more than right. She’d babied the mare beyond reason, scratching her ears till kingdom come, confiding in her with soothing whispers, speaking the fears she could trust to no one. Except to the saucy, long-legged creature who’d stolen her heart the first time she’d seen her, all wet and gawky, swaying on spindly legs.
Wincing as she watched him saddle the bay mare, Katherine had almost turned from the sight. Then, gritting her teeth, she’d watched as his big hands gentled the skittish creature. She’d peered from beneath half-closed eyelids as he mounted the animal the first time, his words too low to be heard, whispered for the benefit of the shivering horse. He’d ridden her with tenacious skill, subduing her brief attempts to spill him from the saddle, his hands easy on the reins, lest he damage her tender mouth.
Only when the brown sides were heaving and the sleek coat was daubed with flecks of foam did he ease from her back. And then only to step quickly in front of the mare, facing the flaring nostrils and wide-eyed gaze, touching with soothing hands and speaking quiet words of praise.
Katherine turned away, her heart aching as she relinquished possession. With strength tempered by kindness and an uncanny knowledge she couldn’t help but admire, he’d subdued the feisty creature, forcing her to acknowledge him as master.
“He might as well ride off on her right now,” Katherine said beneath her breath, striding from the corral in the direction of the henhouse. “She’s his, as surely as if he’d already paid cash up front.”
Dealing with the quarrelsome hens took the edge off her unreasonable anger, and she carried the morning’s gathering of eggs in her apron as she left the speckled flock to their scattered grain. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Roan Devereaux working his magic, rubbing with long strokes at the flank of the filly. Brown coat gleaming in the sunlight, the horse turned her head, looking over her shoulder at the man who tended her with capable hands.
“Turncoat,” Katherine grumbled accusingly. “Just like a female, taken in by the first good-looking man to ride down the pike.” That she accused her own gender didn’t occur to her, since she’d decided long ago that she was a breed apart from the women she’d met in Tucker Center.
“Katherine.” His voice claimed her attention and, turning, she frowned, aware of the triumph gleaming from his dark eyes. Even with the length of the yard between them, she still felt the masculine pull of him, the male force that spoke to some small part of her. Brushing aside the unwanted attraction, she faced him with impatience.
“What do you want? I need to take care of these eggs.”
His eyes rested on the rounding of her apron, clutched closely against her belly, and he felt a flush of pleasure, for a moment imagining that she would look just so with a child growing there. Chasing the rampant thought from his mind, he gritted his teeth. She’d been thrusting- herself into his thoughts with more and more frequency over these past days, and his randy condition was making him ripe for all sorts of foolishness.
She’s Charlie’s daughter, he told himself firmly. You’re leaving for Louisiana in a couple of weeks, owing her nothing. You’ll find plenty of willing women in the next town. Getting hard never killed a man yet, he decided. And he was sure as shootin’ hard up when Katherine Cassidy set him to thinking about planting a baby in her.
He shook his head in disgust.
“I asked you what you want,” she repeated impatiently. “You gonna stand there all day and gloat, or have you got something to say?”
“Gloat?” Her choice of word caught his attention, and he frowned as he considered the accusation. “What would I have to gloat over, Katherine?”
She pinched her lips tightly and slanted her eyes in his direction in that arrogant manner that reminded him sharply of her pa. “Never mind,” she said. “I’ve got dinner cooking. You’ll have time to clean stalls before we eat.” Her eyes gleamed with a triumph of their own as she envisioned him pitching the straw bedding, the aroma pungent in his nostrils.
His nod was quick and he turned away, aware suddenly of her meaning. She’d watched the mare, her eyes anxious, as he rode her. She’d waited, needing to comfort the animal should he deal with her harshly. And then she’d walked away, realizing his taming had only served to bond the creature to him.
“She’s mine now, Katherine,” he said, his words unheard as she stalked up the steps and across the narrow porch. Her stiff posture told the tale. She was mourning the loss of her favorite, and he acknowledged her sorrow. But a flush of triumph overrode the compassion he felt as he remembered the strength of the horse between his legs. He’d craved ownership of the animal from the first. The elegance of her finely formed head and the sleek lines had drawn him. As had the fiery spirit he’d taken care to subdue without damaging the horse’s mettle.
Some lucky man would have to use the same care with Katherine one day. She’d need a light hand, backed by a determined nature, if any man ever expected to keep her in line without shattering the strength of her pride and determination.
Somehow, he no longer attributed her with the stigma of dowdiness. He thought with amusement of his first evaluation. Mud hen. Mud hen, indeed. Her pa had her pegged right, he concluded. She was second cousin to a sparrowhawk, sure enough. Small and feisty, Charlie’d told him. “Plain as puddin’,” he used to say. “But under them brown feathers is a heart that’s bustin’ with courage.”
“Sparrowhawk…suits her better than I’d have thought at first,” he acknowledged aloud, then grinned as he caught himself. “Talkin’ to yourself is a bad sign, Devereaux. Means you been too long without a little female companionship. Makes you drifty.”
The quiet of the dinner table was roughly shattered by the sound of gunfire. Roan shot from his chair as though he’d taken the impact of the bullet himself.
“Shut that door,” he ordered her as Katherine flew to the open doorway.
She obeyed, her response automatic as she sensed the authority in his voice. Gone was the man of easy gestures, courtly mannerisms and gentle speech. She faced him warily, her back against the heavy planks that made up the door, and watched as he delved within the saddlebag that had taken up residence against the far wall of her kitchen.
With fluid movements, he clasped the gun belt about his hips and took on the guise she had attributed to him weeks earlier. Gunfighter. Warrior, perhaps. Whatever name he wore, his stance in her kitchen proclaimed him ready to do battle, and she acknowledged his ability with silent admiration.
“It’s probably not what you think,” she told him quietly.
“How do you know what I think?” he asked roughly, striding to the window to stand at one side and bend his head to peer through the curtain.
She drew in a shuddering breath. “I don’t, of course. I just think it’s maybe someone trying to scare me.”
His look was piercing. “Who?”
“I don’t know,” she quibbled, and then at his frown, she shook her head. “Could be Evan Gardner, a man from town.”
“Why? You got somethin’ he wants?”
“Yes.” A brief smile flitted across her mouth and vanished beneath the pursing of her lips. “He’s the man who wants my farm. Not to mention the horses—and of course, he’d like me thrown in to boot.” Her words
