The statement was delivered in a ?at monotone that both frustrated and angered Win. He’d ridden away to protect her, yet he was beginning to suspect he’d done the opposite.
“Are you going to forefoot him?” Cait asked, the anger replaced by bland curiosity.
Win eyed the spirited stallion, gauging how dif?cult it would be to lasso the animal’s two front legs. If he did, he’d have to take Deil down and tie his hind foot up as well. “Probably,” he ?nally replied. “If he’s as tough as you say, I’ll have to bust him, too. I’ll need your help if I do that.”
“Pa tried to do it himself.”
Win scowled. “That’s a good way to get hurt.”
“Or killed,” Cait murmured and turned toward the barn. “Let’s get started,” she said over her shoulder.
Puzzled by her words, Win retrieved his lariat from the barn, while Cait brought another out from the tack room.
She’d donned gloves and was checking the rope with the assurance of someone who’d done it numerous times.
Win had never known a woman bronc buster other than Cait. They’d both been taught by their fathers, with some of their training overlapping while Win and his father visited the Brices. Cait had forefooted her ?rst mustang when she was thirteen years old. Win had been in the corral with her, ready to help if the horse needed to be taken down. He’d been impressed by her skill, but instead of praising her, he’d teased her.
“I’ll rope him,” Win said, unlooping his reata.
Cait stopped by the corral, her gaze never leaving the stallion. Her breath rasped in and out with rapid puffs.
“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned by her pallor.
“Fine.”
Although she sounded anything but ?ne, Win mentally shrugged and opened the post corral’s gate to slip inside. He latched the gate behind him when it was obvious she wasn’t going to follow. Instead, she climbed onto the corral’s top rail and sat there, her loop in hand and ready.
Deil pawed the ground, his hooves tossing dirt behind him. His nostrils ?ared widely and he snorted. Not once did the stallion take his eyes off Win, which sent a shiver of unease down the buster’s spine as he continued to hold the horse’s gaze. To look away would give Deil the victory, and Win had yet to be defeated by a wild horse. He increased the rope’s loop as he began to twirl it over his head.
Most horses ?ed when they saw the rope, and in a round enclosure, it was fairly easy to forefoot a running mustang. However, rather than ?ee, Deil reared up on his powerful hind legs, forcing Win to retreat, away from the ?ailing hooves.
“Look out,” Cait shouted, an oddly frantic note in her voice.
Win didn’t dare spare her a glance as Deil came down onto all fours, and instead of distancing himself from the man as most wild animals would do, the stallion charged. Instinctively, Win hit the ground and rolled toward the rail fence. Deil’s left hoof grazed Win’s forearm a moment before he cleared the pen and he gasped at the unexpected pain, sucking in a lungful of dirt and dust. Wracked by a coughing ?t, Win curled up on the ground, cradling his injured arm against his belly.
Cait stumbled to her knees beside him and rested her hand on his shoulder. “Are you hurt?”
The coughing eased and Win spat out gritty sand. He nodded with a jerky motion, still rattled by the close call. “Just bruised.”
He began to push himself to a sitting position, and Cait helped him with a steady pressure on his back.
“You’re bleeding,” Cait suddenly said. “Let me take a look.”
Win glanced down at his throbbing arm and blinked at the red stain across his sleeve. “It’s nothing.”
Cait glared at him. Knowing he wouldn’t win this argument, he carefully held out his arm and was relieved to ?nd it didn’t feel broken. He’d earned enough broken bones through the years to know what it felt like. “I’ve been cut worse shaving.”
Cait rolled her eyes at the phrase they’d both heard for years. “You, Pa, and Uncle Adam-one of you could be dying, and it’d be, ‘I’ve been cut worse shaving.’ ”
Win grinned. “You’re one to talk. You said it yourself one time.”
“My one and only time.” Cait unbuttoned Win’s cuff and rolled up the bloody sleeve. Her ?ngertips brushed his skin, leaving pockets of warmth, and she leaned so close that her ?owery soap scent rose above the sour scent of sweat and fear. “When Pa told me I’d never have to shave, I cried.”
Win remembered the scene vividly. “You cried more over that than your broken collarbone.”
Cait huffed a soft laugh. “I don’t think Pa knew what to do with me.”
“Good thing I was around.”
Cait lifted her head and her eyes were almost warm. “I guess it was.” Her attention returned to his injury and her tone turned businesslike. “Let’s go to the porch and I’ll clean this up and bandage it for you.”
Although Win ?gured a tied bandanna around the wound would suf?ce, he didn’t argue. He didn’t want to disturb the fragile harmony between them.
Leaning on her more than necessary, Win relished the feel of her arm around his waist and her unique scent that reminded him of a ?eld of wild?owers. He’d doubted he’d ever touch her again, even in friendship, after her chilly reception last evening. Exaggerating the seriousness of a minor wound was a small sin to have her so close.
She settled him on the rickety rocker on the porch and he wished he dared pull her onto his lap. As children they argued over who would get the rocker. Sometimes they decided by playing a marble game where they would take turns trying to hit each other’s marble with their own. The ?rst to miss lost. But more often than not, they ended up scrunching together on the chair.
“Do you still have your topaz cat’seye?” Win asked curiously.
Cait paused before entering the cabin and studied him blankly, then comprehension ?lled her face. She dug into her pocket, drew her ?st out, and opened her hand. In the center of her palm lay a golden brown marble. She shrugged and shoved it back into her pocket. “It got to be habit carrying it around.”
Amazed that she still had it, much less kept it with her all the time, Win realized maybe
“Do you still have yours?” she asked, still standing in the doorway and gazing at him intently.
For a moment, Win would’ve traded everything to have his lucky marble in his pocket, but he’d lost it long ago. “No.”
Disappointment ?ickered across her face, but all she said was “Oh.” Then she went into the cabin without another glance.
Chapter Three
ONCE INSIDE THE cabin, Cait leaned against the door and forced herself to breathe deeply. Between Win’s close encounter with Deil and the unearthing of longago feelings, she felt shaky and uncertain. Her heart gradually slowed its rapid gallop.
Memories she shared with Win unsettled her, and they jumbled with images of Deil trampling her father. She recalled with horrifying clarity the moment she believed Win would be struck down in the same manner as her father. Terror and helplessness slashed through her, leaving her weak and nauseous. If Deil had killed Win, too…
In two long strides, she crossed the room and seized the cool metal ri?e in her trembling hands. Damn her father’s last words-a man’s life was worth far more than a broken promise.
She jerked open the cabin door and stormed out. Win glanced up from the rocking chair, his injured arm resting in his lap. “Cait?”
She ignored him, intent on her mission. Reaching the corral that held Deil, she lifted the ri?e stock to her shoulder and sighted down the barrel at the center of the stallion’s forehead.
“What the hell are you doing?” Win demanded.
