Handful of Sky (12 page)

So what, she snapped at herself, storming away from the window. What did it matter
how
many levels, dimensions, and facets Hunt encompassed? They were all contained within an identity forbidden to her: rodeo cowboy. She jerked the curtains shut and lay down. Though sleep wouldn’t come, Shallie willed herself to rest for several hours.

The sun was closing in over the tops of the oaks when she again gave in to the impulse to take up her vigil by the window. As she watched, Trish emerged from the main house and strolled down to the classes still in progress. She was wearing a low-cut knit top and a pair of skinny jeans tight as sausage casings. As she sauntered up to the arena, all action halted as heads swiveled to follow the exaggerated flick of her hips. An icy coil of jealousy unwound deep in Shallie’s stomach when she saw Hunt join the pack tracking Trish’s approach.

Why shouldn’t Hunt be attracted to her? Shallie asked herself. Trish was everything that she wasn’t—elegant, ladylike, beautiful, and sexy. Shallie looked down at her work-worn hands studded with blisters and calluses and remembered Trish’s slim, well-manicured hands.

A sudden, sharp rap at the door startled Shallie, tearing her from the depressing comparison.

“Dinner in half an hour on the patio, miss,” Sadie announced in her peevish voice.

The last thing she felt up to was an intimate soirée with Trish and her matched set of McIver amours. Shallie decided that a good soak was just what she required to brace her psychically for the encounter.

She went to the bathroom and turned both brass knobs on full blast. A roar of water spewed into the sunken, marble-swirled tub. She rummaged through the cabinets and discovered an ample supply of bath oil. Obviously a number of female guests had passed through the Circle M. She chose a foaming sandalwood-scented variety and poured it under the gush of water. The scented steam penetrated far into her dust-dried membranes and brought them back to life. Shallie emptied her mind of the confusing swirl of conflicts clouding it and simply luxuriated in the warm, wet buoyancy. By the time she’d finished, Shallie’s skin was glowing with a delicate apricot sheen and she felt almost up to facing Hunt.

The dinner was as light and elegant as the luncheon
menu had been homespun and filling. A bowl of crushed ice topped by jumbo shrimp boiled to a pink lushness dominated the table set up on the patio. Flickering lanterns cast a soft light. The pool in the background was lit from underneath and glowed like a shimmering sapphire. On its surface floated huge magnolia blooms plucked from the nearby trees. Their sweet odor perfumed the gentle air.

“Pretty fancy spread, eh?” Jake McIver’s voice cracked out of the darkness, startling Shallie. “Hunt ordered it up. That boy developed some mighty exotic tastes back there at that Eastern school.” The haughty swell of Trish’s laughter made Shallie uneasy, as if she were the butt of some joke she knew nothing of.

“Come on, pull up a chair. Hunt didn’t have all this shrimp flown in from the coast so that we all could stand around staring at it.” The three of them gathered around the table set with the finest china and stemware. A dry white wine gleamed in the glass at Shallie’s place. There were platters of the thinnest prosciutto ham rolled around crisp wedges of honeydew melon, and an assortment of other hors d’oeuvres were brought in. Shallie nibbled at them, glorying in the array of fresh, unadorned flavors. But she couldn’t entirely relax and enjoy the delicacies because she started at every sound, expecting Hunt to enter at any moment.

The sound of a recording of a Chopin piano étude
blended seamlessly with the night sounds of the crickets and owls. It was one of Shallie’s favorites. She had liked classical music ever since studying piano as a little girl, but the Country and Western–dominated world of rodeo gave her scant opportunity for indulging her taste.

“I hope you don’t mind my choice in music.” Hunt’s voice emerged from the darkness.

“When has what I minded ever mattered a whit to you?” Jake responded crankily. “Only damned cowboy I ever heard of listened to that classical stuff.”

“Just because a man rides broncs,” Hunt countered, “doesn’t necessarily mean that all he can enjoy is Johnny Cash and Toby Keith.” Hunt’s hand entered the circle of light cast by the lantern. He pulled out the empty chair beside Shallie and sat down. She flicked a sidelong glance in his direction as the light fell upon his face. He seemed to fairly beam with a healthy, scrubbed vitality. It shone from his face in the tan that had been deeply burnished by his day in the sun.

On her other side she watched Jake McIver’s expression change from one of puzzled intentness to outraged anger. He stiffened, his chin jutting forward.

“That’s Maggie’s piece, isn’t it?” he exploded.

“Is it?” Hunt retorted archly.

“You know damned well it is. I told you I never wanted to hear that piece of music played in this house.” Jake grabbed the remote control and clicked off the Chopin.

The contrast between the amplified sound and the night silence was sudden and jarring. As it fell over the party, Shallie wondered just who Maggie was. Her speculations were interrupted by Trish.

“Those junior rodeo riders just love you, don’t they, Hunt?” Her compliment seemed simperingly obvious to Shallie.

“They’re a good group,” Hunt answered without elaboration.

“They’re going to be a lot better after they’ve had the benefit of your expertise,” Trish cooed.

Shallie wanted to gag, but she knew that flattery, combined with the kind of sultry look Trish was shooting at Hunt from the depths of her smoky eyes, had strangely predictable effects on most men. Shallie comforted herself with the thought that she’d be gone soon and the trio seated around her could return to whatever perverse games they played to keep themselves amused.

“Expertise?” Jake hooted, emerging from his sulk. “I wouldn’t call the season Hunt had last year, or the year before for that matter, the work of an expert. Where did you come out in the standings, Hunt? Or don’t they bother with classification that far down the line? What surprises me is that he could hornswoggle anyone into coming to his rodeo school.”

Knowing the depths of Hunt’s feelings about rodeo, Shallie considered Jake’s comment almost cruel. But if
Hunt was offended by it, he didn’t reveal it. “You’re one hundred percent right, Jake. I didn’t make the standings the past two years. But I led them for four years before that, and there are a few people who have memories that can stretch back farther than a few months.”

“Well, you better not stretch them too far or we’ll end up having all the old has-beens hobbling out on their canes, with their hearing aids turned way up so that they can teach the young whippersnappers how it was done in their day. Maybe I’ll get out there tomorrow and show them how Jake McIver used to twist a bronc in the old days.” Jake cackled with delight at the image.

Trish looked from one McIver to the other with an animal-like avidity, hoping for even more emotional warfare. Shallie thought she would have made the perfect spectator at a Roman circus.

“Or how Junior McIver used to ride.” Hunt’s comment caused the old man’s mood to darken with the rapidity of a summer squall.

Shallie was mystified. But the name “Junior McIver” did ring a bell somewhere in her distant memory. Then it came back to her: Junior McIver, son of Jake, father of Hunt, a onetime bronc-riding buckle winner. She couldn’t remember, though, what had ever happened to him.

“That’s right,” Jake agreed grimly. “It’s never hurt the Circle M to have a champion in the family. A champion who’s still on top, at any rate. The has-beens are fine for
teaching rodeo schools, but they sure as hell don’t help bring in the big-money contracts.”

“Listen, old man.” Hunt’s voice was dangerously low. “I don’t get into that arena to provide free advertising for the Circle M.” He turned sharply away from his grandfather. “Shallie, we’d better get on the road. You wouldn’t want to miss your flight.”

Relieved to have an escape from the tension-filled atmosphere, Shallie quickly rose to her feet.

“Now, don’t run off like that,” Jake protested. “The boy knows I was only kidding. Only having some fun with him.”

Shallie froze, caught between the two men’s conflicting wishes. Hunt put an arm around her and guided her toward the door.

“We really do have to go now. It’s a long drive to the airport and Shallie has expressed her strong desire to leave.”

Shallie muttered her thanks to Jake McIver for his hospitality and promised to give his best to her uncle.

“And remember to tell him it was you who came up with that little trade we made,” he called after her.

Outside, Shallie felt as if she could breathe again after the constriction of the emotionally charged scene on the patio. Hunt held open the door of his forest-green Porsche for her. The bag she had thrown down when she discovered the semi missing was safely tucked in the back. For a long time the only sound was the powerful
hum of the well-tuned engine. When Circle M was just a speck of light in the rearview mirror, Hunt spoke.

“You’re probably wondering why I put up with him.”

Shallie didn’t answer, but she very definitely was reviewing several possibilities. Hunt’s acceptance of his grandfather’s verbal abuse was inconsistent with everything else she sensed about his character. He had too much pride, too much dignity to tolerate it unless there was a good reason. Shallie remembered the glances Trish and Hunt had exchanged, and one strong possible reason entered her mind. An even stronger one popped up to complement it: If Hunt could swallow his pride long enough, he stood to inherit all of Circle M. What a cozy setup that would be for him and Trish. All these thoughts flickered across the screen of Shallie’s consciousness in less than the time it took Hunt to draw two breaths and continue.

“I’ve been tempted to leave. But I couldn’t, not now. My grandfather is a difficult man but I think I understand him better than anyone else alive.”

Shallie heard a grudging admiration in Hunt’s appraisal. Hesitantly, she asked, “Where is your father now?”

“Dead.” Hunt dropped the word. “Drank himself into an early grave. I suppose that’s one way to escape from my grandfather, but not one that ever appealed to me. Anyway, after he left, pretty early on in my life, it fell to me
to maintain the McIver dynasty of champions.” The laugh that accompanied his last statement was dry and brittle.

Shallie wanted to ask more questions, but she felt she’d already overstepped some sensitive limits.
I’m better off not knowing,
she told herself,
and not having anything further to do with the world of the McIver men.
Clinging to that thought, she settled back in the leather-upholstered seat and resolutely turned her attention to the shadowy silhouettes passing by her window. As they approached Austin, the silhouettes became more clearly defined by the city lights.

“We’re passing over the Colorado River now,” Hunt informed her. A thick ribbon of water slid through the heart of the town. The reflections of multicolored lights danced across its surface like water sprites at play.

“And that’s the Capitol Building.”

To her left a domed structure cut a massive, ghostly figure spotlit in the night sky.

Shallie struggled to keep her attention on Hunt’s guided tour, but the true object of her interest lay much closer. Hunt McIver was what she wanted to know more about.

“Quite impressive,” she commented limply as they circled the University of Texas, her spirits inexplicably sinking as they hurtled through the night, drawing ever closer to the moment of parting.
It’s for the best.
She drummed that thought through her mind like a drill chant
for unruly soldiers.
The quicker I remove myself from Hunt McIver and all reminders of him, the better.

At the airport, Hunt pulled smoothly up in front of the terminal and turned off the engine. He turned to Shallie, started to speak, then stopped. Instead he glanced away and rapped his fist against the leather-wrapped steering wheel as if dismissing the thought he had started to communicate. He retrieved her bag from the back and stepped out. The moment was lost, and he would soon dismiss her as easily as the unspoken thought. Shallie pulled a shaky breath into her lungs, fighting a sadness of a magnitude she had no reasonable explanation for. While she fumbled with the craftily designed door handle, Hunt opened it and she joined him on the walkway.

“Don’t bother coming in,” she said. “You might get ticketed.”

A brief nod served as Hunt’s answer.

Shallie drew herself up, trying to shake off the sudden torpor that weighed her down. “Thank you for everything,” she said, briskly sticking her hand out for a quick, businesslike shake.

Hunt took her outstretched hand in both of his. “Not a handshake,” he murmured as if her gesture had pained him. His lips descended with no further warning. The movement had the effect upon Shallie of watching slow-motion footage of a building being blown up so that it crumbles inward. By the time his mouth was on hers, the
demolition of the facade she had constructed was complete. The truth she had attempted to wall in was laid bare. She could not escape it with comforting lies about how it was best that she would never truly know Hunt McIver.

“Hunt, I—”

“I know, Shallie,” he finished her confession for her. “You can’t leave.”

Shallie, never one to second-guess decisions that came from her instincts, slid back into the Porsche. She was determined not to look back and not to lie to herself anymore. No matter how foolish, how irrational, or what the eventual cost might be, she wanted Hunt McIver, whatever the price. She pulled her cell phone out and called her uncle to tell him she’d be in on the first flight in the morning.

As they pulled up to the canopied entrance in front of the Driskill Hotel in downtown Austin, an older man in a uniform heavy with gold braid sprung gimpily forward to take the wheel of the Porsche.

“Hunt, I thought I recognized your car.” The parking valet greeted Hunt, taking the keys from him and sweeping the door open, then hurrying over to Shallie’s side to help her from the car.