“Just curious.” His gaze touched hers, and her heart missed a beat.
“I wasn’t interested.”
He lifted a skeptical eyebrow.
“I only really dated Dennis and…well, our relationship wasn’t all that physical.”
“What’s wrong with the guy?”
“Nothing! Everything! I mean—I just knew it wasn’t right.”
He snorted. “But with me?”
“I love you, Turner,” she said again, hoping to hear the magic words returned. Instead she felt him stiffen and the arms that had held her so tenderly suddenly seemed like lead.
“You don’t.”
“Yes…I love you.”
“You don’t even know me.”
Her heart turned stone cold. “But I…we…I thought…”
“You thought what?” he asked, his arms slowly withdrawing from her as he sat and stared at her. “That we had something special? That we were in love?” His voice was filled with a cold incredulity that drove a spike straight into her soul.
“Of course—”
“Hey, wait a minute. I like you and hell, yes, I wanted you, I mean wanted you in the worst way. Damn thing of it is, I still want you. But love… Heather, you’re kidding yourself.”
Her throat seemed strangled and she wanted to die.
“Look—” He reached forward as if to touch her, but she drew away, as if he’d burned her. “I care about you and we can be friends, but—”
“Friends?” she whispered, her throat catching in disbelief. “Friends? I don’t make love with my friends!” Oh, God, what a mess! What had seemed so remarkable, so incredible only moments before, now seemed cheap. And to think of how she’d thrown herself at him. She thought of her sister, Rachelle, and all the pain and embarrassment she’d suffered at the hands of Jackson Moore, a boy she’d slept with only one night, a boy who had left her with her reputation in tatters.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I care for you. I do—”
“But you don’t love me.”
“I don’t love anyone,” he said flatly. “I don’t believe in it.”
She closed her eyes on the horrid words, felt hot tears in her eyes. “Then I feel sorry for you, Turner,” she said flatly.
He tried to touch her again and she recoiled. How could she have been so stupid? After Sheryl had warned her, how could she have thought she would be the one who could change him?
“I don’t know what you were expecting, Heather, but I’m not the kind of man to settle down with a wife and kids and picket fence and station wagon. I ride rodeo. In two weeks, I’ll rejoin the circuit. I’ll be in Oregon, Colorado, Wyoming and Alberta. And then—”
“I don’t need to know what you’ll do after that,” she said.
He grabbed her then, and though she tried to squirm away, he held her tight. Aware of her nudity, of his strength, of the love she still felt deep in her heart, she closed her eyes.
“Look at me, damn it,” he said, shaking her a little.
When she lifted her lids, she found his face only inches from hers, his expression filled with concern, remorse dark in his eyes. “What do you see?”
“I don’t underst—”
“What do you see?”
“You,” she said, her throat tight.
“And what am I?”
“A…”
“A cowboy, right? The kind of man you wouldn’t really want to be caught dead with, not to mention spend the rest of your life following around. I have nothing, Heather. Nothing except a drunk for a father and part of a ranch with a mortgage against it that rivals the national debt. I own a broken-down pickup, a saddle, a damned good horse and the shirt on my back. That’s it. Is that what you want?”
She didn’t answer, couldn’t speak past the dam of tears that filled her throat.
“Well, is it?”
“Yes,” she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Oh, lady,” he whispered, and suddenly she was deep in his arms again. They were warm and tender and loving, and the kisses he placed in her hair and on her cheeks eased the pain in her heart. She tasted the salt of her own tears when his lips found hers again and she didn’t think about the future as she kissed him back and made love to him again. Tomorrow didn’t matter. As long as she could have him this one night, she’d live with her memories forever locked in her heart.
CHAPTER FOUR
TURNER GAVE HIMSELF A mental kick. Astride Sampson, he threw out his arm and sent the lasso whizzing through the dusty air. The rope loop landed with a thud on the ground, inches away from his target, a bawling Hereford calf. It was the second time he’d missed, and several of the guests as well as some ranch hands were watching.
“Hey, Brooks, he’s gittin’ away,” Hank hooted from the other side of the fence.
“Yeah, maybe you should stick to tying something you can handle—like your shoes!”
Color washed up the back of Turner’s neck. He gritted his teeth and hauled the rope back. With lightning-quick speed, he spun the rope again, urging Sampson forward with his knees as they chased the calf and, just at the right moment, he let loose. The lasso snaked through the air, landing squarely over the surprised calf’s neck.
Sampson started stepping backward instinctively, tightening the loop as Turner vaulted from the saddle, ran through the dust, and over the cheers and jeers of the onlookers tied the Hereford neatly.
Damn, what a job! He stepped back from the struggling calf and yanked his hat from his head. His life seemed to be turned upside down. Ever since making love to Heather, he hadn’t been himself. He’d been gruff and surly with some of the hands, his duties at the Lazy K had suffered and the skills in which he’d prided himself for years seemed to have escaped him. All because of some female!
But not just any female. No, Heather Tremont was different from all the women Turner had known. A small-town girl who had dreams of fame and fortune and the glitter of the city life. A woman who wanted to be an artist for God’s sake. A female who believed in romance and love. Hell, what a mess! What he needed was a drink and maybe a good hard kick in the head to make him wake up.
“’Bout time you roped him,” Bud yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth.
Turner ignored the gibe. He deserved it. A few days ago he could’ve lassoed that calf with his eyes blindfolded. But not now. Not since Heather had wormed her way into his heart.
He knocked his hat against his leg, sending dust up in a cloud, then jammed the Stetson back onto his head and walked back to untie the calf. He didn’t know what he was going to do about Heather. Had no idea. He didn’t believe in love or marriage, and even if he did, he realized she’d never be satisfied with him. So that left him with the obvious option of continuing the affair he’d so reluctantly started. But his reluctance was now long gone. Even now, just thinking of her, he ached. Never, never had he experienced such intense passion with a woman, never had he felt so sated. And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking and plotting how he was going to get her alone again.
“Miserable bastard,” he muttered at himself. Everyone who heard him probably thought he was talking to the calf. With a flip of his wrist the rope fell away and the Hereford was free. Bawling and scrambling to his feet, the whiteface ran to the far end of the corral.
“Y’all done?” Bud hollered. “We were hopin’ for another demonstration. These here guests paid good money to see you miss that calf.”
Turner grinned lazily. “Maybe I should practice a little more.”
“Ah, hell. Ya got a lot on yer mind,” Hank said as he opened the gate and Turner, leading his buckskin, walked through.
“That I do,” Turner agreed, letting Hank and Bud and the others think that his proble
ms all stemmed from his father. Not that John Brooks wasn’t on his mind. The old man had given him nothing but grief over the years, but right now his problem was Heather.
He’d never planned on marrying or even settling down with one woman. But Heather turned his thoughts around. He suddenly was questioning everything he’d ever believed in.
After turning Sampson out to pasture, he brushed the dust from his jeans and started for the kitchen. But he stopped short when he saw the black Porsche roar into the yard. The car looked like liquid ebony under the sun’s hot rays. It rolled to a stop, and the engine, along with a hard-rock song that had been thrumming from the sports car’s speakers, died.
Turner stopped short and he felt the ghost of dread crawl up his spine as a tall man about his own age rolled out of the plush leather seats. Mirrored glasses, a smooth leather jacket, polo shirt, slacks and expensive shoes covered the man from head to foot. A gold watch strapped to the man’s wrist glinted in the sun’s rays.
Turner had never seen the guy before in his life, but he wasn’t surprised to watch as Heather, wiping her hands on her skirt, ran out of the house to greet him.
Turner’s gut twisted. Heather didn’t run to the man’s open arms, but didn’t protest too much when he grabbed her and spun her off the ground. He caught her lips in a kiss and she pushed away.
So this was the man she was supposed to marry. Dennis something or other—Italian sounding, if he remembered right. His back teeth ground together and he wanted to wring the man’s neck. Turner started toward the couple, then thought better of it. What did he have to offer Heather? Nothing. But this guy—he could give her the world.
His mood as dark as the Porsche’s gleaming finish, Turner swung toward the ranch house, washed his hands in the basin on the back porch and, feeling dirt-poor and ranch-bred, dared walk into Mazie’s kitchen.
She was smoking at the table, going over some sort of list. “What’s on your mind, Turner?” she asked, eyeing his boots critically as if to make sure he didn’t drag any dirt or manure into her kitchen.
“Nothing.” He checked the cooler and found a bottle of beer. “Just a little thirsty,” he said, slamming the door shut and twisting off the top from his bottle.
“You don’t want to talk about anything?”
“Nah.” In the past, he’d confided in Mazie. She was kin and the only mother figure he could remember. Zeke’s wife had left him years before and eventually died and Turner’s mother had been killed when he was twelve. That left Mazie. His mother’s cousin. And a woman who had trouble keeping her mouth shut.
“Thinkin’ of movin’ on?”
Turner took a long pull on his beer. “In a couple of weeks.” Funny, the thought wasn’t as appealing as it had been. When his old man had been thrown into the slammer, Turner had sworn to leave the Lazy K as soon as his shoulder was well, but since he’d become involved with Heather… He glanced out the window and saw Heather and her boyfriend. They were standing several feet apart and she looked guiltily over her shoulder. The rich guy took a step toward her, but she held up her hand, said something and spun on her heel, running back to the house.
“You could stay on,” Mazie said, as she always did, and Turner barely heard her his heart was slamming so loudly.
“What? Nah. I don’t think so.”
“Zeke needs good hands.”
“Not me.” His heart was beating like a drum as the man, his face dark red with fury, climbed into his fancy car and started the engine. With a spray of gravel, the sleek car and its driver were gone. The front door slammed shut and quick footsteps pounded up the stairs. Heather!
“And you’d be closer to your ma’s place,” Mazie pointed out.
Turner didn’t look at her, could barely concentrate. She’d pushed the city boy out of her life! But why? For him? Pride mingled with self-disgust; he knew he would never be able to make her happy.
“Turner? You listening to me? I said ‘you’d be closer to your ma’s place!’”
Forcing his attention back to the conversation, Turner frowned and took a long swallow from his beer. While his mind was occupied with Heather, Mazie was talking about the run-down ranch where his father lived. Turner had grown up there and his father had rented the place from Thomas Fitzpatrick, a wealthy Gold Creek businessman who had gotten the ranch by some shady means. John Brooks had always wanted to own that miserable scrap of earth and when his wife had died, he’d managed to buy out Fitzpatrick with the life insurance proceeds coupled with a huge mortgage from the Bank of The Greater Bay.
Turner had done his best to pay off the mortgage. He scowled as he thought of it.
“Someday, son,” his father had told him when he was barely thirteen, “this will all be yours.” John Brooks had waved expansively to the acres of green grass and rolling hills. “And that’s the way your ma, rest her soul, would’ve wanted it. Oh, I know she took out that policy for you, so you could go to college, earn yourself a degree, but she would’ve known that you weren’t right for schoolin’, that you needed some land, some roots.” He’d slapped Turner on his shoulder. “That’s right, boy. Your ma, now she was a smart woman. Had her own degree, y’know. In music. Could’ve been a teacher, but she married me instead—and me, I wasn’t about to have my wife workin’ and supportin’ me. No way!” John had leaned over the fence rails, cradling a beer and smiling into the western hills. The tears in the corners of his eyes were probably from the intense light of the afternoon sun. Those telltale drops probably had nothing to do with remorse for being drunk behind the wheel of the pickup when it had rolled down an embankment, flipped over and killed his wife. “She would’ve wanted you to own something, kid, and there’s nothing more valuable than land. Yesirree, Margaret would’ve approved.”
Turner doubted it. He finished his beer in one long swallow and tossed the empty into the garbage can. In his peripheral vision, he caught Mazie studying him through a cloud of cigarette smoke.
“It won’t work, y’know,” she said kindly, and in that instant he realized that she could read his mind. “She wants the fine things in life, has her sights set upon being an artist.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. I see the way you look at Heather when you think no one’s watchin’. And she feels the same. But it won’t last, son. Think of your poor ma—”
He rammed his hat back onto his head. “I’ll be leavin’ before the end of the month,” he said suddenly. “Don’t want to miss the final days of the rodeo season.” Without waiting for a reply, he headed back outside and refused to think about Heather. Mazie was right. Heather complicated his life, and right now he had more than his share of complications.
* * *
HEATHER COULDN’T SLEEP. Dennis’s surprise visit had caught her off guard. He’d come hoping to patch things up and she’d had to be firm. She didn’t love him. Never had. Never would. She’d tried to be gentle, but he’d understood and he’d been angry when he’d left. Dennis Leonetti was used to getting what he wanted.
What had she ever seen in him? Compared to Turner…well, there was just no comparison. Sighing, she threw off her blankets and let the brisk night air that stole through the open window cool her body.
Her roommates didn’t share her problem with insomnia. They were all tucked under their covers, snoring softly, dreaming whatever dreams filled their heads. But Heather was restless. She tossed and turned.
Ever since the night she and Turner had made love, he’d been avoiding her. She was hurt, and the ache in her heart wouldn’t go away. Getting through the days had been difficult, and she’d just gone through the motions of her work. Mazie had been forced to scold her more than once and even Jill had noticed her bad mood. Sheryl hadn’t said a word, but her blue eyes had been filled with silent accusations.
All because of Turner.
What a fool she’d been. She loved him. She was sure of it now. The fact that he was a cowboy was no longer repulsive—she even found his livelihood intriguing and romantic. “You’re being as silly as Jill,” she muttered to herself as she climbed from her bunk. She felt bottled up—claustrophobic—and she had to get outside for some fresh air. Throwing a robe over her nightgown, she stole down the back stairs.
The ranch house, filled with noise during the day, seemed strangely quiet. The hall clock ticked, the refrigerator hummed, the old timbers groaned and creaked, but still the house was different, the dark shadows in the corners seeming close.
Holding her robe together with stiff fingers, Heather dashed through the kitchen and outside. Muttso growled from somewhere in the bushes, but she ignored him and ran to the paddocks, her bare feet scraping on the stones and packed earth of the paths and walkways. The air was filled with the drone of insects and an owl hooted from an upper branch of a mammoth pine tree situated behind the pump house.
Heather breathed deeply of the pine-scented air. She ran her fingers through her hair, shaking the loose, tangled curls that fell down her back. The notes of an old country ballad drifted from a forgotten radio left on the windowsill of the tack room.
She wondered about Turner. Was he in his bed—sleepless as she? Was he packing to leave, for she’d heard he would soon rejoin the rodeo circuit? Or was he sleeping soundly, maybe with some other woman in his arms? That thought caused a particularly painful jab in her heart.
“Don’t you know it’s dangerous slinking around here in the middle of the night?” Turner’s voice was soft and close, and for a minute she thought she’d imagined it, had conjured the deep sounds as her thoughts had drifted to him.
Turning, she saw him, shirt open and flapping in the gentle breeze, Levi’s riding low over his hips. She forced her gaze to his face, expecting hard censure. She wasn’t disappointed, his gaze was stony, his jaw set.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t betray her.