his dreams at night.
When he spoke again, he nonchalantly asked, “Which horse you planning on riding, Partner?”
“You’re not going to make a fuss about this?” she asked, hurrying to reach his side, the bridle and reins caught up in her hands.
“Not worth it,” he announced, as she halted before the stall where her tall, black mare was tied. “I need to be on my way, and short of tying you to a post, I don’t know of any way to persuade you to let me handle it on my own.”
“I wouldn’t try it if I were you,” she snapped, obviously fit for battle once more.
His hand sought out the currycomb hanging from the wall, and with a few strong, sweeping strokes, he cleaned the area where Chloe’s saddle would rest. “You got a blanket handy?” he asked, and watched as she snatched a heavy woolen square from a sawhorse. She snapped it sharply to remove the dust, then handed it to him. In moments it was in place and he swung her saddle atop the horse, looping the stirrup over the horn. His movements were quick, strong and practiced as he tightened the cinch and then backed the horse from its stall.
Chloe slid the bit in place, and the mare obligingly ducked her head as the bridle replaced her halter. J.T. followed her to where his stallion stood, tossing his head impatiently at the restriction of his reins tied to the handle of the barn door. The blood bay switched his tail, as if aware of the attention he drew. The mare passed him by and he whinnied, a shrill, sharp sound that drew little response from the black, but a quick grin from Chloe.
She mounted quickly, stepping up onto a block of wood apparently kept there for the purpose, and gathered her reins, turning the mare. Waiting as J.T. attempted to quiet his horse, her grin turned to a smile as the stallion defied his efforts. “Sure you don’t want to use him for breeding?” she asked. “He’s not going to be happy to lose a chance at my mares.”
“He’ll live through it,” J.T. snarled, grasping a handful of mane as he swung into his saddle. “Damned horse is spoiled rotten. I should have gotten rid of him a long time ago, traded him in for a good gelding.” He glanced up at Chloe’s stifled laughter.
“You’d never do that and you know it,” she said. “You’re a windbag, Flannery.”
“He’d behave better if he knew how close he is to getting sold,” J.T. growled, drawing up the reins, until the stallion’s nose was pressed close to his chest. “Let’s move out and let him run some of it off.”
“How many head am I missing?” she asked, turning her mare to join him as he allowed the stallion to break into a sharp trot.
He turned his dark gaze on her and Chloe thought for a moment that there was a definite resemblance between man and horse. Both were magnificent specimens, J.T. with his lean, long-legged, yet muscular body, the blood bay sporting black stockings that emphasized the sinewy, narrow lines of his legs and led to the heavy haunches that provided barely leashed power.
“A dozen or so, from what Shorty said,” J.T. answered shortly. He rode, she thought, like a centaur, as though he were a part of the splendid creature between his thighs. And now, his look was impatient as he lowered the brim of his hat with a jerk and nodded at her to take the lead.
They crossed the meadow, and he bent low to open a gate in the pasture fence, allowing her to ride through and waiting to close it behind himself. He caught up to her in moments, the stallion unwilling to be left bringing up the rear. “There’s only one shack, isn’t there?” he asked, and she nodded.
“Never needed more than one. Not with the size of herd I run. We don’t use it much, just during branding and roundup usually.”
They rode the length of the big pasture, and again he opened, then closed, a gate. Now the wide-open range of the northernmost part of the ranch was before them, only the farthest boundaries enclosed by barbed wire. It would be an easy thing, she decided, to clip the wire and run a dozen head of cattle through the opening. The task now was to find the gap in her fence line, and make quick repairs before more of the herd wandered off to Hale Winters’s neighboring ranch.
J.T. loosened his reins, allowing his horse to stretch long, dark legs in a gallop, and Chloe’s black mare followed suit, eager to spend some of her pent-up energy. The chill of spring made her thankful for the coat she wore, and she buttoned the top button with her free hand, tugging her hat lower to protect her from the wind. There was a simple joy in the rolling gallop of her mare, a pleasure that ignored the purpose of this ride.
And it seemed that J.T. shared her thoughts as he turned his head to offer her a look of satisfaction. His gaze narrowed on her face, and he slowed the pace of his mount, motioning with an uplifted hand for her to follow suit. They settled into a easy lope and he rode beside her in silence for a moment, his jaw set, as if he pondered over words he was hesitant to speak.
“We’d make a good team, Chloe. I’d make sure you held your portion of the ranch with no strings attached.” His words were rough-edged, his eyes penetrating, as he turned his gaze in her direction, referring apparently to the sparring they’d done in the tack room.
“We are a team, whether we like it or not, Flannery,” she answered coolly. “And I’ll hold my share of the ranch without your help.”
“I’ve never done this before,” he said, his jaw clenching. “I didn’t make myself clear, apparently.”
“If you’re talking about a wedding, you can forget it,” Chloe said, sudden realization making her aware of his line of thought. She pressed her heels against the mare’s sides, and the horse delivered a spurt of speed. “Besides,” she called, over her shoulder, “we’ve got more important things to be concerned about right now.”
J.T. caught up with her and passed her by, his stallion’s long legs stretching, nostrils flaring as he left the black mare behind. Chloe let her horse run, aware that she was certain to be viewing the bay’s wide haunches. If she wasn’t mistaken, she’d just turned down a backhanded proposal, and damn if it didn’t feel good to get the best of J. T. Flannery.
The wire had indeed been cut, and if the language coming from Tom’s mouth was anything to go by, it had not been an easy task to repair the damage. He and Corky had strained mightily to draw the ends together, winding each cut strand with pliers, their work hampered by the heavy, leather gloves they wore. And still they each bore small gashes, one leaving a dark stain on Tom’s shirt, another on Corky’s cheek still oozing blood.
“You didn’t hear anything?” J.T. asked for the second time, and was given an impatient glare by the older of the two cowhands.
“If I had, you think I wouldn’t have used my shotgun?” Tom asked, his anger obvious. “There wasn’t any reason to stand guard, far as I could see. We’d worked hard all day, and we slept inside the shack.”
Shod horses had crossed the boundary line, their riders cutting the fence and riding a half mile or so onto the Double B before the rustlers had made away with a portion of the herd bedded down by a southward winding, narrow creek. Wise enough to limit their take to a few head at a time, they’d evaded discovery. The tracks J.T. followed for less than a mile had cut across hard, rocky ground, leaving him little trail to follow, mixed in as they were with those of other cattle.
Corky offered a thick slab of beef, tucked between two slices of bread, and J.T. took it gladly. “You get something to eat?” he asked Chloe.
She sat against the wall of
