how much is it going to cost me, Mr. Sellers, to get you to go after my horse?”
There was a silence before he said, “It must be hell to be that cynical.”
“Not cynical,” she denied. “Just experienced. Money seems to have an almost mystical influence on people.”
“Not on me, Ms. Beaufort. Sorry to disappoint you. And the sooner we get that place on your head treated, the sooner I can get back out here and try to track your horse.”
“By then it may be too late.”
“Take it or leave it,” he said, stooping to pick up the black Stetson from the ground and beating it against his leg to knock the dust off.
“I should have known a horse wouldn’t mean much to someone like you,” she said angrily. She wasn’t even sure what she meant by that, but it felt good to make the accusation.
She began to limp away from him, heading toward the pasture and using the fence for support. Her leg seemed to get tighter and more painful with each step.
“I think you can probably afford another horse, Ms. Beaufort. Your life is another proposition. You only get one shot at that.”
The edge of sarcasm in that first sentence was obvious, just like his comment about being sorry her father’s policy wasn’t the kind that paid out cash. Both remarks said “rich bitch” so loudly he didn’t have to. It was a tone Val had heard most of her life, at least until she had moved out here, and, furious, she turned to face him.
“Kronus represents every bit of profit I made last year, Mr. Sellers,” she said. “Just for your information. But this isn’t about money. Not everything is, you know.”
She regretted saying that as soon as the words came out of her mouth. Like yesterday she didn’t seem to be able to control her tongue when she was around him. Somewhere deep inside she knew why. That knowledge wasn’t something she wanted to deal with right now, however.
“I want to look at his stall, so maybe you better join me,” she said instead, injecting sarcasm to keep her voice from betraying her. “If whatever spooked Kronus is still in there, you’ll be right there, ready to protect me from it.”
THEY DIDN’T FIND ANYTHING in the stall to explain the horse’s actions. Grey wasn’t really surprised. If something like a snake had spooked the stallion, it would have been long gone. And somehow he didn’t think that would have caused exactly the reaction he’d just seen. Maybe the horse would have been upset, but he wouldn’t have been out-and-out loco once he was away from the danger.
His eyes were examining the broken board when he became aware that Valerie Beaufort was sitting on the ground of the stallion pen, her back against its rough boards, eyes closed. As he watched, she put her head down on her bent knee.
She didn’t move, even when he walked over to stand in front of her, although she must have heard his footsteps. “You okay?” he asked.
Her head came up, eyes open, wide and very dark. Pupils dilated? Or did they just look that way because her face was so pale? Shock? Or concussion? he wondered. The gash at her temple was still bleeding sluggishly. The hair around it was matted with blood and even the shoulder of her shirt was stained.
“A little dizzy,” she said, putting her forehead back on her knee. The other leg, the one that she favored when she walked, was stretched straight out in front of her.
“Come on,” he said, holding out his hand.
She lifted her head enough to look at it and then up at him, but she didn’t reach for his outstretched fingers. She shook her head once, and then rested her forehead on top of her knee again.
“We need to have somebody take a look at that cut,” he said. “You may have a concussion.”
“I’m just dizzy.”
“All the more reason—”
“I told you I’m not driving into town for this scratch,” she said, overriding his attempt to make exactly that suggestion.
He watched her a moment more, weighing his options. He knew a fair amount of first aid. Even if she did have a concussion, all a hospital would do would be to keep her overnight and observe her. He could do that here, of course.
However, observing Valerie Beaufort all night wasn’t something he was eager to do. Whenever he looked at her, something happened in his gut that he didn’t understand.
Maybe it was her vulnerability. That little-girl-lost look. Or maybe she had been right before, although he didn’t like the idea any better than he knew she would. Maybe it was the fact that she limped. All he knew was that the thought of her being injured or in danger had become far more personal than any assignment should be.
“You can walk. Or I can carry you,” he said harshly. “It’s strictly up to you.”
Her eyes came up again at that. Widened first with shock that he would talk that way to her, then becoming defiant. He meant what he said, however, and something in his face or in his voice must have told her that. Her mouth tightened, but finally, after a long moment of studying his eyes, she put out her hand.
As his fingers closed around it, there was again that unwanted frisson of emotion in the bottom of his stomach. Maybe because her life was his responsibility, and because it had been in danger this morning. Or maybe, he acknowledged bitterly, it was because he knew he wasn’t good enough anymore to handle that kind of responsibility.
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