he had any sense he’d dump Miss Clara Seavers off in the grass and ride for the hills.
She clung to his back, the pressure of her firm breasts burning through his shirt. He hadn’t been within touching distance of a woman in months, and this intimate contact wasn’t doing him any good. The heat in his groin was fast becoming a bonfire, igniting thoughts of stripping away her light flannel shirt and cradling those breasts in his palms, stroking them until the nipples rose and hardened and her breath came in little gasps of need …
Hellfire, just the idea of it made him harder than a hickory stick. Jace swore under his breath. As a man on the run, it was imperative that he keep his mind above his belt line where it belonged. The last thing he needed was a saucy little hellion like this one pressing her tits against his back.
“You can call me Tanner,” he said, using the alias he’d given Mary Gustavson. “And you, if I’m not mistaken, would be Miss Clara Seavers.”
She was silent for a moment. Her knees nested against the backs of his legs, fitting as snugly as the rest of her would fit him, given the chance.
Damn!
“What else did my grandmother tell you?” she asked.
“That you could ride anything on four legs and dance until the band went home.”
A lusty little laugh rippled through her body. Jace felt it as much as heard it. “I take it you didn’t believe her. Otherwise I’d be sitting where you are.”
“No comment.” Jace’s gaze swept over the pasture, the silky summer grass, the distant foothills dotted with scrub and blooming wildflowers, the soaring peaks of the Rockies and the endless sky above them. Over the past few months he’d learned to savor every day of freedom as if it might be his last. Today was no exception.
“I know a fine animal when I see one,” she said. “What’s your stallion’s name?”
“Doesn’t have one.”
“Why on earth not? A horse as grand as this one deserves a name, at least.”
“Why?” Jace was playing her now, parrying to keep her at a distance. “Does a horse care whether he has a name or not?”
“No. But maybe I do.” In the silence that followed, Jace could imagine her ripe lips pursed in a willful pout.
He forced a chuckle. “So you name him. Go ahead.”
Again she fell into a pause. The stallion trotted beneath them, its gait like flowing silk. “Galahad,” she said. “I’ll name him Galahad, after the knight in the King Arthur tales.”
“Fine. Galahad’s as good a name as any.”
“May I ask how you came by him?”
“You’re wondering whether I stole him, aren’t you?”
“Did you?” she demanded.
“I borrowed him. He belongs to my sister.” That much was true, at least. Never mind that she wouldn’t believe him. He didn’t give a damn about her good opinion. He only planned on staying until he earned enough to move on. Maybe he could make it to California before the cold weather set in. Or maybe Mexico. A man could get lost in Mexico.
“So how do you come to be working for my grandmother?” Her voice dripped suspicion.
“I came by the ranch a couple of days ago looking for work. She was kind enough to hire me and feed me in the bargain. She’s one fine lady, Mrs. Gustavson.”
“That she is. And my family would kill anybody who tried to take advantage of her, or harm her in any way.”
“I take it that’s a warning.”
“You can take it any way you like.” Her arms tightened around him as the horse jumped a shallow ditch. The chestnut colt had raised its head and was watching their approach. Jace slowed the stallion to a walk.
Galahad. At least Clara had chosen a sensible name. Hollis Rumford, his sister Ruby’s late, unlamented husband, had probably called the horse Archduke Puffington of Rumfordshire or something equally silly. Hollis had cared more about his damned horses than he’d cared about his wife and daughters. The last Jace had seen of the bastard, he’d been lying in a pool of blood with three bullet holes in his chest. Jace’s only regret was that the shots hadn’t hit lower.
Jace hadn’t planned on keeping the stallion. But he’d come to realize that traveling on horseback through open country was safer than going by rail or road. And, for all his resolve to remain unattached, he’d developed a fondness for the big bay. As long as Galahad understood who was boss, he was amiable company. The fact that he could outrun any horse west of the Mississippi gave Jace even more reason to keep him.
“Stop.” Clara’s fingers pressed Jace’s ribs. The chestnut colt watched them warily, poised to bolt at the slightest perceived threat. Jace halted the stallion, holding steady as she shifted behind him. “Stay here,” she hissed, easing to the ground.
Jace watched her walk away. Despite his teasing, he had to admit she had a horsewoman’s grace, an easy way of moving like the sway of long grass in the wind. Her mud-streaked denims—made for a boy, most likely—clung to her hips in a most unboyish way, outlining her firm little buttocks. Her hair fluttered down her back in a glorious tangle of mahogany curls.
Clara had an hourglass figure, her womanly curves offset by a tiny waist. Jace couldn’t help comparing her with Eileen Summers, the governor’s niece he’d been courting back in Missouri. Eileen was as lean as a saluki, her champagne hair flawlessly sculpted, her usual silken gown skimming her elegant bones. In her slim, white fingers, she’d held the key to a world of power and influence—a world that, for Jace, had vanished with his sister’s frantic telephone call. He’d had no chance to tell Eileen what had happened and why he had to leave. But that was likely for the best.
He had no doubt that word had spread like wildfire after he’d left. And the very proper Miss Summers wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with an accused murderer on the run.
“Easy, boy …” Clara walked toward the nervous colt, the tall grass swishing against her legs. One hand held the small apple she carried for such emergencies. The stranger sat his horse, his cool gaze following her every movement.
Tanner. Was that his first name or his last name? No matter, it probably wasn’t his name at all. He had the look and manner of a man with something to hide. She would need to have a serious talk with her grandmother. Mary Gustavson was far too trusting.
Maybe she should talk with her father as well. Judd Seavers would probably run the stranger off the place with a shotgun. But then the stallion would be gone. She would lose the chance to add his splendid bloodline to next spring’s foals.
Her father had enough on his mind. She wouldn’t trouble him about the stranger. Not yet, at least.
“Easy.” She held out her hand with the apple on the flat of her palm. Foxfire pricked up his ears. His nostrils twitched. He took a tentative step toward her, thrusting his muzzle toward the treat. “That’s it. Good boy!” As the colt munched the apple, Clara caught the bridle with her free hand. Moving cautiously, she
