jeans clung to those powerful legs. Jet said boys who wore jeans that tight were too nasty for nice girls to talk to. And here she was—Ritz Keller, fourteen years old, talking to just such a boy.
She’d watched him dance, seen his thingy. Catching a scared, little breath, she remembered he wasn’t nearly as big as Cameron. And he wasn’t as mean, either, no matter what people said about him.
“Like what you see, squirt?” he whispered.
“You’re a nasty boy.”
“I just like girls. And girls like your friend, Jet, like me back.”
If you only knew.
Buttercup snorted and blew, moving skittishly to one side, thereby changing the angle of the sun, so that Ritz could finally see the conceited brute’s face, or at least three-quarters of it.
Up close he looked bad and wild like the rock stars on Jet’s posters that hung all over her bedroom walls. But he was way more handsome. His blatantly masculine face seemed hacked from hot, sun-baked stone. A sheen of perspiration set him aglow and made him seem like a god come to life. He had a high brow, an aquiline nose, and a wide, sexy mouth. Thick, spiky black lashes shaded green eyes so bright and feral, they literally knocked the breath out of her.
For a long moment, she couldn’t move or breathe a word.
He went equally still.
Nervously she pushed her glasses up. For a long second their gazes remained fixed.
“You’re bad,” she said.
“Stupid, too?” he mocked, using those eyes of his to twist her around his little finger.
Ritz stiffened.
“What are you doing here?” he repeated.
She didn’t dare look at him again. “I-I’m here…to get…to get…t-that horse, my horse, Buttercup!”
“My Buttercup now.” His voice deepened and roughened, bringing those little shivers again.
“You have to give her back!”
“Make me, squirt.”
Her hands balled into fists. When she lunged, Buttercup trotted off.
“W-who is she, Roque?” another boy cried out from the tall grasses as he ran toward her.
Ritz whirled so fast, the blond kid nearly fell.
“You!” Roque said. “Caleb, I told you to git.”
Caleb held up his hands. His smile was so engaging, Ritz smiled back, which only made his older brother’s scowl darken.
It wasn’t hard to see why Caleb was more popular than Roque. He was just a boy not much older than she. He had blond hair, green eyes, and sandy eyebrows and lashes. His freckled nose was almost as red and blistered as hers.
He was nice cute; not nasty cute like Roque. Not intimidating cute, either.
“Don’t forget,” Roque jeered. “He’s a hated Blackstone, too.”
“I’m Ritz Keller, that’s who, and if you and your brother will give me my horse…”
“You’re trespassing!” the younger boy whispered to Ritz, grinning at his brother to win his approval.
“Well, Caleb, somebody left your gate open and Buttercup ran inside. I had to come after her. Your big brother here is riding a horse with a Triple K brand. In other words, he’s a horse thief.”
“If she’s yours, why’d she run from you?” Roque demanded.
“Do you know anything? Anything at all about horses?” she demanded, tilting her head as imperiously as a queen.
“I caught yours, didn’t I?”
“Just give her back.”
“If I do that—then you’ll ride away. I want to know more about your pretty friend.”
“Well, she doesn’t like bullies or horse rustlers…or stupid…”
“You have a saying up here in Gringolandia, Señorita Smartie Pants. Finders. Keepers.”
“She said you’re ugly naked!”
“Híjole!” He pulled back a little on the reins and leaned down.
“So, you came to see for yourself!”
“You’re disgusting!”
“Then why the blush?”
She looked down, but she felt his eyes on her face and got hotter.
“Go home, little girl, before you get into real trouble. Tell your friend she can swim in our pond…anytime.” His lilting purr sent a hot shiver through her. “Tell her, I’ll be waiting for her tomorrow.”
“I’m not going without Buttercup.”
“All right.” Holding the reins, Roque sprang lithely off Buttercup, landing so close beside her, she jumped back. Then he slapped Buttercup on the rump and sent her trotting off.
“We’re going to let Buttercup decide,” he said, “who she wants, you…or me.”
“No—”
“Because you know she’ll choose me,” he jeered.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” she said.
“Sí. It’s one of my failings.”
She felt her jaw go slack. Her heart raced. She thrust out her chin anyway. “A Keller’s way is better than a Blackstone’s any day.”
He grinned. “You’re going to be hell on wheels when you grow up,” he murmured. “A while ago you asked me if I knew anything about horses. What if I told you I had a way with horses, same as I do with little girls? Big girls, too?”
It was getting dark. In the queer half-light, with his intense aristocratic features, he was absolutely stunning—tall, muscular, graceful even. Not awkward like the other boys she knew. She remembered him dancing and how she’d longed to dance, too.
“You can’t beat me… ’cause I’m a Keller.”
“Little Killer Keller,” he purred. “I can beat you any day.”
“Wanna bet?”
3
A warm gust of air stirred Ritz’s golden curls and ruffled Buttercup’s tail. Sighing in exasperation, Ritz scowled at her mare.
“So, we’ll let
