Page 6 of Point of Mercy
“Just as long as I’m not a gentleman,” he drawled, shoving himself to his feet and dusting his hands.
“Never.”
“Good. Glad that’s settled.” He walked over to the gelding, and before Heather could scramble off, he’d hopped onto Sampson’s broad back, wedging his thin hips between Heather’s rump and the back of the saddle.
“Hey—just a minute—”
“At least I’m not a horse thief.”
“It was only a prank.” Heather’s mind was racing and her heart pumped wildly. “Look, I’m sorry. Now, I’ll walk back to the ranch—”
“Too late. We’re doin’ this my way,” he said, clucking to Sampson and taking the reins from Heather’s reluctant fingers. His arms surrounded her, his scent filled her nostrils and his breath, hot and wild, seemed to caress the damp strands of her hair. Lord, what a predicament!
Her heart was drumming so loudly, she was sure he could hear its loud tattoo. The back of her shirt, still damp, was pressed into the rock-solid wall of his chest and his legs surrounded hers, muscle for muscle, thigh to thigh, calf to calf. Worst of all, her buttocks were crushed intimately against the apex of his legs, moving rhythmically as the horse headed home. One of his hands held the reins, the other was splayed firmly over her abdomen, his thumb nearly brushing the underside of her breasts.
“I’ll walk,” she said again, her voice a strange whisper.
“No way.”
“Thenyouwalk.”
“Sampson can handle us both.”
But I can’t handle you!she thought, clenching her teeth in order to keep her wild tongue silent. She’d just try to pretend that he wasn’t slammed up so close to her that she could feel the tickle of chest hair through her T-shirt. She’d attempt to ignore the scents of river water mingling with musk and pine as he swayed in the saddle so intimately against her. She’d disregard the fact that his breath blew gently against the nape of her neck, causing delicious tingles to spread along her skin, and she wouldn’t even think about the fact that his body was molded so closely and intimately to hers that she could scarcely breathe.
They rode in silence. The sounds of the night—the flurry of air as bats took flight, the gentleplopof Sampson’s hooves, the drone of insects and the steady rush of the river fading in the distance—were drowned out by the rapid beat of her heart and her own ragged breathing. This was crazy! Being alone with him was dangerous and tricking him had been asking for trouble. Why, oh why, had she been so impulsive and foolish?
“Look, really, I can walk….” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and caught the hard line of his lips.
“And have me be accused of not being a gentleman?” he replied with more than a trace of derision. “I don’t think so.”
“But—”
Sampson broke free of the woods, and beyond a few dry fields the ranch loomed before them. Harsh security lamps flooded the parking lot, drenching the barns and stables in an eerie blue-white illumination, and the ranch house,two stories of sprawling night-darkened cedar, was surrounded by dusky pastureland and gently rolling hills. The windows were patches of warm golden light. The French doors were swung wide and on the back deck several couples were learning the Texas Two-step to a familiar country tune by Ricky Skaggs. Some of the soft notes floated on the breeze and reached Heather’s ears.
The couples laughed and danced, and Heather wished she were anywhere else in the world than imprisoned in the saddle with this cowboy. How could she ever have thought of Turner as a romantic figure, riding alone along the ridge this afternoon?
A few animals stirred as they passed the corrals, and Heather noticed some of the ranch hands. Their boots were propped against the lowest rail of the fence, the tips of their cigarettes pinpoints of red light that burned in the night. A thin odor of smoke mingled with the dust and dry heat.
Turner rode into the main yard, and several of the cowboys, lingering near the paddock, glanced their way and sniggered softly amongst themselves.
Great.Just what she needed—to be branded as Turner’s woman. No doubt they made an interesting sight, both half-dressed and wet, wedged tightly into the saddle.
She didn’t wait for an invitation. When Sampson slowed, she swung one leg over the gelding’s neck and half stumbled to the ground. Without a word, she spun and started for the back of the house.
“Aren’t you gonna thank me?” Turner called.
She stopped, her hands clamped into tight little fists. “Thank you for what?” she asked, inching her chin upward as she turned to face him again. “For humiliating me? For forcing me to ride with you against my will? Or for being a voyeur while I swam?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said lightly, but his eyes didn’t warm and his jaw remained stiff.
“Go to hell!”
“Oh, lady, I’ve already been,” he said with a mocking laugh that rattled her insides.
Heather turned again, and without so much as a backward glance, she hurried up the back steps to the kitchen and tried not to hear Turner’s hearty laughter following after her like a bad smell.
She barely got two steps into the kitchen when Mazie, seated at the small table in the corner, glanced up from balancing the kitchen’s books. “Trouble?” she asked.
