middle, to sit staring at the steep bank ahead.
He swung to study the one behind him. As he’d hoped, the valley floor was limestone and shale, not granite. Sedimentary rock. The blood tingled in his fingertips, his palms…the same way all his hunches started—as if he’d scooped up a double handful of luck. He nodded to himself and drove on.
On the west side of the river, the land rose abruptly in a series of wide benches, with the road winding to find the shallowest grade between them. His truck heaved over a rise and Miguel saw the ranch house on a hill ahead, with a clutter of barns and corrals intervening. Nearly there.
But again the road switched back on itself, entering a narrow pass cut in a ledge of rock. Miguel turned to glare at the cut as he drove by—granite, at this elevation—not so promising.
A horn blared out and he jumped violently. He whirled back toward his road, and stood on the brakes. Tires rumbled and skidded on the gravel. The pickup lurched to a halt. Its massive front bumper, with its greasy hydraulic winch, loomed only inches above the hood of the low, sleek convertible that faced it. A red Mercedes-Benz two-seater, top down. The dust his wheels had raised drifted over its glossy wax job, over its windshield, obscuring Miguel’s view of the person or persons within. He blew out a soundless whistle. Now, that would have made a fine first impression—squashing this pretty toy.
His shoulders twitched as the Mercedes’ horn blared again—too soon, too long, much too loud. On a particularly insolent note. Out of my way, peón! it yelled.
Miguel’s back teeth came together with a click. Yes, he should have had his eyes on the road, but then the rich boy that he could now make out behind the Mercedes’ wheel had been coming too fast. They both shared in the blame, but so what? No harm had been done.
Yet, he told himself as the horn blared for the third time. He drummed his fingertips on the wheel and schooled his frown to an expressionless mask. This cut was too narrow for the vehicles to pass each other. Somebody would have to back down.
Since Miguel was the one who needed a job—this scowling princeling with the golden hair clearly needed no job; that car had cost fifty thousand easily—it made sense that Miguel should humble himself and give way. This was somebody of importance. Possibly the ranch owner himself, or the rancher’s son. To offend him…
The horn blared yet again. The driver leaned out his window. “Hey! Get that heap out of my way!” His voice matched his horn—an arrogant tenor, bursting with pride.
Una lástima—a pity—to start out like this. But some things a man could not do. Miguel sighed and reached for the pack that sat on the seat beside him. After unzipping the top compartment, he pulled out an apple. He fished his knife from his jeans pocket, unclasped it and commenced to leisurely peel the fragrant red globe. Turning to prop his back against his door, he focused on his task. With care, it could be done in one continuous spiral—much more satisfying that way.
The horn blared again—a series of impotent, outraged squawks. Miguel pursed his lips and whistled “The Wichita Lineman.” Something his old friend Harry used to sing when he was feeling soulful.
He caught a movement in the corner of his eye and turned to look. The convertible’s passenger door was opening. Someone—a girl—with windblown hair the color of raw copper, of forest fires and wild honey, was getting out. She touched one foot to the ground—but the driver lunged her way, gesturing. He caught her arm, shook his head emphatically.
She hesitated, shrugged…closed her door again.
Her companion put his hand down on the horn and held it there in an ear-splitting, nerve-grating protest. Miguel sighed and cut a wedge of apple, ate it thoughtfully. Looked as if he’d have to go over there and offer to flatten Mr. Mercedes’ nose for him. Not something he wanted to do with a lady present.
On the other hand, maybe it was time she learned her man was not only rude but gutless.
None of your business to teach her, he reminded himself. A rich gringa like that could buy all the lessons in life she needed—or buy her way out of them.
He was saved from choosing. The Mercedes jerked into reverse and roared backward at a reckless speed, its driver taking out his temper on his machine—and his startled passenger, who’d braced herself against the dashboard. What some women put up with. Smiling wryly to himself, Miguel put his truck in gear and followed.
After mounting a final rise, he turned into a wide, dusty barnyard. Several men on horse and afoot gazed off to where the red convertible had reversed all the way to a lone horseman, sitting a big buckskin horse at the far side of the yard. The rider leaned down from his saddle, listened as the driver of the Mercedes gestured wildly—then jabbed his finger at Miguel’s truck.
So that was the man in charge. Not a good beginning, Miguel told himself as he parked alongside a corral and stepped out. But play it as it lays.
“NOPE,” Ben Tankersly drawled, gazing across at the man who’d climbed out of the dusty old pickup. “He’s not one of mine. ’Fraid I can’t fire him for you.” He swallowed his smile and glanced at his daughter. You see what you’ve got here, princess? You want a man who can’t settle his own fights?
Risa’s eyes touched his, then skated away. She stared off into the distance, arms tightly crossed, teeth buried in her lower lip, her cheeks the color of roses. Embarrassed, Tankersly hoped. She damn sure ought to be.
“Fine! Okay! Forget it, then!” Foster stomped on the gas and roared off the way he’d come, raising a cloud of dust.
Moving much too fast for the crowded yard. Ben’s eyes narrowed—the damn fool—then widened as he realized. The car was aimed straight for the stranger, who’d paused halfway across the open space. “You idiot!”
No doubt Foster meant to shame his target, forcing him to scramble for cover. Instead the young man stood, apparently paralyzed. Tankersly sucked in a harsh breath, bracing himself for the impact.
But the stranger took one long graceful stride to the side, whirled—and landed a thumping mule-kick on the driver’s door as the Mercedes shot past.
One of the hands let out a blissful whoop. Tankersly’s pent breath burst out in a guffaw. Stove in his slats for him! Dented his door a good one! The vanquished Mercedes roared out of the yard and off down the hill.
Tankersly’s grin faded. That cowardly fool had his daughter aboard and there he was, trying to sprout wings, running away from his own humiliation. The rancher put the heel of his hand to his heart, rubbed it, then shrugged. Not a thing in the world he could do about it. If Foster didn’t kill her in the next mile or so, maybe Risa would finally see. “That’s not breeding stock,” he muttered, then switched his attention to the oncoming stranger.
He blinked—and felt the dice teeter, then tip over, the way they sometimes did. One final roll and your life turned from empty pockets to can’t lose. Foster was not breeding stock, but this one… Maybe…just maybe… Ben sat and let him come on, sizing him up as he would have any yearling colt, deciding whether to keep or sell him.
And this one looked like a keeper. On his mettle after he’d faced down that attack, his color was high, his eyes direct, fastened on Tankersly. He had that top-stallion strut—good spirits, good body and well-proven pride, combining to give a soft bounce to each stride, though you couldn’t hear his feet hit the ground. With guts, good bone and reflexes. The young man halted beside Ben’s stirrup. “They call me Heydt,” he said,
