I have,” Boone said in a noncommittal voice, keeping his expression bland, but inwardly he was startled because she was linked to Stallion Pass, Texas, so she must live somewhere in the area. The ranch he had inherited was near Stallion Pass. Maybe he could get this mystery woman to reveal her address.
“It’s a small Texas town near here.” He continued to turn the necklace in his hand, lightly brushing her throat with his knuckles. Each contact was electric, and he noticed that her voice had grown more breathless. He looked into her eyes and could feel the tension between them increase as the air sparked around them.
In a primitive, sexual way, she was responding to his light touches and his outrageous flirting.
“Do you know the legend of Stallion Pass?” she persisted.
“Something about a horse—I don’t know the specifics,” Boone said, remembering that his friend Jonah Whitewolf had received a white stallion when he got married. There was talk about the legend, but Boone hadn’t paid close attention at the time because he had little interest in horses or legends.
“The name comes from an old legend,” she explained, “where it was said that an Apache warrior fell in love with a U.S. cavalryman’s daughter and persuaded her to run off and marry him. On the night the warrior was to come get her, he was killed by cavalrymen. His ghost was said to be a white stallion that forever roams these parts searching for his lost love. And according to legend, if anyone catches the stallion and tames him, that person will find true love.”
“So that’s where the town gets its name?” Boone asked, gazing steadily into her eyes while she talked. Once again, they were mere inches apart across the narrow table. He was only partially listening to her because the rest of his attention was heating in a fiery attraction that all but made the air crackle between them. As she talked, her words became more breathless and her voice lower. Her gaze never wavered from his. His only contact with her was his fist holding her necklace, yet the longing to kiss her was multiplying exponentially.
“Right,” she replied, her words slowing. “There have been wild white stallions in these parts off and on through the years, so their presence has always fueled the legend.”
He ran his fingers over the cross. “So where does this cross come in?”
“The maiden was brokenhearted to learn of her warrior’s death. Instead of marrying a man selected by her father, she entered a convent. According to our family history, this was her necklace and it has been passed down through the years. We are supposed to be descended from her family. She had a brother who married and had children and the necklace was passed down in that manner.”
“Giving credence—somewhat—to the old legend.”
As she talked, he ran his fingers over the cross and felt an inscription on the back. He turned it over in his hand. And read, “Bryony.” He looked up in question, rubbing her jaw lightly with his knuckles while he continued to hold the cross in his hand.
“So your name isn’t Bryony?” he asked.
“No, it’s not. Bryony was her name.”
The waiter approached bearing their salads, and Boone leaned back, dropping her necklace and brushing his knuckles across her collarbone when he did so.
Over tossed green salads, Boone said, “You’re a Texan and maybe you live in Austin.”
When she gave him a mysterious smile, he knew he wasn’t going to get affirmation or denial. “You know this area if you’re familiar with Stallion Pass and you couldn’t get home because of storms. It’s clear to the north because I flew in from there, but they’ve had storms moving through from west to east, so I’m guessing you must live in Austin and have to spend tonight here.”
“And you’re from…?” she asked.
“Near Kansas City,” he replied, amused that she was trying to keep the conversation off herself. “I’ll guess you work in television, in front of the cameras in some manner,” he continued.
“You think so? This salad is delicious.”
“Yes. If you were a singer or movie star or famous model, I’d recognize you. It must be television. You’re far too pretty to be stuck back behind stacks of ledgers figuring out payrolls.”
“That’s ridiculous! You think I can’t do that? You think there aren’t some pretty bookkeepers out there?” she asked, her eyebrows arching while she sounded mildly indignant.
“There may be gorgeous bookkeepers out there, and I’m sure you could do whatever you set your mind to—I’ve already glimpsed you taking charge—I just don’t think that’s what you do. I think you’re in television. An anchorwoman, weatherperson. You do some kind of show.”
“You’re not ever going to know,” she said softly, leaning toward him with a twinkle in her eyes. “I will win our bet.”
His pulse jumped again because she was giving him another challenge.
“We’ll see. In the meantime, let’s see what you will tell me about yourself. Brothers or sisters?”
“One sister who is divorced and lives in California and is a bookkeeper and is very pretty.”
He grinned. “Okay, I walked into that one, but I said that there could be pretty bookkeepers, I just don’t think you’re one. Will you tell me her name?”
“Mary. Plain and simple. She’s an older sister. You’re probably an only child or the only male with sisters.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You look like a man accustomed to getting his way from early childhood. And especially getting his way with females.”
“Why would you think I’d get my way with females in particular?” he persisted, enjoying flirting with her.
“You know full well the effect you have most of the time on females.”
“Most of the time—that means this isn’t one of them.”
She shrugged, but the sparkle was still in her eyes, and he suspected she was enjoying the flirting more than she was willing to admit. “It’s interesting to eat with you tonight, and I’ve had a long, tedious day,” she said.
“Interesting. On a score of one to ten, I’d say ‘interesting’ is a five.”
“Interesting is fun. And a five is good,” she replied.
“Dang!” he exclaimed, mildly annoyed. “‘Fun’ and ‘good’ are not how I want to be known. Those are two bland descriptions if I ever heard any! I’ll have to remedy the way the evening is going.” A roll of thunder gave them both pause, and she looked out the window.
“Look at the rain!” she exclaimed. For the first time she sounded sincerely upset, and a slight frown creased her forehead. As rain drummed against the windows and water streamed down the glass in rivulets, Boone glanced at the swimming pool. Glittering bubbles popped up where raindrops hit.
“Sorry,” he said. “You’ll get home tomorrow morning, I’m sure. This will clear off and move on.”
