I don’t know.” Billy shrugged and tossed his hair out of his eyes. “But his shoulder isn’t hurt anymore and he paid a lot of money for entry fees and everyone knows he likes to keep some distance between himself and his old man, so you figure it out.”

He yanked on his gloves and began spreading straw in some of the empty stalls. Heather’s throat squeezed shut and tears stung her eyes. So he’d gone. Without telling her. Well, maybe he’d tried last night, but she’d expected more than a “I’ll be leaving soon.”

She battled tears all the way back to the ranch house. She wanted to throw herself onto her bed and kick and scream and sob until all her tears were wrung from her body. But she couldn’t go upstairs and run into Sheryl or Jill or any of the girls who worked at the ranch. No, she’d have to do her grieving by herself. Maybe he’d call. Or write. She could cling to those frail hopes.

Feeling more miserable than she’d felt in all of her life, she saddled Sundown and rode to the bend in the river where she’d first spied Turner. “The beginning of the end,” she whispered, patting the gelding’s neck and hopping to the ground while tears streamed down her face.

She tried to be strong because she faced more than a single fear. Not only did she realize that he’d used her, that she’d been nothing more than one of the girls he’d met on the road, that he’d never loved her, she also suspected that she might be pregnant.

She touched her flat abdomen and tried not to cry for the baby who would never know his father. For the baby, she had to be strong; for the life beating within her, she had to find a way to survive. Without Turner.

BOOK TWO

Badlands Ranch, California
The Present

CHAPTER FIVE

T
HE BRONC LEAPT HIGH,
twisted in midair and kicked toward the sun, but Turner held on, his fingers twined in the bridle and mane of his furious mount. “That’s it, you bastard. Show me what you’ve got,” he gritted out. His hat flew off, skimming through the dry air to land in the center of the paddock. The roan, a nasty beast named Gargoyle, landed with a bone-jarring thud before he became airborne again, bucking and rearing, fighting to dislodge his unwanted rider.

Turner gritted his teeth and ignored the grime and dust of a day’s work. This ugly stallion was the best of the lot he was to train, a fiery-tempered quarter horse who didn’t give up, the kind of do-or-die animal that Turner had always found a challenge.

Hooves found earth again and the roan took off, running the length of the paddock, kicking up dust and nearly smashing Turner’s leg against the shaved poles of the fence.

Grinning wickedly, Turner clamped his thighs tighter, shifting his weight, letting the horse know who was boss.

Gargoyle careened to a stop, wheeled on back legs and took off again, running and bucking and tearing up the arid ground.

“I think that’s enough.” Turner reined in, and while the horse took a minute to shift gears, Turner hopped to the ground and wrapped the reins around the top pole of the fence. Man and beast were both sweating and breathing hard.

Turner retrieved his Stetson and slapped the dirty hat against his thigh. A cloud of dust swirled upward. “Tomorrow,” Turner promised.

The horse glowered at him, flattening his ears and shifting his rear end to get a clean shot at Turner’s shin.

Sidestepping quickly, Turner avoided the kick. “You lazy no-good son of a bitch,” Turner muttered, though he was amused by the stallion’s spirited antics. With a little work, this quarter horse would be one of the best he’d ever ridden—ugly or not. “You won’t win, y’know.” With an eye to the horse’s back legs, Turner loosened the cinch and slid the saddle from the roan’s back. “And I’m considering changing your name to Silk Purse. You know the story, don’t ya?”

Gargoyle swung his broad head around and tried to take a nip from Turner’s butt, but the reins restrained the stallion and he was left to stomp the hard earth in frustration.

“Serves you right.” Turner hoisted the saddle to the fence rail, then quickly unsnapped the bridle. Gargoyle didn’t need any more encouragement. He took off, bucking and kicking across the dusty paddock, snorting and galloping with as much speed as any stallion Turner had come across in a long while.

“Remember—tomorrow!” Turner called out as he vaulted the fence. The roan huffed, fire in his eyes, as if he were already anticipating the outcome of their next encounter. Turner laughed. “Yeah, well, I’m lookin’ forward to it, too.”

“Quite a show you put on.”

The voice was soft and feminine, and Turner glanced up sharply to find Nadine standing in the shadow of the barn. He’d forgotten this was her day to come and clean his place. “Didn’t know anyone was watchin’,” he drawled as she crossed the gravel lot, her red hair catching fire in the sunlight. She was a pretty woman with big green eyes, an easy smile, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of a straight little nose. Divorced, with two small children, Nadine made her way in the world alone.

“I thought you might need this.” She handed him a cold bottle of beer, right from the refrigerator. “And I didn’t want you tracking dirt on my floor.”

“And here I thought that floor was mine,” he replied, taking the bottle and twisting off the cap.

“Not until the wax is dry, it isn’t.” She reached into the pocket of her denim jacket and withdrew a stack of envelopes. “Mail call.” Slapping them into his callused palm, she motioned toward the stallion. “Not too handsome, is he?”

“He’ll do.” Turner couldn’t help baiting her a bit. “Don’t you know that the uglier they are, the better they look flyin’ out of the chutes?”

“He flies all right. I’ll give him that.” She squinted up at Turner, and for a minute he caught a glimpse of some emotion she usually hid. She’d been his housekeeper for four years, long before she was divorced from Sam Warne, but lately he’d gotten the feeling that she was interested in more than wiping the grime from his windows. “By the way, she called again,” Nadine added, and Turner’s gut turned to stone.

“Who?”

“As if you didn’t know. Heather, that’s who. Seems as if she’s trying pretty hard to reach you.”

Turner didn’t respond. No reason to. As far as he was concerned, Heather didn’t exist—hadn’t for a lot of years.

“And the Realtor for Thomas Fitzpatrick hasn’t let up. He phoned, too. Fitzpatrick wants this ranch back in a bad way.”

Turner’s glower increased. “I already told him—it isn’t for sale.”

“Thomas Fitzpatrick doesn’t give up easily.”

“He doesn’t have a choice.”

She lifted a shoulder. “Just thought you’d want to know.”

“Only good news. That’s all I want to hear about,” Turner said, his eyes narrowing.

“Well, you may be waiting a long time.”

Though she was only teasing, he knew she was right. He closed his eyes for a second. Damn, he didn’t need either Heather Tremont Leonetti or Thomas Friggin’ Fitzpatrick fouling up his life. He was capable of fouling it up himself without anyone else’s help. When he opened his eyes again, he watched Nadine as she waved and moved toward her car, a beat-up old Chevy filled with mops, brooms, soap and wax.

Turner’s gaze followed after her as she climbed behind the wheel, fired the engine and tore off down the lane, leaving a plume of dust behind her. She was a good-lookin’ woman, a woman any man would be proud to claim as his wife, but Turner wasn’t interested. Besides, she deserved better. He took a long swallow of the beer and wiped the sweat from his brow. Leaning both arms over the top rail of the fence, he eyed the stallion. “You are a mean beast, you know,” he said.