The Cowboy’s Hidden Agenda

Her expression hardened, becoming almost childlike in its stubbornness. “Not really,” she said. And her voice was as frozen as her face, belying the spot of color that burned bright and hot in each cheek. She rose to her feet, dusting her hands, not looking at him; clearly, as far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.

Which was altogether fine with Bronco. Why should he care if she got along with her mother? It was none of his business.

Though he could have told her that the burden of anger and unforgiveness she was carrying around with her was going to take its toll on her eventually in all kinds of ways, and that she’d be a whole lot happier letting go of it now while she still had a chance to make it right, instead of waiting, as he had, until it was too late. He could have told her, but he didn’t. He knew she didn’t want to hear it, not from him. Not right now.

“Time to move on,” he announced, giving the cave wall a slap as he squinted into the sunlight, gauging the length of the shadows along the canyon wall. He knelt and began rolling his blanket, glancing up long enough to inquire with exaggerated diffidence, “Want anything more to eat before I pack it away?”

She shook her head, as carefully polite as he was. “I’ve had enough. I would like to, um, freshen up a little, though, if that’s okay.” Her eyes looked past him, shielded and distant; impossible to know what she was thinking.

“You’ll have plenty of time to do whatever you need to do,” he said stiffly, “while I’m saddling ol’ Red.” He rose and waved her ahead of him. “After you.”

She obeyed in hostile silence. As he followed her down the steep and rocky trail, Bronco was thankful for her anger, or whatever the torment was that was occupying her mind, keeping it too busy to notice that what had just passed between them was another very odd exchange for a kidnapper to be having with his prisoner.

After relieving herself-remembering to check first, very carefully, for rattlers-and wetting her face, Lauren felt better. Though it would have taken a lot more than a splash of water to wipe the memory of Bronco’s voice from her mind, saying so softly, so gently, “I found out she’d died.”

She’d died. As she made her way back along the creek to where she’d left Bronco and the horses, she took deep breaths and shook her head sharply, like someone fighting off drowsiness. But the voice persisted. She’d died.

And just as stubbornly, she denied it. Not my mother. My mother is healthy as a horse! And, she reminded herself with a bitter little spurt of laughter, she takes very good care of herself. Oh, yes, she still had time. Plenty of time.

Yes, but time for what? Time to forgive? Ruthlessly Lauren pushed that thought aside. She didn’t want to forgive. She wasn’t ready to forgive. Not yet.

The stream that meandered along the canyon floor was tiny, almost nonexistent in places. But the sand was moist and cool, and near the shaded banks beneath the willows, watercress grew green and lush. Through a copse of young willows Lauren could see Bronco working with the horses, rubbing them down with handfuls of willow leaves. They’d obviously been rolling in the damp earth near the creek; she could hear singsong cadence of Bronco’s voice scold ing, pretending exasperation as he brushed away dirt and foxtail. And she found herself smiling.

When she realized what she was doing, the smile faded and, instead, she felt lost and confused, too confused even to feel frightened. She stood and watched him, recalling the way she’d felt this morning, waking up with his scent in her nostrils and the remnants of erotic dreams still pounding in her veins. And then seeing him, shirtless and so intensely male… Watching him now from a distance, she didn’t know what to feel. The lines between fantasy and reality were blurring. It was becoming harder and harder to determine what she should feel, what she did feel…even what she wanted to feel. And it seemed too great an effort to try. Even the attempt made her feel weary, defeated.

“Best if you ride behind again,” Bronco said, glancing at her as she joined him. “We can move faster that way.”

He’d put on a shirt, an old one of blue cotton, softened and faded almost to white by countless washings. The contrast of that fragile fabric with the powerful body beneath it seemed a gourmet treat for the senses. She wanted to touch him.

She watched him pause to test the tightness of the girth and run his hands once more along Cochise Red’s neck and withers and under the edges of the blanket, checking for nonexistent burrs. “Can’t one of us ride bareback?” she asked, tearing her eyes away from his hands and looking past him to where the mares were idly grazing, nibbling delicately at the sparse grass.

“You can if you want to.” He tilted his head and squinted at her from under the brim of his hat. “It’s a hot day- horses sweat. Personally, I’m not big on sitting all day in salt water. And you with those sores…”

She nodded, looking past him, silently acquiescent though her heart pounded mockingly against her ribs. Only when the silence had grown enough to become awkward did she drag her reluctant gaze back to him and found his eyes already there waiting for hers, resting on her face, studying it. But to what purpose? She had no idea what he might be thinking; his eyes were like darkened windows, giving her back her own reflection.

Then, as he had once before, he took off his hat and reached out to place it on her head. She reared back reflexively and put up her hands to intercept it, but he was too quick for her and pulled it away before she could. He made a clicking noise with his tongue-a scolding noise-and his eyebrows tilted into a frown, those fierce upward slashes like a raven’s wings.

“You’re gonna burn,” he said flatly. “You need a hat.”

“So do you!”

He shook his head; his features seemed carved of stone. But for once, for one moment, she thought she saw- could it possibly have been?-hurt in his eyes. “I told you-I don’t burn. You do.” He reached toward her again, and this time she didn’t try to stop him.

Stop him? She had all she could do just to stand erect and still. The simple vital functions of her body suddenly seemed like complex tasks, requiring all her concentration to perform. Breathe…relax…don’t blink, don’t tremble…oh, please don’t sweat…breathe… And all the while her heart was pounding thump-thump-thump, rocking her with the force of its concussions, like an overzealous drummer.

She was horrified to hear herself whimper; she absolutely could not hold it back. Closing her eyes, she felt his body heat, more intense even than the Arizona sun, the momentary coolness of his sweat on her brow, then the perceptible shadow of the hat’s brim across her eyelids.

Bracing herself, she opened them again and saw that he wasn’t there any longer, that he’d already turned from her and lifted himself without apparent effort into the saddle. He was reaching down, waiting to give her a hand up, and his face-his eyes-wore no expression at all. She felt unbelievably foolish. Childish and weak.

She lifted and resettled the hat to suit her, then placed her foot in the stirrup he’d vacated for her and her hand in his. A moment later, safely up on Cochise Red’s back and inordinately pleased at having accomplished that with a modicum of grace, because she felt a need to redeem herself for her momentary loss of poise, she said lightly, flippantly, “So what if I do burn? What’s it to you?”

She felt his body jerk with that sardonic little grunt that wasn’t quite laughter. “It’s in my best interests to keep you in undamaged condition.”

Cochise Red danced sideways, impatient to be off, and Lauren had to grab for the back of the saddle. “Oh, right- I’m so valuable to you.”

Instead of answering, Bronco clucked softly and signaled the stallion with barely perceptible movements of his hands and body, and they moved off at a brisk walk, heading upstream.

Lauren drew in and then exhaled a slow and careful breath. Desperate for a distraction, she fixed her gaze on the canyon wall, watched the ever-changing pattern of layered rock and scrubby vegetation flow unevenly past as she said in a faintly ridiculing tone, “Might I ask where we’re going?” When he didn’t reply, she persisted with growing acidity, “Is it too much to ask, to be told where you’re taking me now?” His silence drew her unwilling gaze like a magnet. She stared at the back of his neck, furious with the failure of her will and wishing devoutly that her eyes had the ability to shoot forth fire. “I mean, it looks to me like your-what do you call them? Sons of Liberty?-are pretty much his-to-ry.”

She was sorry the moment she said the words, hearing that smug and vindictive voice coming from her own mouth. Justified or not-and the man had kidnapped her-she felt small and ashamed. As