Maggie swallowed and needlessly rearranged Diablo’s reins in her hands. “Ready.”
Rafe led the way, cantering along the lane dividing barns, training rings, corrals, and paddocks for nearly half a mile. Figure, braying irritably, kept up with his friend, and heads turned to show grinning faces as they passed.
It was late afternoon, nearly evening, and reasonably cool, though the sun was still glaring. Hills rose all around them as they left the lane and the greener land near the San Pedro River behind them. Rafe stopped only once to open a security gate and close it behind them. Then they rode for nearly an hour across rolling land covered with the short, sparse grass that was so different from the lush eastern pastureland Maggie was used to.
Finally they followed a well-worn trail up to the top of a high hill, and she found herself gazing across a breathtaking expanse of the San Pedro Valley. The bulk of Shamrock Ranch lay to the east, the buildings seeming small in the distance, while all around sprawled the curiously wide and empty reaches of the valley. The sun cast slanting rays and shadows, an occasional cloud high above leaving its dark silhouette on the valley floor.
Maggie, caught up with her work, had not really looked at the land until now. She felt her senses open up in what was almost an agony of sudden awareness, conscious of the vastness, the raw beauty of this land. Mountains reared their stark, jutting peaks, shadows and colors changing moment by moment as the sun lowered. And the sun itself, sinking gracefully, was a brilliant light playing over a land not even man had dared to claim he had mastered.
She thought she could see forever.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Turning at Rafe’s hushed voice, Maggie looked at him. He sat erect yet relaxed in the saddle, his hands folded and resting on the pommel. And he was a sheikh, Maggie thought…his headdress tossed aside. A king without his crown. A man gazing out over land for which his ancestors had shed blood, sweat, and tears to call their own. A land as untamed as a part of him still was.
“It gets in the blood, this land,” he said, his tone still soft. “The sun bakes you and the wind parches you and the river’s dry more often than not. Ride casually down into a dry wash, and a flash flood may sweep you away before you’ve time to hear it coming. And at night you can see lightning in the mountains, and clouds roll out over the sky in front of you only to disappear behind you, leaving the stars so near, you could put them in your pocket.”
Maggie took a deep breath, only half aware of being enmeshed in a spell conjured by the lonely grandeur of this land and the unconscious, soul-deep pride of this man. She heard herself speaking, and the husky voice was not hers but was right for this place. “Did your family settle here?”
He shook his head. “Not originally. East of here roughly, in the Sulphur Springs Valley. That’s where Killara is.”
“Killara?” She was fascinated by the way he spoke the word, the soft brogue cloaking a curious blend of pride, contentment, and an ineffable sense of roots set deeply and immovably.
Rafe continued to gaze out over distance and time. “Killara. Old Shamus decided the place would be a new beginning, a new dawn for his family. Killara was the name of the ancestral home in Leinster Province, Ireland. That was the…piece of Ireland Shamus brought with him.”
“He must have been an extraordinary man.”
Abruptly Rafe turned his head to grin wickedly at her. “I’ll say. He missed being hanged three times just by the skin of his teeth!”
Maggie laughed in spite of herself. “Good heavens, why?”
“Reiving mostly. You’re Irish; you know what it means.”
“Cattle rustling?” She laughed again. “Here?”
“No, in the Old Country. Smuggling too.” When his horse moved restlessly, Rafe absently passed a strong hand gently over his stallion’s neck. “I’m not sure whether he came west because he wanted to or had to.”
“Did he tread the straight and narrow here?”
“I don’t doubt he did a bit of reiving here as well,” Rafe answered whimsically. “But it was a common thing then, with longhorns running wild and free for the taking. He was fairly well occupied with the Apaches, though.”
“This is Apache country, isn’t it? Raids?”
“For years.” Rafe laughed softly. “They tried to drive him out. Stole his horses, set fire to his homestead. He rebuilt Lord knows how many times. When the other settlers took to their heels, Shamus stood firm and said he’d shoot anything with feathers, so friendlies had best be cautious how they approached the place.”
“What finally happened?” she asked, fascinated.
With a meditative air he answered, “I believe several tribes finally got together and decided they were losing face. Since they couldn’t get rid of Shamus, it seemed logical just to call him one of their own. He wasn’t very amenable to becoming a blood brother, but it so happened that one of his sons—Joshua—had been prowling where he shouldn’t have and had fallen in love with the daughter of a chief. After a bit of sparring and horse trading, Rising Star became a Delaney.”
“No more raids?”
“None to speak of. I believe there was an occasional argument over the horses the Delaney boys took a great deal of pleasure in stealing back, but with a chief’s daughter in the house things were pretty quiet.”
Maggie gazed out over the land spread all around them, again conscious of a heightened awareness. “How exciting it must have been then,” she murmured, half to herself.
Rafe looked at her, his hands tightening one over the other. She would not have been out of place then, he thought. For all her delicate appearance and tiny size, she was tempered steel within. She would have fought her way across a virgin land, then carved a home from wilderness with a will and the strength to endure.
She would not have asked another to bear her burdens or fight her battles or carry her gun.
And if an Apache raid had come with a red dawn, even old Shamus would have felt stronger with her gun booming beside his.
Rafe took a deep breath and let it out slowly, still watching her. He felt Saladin shift beneath him, and had to force himself to relax the grip of his knees. The movement of the stallion drew Maggie’s attention.
“He’s a beautiful horse, Rafe.”
Clearing his throat, Rafe murmured, “I thought so the first moment I saw him, staggering around banging his head and getting his legs all tangled. He has two half-brothers born within a day. I raised and trained them, then gave them to my brothers.”
Maggie remembered hearing about that. “Sheikh and Shalimar, right?”
“Right. Sheikh’s a black hellion—very suited to York. And Shalimar’s a gray with the speed of the wind. Both are at Killara, since York spends most of his time at the mining camp.”
“Who lives at Killara?” she asked curiously. “Your oldest brother?”
“Burke. Yes, he lives there when he isn’t at the Tower in Tucson. He should be home now—that is, if he listened to York and me—taking some time away from the office.”
Feeling suddenly uncomfortable at her own display of curiosity, Maggie turned her gaze back to the horizon. The sun had lowered while they talked, and shadows were lengthening as the red orb began to dip below the peaks of distant mountains. “We should start back,” she said.
Rafe reined his stallion around to start back down the trail, and Maggie fell in behind. Figure, who had been grazing idly nearby, instantly took up his accustomed position beside Diablo. Once they reached the base of the hill, Rafe waited for Maggie to come up alongside him. They were walking the horses now, neither of them showing the natural inclination of stallions to fight one another.
Maggie glanced once at Rafe, then looked ahead, disturbed. It wasn’t, she thought, anything she could pin down in his expression that was making her suddenly breathless. His black eyes seemed a bit brighter than usual, and his lazy smile quirked upward a bit higher on one side. Small distinctions in a very expressive face, Maggie thought. And
when he spoke, his deep voice was the same as usual—almost.
“You should always wear red,” he said. “Makes you come alive.”
Instinctively she glanced down at her red knit shirt, then tossed a second glance his way. “Thanks,” she muttered, resisting an impulse to demand if she didn’t look alive without wearing red.
Rafe might have heard the silent question.
“You’re so controlled, you know. So calm. It’s startling what a change a little color—or animation—makes.”
“Control is necessary when working with horses,” she said as if reciting a well-learned proverb, and grimaced without surprise when he laughed.
But he said only, “I know it is. Never thought of taking it to extremes myself, but to each his own.”
Maggie felt tension in her jaw and realized that her teeth were clenched. The wildness of this land was rousing an equal wildness in her, she decided. Why else would his comments grate so? “I get the job done, don’t I?” she snapped, her anger showing only in words and not in the hands firmly holding her horse’s reins.
“That you do, Maggie,” he agreed cheerfully. “That you do.”
For some reason his agreement grated even more on Maggie’s nerves. And when he followed up with a critical comment, she found herself longing for a riding crop.
“Still, it wouldn’t hurt you to relax a bit. You’ll be old before your time if you’re not careful.”
“That’s my business!” She felt a moment of horror after her outburst. Oh, Lord. What if he fired her? She loved it here, more and more each day. Her job and the country and the people….Sneaking a glance at Rafe’s face, she saw he was still smiling, and she sighed silently.
“Tell me something, Maggie.” His voice was casual. “You obviously asked questions about Shamrock and the Delaneys before you took this job. Right?”
“Yes.” Her meek tone was a result of relief rather than humility.
“What’s the one most common thing you’ve heard about my family, past and present?”
She didn’t even have to consider. “That the Delaneys take care of their own.”
“Right.” Somehow he managed to infuse that single word with a great deal of meaning.
Relief faded into uneasiness. Maggie turned her head to stare at his profile. “Just what,” she asked evenly, “is that supposed to mean?”
He turned to meet her eyes, his own dancing with that devil-light of laughter and mischief. “Just what you think it does,” he answered amiably. “We take care of our own, Maggie. So you see, your welfare is very important to me. And I can’t help feeling that you need to relax and enjoy life.”
“I’m fine,” she said flatly. “I’ve taken care of myself for ten years, and—”
“That was before it made a difference to me.”
She felt her throat close up, and stared between Diablo’s ears fixedly.
After a moment Rafe said admiringly, “Maggie, you’re a woman in a million! Any other would have pounced on that remark instantly, reading all kinds of personal meanings into it. But not you. No, you just accept that I’m a concerned employer and that’s all.”
She felt her teeth gritting again, and uncharacteristically clapped her heels into the stallion’s sides to urge him forward. Startled, Diablo leaped instantly into a gallop, angling away from the path they were following to cut across the open pastureland. Figure brayed loudly at being left behind.
“Maggie!” Rafe’s voice was not bland, casual, or amiable. It was a hoarse roar packed with surging emotion.
She would have stopped, but couldn’t, all her attention occupied in remaining in the saddle as her mount raced over land far more uneven than it had seemed. Twice Diablo literally dropped beneath her as undetectable dry washes appeared under his hooves, and he had to scramble wildly for steady footing. Perforce his reckless gallop slowed, but the third wash caught him unawares, and the loose sand robbed him of his balance. The stallion lurched sideways and nearly fell, throwing Maggie over his head and forcing him to leap awkwardly to avoid stepping on her.
Maggie came down hard, the sandy ground and sparse tufts of grass no cushion, but she rolled instantly to disperse her weight more evenly. Sitting up, she rubbed her right shoulder with a muttered curse, her gaze following her horse as he slowed and turned back toward her. She was far more embarrassed than hurt, and silently ridiculed herself for the unthinking dash across land she was unfamiliar with.
Sand sprayed her as Saladin slid to a halt nearby, and she nerved herself to face Rafe’s justifiable anger. The face she hesitantly looked up to see, however, held emotions other than anger. His skin was gray beneath the tan, the black eyes burning with a flickering wildness. His mouth was rigid, but she could have sworn the bottom lip quivered faintly for a flashing instant.
“That was stupid of me…” she began as he reached her side.
He dropped to one knee and hauled her against him, his arms holding her in a rib-crushing embrace. “I should have warned you,” he said thickly. “Dammit, Maggie, don’t ever do that to me again!”
Shaken by the toss and still conscious of her odd, heightened awareness, Maggie was further unsettled to find her body molding itself bonelessly to his hard form. She could feel his taut, work-hardened muscles, feel the raw power in his arms. His heart was pounding against her. One large hand held her head to his neck, and she was stingingly aware of the pulse throbbing beneath the flesh of his throat.
For a moment she remained limp and mindless, but then her instincts rose up within her, shrieking an alarm. Before she could make a move to push him away, however, his embrace gentled. She was suddenly being cradled instead of crushed. His entire body seemed to soften and draw her within a warm hollow.
“I should have warned you,” he repeated, his voice quieter but still husky. “This is an unforgiving land, Maggie, a land that gives no quarter.” His cheek was pressed to her hair, and his hand slid down to rest gently at the nape of her neck. “Promise me you won’t take chances again, or ride out alone until you know the land.”
“I promise,” she whispered, her hands lifting of their own volition to rest on his chest. She couldn’t remember ever being held like this in a caring embrace. Her father had been a taciturn man, more interested in horses than in the emotional needs of his daughter, and her own driven ambition had held all others strictly at arm’s length. She felt strangely cherished, and a dimly recognized part of her gloried in that unfamiliar sensation.
She forgot that he was her boss and, moreover, a man to be wary of. She forgot ambition and safety and the certainty of herself. Her consciousness tunneled, focusing only on this moment. The sandy ground beneath her knees was hard but distant, and a soft, warm breeze played over her newly aching body. Even the animals—including Figure, who had caught up with them—were still, not intruding, and the setting sun bathed them all in a reddish glow.
Rafe held her in silence, stroking her back with the same gentling touch with which he had so recently soothed his horse. And it soothed Maggie, but it also sapped her willpower and strength. Without thought she watched her hand slide from just beneath the hollow of his shoulder to where dark hair curled at the opening of his white shirt. She saw her fingers touch that silky hair, and felt a tingle in her fingertips and an instant liquid heat being released somewhere within her.
Alarmed, she raised her head and then stilled, gazing into black eyes with lambent flames in their bottomless depths. She wanted to speak, to say something that would instantly allot them their clearly defined positions as employer and employee, but she could force no sound past her suddenly tight throat.
The hand at her nape shifted to warmly cup the side of her neck, tilting her face up, and those black eyes came nearer until they filled her vision, her thoughts.
“Maggie…” he breathed softly, all but inaudibly, just before his lips touched hers.
For an instant, an eternity, Maggie gave in to the giddy sensations rushing through her body. His l
ips hardened in desire, slanting across hers with a sudden fierce hunger, setting wildfire alight deep inside of her. She felt her body, her emotions, everything she was, swaying toward him, pulled irresistibly by a strong sense of affinity. A part of her had been waiting for this, yearning for it. It was more than desire, more than anything she’d ever known before, and fear washed cold sanity through her mind.
Violently she tore her mouth from his, and would have broken completely away from him but for the iron strength of his arms. The hold trapped without hurting, and she was powerless to escape. She met his gaze, her own fierce and wary, and for a moment felt the breath catch in her throat. There was, she saw, something not quite tame in his eyes, something hot and primitive. Then the fleeting wildness was gone, and his crooked smile dawned.
“I won’t apologize,” he murmured.
“I didn’t expect an apology!” she snapped breathlessly, clinging to anger and telling herself that the gossips had been right after all. Rafe was scalp-hunting and nothing more, and she was no trophy.
“No,” he said, “you expected a playboy. Well, Maggie love, I’ve decided I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.”
“What?” she asked, bewildered.
Mournfully he quoted, “ ‘My reputation, Iago, my reputation!’ ”
She stared at him.
Grinning now, he said, “I’ve lost my reputation where you’re concerned, and without even a trial either.” He rose to his feet, pulling her gently up and holding both her hands in his. “I might as well take advantage of it. I don’t know if I can live up to your image of a rapacious rogue, but I’m willing to try, Maggie love. Try very hard.”
She had the peculiar feeling that she was being manipulated, and stared at his wide grin and the dimple that was incongruous with his otherwise rugged face. For the life of her she didn’t know whether to hit him with something or to laugh.
“You’re not—That is, you—you wouldn’t…” She wasn’t a stammering sort of woman, but she couldn’t seem to formulate either her thoughts or her words.