Branded (5 page)

The barn door creaked, and they both turned to look. Lacey Jarrell looked brighter to Slade than the sun that haloed her. His breath caught in his throat, as it always did, when he saw her. She was so damn beautiful, it nearly hurt to look at her.

She’d been making herself scarce. Moping, he assumed. She’d only left her room to help Dora prepare meals. Judging by her attempts at cooking, he figured the kitchen was as alien a territory to her as Colorado.

"Grady’s got himself a fine, fancy piece there," Dix commented.

Slade instantly felt his blood boil. His fingers curled into a fist. He doubted he could have controlled his temper if it had been someone other than Dix saying those words.

Dix lifted his hands in a placating gesture. "Whoa, Slade! I hadn’t realized."

"Realized what?" Slade heard the resentment in his own voice.

"That for once in your life, you wish you were in Grady’s shoes."

Slade, choosing to ignore Dix’s comment, said, "Have the men round up what’s left. I want them all branded in the next few days."

"You got it, Dalton." Dix gave Lacey an enthusiastic greeting as he approached her. He threw a knowing smile over his shoulder at Slade, as he strode out of the barn.

Slade threw the oilcloth in a can, swung the saddle on to his hip, and stepped out of the tack room. He planned a long ride around the perimeter of the south pasture to make sure everything was secure. He wasn't going to give the Banyons anymore opportunities. Truth was, there wasn't much left to steal except some four-legged buzzard bait.

Lacey had stopped at Ransom's stall. Even on tiptoes, her fingers barely grazed the beast's forelock. Slade still hadn’t forgiven himself for making her cry on the day she’d arrived. Amazingly, her tears had actually penetrated the cold wall he'd erected around himself.

Thinking himself a prime fool, he stood in the middle of the barn, the saddle resting on his hip, staring at her. When she finally noticed him, it was all he could do to tip his hat in greeting. He couldn't remember the last time a woman made him nervous.

"Mr. Dalton," Lacey addressed him in a voice so indifferent, it made his insides knot up. She seemed to despise him, and if she didn't, then Grady would make sure she did.

Settling on the soles of her feet, one hand still resting on the stall door, she turned to face him. "I want him."

"You want him?" he repeated lamely.

"Yes. I want to ride him."

Slade looked from her to Ransom, a horse that had been gelded late in life and retained a stallion's high-strung temperament. "Well, as you know, Miss Jarrell...." He gave her a considering look. "... or perhaps you don't," he amended. "We can't always have what we want."

"I am not as spoiled as you imagine."

He balanced his saddle atop the adjacent stall's door. "If you say so," he said with little conviction.

She gave him a syrupy smile, and from the pocket of what she apparently deemed a proper riding outfit, she pulled a pair of kidskin gloves. As she occupied herself with tugging them onto her slender fingers, he allowed his eyes to travel over the fitted black jacket and down the length of her velvet skirt. He swallowed hard before pulling his eyes from her sweet form.

"Ridden a lot, have you?"

"Well, no ... Not exactly."

"Not exactly?" He threw her a questioning glance.

She paused a moment and gave a sharp jerk on the sleeve of her jacket. "If you must know, I've never actually been on a horse before, but every holiday my maid, Emmie, took me for a ride on a pony in the park."

Slade threw his head back with a laugh. "Ponies in the park ... every holiday, and now, of course, you're prepared to hop on Ransom, here. Seventeen hands high and so excitable that a gnat is liable to send him over the paddock fence."

Lacey's bottom lip pouted stubbornly. "I just thought his black coat would go well with my outfit."

Slade removed his hat and raked his hair back. Placing it back on his head, he adjusted the brim low on his brow again. How could anyone be so damn adorable, he thought.

"Yeah, well," he cleared his throat, while simultaneously holding back a smile. "Why don't we just put you on ol' Irish, there." He pointed to a small chestnut mare in the nearby box stall. "And we'll try and overlook the clash of colors."

Lacey walked over to give the horse a soft pat on the forehead. "I suppose she'll do. She has the most beautiful eyelashes."

Moving to stand beside her, Slade pushed the forelock off the horse's face. "Imagine that, Irish. All this time you thought the stallions were after your perky little rump, and it was really those long lashes that had 'em going."

Blushing, Lacey peered up at him through her own long lashes. "'Tis a bit close in here. I'll wait outside while you get her ready."

"Hold on a minute, Miss Jarrell. If you're riding, then you'll have to ready your own mount." He snatched up a bucket of grooming tools, and plunked them down at her feet.

She placed her hands on her hips and stared down at the various brushes and picks. Intending to make his getaway, he retrieved his saddle and grabbed a bridle and slung it over his shoulder. He'd only made it halfway to the door when she spoke.

"Are you mad? I haven't a clue what to do with these things."

"Brush her coat. I'm sure you know how to use a brush. Comb her mane and tail. That little pick there is to clean out her hooves." He pointed to the sidesaddle resting on the wooden rack jutting from the wall. "You'll have to use that one. It's the only one made for a skirt. Unless, you plan to hike your skirt up to your waist. By the way, it goes on the horse's back." He was actually amazed to find his nasty tone did not provoke her to anger. Instead, she just stood there, blinking her big golden eyes at him. "And watch she doesn't step on you while you do it all," he added as he exited the barn.

He felt a bit guilty for leaving her alone, but that was easy to shake off, considering Irish was just a big ol' dog in a horse suit. Actually, he was rather hoping to teach the little baggage a lesson.

After an hour riding in circles in the near fields, his eyes straying frequently to the barn doors, he could no longer pretend that he wasn't worried. A vision of her trying to hoist the heavy saddle was enough to send him back at a gallop.

# # #

Lacey, attempting to fasten the girth-strap for what seemed the hundredth time, looked up at the sound of the barn door creaking open. He was heading straight for her. Then he stopped a mere pace away, staring at her as he had earlier. This morning, his presence had unsettled her too such a degree, she had actually blathered on about her outfit. As if, she truly cared, whether the horse matched her clothes or not. She hated to admit it, but the only reason she wanted to ride Ransom was to impress him. To let him know she was up to the challenge of ranch life. Instead, she'd come off as a shallow half-wit. No doubt, he'd had a good, hearty laugh about her.

She looked helplessly to the hay bundle where she'd draped her jacket. She would have to sidle past him to get it. Pretending she was dressed in something other than her rather revealing black-velvet bodice with the insignificant cap-sleeves, she pointed at the saddle sitting at a tilt on the horse. "Stubborn girl. Every time I attempt to tighten the belt, she takes a deep breath. When she blows it out, of course, the thing is too loose."

He was staring at her as though he'd never seen a woman in this state of undress. But, surely, a man of his character spent a fair amount of time in saloons. "If you'd be kind enough to hand me my hat and jacket."

His eyes gave a quick glance in the direction she pointed and then returned immediately to her. Without looking, he plucked the items from the hay bundle. "I've men working here that might take that as an invitation," he said.

Her breath quickened as his gaze caressed her exposed skin. "I would have torn the seams," she said as she plucked the clothing from his hand. She donned the hat, leaving the ribbon strings untied, and quickly thrust her arms into the jacket sleeves. She took care to button the jacket to the top.

"Woman," he drawled, "I don't employ saints--far from it."

A hard lump formed in her throat. "Forgive me, but I have never in my life been this hot ... this dusty ... this bloody uncomfortable." Sweat dampened curls clung to her temple, and she pushed them aside knowing she must be smearing dirt on her face in the process. And it wasn't but a moment later, that his rough thumb was attempting to rub away a mark she'd left on her cheek. In surprising reaction to the intimacy of his touch, her eyes glossed over with tears.

His thumb moved to catch the tears before they fell from her lashes. "Ah, Lacey...."

Hearing him say her name so tenderly made her knees weak. With the little resolve she could muster, she pushed his hand away and moved back to Irish's side.

Standing beside her now, he lifted one of the braids she'd woven into the horse's mane, his mouth crooking into a quizzical half-smile. "Have to admit, I've never seen her look better."

After straightening the saddle, he gave a strong yank on the strap. Irish reacted by puffing her stomach out again. "C'mon, girl. You can't hold your breath forever." He grabbed the reins and led the horse outside. Lacey followed at his heels. When the animal did finally release its breath with a long, loud exhalation, he cinched her up tight. He gave the horse's neck a vigorous pat.

"Can I give you a boost?"

"No, thank you."

"Suit yourself," he said and stood back to watch.

She grabbed a handful of mane and the back of the saddle before putting a foot in the stirrup. Her first few attempts fell quite short.

"It wouldn't be any trouble to give you a leg up."

"I can do it myself," she said with complete exasperation as she looked over her shoulder at him.

He motioned toward the horse with a flourish of his hand. "Excuse me. Don't let me get in the way."

His patronizing tone was the impetus she needed. Scrunching down a bit to give herself some more spring action, she pulled hard on the saddle and hoisted herself up and clear over the horse, landing with a thump and a moan on the hay strewn ground.

She lifted her head and found Slade peering with interest over the saddle. "Well, Mr. Dalton, what are you looking at?"

"Just checking. Thought maybe you had a smaller horse parked over there, and you were just goin' over Irish, here, to get to it."

She flashed him a smile. "I suppose, I used just a little too much push that time."

"Your push was fine. It's the stopping at the saddle part that you had a little trouble with."

"Ouch," she said, easing herself to a sitting position. Slade circled the horse and dropped to a crouch beside her. She looked into eyes that were studying her carefully. She watched him tug off his leather glove. His bare fingers tilted her face toward the sun.

"It appears ...," he concluded after turning her chin this way and that and staring intently into her eyes, "... that you haven't knocked yourself senseless. Not that you had much sense to begin with." One side of his mouth lifted into a crooked grin.

"Ever charming," she retorted as he pulled her to her feet.

"Yeah, well I try."

They both looked down at the fistful of mane she clutched in her other hand.

She held the loose hair up to Irish's neck. "I don't suppose there's any way to reattach this," she said. A remark that set her to giggling. To her surprise, he laughed, too. A deep, infectious laugh, that actually melted the coldness in his eyes. The thaw, though, proved temporary.

The man was certainly changeable. One moment he was harsh and, the next, almost gentle.

"You'll be tasting nothing but dirt if you don't have someone to teach you how to ride," he said. "I've already wasted a morning, and I can't spare more. Tait can show you."

"Right. Tait, I'm sure, would be far kind--ah--more patient working with a novice." After that utterance, he seemed even less pleased.

"I'll fetch him." He strode over to his horse and lifted himself smoothly into the saddle.

"Listen." He peered down at her, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. "I don't want you to do anything until Tait gets here."

Playing to the image he obviously had of her, she answered him in the softest, most frivolously female voice she could manage. "Absolutely, Mr. Dalton, sir."

She realized almost instantly she’d taken the wrong tack, he was not a man to treat lightly. She hastily turned her back to him, pretending to concentrate on the horse. A shiver chased up her spine as she heard his boots hit the dirt with a thud.

"Seems you’re not taking me seriously." With one restraining hand on her wrist, he leaned over and snatched up her hat, which she’d lost while flying over the horse. Spinning her around, he placed it firmly on her head and fastened the bonnet strings below her chin. A tad too tightly, in her opinion.

The brims of their hats met as he leaned in low. "It’s pretty damn hard to tell one piece of land from the next, so don’t even think of wandering off on your own. Tait is going to keep an eye on you."

He circled around her and she assumed he was done lecturing her, but his hands took hold of her waist, hauling her against his long, hard frame. His hair slipped over her shoulder, his lips so close she could feel their feather-light movement against her ear.

"Don’t get it into your head to defy me. Understand?"

All she could do was nod weakly in response.

# # #

Oliver clambered on to the bed, and Lacey found herself rolling down the slope he'd created. The dog's fur tickled her face, and she squinted into the semi-darkness trying to reacquaint herself with her new surroundings. She was finding it hard to shake off the nagging loneliness. Unfortunately, she felt sure Grady's return would do nothing to fill this emptiness.

She opened her wardrobe and ran her hand over the soft fabric of her riding habit. A week of riding sidesaddle and she was more than ready to dispense with it. She wanted the control of riding astride. From the drawer, she took the neat pile of old clothes she'd acquired from the basement.