Something Wild (14 page)

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Mike paced the length of Doc ten
Hope’s kitchen, the spiral phone cord trailing his steps as he waited for someone, anyone, at the Remington ranch house to answer. At last the ringing ceased and a breathy, sexy female voice answered.

“Hello.”

“Charity?”

There was a long, hesitant pause at the other end. “Mike?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t need to hear Charity’s voice, not now when he’d done everything in his power to push her out of his mind. She was history. A flame that had flickered brightly, singed him, then disappeared, the way most flames did. He shouldn’t have expected anything more.

“Is everything okay?” Her voice was soft, whispery, concerned.

“I’ve got a lot on my mind.” And he didn’t want to spend a long time talking to her so she’d be on his mind again as well. “Is Jack there?”

“I’m here by myself. Everyone else went to the Atkinsons’s for dinner.”

Mike collapsed in a kitchen chair, forced to talk to Charity because no one else was around. He cupped his hand around a steaming mug of coffee and knew he should just ask for her help and get the conversation over with, but temptation got the better of him. He liked her voice. He liked her more than he should. “Why didn’t you go?”

“I couldn’t bear the thought of eating more birthday cake.”

He laughed for the first time since Charity had left him in the canyon. “Sam likes to celebrate. Birthdays. Christmas. Thanksgiving. It’s never just one day. Always a week. You live out here and you’ll get caught up in it, too.”

There, he’d opened up that discussion again. She’d seemed adamant about leaving, but maybe she’d had a change of heart.

Once again there was a long silence at the other end of the phone, and he found himself hoping against hope that Charity would tell him she’d like to take part in more celebrations, that she wanted to work with horses, that she’d stay.

If she stayed, maybe he could figure out what he wanted from her next.

“How’s the mare?” she asked, words he should have expected.

He swept a hand over his whiskers and tired eyes. So much for Charity Wilde sticking around.

“She’s torn up inside as well as out, but Doc ten Hope’s the best around. If anyone can save her, he can.”

“How about you?”

“What about me?”

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired.”
Lonely
. He took a sip of coffee and the hot liquid burned its way inch-by-inch down his throat. As exhausted as he was, as adamant as she seemed, he decided he couldn’t give up. “Don’t go back to Vegas, Charity. Stay here.”

“I can’t.”

“A few more weeks, that’s all. Stay here and work with the horses until your audition. See if you like it.”

He heard her sigh. “I can’t, Mike. My audition’s been moved up and ... I’m flying home tomorrow.”

He’d just been gut-kicked by half a dozen Satans. He could hide behind the notion that he wanted her to stay for the horses, but he wanted her to stay for himself.

“I need to see you before you leave.”

“I’m not going to change my mind about staying, Mike. I’m a dancer, not a horse trainer.”

“I didn’t say anything about horse training, Charity. I said
I
need to see you before you go.”

“I’ll be busy till then. I’ve spent the last few hours stretching, exercising, trying to work some of the kinks out of my muscles and get somewhat in shape before Tuesday. I need to spend more time with Max and Lauren and the kids—”

“You afraid of seeing me? Afraid I could talk you into leaving Vegas?”

“Of course not.” She didn’t have to sound so sure of her feelings. “That audition means everything to me.”

And I mean nothing
? He wanted to shout the question at her, but he knew what her answer would be. They’d had two days together. Two days! It was fun. A good time. But it meant nothing else—to her. She was used to flitting from one good time to another, and flitting from him to someone or something else was nothing new.

“Then I’ll wish you good luck.” He forced himself to smile, even though no one could see him.

“Thanks.”

“Look, I called for a reason.” An important reason, something he’d almost forgotten. “I left my place in a hurry and I can’t remember if I bolted the barn door. I won’t be home till one, maybe two, and I’ve got the feeling Satan might come back tonight and try to take the Tennessee Walker again.”

“I could call the Atkinsons’s and see if Jack could stop by your place on the way home.”

“It’s out of the way, and Fay usually serves dinner late. Do you think—”

“I’ll go. Consider it my way of making up for all the trouble I’ve caused you.”

“Trust me, Charity. If I wanted you to make up for all the trouble you’d caused, I’d ask a lot more of you. A whole lot more.”

Charity trudged toward Mike’s place, every muscle in her body screaming at her to slow down, to take it easy as she trekked over hill and dale. Fortunately the hills were low, the dales weren’t steep, and the massive log cabin was just over a mile away, because her stiff, achy body was having a fit over the latest workout she was forcing on it.

Ballet lessons were strenuous, so was running five to ten miles a few times a week, but getting thrown from a horse, taking a flying leap out of a saddle and knocking a full-grown and decidedly handsome man to the ground, not to mention tumbling down the side of a rocky ridge and landing with a thump at the bottom of a ravine, were beyond her body’s limits.

Minuscule snowflakes plopped on her nose and cheekbones. One landed on her upper lip and she licked it away. The snow was lovely, falling lightly as dusk turned rapidly to night. With a wide-beamed flashlight aimed in front of her, she drew in a deep breath and felt the tingle of frigid air slip into her mouth and down her throat.

Must hurry, she told herself, feeling like Little Red Riding Hood as she swung the basket of goodies she’d packed as a goodwill/forgiveness gesture, a little something extra to make up for being such a pain. She knew full well Mike wanted more—but this was all he was going to get.

Again she reminded herself that she had to hurry. She wasn’t about to dawdle and accidentally run into Mike if he got back early from the vet. Her game plan was faultless. Get to Mike’s place, drop the basket on the kitchen table, check on the Tennessee Walker and the other horses in the barn, bolt the barn door, check for any signs that Satan was on the prowl, then hightail it back to the Remington ranch house.

Simple. Expedient. Smart.

Bumping into Mike would certainly cause her great amounts of confusion. The good pastor, for all his preaching, was pure temptation. Avoiding him was her only recourse, because whenever he was near, even when it was only his voice coming through the phone, she wanted him.

Lust. That’s all it was. What woman wouldn’t lust over the man?

Don’t think about him. Put him completely out of your mind because thinking about him leads to bewilderment.

Turning on the speed, Charity ran the rest of the way to the cabin, doing long jumps over puddles and ditches, kicking high, stretching out her toes as she made each ballerina-like leap, no easy feat in heavy boots, thick socks, long Johns, and blue jeans. But Tuesday morning when she faced Duane-the-lech, she fully intended to wow him with her agility.

By the time she reached the front door, flecks of snow had grown to white thumbprint-size and covered the porch, the railings, her hair and clothes.

Hurry. Hurry.

Charity pushed through the unlocked door, flipped on the light switch, and suddenly the massive room was illuminated with the glow of track lighting beaming down from the high-timbered ceiling. This living room had seemed every inch a man’s place when she’d been in here with Mike this morning. Now all she saw was the petite blonde from the picture in Mike’s Bible.

Jessie’s paintings, caught in the luminous, spotlighted glow, stared at her. They were everywhere, big, small, in-between, thick frames and thin, gilt and oak, as if Mike had amassed every painting Jessie had ever rendered into this room and turned it into a shrine to remember his wife.

Jessie Flynn. She’d scripted her name in the lower right-hand corner of every painting, the
J
flaring bigger and bolder than the rest of the letters, like something out of the movie
Rebecca
.

Suddenly Charity could picture Mike’s wife sitting at an easel meticulously applying paint to a canvas, making sure the blues, whites, and grays of the sky, the greens and browns of the sagebrush and juniper, and the wildness of each creature was a faithful depiction of the real thing. Even more clearly she saw Jessie in this room, standing on a stool while she adjusted the track lights for the best effect or dusted the frames, looking at Mike over her shoulder, asking his opinion, smiling about some intimate secret they shared.

He’d loved his wife dearly. He still loved her. Charity had seen the tenderness in Mike’s eyes when he spoke her name, when he stared off across the prairie and wished his wife were with him again.

Just once in her life, she wished she could be loved and adored in a way that was deep and lasting, instead of being the object of a man’s affections from the moment he asked her to sneak into a back room until she dished out a blatant
No
!

She’d never been loved, not really. Her real mother had used her to make money. Her adopted father had taken her in and wanted to turn her into a clone of himself, and his wife, although caring, followed in her husband’s footsteps, always obedient, never a person of her own.

Charity didn’t want to be what someone else wanted her to be. She just wanted to be herself, trouble and all.

Coming here was a mistake. It made her think about the loneliness of her life, a loneliness she’d never admitted to a soul, and rarely admitted to herself.

Slamming her eyes shut, she forced herself to think about Duane’s phone call, about the audition on Tuesday, about some future opening night when the spotlight would shine down on her and the audience would stand up and cheer.

And then she wouldn’t be lonely any longer.

She escaped to the kitchen, needing to get away from Jessie and thoughts of Mike’s love for her. She flipped on the lights, and set her basket of goodies on the table, taking out a wrapped plate filled with Max’s sweet-and-sour barbecued ribs and Sam’s potato salad, which she put in the refrigerator. She left a plate of pastel-iced sugar cookie hearts on the table as well as a piece of yellow birthday cake with dark chocolate frosting. She thought about leaving him a note, but what could she say that hadn’t already been said?

Mike wanted her to be something she wasn’t, just like everyone else, and she’d never give in to that.

Their brief time together had been fun, but it was over.

Somewhere, a clock struck nine.

Grabbing her basket, she headed out the kitchen door and was greeted by blowing snow that clung to her eyelids, her cheeks and lips.

She heard the whinny of a horse and knew immediately it wasn’t one of the domestic animals. She’d know that sound anywhere, the power, the arrogance, the I’m-back-so-watch-out attitude that belonged to Satan.

The stallion stood not far from the barn, his black tail and mane crusted with heavy, wet snow. His brown eyes blazed through the storm, watching Charity’s steps as she walked toward the barn, watching the big red door
thud, thud, thud
in the whipping wind.

It was dangerous for Satan to be here. Was he too pigheaded to understand?

Charity raced toward the mustang, flapping her arms. “Get out of here!” She did everything in her power to keep the beast out of harm’s way, out of Mike’s clutches, out of the barn and away from the mares.

But he was rebellious, pawing at the thickening snow and the frozen earth, flipping his head wildly, refusing to run away. Instead he galloped toward the gaping barn door, giving no heed whatsoever to Charity’s attempts to make him leave.

She rushed toward the barn and was halfway between it and Satan when a fierce gust of wind blew her off her feet. She landed with a whoosh in a puddle of slush and mud. The flashlight slipped from her fingers and the wicker basket sailed out of her hands, flipping through the air and snow until it hit the ground and rolled out of sight.

Scrambling to her feet, she slammed her muddy behind against the door and tried to keep it closed even though the wind had something else in mind.

Satan glared at her through the now pelting storm, his near-black eyes looking angry and determined to get what he’d come for. He reared on his hind legs and crashed down hard, his front hoof smashing the flashlight, bringing an abrupt end to the beam of light pouring through the lens.

This was not going well, Charity decided. After tonight, there would be no doubt in her mind or anyone else’s that she wasn’t cut out for training horses—wild
or
domestic. She’d made the right decision in turning Mike down, and tomorrow wouldn’t be soon enough to get away from this frigid, unwelcoming land.

But right now, she stood guard over the barn. Satan was not getting inside!