The Horseman

wasn’t educated. The only thing he knew was horses and horse breeding.

He couldn’t imagine walking up to Katelyn Green and asking her opinion on which stud should service the thoroughbred mare that was coming in heat.

The same mare the wild stallion had wanted last night when Katelyn Green had been out wandering in the dark in her slippers and housecoat, her hair down and unbound and billowing around her in the wind and snow. He wanted to know what she’d been doing. And why, when she was infirm, was she up, limping in obvious pain?

He had little doubt her parents had no compassion to spare. Cal Willman’s hard countenance and heartless manner told Dillon all he needed to know. He’d met a hundred rich men just like him over the years, and they were all the same. Every last one of them. Ruthless and cruel, men who cared only about themselves.

As for the wife, she was as harsh as a Montana blizzard. It was clear in the way she ignored her own daughter.

Dillon wished he knew what had happened. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for Katelyn. He didn’t seem able to stop wondering about her. Maybe he’d round up enough courage to ask one of the hands what had happened to return her childless and wounded to her parent’s home and what would become of her next.

Not that he had a chance, but he was a man. He noticed a pretty, available woman. He was lonelier than he wanted to admit. He’d been wanting to get married for a long time, but he’d never been able to talk to a lady, much less court her.

That proved a terrible problem. He had a house he didn’t live in. A bed he didn’t sleep in. A life he didn’t live because he had no one to share it. He would give anything for a kind, gentle wife to call his own.

He would give his soul and more to marry a woman like Katelyn Green.

But even if she was recovered from her loss, she’d hardly glanced at him. He’d lay down good money that she didn’t know his name. And if she did, what could come of it? He would be gone in a few weeks, when his work here was done.

The new stallion-a pale comparison to the magnificent black stallion-was progressing fine. And the problem mares were responding to him. They’d come around soon. His work here would be done and he would leave, as he always did, with a pocket full of cash, heading in the direction of the next ranch in need of him.

He didn’t like the notion of leaving at month’s end. Not that he was fond of the place. The truth was, he couldn’t stand Cal Willman or his wife. What he would miss, even more than the horses here, was the pretty blond woman who made him very aware of being all man.

Was it his imagination, or did he hear something?

A female’s voice lilted on the wind as sweet as a song. “That’s it, don’t be afraid. Come closer. I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

That had to be Katelyn. Who else could it be? Not Effie, the cook-the tone and cadence were too soft for her. Not Mrs. Willman, who talked with enough venom to poison a rattler. Not the housemaids, for both were Chinese and spoke very little English.

“That’s right. See? You’re perfectly safe.”

Katelyn had to be just beyond that rise. Ten yards away. He jerked the horse to a stop and ignored the gelding’s protest. Normally he was steady with his horse, trustworthy and calm, but the thought of seeing Katelyn Green was enough to make him break out in a cold sweat.

She was here alone. What should he do? He could keep on riding and wave at her as he went by. Or he could stop and talk with her. Hmm, that could work. But what would he say? The thought made his throat close shut. His tongue had become paralyzed and wouldn’t work. Dang his shyness.

He could picture the impending disaster. He’d ride on up to her, stop his horse, brace his fist on the saddle the way he’d seen other men do to look tough, and stutter and stammer like a fool.

Wouldn’t that impress her?

A rugged man like him shouldn’t be shy. He ought to be bold. Be brave. He should talk to her the way he talked to anyone.

He was tough. He’d faced down killer stallions and an attacking cougar. He’d been kicked, bit, stepped on, bucked off, crushed against fences and thrown to the ground more times than there were numbers to count with. He was one of the best at what he did.

A pretty, delicate little woman shouldn’t terrify him.

You can do it, Hennessey. Just ride on up to her and smile. Then say howdy.

The wind seemed colder as he pressed the gelding into a fast walk. The ground was too uncertain and the snow too deep for anything faster, but if he could, he’d gallop full tilt past the beautiful woman and never think of her again.

She came into view as he rode over the rise. He eased the gelding to a halt at the crest, gazing down the gently sloping field of white to the slim woman wearing a dark blue cloak, buttoned tight from ankle to throat. A small feed pail dangled from her left hand.

What a sight. Joy filled him. Snow dappled her like a Christmas angel, clinging to the woolen cap and the rippling sheen of golden hair flowing down her back. White flakes hugged the delicate line of her shoulders and the rise of her breasts. Snow clung to the curve of her waist and hips and caked the long hem of her cloak, a womanly shape of grace and loveliness that made his chest tight. Awe swept over him, sweet as a morning breeze.

Just then came the slightest movement in a grove of trees tucked into the lee of the slope. A predator? God knows cougars didn’t like to hunt in the snow. Dillon had spied cat tracks a half mile to the north. They preferred their warm dens on days like this, but that didn’t mean, if a lone cat was hungry enough, he wouldn’t go in search of a meal.

And that meal wouldn’t be Katelyn. She was all alone out here, unprotected. With that pail on her arm, she was probably putting out feed for the birds and unaware of the danger stalking her.

Fierce protectiveness surged through him, spilling hot in his blood. Careful not to make a sound, he eased the Winchester from its holster and covered the cocking action with his free hand to hide the chink of metal. A cat would hear it and bolt, and that was unacceptable. There was a threat to Katelyn Green and, damn it, Dillon Hennessey would stop it.

He held the rifle steady, aiming just at the edge of the trees, anticipating that first glimpse of a shadow. He hugged the trigger, ready and alert, as the shadow nosed toward Katelyn.

It wasn’t the fast strike of a cougar. Dillon took a breath, waiting, as Katelyn’s melodic voice lifted up to him on the wind.

“That’s it. See? No one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe. Come closer. That’s right.”

Sweet as a hymn. She could coax the wildness out of a cougar, he figured, with a voice like that. It wasn’t just the voice-it was her, the goodness in her, the heart of her. He could see it as plain as the woman and she waited while the first doe broke from her cover and eased forward to eat the grain Katelyn had spread on the ground. Grain, not birdseed.

Dillon couldn’t believe it. The wild deer came right up to her. Two smaller animals joined her-yearling fawns, he figured, judging by their size and markings. Young, not fully grown. They, too, scented the air, considered Katelyn standing as still as a statue and bent their dainty heads.

Shrouded in snow, like poetry and fairy tale, the woman watched the delicate creatures eat. The wind gusted, ruffling Katelyn’s long gold locks against her back, caressing the curled ends like a lover’s fingers.

What would it be like to touch her hair? Dillon lowered the rifle, thunderstruck by the notion. He imagined lowering his fingertips to that lustrous fall of gold, and he knew she would feel as soft and fine as silk, the fancy kind in the stores only the rich could buy. She would be like that, and satin everywhere…

Whoa, now, that was not a respectful thought. He took a deep breath, banishing further inclinations from his mind. He was a man and he couldn’t help desiring her, but that didn’t mean he ought to give those thoughts free rein. He had no right to look upon her like that. She was not his wife.

She never would be.

No, she’d find herself courted by one of the rich dandies in town. The kind with an enormous house on Elm Street, the finest lane with the fanciest homes. The sort of man who sat inside all day, didn’t wear Levi’s and smell of horses and leather. The sort that sipped brandy after dinner in the parlor.

Not the kind of man who drank a pint of ale in the bunkhouse.

It saddened him. If he had a dream, then it would be Katelyn Green.