come back later and take care of him properly.”
“When? In twelve hours? Like hell you will,
“Fine. I understand.” Her eyes dropped, and she took Black Beauty's bridle in her hands and prepared to walk away.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, dammit! Yes!” She turned back to shout at him, and there was an odd light in his eyes. He nodded and walked back toward his own horse, the reins looped easily over one of the hitching posts outside. “By the way, where will you all be working today?”
“I don't know.” He strode past her. “Find us.”
“How?”
“Just gallop the hell all over the ranch. You'll love it.” He grinned sarcastically at her as he got back on his horse and rode off, and Samantha wished for only a moment that she were a man. At that precise moment she would have loved to hit him, but he was already gone.
As it turned out, it took her two hours to find them. Two hours of riding through brush, of following a few familiar trails and getting lost on others. At one point she almost wondered if Tate hadn't purposely chosen some activity that would keep them out in the more remote areas so she wouldn't find them. But at last she did. And despite the chill December air, she was warm in the bright winter sunshine after riding everywhere she could think of looking for them. She had found two other small work groups, and one larger one, but of Tate's there had been no sign.
“Have a nice ride?” He looked at her with amusement as she stopped and Navajo pawed the ground.
“Charming, thank you.” But there was a feeling of victory nonetheless to have found them at all, and she watched the emerald eyes glinting in the sun. And then, without saying anything further, she wheeled her horse and joined the men, dismounting a few moments later to help carry a newborn calf in a sling made of a blanket. The mother had died only hours before, and the calf looked as if she might not make it either. One of the men hoisted the small, scarcely breathing animal in front of his saddle and rode steadily toward the livestock barn, where he would bring her to another cow in the hopes of giving her a foster mother. It was only half an hour later when Sam spotted the next one on her own, this one even smaller than the first, and the mother had obviously been gone for several more hours. This time with no assistance she fashioned the sling on her own, hoisted the calf onto her saddle with the help of a young ranch hand who was far too intrigued by Samantha to be of much use with the calf. Then, without waiting for instructions, she began to canter at a steady pace after the other ranch hand, toward the main barn.
“Can you manage it on your own?” She looked up, startled, to see Tate Jordan riding along smoothly beside her, his sleek black and white pinto making an interesting pair with her brown and white Appaloosa.
“Yeah, I think I can manage.” And then with a look of concern at the animal in front of her saddle, “Do you think this one will live?”
“I doubt it.” He spoke matter-of-factly as he watched her. “But it's always worth a try.” She nodded in answer and rode harder, and this time he veered away and turned back. A few minutes later she was at the main barn, and the orphaned calf was taken into expert hands that worked on him for over an hour, but the little calf didn't live. As she walked back to Navajo waiting patiently outside the livestock buildings, she felt tears sting her eyes, and then as she swung her leg over the saddle she suddenly felt anger. Anger that they hadn't been able to save him, that the poor little beast hadn't survived. And she knew there were others like him out there, whose mothers had, for one reason or another, died as they delivered in the cold flight. The men always had an eye out for livestock in trouble on the hills, but it was inevitable that there were some who escaped their notice and died on the hills every year. It was common for those who delivered in winter. The others had come to accept it, but Samantha had not. Somehow the orphaned calves seemed almost symbolic of the children she could not bear, and now she rode back out to the others with a vengeance and a determination that the next one she brought back would live.
She brought in three more that afternoon, riding hell for leather as she had that morning on Black Beauty, the calves wrapped in the blankets, the men watching her with combined intrigue and awe. She was a strange and beautiful young woman, bent low over her horse's neck, riding as no woman had on the Lord Ranch before, not even Caroline Lord. The extraordinary thing was that as they watched her fly across the hills, Navajo moving like a brown streak until they saw him no more, they knew just how good Samantha was. She was a horsewoman like few others, and as they rode back to the barn that night the men joked with her as they hadn't before.
“Do you always ride like that?” It was Tate Jordan again, his dark hair ruffled beneath the big black Stetson, his eyes bright, his beard beginning to cast a shadow across his face by the end of the day. There was a kind of rugged masculinity about him that had always made women pause when they saw him, as though for just a moment they couldn't catch their breath. But Samantha did not suffer from that affliction. There was something about the self- assured way he moved that annoyed her. He was a man who was sure of his world and his job, his men and his horses, and probably his women as well. For a moment she didn't answer his question, and then she nodded with a vague smile.
“For a good cause.”
“And this morning?” Why did he want to push her? She wondered. Why did he care?
“That was a good cause too.”
“Was it?” The green eyes pursued her as they rode home after the long day.
But this time Samantha faced him frankly, her blue eyes locking into his green. “Yes, it was. It made me feel alive again, Mr. Jordan. It made me feel free. I haven't felt like that in a long time.” He nodded slowly and said nothing. She wasn't sure if he understood, or if he even cared, but with a last look at her he moved on.
7
“Aren't you going to ride Black Beauty this morning?”
For a moment she almost snapped at him as she swung a leg over Navajo and settled herself in the saddle, and then for no particular reason, she grinned at him. “No, I thought I'd give him a rest, Mr. Jordan. How about you?”
“I don't ride Thoroughbreds, Miss Taylor.” The green eyes laughed at her as his lively pinto danced.
“Maybe you should.” But he said nothing and rode off to lead his men into a distant part of the ranch. Their group was larger than usual, and today Bill King and Caroline were riding with them too. But Samantha scarcely saw them. She was too busy doing the job she had been assigned to do, and by now she knew that the men were beginning to accept her. They hadn't planned to, they hadn't really wanted to. But she had worked so hard and ridden so well, and hung in for such endless hours, and worked so diligently to save the orphaned calves, that suddenly this morning it was “Heyyyyyo! Over here… Sam!… Hey, Sam, dammit… right now!” No more Miss Taylor, not a single ma'am. She totally lost track of time and everything except her work and her surroundings, and it wasn't until dinner that night that she stopped to talk to Caroline again.
“You know, Sam, you're a marvel.” She poured a second cup of coffee for Samantha and sat back in the comfortable kitchen chair. “You could be in New York, sitting behind a desk, creating exotic commercials, and living in an apartment that's the envy of everyone you know, and instead you're out here, chasing cows, carrying sick calves, knee deep in manure, mending fences with my men, taking orders from men who have a fifth-grade education, getting up before dawn, and riding all day long. You know, there aren't many people who would understand that.” Not to mention the fact that she had once been the wife of one of the most desirable young men on TV, Caroline thought. “What do you think about what you're doing?” Caroline's blue eyes danced at her and Samantha smiled.
“I think I'm doing the first sensible thing I've done in a very long time, and I love it. Besides”-she grinned
