Against the Rules (6 page)

“Try him!” was Wanda's laughing advice.

“No, thanks,” muttered Cathryn to herself as she left the coolness of the pharmacy and the heat of the cloudless Texas day hit her in the face. She had no intention of being there for the next dance, anyway. She'd be on that plane in less than twenty-four hours, and by the next Saturday she would be safe in her Chicago apartment, away from the dangers and temptations of Rule Jackson.

She opened the car door and dropped her purchases onto the seat, but stood for a moment allowing the interior of the car to cool somewhat before she got in.

“Cathryn! By God, I thought it was you! Heard you were back!”

She turned curiously and a grin widened her mouth as a tall, lanky man with white hair and sun-browned skin loped along the sidewalk to reach her. “Mr. Vernon! It's nice to see you again!”

Paul Vernon reached her and enfolded her in a hug that lifted her off the ground. He had been her father's best friend, and she had carried on the tradition with his son, Kyle. To Paul Vernon's disappointment the friendship between the two had never matured into romance; but he had always had a soft spot in his heart for Cathryn and she returned the affection, in some ways liking the older man more than she had Kyle.

He replaced her on the ground and turned to beckon another man forward. Cathryn knew him at once as a newcomer, even though she had been away for years. The man who removed his hat politely and nodded at her wasn't dressed in quite the manner a local would have dressed. His jeans were a little too new; his hat wasn't a hat that had been on the range.

Mr. Vernon's introduction confirmed her guess. “Cathryn, this is Ira Morris. He's in the region looking at some livestock and horses; he owns a spread in Kansas. Ira, this is Cathryn Donahue...sorry, but I can't remember your married name. Cathryn is from the Bar D.”

“Bar D?” asked Mr. Morris. “Isn't that Rule Jackson's spread?”

“That's right; you'll have to see him if it's horses you want. He's got the best quarter-horse farm in the state.”

Mr. Morris was impatient. He barely contained his restlessness when Paul Vernon seemed content to linger and chat for a while. Cathryn was in sympathy with his impatience, because she was burning with fury and it was taking a great deal of self-control to hide it from Mr. Vernon. At last he said goodbye and admonished her to come visit soon. She promised to do so and quickly got into the car before he could continue the conversation.

She started the car and slammed it into gear with violent temper; not in years had she been so consumed with white-hot rage. The last time had been that day by the river, but there wouldn't be the same ending this time. She wasn't a naive teenager who hadn't any idea of how to control a man or handle her own desires now. She was a woman, and he had encroached on her home territory. Rule Jackson's spread, indeed! Was that how people thought of the Bar D now? Maybe Rule thought it was his, too; maybe he considered himself so much in control that there was no way she could dislodge him. If so, he'd find out soon that
she
was a Donahue of the Bar D and a Jackson just didn't belong!

The first wave of anger had passed by the time she reached the ranch, but her resolve hadn't faded. First she took her purchases in to Lorna, knowing that the woman would have seen her arrival from the kitchen window. That guess was proved correct when she opened the door and saw Lorna standing at the sink while she peeled potatoes, looking out the window so as not to miss any activity in the yard. Cathryn placed the paper bag on the table and said, “Here are the things. Have you seen Rule?”

“He came in for lunch,” said Lorna placidly. “But he could be anywhere now. Someone in the stables should be able to tell you where he's gone.”

“Thanks,” said Cathryn, and retraced her steps, moving with her free-swinging stride to the stables, her feet kicking up tiny clouds of dust with every step.

The cool dimness of the stable was a welcome change from the bright sun, the smell of horses and ammonia as familiar as ever. She squinted, trying to adjust her eyes to the dimness, and made out two figures several stalls down. In a few seconds she recognized Rule, though the other man was a stranger.

Before she could speak Rule held out his hand. “Here's the boss lady,” he said, still with his hand held out to her, and she was so surprised by his words that she stepped into reach of that hand and it curved around her waist, drawing her close to his heat and strength. “Cat, meet Lewis Stovall, the foreman. I don't think you've been here since he was hired. Lewis, this is Cathryn Donahue.”

Lewis Stovall merely nodded and touched his hat, but his silence wasn't prompted by shyness. His face was as hard and watchful as Rule's, his eyes narrowed and waiting. Cathryn felt uneasily that Lewis Stovall was a man with secrets locked inside, just as Rule was, a man who had lived hard and dangerously and who bore the scars of that life. But...he was the foreman? Just what did that make Rule? King of the mountain?

She wasn't in the mood for small talk, so she returned the greeting that she had received, a brief nod of the head. It was enough. His attention wasn't on her; he was listening to Rule's instructions, his head slightly dipped as if he were considering every word he heard. Rule was brief to the point of terseness, a characteristic of his conversations with everyone. Except with herself, Cathryn realized suddenly. Not that Rule could ever be termed talkative, but he did talk more to her than he did to anyone else. From the day he had told her of her father's death, he had talked to her. At first it had been as if he had to force himself to communicate, but soon he had been teasing her in his rusty, growling voice, aggravating her out of her grief.

Lewis nodded to her again and left them, his tall body graceful as he moved away. Rule turned her back toward the entrance, his hand still on the small of her back. “I came up to the house at lunchtime to take you with me for the rest of the day, but you had already gone. Where did you go?”

It was typical of him that he hadn't asked Lorna. “To Wallace's drugstore,” she answered automatically. The warm pressure of his hand was draining away her resolve, making her forget why she was so angry. Taking a deep breath, she stepped away from his touch and faced him. “Did you say that Lewis is the foreman?” she asked.

“That's right,” he said, pushing his hat back a little and watching her with his dark, unreadable eyes. She sensed the waiting in him, the tension.

She said sweetly, “Well, if he's the foreman, then I don't need you any longer, do I? You gave away your own job.”

His hand shot out and caught her arm, pulling her back into the circle of his special heat and smell. His mouth was a grim line as he shook her slightly. “I needed help, and Lewis is a good man. If you care so much, then maybe you'd better stay around and do a share of the work too. Ward had a foreman to help him, and that was without the added work of the horses, so don't turn bitchy on me. While you were tucked up in bed, I was up at two o'clock this morning with a mare in foal, so I'm not in the mood to put up with any of your tantrums right now. Is that clear?”

“All right, so you needed help,” she admitted grudgingly. She hated to acknowledge the logic of his words, but he was right. However, that didn't have anything to do with what she had heard in town. “I'll concede that. But can you tell me why the Bar D is known as Rule Jackson's spread?” Her voice rose sharply on the last words and temper made color flare hotly in her cheeks.

His jaw was set like granite. “Maybe because you haven't cared enough to stay around and remind people that this is Donahue land,” he snapped. “I've never forgotten who this ranch belongs to, but sometimes I think I'm the only one who does remember. I know very well that this is all yours, little boss lady. Is that what you wanted to hear from me? Damn it, I've got work to do, so why don't you get out of my way?”

“I'm not stopping you!”

He swore under his breath and stalked away, his temper evident in the set of his broad shoulders. Cathryn stood there with her fists clenched, fighting the urge to launch herself at him and pound on him with her fists as she had done once before. At last she stormed into the house and was on the way to her room when she met Ricky.

“Why didn't you tell me you were going into town?” demanded Ricky petulantly.

“You weren't here, for one thing, and for another you've never been that crazy about Wallace's Drugstore,” replied Cathryn wryly. She looked at her stepsister and saw the brittleness of her control, the shaking of her hands. Impulsively she asked, “Ricky, why are you doing this to yourself?”

For a moment Ricky looked outraged; then her shoulders slumped and she gave a defeated little shrug. “What would you know about it? You've always been the darling of the house, the one who belonged. I could call myself a Donahue, but I've never really been one, have I? You noticed who the ranch was left to, didn't you? What did I get? Nothing!”

Ricky's particular brand of illogic defeated Cathryn; evidently it made no difference to her that Ward Donahue hadn't been her father, while he had been Cathryn's. She shook her head and tried again. “I couldn't have made you feel unwelcome, because I haven't even been here!”

“You didn't have to be here!” Ricky lashed out, her small face twisting with fury. “You own this ranch, so you have a weapon to hold over Rule!”

Rule. It always came back to Rule. He was the dominant male in his territory and everything revolved around him. She hadn't meant to say it, but the words left her mouth involuntarily. “You're paranoid about Rule! He told me that he's never been involved with Monica.”

“Oh, did he?” Ricky's slanted hazel eyes brightened suspiciously; then she turned away before Cathryn could decide whether the brightness had been caused by tears. “Are you really gullible enough to believe him? Haven't you learned yet that he won't let anything stand between him and this ranch? God! I can't tell you how often I've prayed that this damned place would burn to the ground!” She brushed roughly past Cathryn and bolted down the stairs, leaving Cathryn standing there mired in a combination of pity and anger.

She would be a fool to believe anything Ricky said; it was obvious that the other woman was emotionally unstable. On the other hand, Cathryn remembered clearly the way Rule had doggedly followed her father's instructions when he had first come to the ranch, working when his body was weak and wracked with pain, his eyes reflecting the wary but devoted look of a battered animal that had finally met with kindness rather than kicks. He too had been emotionally unstable at that time; it was possible that the ranch had assumed an irrational importance to him.

Cathryn shook her head. She was thinking like an amateur psychiatrist, and she had enough trouble sorting out her own thoughts and emotions without taking on someone like Rule. He certainly wasn't uncertain about anything now. If there was anyone on this earth who knew what he wanted, it was Rule Jackson. She was simply letting Ricky's paranoia cloud her own thinking.

All afternoon Cathryn thought of what she had said to Rule earlier, and reluctantly she came to the conclusion that she would have to apologize. No one could ever accuse him of not working, of not putting the ranch first. Whatever his reason, he had driven himself past the point where lesser men would have broken, not for his personal gain but for the good of the ranch. Facing it squarely, she admitted that she had been wrong and had flared into rage out of sheer, petty jealousy, striking out at him for cherishing the same land that she loved so deeply. She was wrong, and she felt small.

When he finally came in to wash before dinner her heart tightened painfully at the sight of him. His face was taut with weariness, his clothing soaked in sweat and overlaid with a thick coat of dust that was turning to mud on his body, evidence that he was no shirker when it came to work. She stopped him before he went up the stairs, placing her slim hand on his dirty sleeve.

“I'm sorry for the way I acted this afternoon,” she said directly, meeting his flinty gaze without flinching. “I was wrong, and I apologize. This ranch would never have made it without you, and I...I suppose I envy you.”

He looked down at her, his face blank and hard. Then he took off his sweat-stained hat, wiping his sleeve across his moist face and leaving a brown smear of mud behind. “At least you're not totally blind,” he snapped, pulling his arm from her touch and taking the stairs two at a time, his lithe body moving easily, as though weariness were a stranger to him.

Cathryn sighed, torn between wry laughter and the anger that he so easily provoked. Had she really thought that he would be gracious? As long as he was angry no apology she could make would pacify him.

Dinner was a silent meal. Monica was quiet, Ricky sullen. Rule wasn't a conversationalist at any time, but at least he did justice to the hot meal Lorna had provided for him. As soon as he was finished he excused himself and disappeared into the study, closing the door with a thud. Ricky looked up and shrugged. “Well, that's a normal evening. Exciting, isn't it? You're used to a big city, to entertainment. You'll go crazy here.”

“I've always liked a quiet life,” replied Cathryn, not looking up from the peach cobbler she was destroying with delicate greed. “David and I weren't the life of the town.” They really hadn't had much time together, she reminded herself painfully. She was glad they had spent it learning to know each other, rather than wasting the precious time they'd had in socializing.

It was still early, but she felt tired. Lorna cleared away the dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher; Monica went upstairs to her bedroom to watch television in privacy. After sulking for a few minutes Ricky flounced upstairs to her own room.

Left on her own, Cathryn didn't linger. On an impulse she opened the door of the study to tell Rule good-night, but paused with the words unsaid when she saw him sprawled back in the oversized chair, sound asleep, his booted feet propped up on the desk. Papers scattered on the desk indicated his intention to work, but he hadn't been able to fight off sleep any longer. Again that funny wrenching of her heart caught at her as she watched him.