young to retire, honey.”
Madeline could have kissed him when she saw the older woman’s face begin to glow.
“Thank you,” came the heartfelt reply. “Now which way do I go to get to Houston?”
After the tourists had driven away, John mounted his gelding, waiting for Madeline to follow suit. He lit a cigarette with steady fingers and led the way toward the barn where his prize bulls were quartered like royalty. They had their own air-conditioning as well as a heating system for winter.
“You scalawag, you,” Madeline muttered, trying to tease him out of his black mood.
He didn’t even spare her a glance. He was still furious, and she didn’t know how she was going to explain her own actions. How could she, when she didn’t understand them herself?
“John, what was your father like?” she asked suddenly.
He glanced at her as they rode along. “What brought that on?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ve never talked about him. I just…wondered.”
He took a draw on the cigarette and stared at the horizon. “He was rigid. Hard. Very disciplined and single-minded. He had nothing as a child, and he was determined to show the whole damned world that he was as capable of getting rich as anybody else. He was a career man in the Marines before he bought Big Sabine and started drilling for oil.” He laughed mirthlessly. “What he found didn’t amount to much at first, but we invested carefully, bought more land, and got lucky.”
“Your mother?” she asked carefully.
“She died when I was born.”
“Oh.” Madeline stared at the red coats of the bulls as they neared the barn. “The ranch was named for a battle, wasn’t it?” she murmured.
“The battle of Sabine Pass,” he agreed, “where my father was born. In 1863, Union troops tried to invade Texas through the pass. Two lieutenants named Richard Dowling and N.H. Smith defended the fort there with six cannon and forty-two men. That defense was so successful that Union troops never tried to invade through the pass again.”
“I’ll bet your father liked the odds when he heard the story, didn’t he?” she asked with a tiny smile.
“Impossible odds?” he mused. “Yes. That appealed to him, all right. The only thing that didn’t was fatherhood. He spent the first twenty years of my life blaming me for my mother’s death. It was just as well that he left me with my uncle while he was in the service.”
She studied his rigid profile wonderingly. She was curious about him in new ways; she wanted to know what forces had shaped him into the man he was.
He dismounted at the fence and hooked his boot on the lowest rung, leaning his arms over it to watch a huge Santa Gertrudis bull lumber along in his solitary pasture.
Madeline joined him by the fence, drawn by his strength and size, as she thought about the lonely young boy he must have been. She liked the closeness—perhaps, she told herself, because of the faint chill in the air. John radiated warmth at this range. Her eyes swept over him—from the long, powerful legs up to the broad leather belt around his lean waist, the massive chest and muscular arms. His forearms were dark with the same sprinkling of hair that covered the rest of his body, and there was a thin gold watch strapped over his wrist. He wore no rings at all and had beautiful hands—broad, tanned, with long fingers and a feathering of hair over their backs. The nails were flat, neatly trimmed and immaculate, despite the manual labor he did when at the ranch.
“Are you considering taking up art?” he asked with a lash in his voice. “You must have me memorized by now.”
She dragged her eyes back to the bull. “I was thinking,” she said shortly. “You just sort of got in the way.”
“Thinking about what?” he prodded. “Your next murder victim?”
It was the first sign of melting in the glacier he’d drawn around himself, and she met his look with a shy smile.
“Not quite,” she assured him. “Only the vile tools I’m going to need and the grisly details.”
He laughed softly, bending his head to light a cigarette. “Who’s going to get the ax this time?” he asked.
She peeked up at him. “I thought I’d kill off the detective-hero.”
“Your fans would hang you from the nearest tree,” he commented. He glanced down at her, his eyes taking in the long, waving disarray of her red gold hair in the early-morning light, the flush of her cheeks, the sparkle in her green eyes. They narrowed. “A more unlikely murderess…” he murmured.
She smiled pertly. “I’ve always loved detective fiction,” she said with a sigh. “Solving crimes. I wanted to be a policewoman, but I was too busy covering news.”
“Ever miss it?” he asked with genuine curiosity.
“Reporting, you mean?” She thought back to those days. It seemed so long ago, when she was sole reporter and photographer for a small-town weekly newspaper. “I’m not sure. Sometimes I think I’d give anything to go back to it. It was so uncomplicated, compared to what I do now, so cut and dried. I didn’t have to create the news, only report it.”
“I shouldn’t think it was so hard finding new ways to kill people,” he said with a teasing glance.
She laughed. “You’d be surprised. Competition is fierce, you know, and I’m the new kid on the block. I’ve got to be the best I can be, or I’ll go on unemployment in no time.”
“I liked The Grinding Tower,” he remarked.
“Thank you.”
He grinned. “The hero had some…familiar characteristics.”
She felt herself flushing as she recalled her detective: tall, broad-shouldered, with a mustache, a taste for Scotch whiskey and a habit of forcing his equipment to go more than the last mile. Yes, she’d patterned him after John, but she hadn’t expected…
“Want to sue me?” she asked with a shy glance.
“I’m too flattered to sue you.” He tilted his hat lower across his eyes. They narrowed, running down the length of her body and back up again. “The heroine sounded a little like you,” he remarked.
She met his eyes and felt her pulse leap wildly. She hadn’t realized that. “Did she?” she murmured.
The dark, intent look on his face made her nervous. “Why did you run away from me, just before those tourists showed up? Was it what I said about being without sleep? Did you think I’d spent the night with Melody?”
Her breath caught in her throat. How well he read her! She swallowed. “I…I just wanted to ride a little faster, that’s all.”
“Was it?” He reached out, tucking a careless finger into the V-neck of her blouse to tug her gently toward him. But he didn’t release his hold on her. That long, maddening finger slowly traced the beginning slope of her breasts under the thin fabric. She was
