Loose Id, LLC
www.loose-id.com

Copyright ©2011

First published in 2011

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgement

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Loose Id Titles by Beth D. Carter

Beth D. Carter

* * * *

Warning

This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither Loose Id LLC nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Loose Id LLC

PO Box 425960

San Francisco CA 94142-5960

www.loose-id.com

Acknowledgement

No writer is an island. Thanks to Corey LaBranche, Treva Harte, Rory Olsen, and Damon.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter One

Heather sat at attention in the bleacher section, leaning forward slightly, watching the rodeo in the small arena below with fascination. Local cowboys had gathered at Hart Ranch to put on the exhibition. They were mostly practicing, but it gave everyone from other ranches a chance to meet up and have a summer party.

She had come to Louisiana with her parents to visit her grandfather, her father's father, since they had never met before. And so far, ranch life seemed as romantic as she imagined it would be. Heather had a whole satchelful of romance books featuring the Old West, dangerous cowboys, and gunslingers with hearts of gold.

"This is fun, huh, Heather?” her mother said from beside her.

"Yep.” She didn't even take her eyes away from the competition as she answered.

"I can't wait to try the beef that's been roasting over the spit,” her mother continued. “Your grandfather marinated it in Jack Daniels and peppercorns. Imagine!"

Heather made a face. Her father, uncle, and grandfather were busy grilling steaks and hamburgers for the afternoon picnic. In fact the only drawback to ranch life, she discovered, was that meat was a staple at mealtimes. She abhorred the fact that breakfast always, always, consisted of eggs and bacon. She hated meat. She planned on becoming vegetarian as soon as she returned to Los Angeles.

Luckily her mother didn't continue her musings on the food, so Heather returned her focus to the events. When the last cowboy got bucked off his horse, she stood up quickly before hurrying down the bleacher steps. She wanted to see the animals up close. But as she skipped down the metal steps, her elbow hit a broom. She turned to say sorry to the person it belonged to, when her foot slipped off the step, and her ankle twisted.

Pain shot through her like a white-hot iron, radiating up her leg and into her brain. She felt herself falling, but couldn't really do much except put her hands out to try to brace her fall. The hard ground jolted her, making her teeth rattle in her head, as the world slowly came back into focus.

Heather had landed on her hands and knees. Fortunately she had been toward the bottom of the steps, because she realized how close she came to breaking her neck. She heard her mother call her name, felt pain lancing up her leg, and struggled to hold back the tears stinging her eyes.

"You need my crutches?"

Heather looked up, and up, past a cast-wrapped leg, over a large silver belt buckle, and into the darkest eyes she had ever seen. The rest of the face wasn't bad as well, and Heather felt her heart flip-flop. High cheekbones, tanned face, handsome beyond belief. He gazed down at her with an eyebrow raised, standing next to another cowboy who moved to help her up.

"Heather, are you okay?” her mother asked anxiously.

She stood there for a moment, still staring at the cowboy who made her heart pound, rubbing her palms together to brush the dirt off. The cowboy smiled at her, which made her brain kick in. She blinked and looked down at her foot that she held up off the ground.

"Yeah,” she said, clearing her throat. “Just my ankle. I twisted it."

"Can you walk?” the cowboy's friend asked her. He let go of her arm gradually, afraid she'd keel over without his support.

She put her foot down, but as soon as the ankle flexed, pain exploded, causing her to gasp and blink back tears.

"No,” she mumbled.

"Where are you staying?” the cowboy asked.

"Main house,” Heather's mother answered him. “Lincoln Hart is my father-in-law."

"Well then we'll help you back to the house,” the cowboy told her. “I know the perfect remedy for that ankle."

Heather wasn't really aware of anything except the broken-legged cowboy next to her. His friend swung her up in his arms, and they all walked up the path that wound to her grandfather's house. Heather was aware of commentary between the two cowboys and her mother, but she didn't participate. She was too busy trying to steal glances at the man who limped beside them on his crutches, trying to figure out why he made her extremely aware of his presence.

What drew her gaze? Why did her heart beat so fiercely? Why him, when she had been around a hundred other cowboys in the past few days?

When they reached the house, her mother let the men in, and they brought her to sit at the kitchen table.

"You have apple cider vinegar, a brown paper bag, a large bowl, and some scissors?"

While her mom went to gather the supplies, broken-legged cowboy eased himself down in a chair across from her and brought her twisted ankle to rest on his cast. Her mother was back in moments, placing all the requested ingredients on the table.

"I'm Tristan,” he said by way of introduction. “Tristan Rogers. This is Duke."

Duke held up a hand in greeting and began to cut the brown bag into strips.

"I'm Janet Hart, and this is my daughter, Heather."

"Hello, Heather,” Tristan said.

Heather glanced up at him, feeling heat race over her cheekbones. “Hello."

"What we're going to do,” Duke broke in, “is soak these bag strips in the vinegar and then wrap your ankle like a cast."

"You're more than welcome to use my crutches.” Tristan teased her.

"And what is this going to do?” Janet asked.

"I guarantee that not only will there not be swelling, but Heather'll be able to walk tomorrow,” Tristan replied.

"Really? How interesting,” Janet said with enthusiasm as she watched the two cowboys prepare their homemade remedy.

Tristan took Heather's ankle, carefully flexing it. She hissed at the pain, and he flashed her an apologetic look. Keeping her foot flexed, he started wrapping it in the vinegar-soaked bandages.

"This is going to smell, I know.” It felt like he spoke only to her. Everyone else faded away. “But it'll get better as it dries."

Heather sniffed a little and nodded. She watched him, keeping her gaze trained on him and not caring about the bandage he was applying. She almost wished he would keep wrapping it forever, because tingles were dancing up her leg, and they weren't from the throbbing and bruised joint.

"Do you work on Hart Ranch?” she asked.

"A bit. My uncle is the foreman. I went to work a rodeo a few weeks ago and broke my leg fighting bulls. Bull mashed me up against the bucking chutes. Leg had no place to go. Seventeen places.” He shook his head. “I don't recommend it."

He smiled at her, white teeth flashing in his tanned face. She smiled back, shyly, words temporarily fleeing from her brain. Her mouth went dry.

"You work in the rodeo?” her mother asked, unknowingly saving Heather from her inability to talk properly.

"Not really,” Tristan replied, flashing his charming smile. “A couple of times I've worked as the rodeo clown on some events in Texas. I save the riders who fall off the bull."

"So you save them, but who saves you?” Heather asked.

He looked at her, his smile fading just a bit. “Nobody saves me except my partner. I didn't have one that night. I was working by myself, which seemed like an okay thing to do at the time."

He sat back and showed off Heather's newly wrapped, vinegar-cast-encased foot. Her toes were peeking out, and the paper came up to midshin.

"Do you have an ACE bandage?” Tristan asked her mother.

Janet stood. “I'm sure we do. Let me run upstairs to look for one."

She left the kitchen, and Heather was overjoyed at the prospect of almost being alone with Tristan. He caught her gaze, held it, and a wealth of something flashed between them. Heather realized she didn't know what that exact something was, but her body reacted to it anyway. She was acutely aware of the place where his hands rested against her skin.

Duke cleared his throat and nudged Tristan. “Dude,” he said.

Tristan flashed him an irritated look before glancing back at Heather. “So, Lincoln Hart is your grandfather."

"Yes."

"You live in Louisiana?"

"No, Los Angeles. We go back there in three days."

Janet came down with the wrap and handed it to Tristan, who expertly covered the cast.

"How did you learn this?” Janet asked.

Tristan shrugged. “My dad did it to me when I broke my ankle in high school. Tore it up good, and it swelled up. Docs couldn't get it to go down enough to cast it. Dad could. It's an old racehorse remedy."

Duke stood up, signaling their work was done. He held out Tristan's crutches. Janet was oblivious as she gushed her thanks at their help.

Heather just sat there watching as Tristan grabbed his crutches and stood. “Just stay off the leg,” he told her.

"Will you stop by tomorrow?” she asked, desperate to find some reason to make him linger.

He nodded, smiled, and was gone.

Heather half heard her mother escorting them out the door. She was too much in a state of shock to do much else. Not about her ankle; that particular pain had gone by the wayside a while back, but because she realized, on some teenage level, that she had met a man who could change her life.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Two

Twenty years later...

Heather pulled her barely functioning Kia Sportage in front of the grand main house of Hart Ranch. The car gave a little stutter and then died as she clicked off the ignition.

She took her time looking at the house through her windshield. It hadn't changed all that much since her last visit, but she could see the small cracks of time in the stately two-story house. The front porch railing wasn't quite as white, and weeds climbed up the sides of the brick structure like little snakes. Not much work would be needed to restore the house to its former glory, but right now it held the air of something neglected.

She reached for a cigarette and lit one, taking a deep drag before exiting the car and smoothing down her supershort skirt. The pastures behind the house had changed some as well. They were still lush and green, the mountains swelling in the background like majestic domes, but outbuildings now littered the landscape. Three trailers sat east of the house next to a pond that hadn't been there before. One structure caught her attention, so she took off walking, circumventing the house to a rock path that wound down the hill. She knew cowboys were watching her, workers who paused for a moment to make sure they were really seeing a tall, leggy, sun-streaked blonde walking in their midst. But her mind had already focused on the arena and the memories it evoked.

Inside, the air lay perfectly still, quiet, vastly different from the last time she had visited it as a fifteen-year-old girl. The bleachers were now pushed all the way against the wall, collapsed until the next use. The dirt had been cleared away to show the concrete foundation. An air of desolation and abandonment hung heavy in the darkened building.

"Smoking's bad for you,” came a deep, rumbling voice behind her.

Heather didn't jump, though she did take a moment to close her eyes as his voice washed over her. She knew, somehow, that they would meet here again. Call it fate, destiny, invoke whatever deity happened to be listening. She had felt his presence the moment he had moved into the open doorway, and her battered heart jumped with excitement.

"So's fighting bulls, I hear,” she answered without turning around, taking another drag on her cigarette.

He remained quiet, and tension grew so thick between them she half fancied she could cut it with a knife.

"There's no smoking in the barns,” he finally said, the words hard and forceful. “Fire and hay don't mix, so make sure you bank that thing good."

And then he was gone. Heather turned around and watched him walk away. She ogled his rear, the way his jeans caressed his ass and molded to the hard sinew in his legs. Men were one species she did know, and she recognized a fine cut when she saw it. Those muscles had been made by hard work.

Twenty years ago he had been a promising young man. She closed her eyes for a moment and the Tristan Rogers of then came easily to mind. Dark hair, a face smooth and unlined, the wicked wonderment of a hell-raiser shining from his eyes.

Heather took a deep breath and then opened her eyes. He had gone, vanished in the workings of a ranch. She raised a foot and smashed out the lit end of her cigarette on the sole and then pocketed the butt. She made sure to stomp on the ash that had fallen before leaving the deserted arena behind to make her way back up to the house.

She had known he would be here. When her grandfather's lawyer had called her, he had told her that Tristan had been the foreman for the past ten years, taking over when his uncle had unexpectedly died, along with hers, in a truck accident. He had a love for the land and knew every facet of Hart Ranch. Though the lawyer didn't say it out loud, it was clear by the tone in his voice that her grandfather respected Tristan in a way that he never respected her father.

Over the years he had entered her mind, lingering in the background as she had grown into womanhood. He had been a fantasy, albeit a safe one, with the whole romantic cowboy persona like in the movies. But she had learned the hard way that fantasies lie.

She walked back the way she came, this time going directly to the entrance that opened to the kitchen, and went in without knocking. Not much had changed here either. Same oak table that sat eight, same linoleum floor, more brown than tan, with faded areas from years of feet walking on it. The inside had the same neglected air as the outside.

In fact, the only things that looked new and updated were the appliances. Heather opened the refrigerator, shocked to see the thing packed with all types of food, from lunchmeats to a whole ham. Potato salad, macaroni salad, regular salad, fruit salad, not to mention trays of cut vegetables and hunks of cheese. Pies lined one shelf, covered with plastic wrap and stacked neatly one on top of the other. Pitchers of beverages, sodas and several types of beers. Heather was afraid to look in the freezer. She grabbed a beer and shut the door, twisting off the lid and tossing it on the counter. She wandered from the kitchen into the dining room that had long ago been abandoned as a place to eat. The last time she had been here, twenty years ago, they had either eaten in the kitchen or outside on one of the picnic tables. Come to think of it, they were gone too, she mused as she wandered on through the house. The den had a desk overrun with papers. The study still had floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with books. She walked in and found the book she had been reading the last time she had been here, The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. Of course, that was before a certain dark-haired cowboy stole into all her spare reading time.

A creak sounded overhead. Heather sat the still-full bottle of beer on a shelf before abandoning the library. She headed up the stairs and saw a black woman coming out of the bedroom at the end of the hall. The woman paused, eyebrows raised, as she caught sight of Heather.

"May I help you?” she asked politely.

"I'm Heather Hart."

Recognition lit her soft ebony eyes, and she smiled. “You grandfather is in here.” She gestured to the door she just closed. “He's been waiting for you."

"You've been taking care of him?"

The woman nodded. “Him and the boys for the past fifteen years. My name's Mabel."

Heather held out her hand. “Good to meet you."

Mabel smiled and shook Heather's outstretched hand. “You got his eyes, the Hart eyes as I call it. Not quite brown, not quite green. Your Uncle Avery had ‘em too."

"I only met Avery once."

"Yeah, it broke your grandfather's heart when he died.” Mabel shook her head against the sad memories. “Avery was a fine man."

"So I heard."

"He'll be happy to see you. He's having a good day today."

Mabel smiled and then headed down the hallway, leaving Heather alone in front of the door. She took a moment to recall her grandfather, remembering a robust man with a head full of white hair and a moustache to match. She had been slightly intimidated by him at age fifteen, as she had been by the tension between him and her father. Now she entered his bedroom as an adult with twenty hard years under her belt.

"'Bout time you got in here.” Her grandfather greeted her on a wheeze.

Heather blinked at the frail-looking man lying in the middle of the hospital bed. Gone were the hair and the moustache. In fact, hair barely remained on his head in a bad comb-over. The once stout and sturdy man had been replaced by a body bordering on emaciation. Monitors and machines crowded around his bed like small statues paying homage, each one playing its part in keeping a dying man alive as long as possible.

She shifted her balance on her feet, ready to bolt, not sure if she felt up to talking with the living dead. Because that's all her grandfather was now, a skeleton talking.

"Gonna stand there all day, or you gonna come over and sit with me?"

"I don't know if I want to,” she answered truthfully.

A frightful chuckling sound came from between his lips. Heather moved closer. “At least you're honest,” he said. “More than your father ever was."

A padded chair sat next to the bed. Heather sat gingerly, poised on the edge of it. She looked all around the room, everywhere, except directly at him. She wrinkled her nose. The room smelled of lavender hiding the stench of decay.

"Do you know why I asked for you to come back here?” he asked with a wheeze, watching her indecision on whether or not she wanted to stay.

"Because you're dying.” She answered him blandly, finally committing to the conversation.

"A lifetime of smoking is gonna kill me at eighty-one.” The announcement was followed by a hail of coughing. His frail body shook through the fit until it passed, leaving him sweaty and pale. Heather took another look around the room, and the lingering taste of nicotine on her tongue suddenly felt disgusting and dirty.

"I'm glad you came. You're the only grandchild I have. The last of the Harts."

The words were whispered. Fatigue laced his voice. They pained Heather to hear.

"Dad's still alive,” she reminded him in a slightly sarcastic tone.

Lincoln Hart waved that reminder away, like he swatted at a pesky fly. “Your father...disgraced me long ago. A wastrel of a man."

Heather's eyebrows rose. With that statement, she heartedly agreed. The summer they had visited the ranch had been the last of her happy memories, the last she had been a carefree, innocent girl. After that, she had lost everything, including her father.

"I'm hoping you're not a wastrel of a granddaughter."

The statement brought her out of her reverie. “Thanks, old man. Is this why I'm here, for your charming personality?"

Lincoln Hart cackled, or tried to. It came out sounding like nails on a chalkboard. “My great-grandfather built this ranch bare-knuckle. This is Hart land."

"It's just a name,” Heather murmured, eyes narrowing. “Thousands of other people have it as well."

"Is that what you think, girl?” he demanded, though his weak voice sounded pathetic. “A name defines who we are, what our bloodline is. Your father shorted you on pride, and for that I won't ever forgive him."

She wanted to say that made two of them, but this man was nothing more than a familiar stranger, as was this place. She held her tongue and leaned back in her chair, folding her arms.

"So you brought me here to tell me that I may or may not inherit this ranch,” she said instead, “depending on my character. So if not me, then who?"

"You've met Tristan.” It wasn't a question.

"Oh."

"He's become the son your father should have been. I wish he had been mine. Then we wouldn't be here talking."

"Ouch. You definitely don't pull any punches do you, old man?"

"I don't have any time left to pull punches."

Heather sighed and narrowed her eyes. “What do you want from me? I know nothing about running a ranch."

"Learn it."

"It would take a lifetime to learn it."

"So? I doubt you have anywhere you gotta be."

That brought her up short, as if he had slapped her in the face. Truthfully, no, she had nowhere to go and nothing to hold her.

"From the looks of ya,” he continued, “you need some meat on your bones, you need to learn how to dress like a lady, and you need a bath ‘cuz you stink of cigarettes. And I oughta know."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, because Heather wouldn't believe what she heard.

"Listen, old man,” she said as she rose from the chair. She put her hands on her hips. “I don't know who you think you are, but I have no problem driving away and never looking back."

Lincoln Hart's washed-out eyes narrowed on her. Once upon a time they would have frozen a man in his tracks, but all they did now was waver in long-lost intensity.

"You've got a hard look in your eyes,” he finally said, perhaps a bit sadly.

"What do you want, old man? For me to spout some bullshit that life is hard? Of course it is. And the only way to stay alive is through cash. So, if you're done criticizing my wardrobe and hygiene, then I think—"

"You stay for a month, I'll pay you.” He interrupted without a hint of emotion.

Heather cocked her head. “How much?"

"Five hundred."

Heather snorted. “A thousand."

"For one thousand dollars, I expect you to learn five things about this ranch."

"Five things? Like what?"

"I'm not gonna hold your hand, girl. Figure it out. Those are my terms."

Heather thought quickly. She could use the money, and she could use a roof over her head for the next month. Hell, she could use the money selling this place would bring her. How hard would it be to learn five things about a ranch?

"You're on, old man,” she said. “I expect cash."

"Most women do."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Three

Heather decided if this was to be a popularity contest where the cowboys were deciding the winner of the ranch, then she had it won hands down. After moving her suitcase and various boxes into the room that Mabel showed her to, Heather sat down on the feather-tick mattress to plan out her strategy.

It was clear the old man wanted to give her the ranch. While she didn't think he needed to justify his final decision to the workers, she recognized that she didn't have all the facts. Clearly Tristan Rogers was a man to be reckoned with. Twenty years ago he had a forceful presence about him that even a naive girl could recognize, and the years only enhanced that budding promise.

Of course she remembered when her Uncle Avery had died. Her mother had called her up to let her know that Avery, only forty, had broken his neck in an auto accident on the ranch. It had been raining heavily, there had been a mudslide, and the truck had rolled. Tristan's uncle, Simon, had also been in that accident, and when the news had come, he had gone to Hart Ranch to help her grandfather.

He had never left.

But whether Tristan Rogers knew it or not, she wasn't about to let go of her inheritance without a fight.

Heather reached for a cigarette and lit one, taking a deep drag and holding it in her lungs for a moment before releasing it. Thoughts of Tristan made her jumpy, on edge. Over the years he had crept into her mind whenever her mother or father would mention Hart Ranch, or when the vacation album had been out. Of course, once her father had walked out on them, those fond reminiscences had disappeared altogether.

The past can't be undone, and the sins can't be erased.

Heather shook her head and deliberately steered her mind away from that door in her memory. It had been locked years ago for a reason. After another drag on her cigarette, she looked for a place to smash it out, finally opening her half-filled water bottle to throw it in. She swished the water around to make sure the fire was out and then sat the bottle on her nightstand.

A popularity contest would be no problem at all. She had learned years ago that men only thought with their cocks, and she had spent her entire adult life getting what she wanted by using her natural assets. Tristan Rogers didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell.

As efficiently as the ranch ran, Tristan sometimes found himself without pressing matters to attend to, giving him time to think. Unfortunately, today was one of those days.

Currently, he had a certain blonde bombshell on his mind, and damn if it didn't rattle his cage. The promising little girl from the back of his memories had grown up into a sexy, eye-popping woman.

One dressed like a schoolgirl hooker.

Tristan frowned. Something had changed about her, something had hardened her eyes and turned her lips down at the corners. The years hadn't been kind to Heather Hart.

He rubbed a little harder with the leather conditioner, probably more than he needed, on the pommel. He had spent the rest of the afternoon inside cleaning the saddles after seeing her again, needing the monotonous routine to regain control of his thoughts.

Twenty years ago she had been a wide-eyed little pixie who had caught him off guard as a young man. He had deliberately forced himself to not think about her because she had been jailbait. But now she was a woman, and his body had more than jumped to attention when he saw her again in her too-short skirt and too-tight shirt. His dick had just about turned to concrete in his jeans.

Tristan frowned, then reached to adjust himself. Even just thinking about her made him hard. Damn.

He wasn't a stupid man, despite a lack of higher education. Lincoln Hart had hinted he would inherit the ranch, but Tristan knew there was a sentimental streak inside the dying man. Lincoln wanted the land to stay in the Hart family, and so out of the blue the missing granddaughter shows up. Didn't take a genius to figure it out.

Tristan loved Lincoln Hart like a father. He respected the weathered man for all he had accomplished to bring the ranch into the modern age. Lincoln had a head for management that had served the land well, prospering while many surrounding ranches fell prey to various financial hardships. And Tristan knew he could carry the ranch far into the future; Lincoln had taught him well.

Now Tristan stood ready to lose everything due to the sentimental whims of death. He didn't blame Lincoln for wanting the ranch to stay in Hart hands, but Heather didn't seem the type of woman who would or could understand the intricate knowledge of a cattle operation.

Several hands started running to the main arena near the house. Tristan rose from his seat and wiped his hands, re-capping the bottle of leather conditioner. He looked out of the barn and saw the ranch practically deserted. He followed the loud music, which came from the arena, long abandoned since Avery and Simon died.

When he walked inside, he caught a glimpse of Heather Hart and stopped in midstride.

Fuck.

The sun had almost set when Heather left the house to make her way back down to the abandoned arena. She bypassed Mabel, who worked in the kitchen, and headed down the paved driveway. She had changed out of her schoolgirl outfit into Rio shorts and a tank that hugged her curves intimately.

As she walked, she turned heads. She could feel the stares of the ranch hands as each one noticed her. But then again, she had planned it that way and made sure she put an extra wiggle in her ass as she walked. The shorts, worn without panties, accentuated her flat tummy and the diamond ring in her belly button. The tank had a hard time containing her generous breasts. She was sleek, toned, and tanned—a lethal trio for any man.

When she got to her destination, she moved to the center of the arena and propped up her MP3 player, finding the warm-up song she wanted and hitting Play. Heather started her exercise routine, knowing the men watched her. Part one of her mission had begun.

Her music was fast with a hard beat. Her hips swayed, and she made sure to put extra swagger into the aerobics for her audience. The dance steps were simple, repetitive, making it easy to lose herself in the music. For a moment, the audience disappeared, and she felt free.

As each tempo changed to match her workout, Heather immediately matched her dance pattern. She could only imagine what it looked like to the men, a girl humping and grinding the air. Sweat started to run down her temples, cleansing her skin. Maybe even cleansing more if she psychoanalyzed herself.

When the cardio was over, she panted heavily, glad to hear the slower strands of the music that would cool her down. She decided to forgo the abdominal routine, thinking the men couldn't handle any more. They needed to be eased into having her around, to be teased into wanting her to stay. When she shut off the music, she turned around and saw about two dozen men watching her, mouths hanging open.

"You guys don't get to ogle without participating,” she told them. “Next time you have to join in."

Most of the cowboys chuckled or had the grace to blush, which she thought was cute. All shuffled out of the arena except for one man who leaned up against the wall, arms and ankles folded in a casual pose.

Tristan's hat was pushed back on his head, and she could see one eyebrow raised. “It takes nerves to strut that body around a ranch full of horny, hot-blooded men."

"Like what you see?"

"I'm not dead or gay,” he replied, uncrossing his legs and pushing himself off the wall.

"Good to know,” she answered back with a saucy toss of her head. Her ponytail bobbed against her back.

"Nor am I stupid. Don't let the accent fool you."

"Hiding a PhD under that Stetson?"

"Trying to hide my temper."

"Why? Because you lust for my body? Don't worry, most men do. I'm an aerobics instructor, so I'm used to the leering."

"Shut the hell up, Heather,” he growled. “Are you trying to get raped?"

Before she knew what she was doing, her hand flew out to smack him across the cheek. In stunned disbelief, she watched her handprint turn bright red against his tan flesh. He stared at her for a full minute, his lips tight and compressed.

"That was a little uncalled for,” he said as he rubbed the tender area.

"A man should never make jokes about something like that."

"I wasn't. I'm just saying unless you want a lot of unwanted male company, you better put your dancing back in the can."

"Excuse me, but this is an abandoned arena, and I've been invited to stay here by my grandfather, who is your boss.” She stressed that little reminder.

"Decided to throw around the name, huh?"

"No need, Tristan. I'm sure you remember it."

They stood toe-to-toe, her hands on her hips and his crossed over his chest. It took her a moment to realize an electric charge had sprung up between them, zapping her skin. The feeling surprised her, and she could tell he felt it too, by the way his eyes narrowed and how his body tensed.

He stood a few inches taller, and this close she could still see the young, good-looking boy from long ago in the handsome man before her. Faint little lines ran from his eyes. Grooves bracketed his mouth. He wore a cowboy hat, of course, a big gray one pulled low upon his forehead. It cast his eyes into shadow. His jaw had a day's worth of whisker stubble that she bet would tickle her bare skin most deliciously. The idea of having him rub up and down her body caused her pulse to jump. She shifted slightly to ease the sudden tension between her thighs.

"Hey, boss?” came a questioning voice from the doorway, causing Heather to jump slightly. She immediately stepped back from Tristan. “Some of us are gonna try to train that new horse. Want to rope the steer with us?"

Without taking his gaze off her, Tristan waved his hand. “I'll be right there."

"Boys will be boys,” she murmured, her voice husky.

"Ranch work is never done."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow.” She turned and grabbed her MP3 player, aware of his gaze following her every move.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Four

A heavy knock on her door made Heather sit up in bed, the covers all a tangle around her body.

"Rise and shine!” Mabel called in a cheerful voice through the door.

Heather squinted at the door, then squinted at the window which proved it was still night. Finally, she glanced at the clock.

4:00 a.m.

"Heather? Are you awake?” Mabel knocked again.

In response, Heather grabbed the small alarm clock from the nightstand and threw it at the door. It hit with a thud. She lay back down and pulled the covers over her head, falling back to sleep almost instantly.

Five hours later, Heather came into the kitchen. She wore a short, kimono-style robe that barely covered her ass cheeks, and a lit cigarette dangled from her mouth. She opened the refrigerator, took out the milk, and poured some in a glass.

She turned around and saw Tristan filling the doorway.

"Can't I wake up in peace?” she mumbled around the cigarette.

"You're smoking in the house of a man dying of lung cancer,” he pointed out with a deliberate stare at her cigarette.

Heather took a drag and then blew it out slowly in his direction. “It's not like secondhand smoke can hurt him any worse."

But she turned around and stabbed the cigarette out in the sink. She took a long drink of her milk before moving to open cabinets, obviously looking for something.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm looking for breakfast,” she replied, keeping her back toward him. “I thought I saw cereal in here yesterday."

"Breakfast was five hours ago."

"No creature on earth needs to be up at four in the morning."

"The animals need to be fed."

"What, the animals can tell time?"

Tristan crossed his arms and fell silent as she finally located some cereal and fixed herself a bowl with the milk she had left out. She leaned her hip against the tiled counter as she spooned bites into her mouth. She watched him, and he watched her.

"I know about the stipend, Heather. You think your grandfather wouldn't tell me? Who do you think is going to report your progress?"

She swallowed the last of the cereal and placed the bowl aside. “Don't you think your opinion is kind of biased?"

"I'll give an honest report."

"You have as much to gain as I have to lose. So we'll report together, thank you very much."

"What's your game, Heather? Was your little exercise routine yesterday part of your ploy? You don't really want this ranch, so why the competition?"

She didn't answer as she walked up to him, her gaze tracing his hardened face. “So, I got five things to accomplish by the end of the month,” she replied with a casual tone. “I obviously have ideas, but since you're the taskmaster, what's yours?"

"Meet me in front of the main stable."

"And that would be where?"

"The large, red barn trimmed in white to the right of the house. You can't miss it."

"All right. I'll be there as soon as I dress."

She expected him to move aside. But he didn't. He watched her, waiting, so with a crooked smile she squeezed between him and the door frame, her breasts pushing against his rock-hard chest.

The young girl that she had been, who hadn't understood what desire was all about, had given way to a woman who recognized the blatant hunger in his dark eyes.

His hand hit the wall next to her head, trapping her. He leaned in so close that she felt his breath on her face. An answering need rose sharply inside her, and she itched to touch him, to bring his lips down upon hers. Fire ignited her blood. Her heart thumped almost painfully while her pussy creamed for the hard cock that pulsed through his heavy denims, pushing against her thigh. The overwhelming urge to fall to her knees and suck him into her mouth for a feast had her reeling.

Shaken at the unwanted feeling, and a touch scared of it, she pushed past him and hurried up the stairs, very aware of the gaze that followed her retreat.

Once in her room, with the door firmly pressed shut behind her, Heather slumped against it, breathing heavily. She had to get control of herself. If she planned on winning this little competition between favorites, she was going to have to keep her head clear and her eye on the prize. Falling for Tristan's charms would do her no good.

Shaking off the lingering tingles from her brush against the virile cowboy, Heather quickly dressed in a pair of tight jeans and a form-fitting, low-cut T-shirt that nicely hugged her breasts. She fluffed her hair, applied some makeup, and then pulled on a pair of Ugg boots.

Boots were boots, right?

She left her room and crossed to her grandfather's door, not even bothering to knock as she strolled on in. Mabel sat next to him with an open ledger in her hands. Heather caught the tail end of her talking about some accounts before the housekeeper-accountant clammed up.

"We're not done yet, girl,” Lincoln Hart wheezed. “Come back in a while."

"I'm supposed to meet Tristan,” Heather said. “But I guess I can stand him up. I have a new bikini I can wear as I work on my tan. Think your cowboys would like that?"

"Quit trying to seduce the men out of work! Mabel, can you give us a moment?"

Mabel shot an annoyed look Heather's way before snapping the ledger shut and rising. She straightened Lincoln's bedcovers before walking out the door, shutting it behind her with a soft click.

Heather folded her arms, waiting, one eyebrow arched.

"You got a mouth on you, don't you?” her grandfather grumbled over his labored breathing. An oxygen hose ran up each nostril.

"Why did you tell Tristan about our arrangement?"

"How else am I gonna know if you're keeping your end of the deal? It's not like I can play detective while carrying around my breathing tank."

"I'll keep my word because I've decided I want this ranch,” Heather announced.

"The deal was for cash."

"We both know it was for a lot more than money. Otherwise, you wouldn't have demanded the stipulation."

He narrowed his eyes and regarded her steadily, sizing her up like a cow at auction. And perhaps that described her predicament perfectly.

"It'll take a lot more than that to win my decision, Heather,” he finally said. The sound of her name coming from his lips startled her a bit, his rusty voice old and tired.

She pursed her lips and turned to leave the old man to wither away another day in his room, but at the threshold, she turned. Her chin went up a notch. “Whether you like the fact or not, I am your granddaughter. And I suspect I've gotten my backbone and determination from you, because there's no way in hell I'm losing this ranch to a fucking replacement."

She slammed the door behind her, the Ugg boots not quite making the noise she'd hoped for.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Five

The stable housed forty horses, with twenty individual stalls on each side. Heather stood in the open doorway on the soft dirt and wrinkled her nose at the undeniable smell of manure, leather, and beast. It brought back memories.

Tristan had promised to come see her all those years ago, to see how his home remedy had helped, but he didn't show. She had gone looking for him and had ended up at this stable, where she had been told by his friend Duke that he had left Hart Ranch. She had forgotten that until just then. Her little schoolgirl crush had been almost overwhelming, her disappointment at missing Tristan heartbreaking.

"All the horses are gone right now,” Tristan said from behind her, startling her out of her musings. “Which makes this the perfect opportunity for you."

"Excuse me?"

He walked around her and held out a shovel. She eyed him warily.

"Here,” he said with a thrust of the shovel in her direction.

She took it, but held it away from her body as she eyed it with disgust. “What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Your first task is going to be cleaning the stalls."

Her gaze narrowed on his face. “Are you joking?"

"Not what you had in mind?"

"I thought we could start out simple, like, show and tell."

"This is a horse and cattle ranch, not kindergarten."

She took a step closer to him, thrusting out her chest slightly and tilting her head. “Aw, come on, Tristan. Show and show some more could be loads of fun. I'm sure there are more pleasurable things to do in the barn than just using this."

She dropped the shovel to the ground and then bit her lower lip as she batted her eyes.

He stepped into her, invading her space and immediately throwing off her wide-eyed, naughty-girl routine. She stumbled just a bit as she backed up. Her back hit the stall wall, halting her retreat.

"Like what?” he asked, his voice low, throaty. His big body pressed against her curves. “A roll in the hay? Riding me as we ride bareback?"

She licked her lips, the mental picture his words invoked making her skin sensitive all over. His mouth was so close to hers. One small move from either of them would bring them together. His eyes flickered to her mouth, and his nostrils flared just a bit, letting her know he wasn't quite as immune to her as he portrayed.

Abruptly he pulled back and took a step away from her.

"Hay itches and usually winds up in places hay should never be. And trying to have sex on the back of a horse is just asking for trouble,” he replied in a flat, emotionless tone.

He bent and picked the shovel back up, then grabbed her hand and wrapped her fingers around the shovel's handle.

"I'm afraid the only plowing you're going to be doing is into manure,” he told her.

"I am not cleaning up horse shit!"

"We all shit, baby, even horses. And if left unclean, it could cause hoof problems like thrush. Now,” he said as he pointed to the shovel. “Use it or leave Hart Ranch."

They stared at each other, and the challenge was clear. Fury burned through Heather, sharp and electric. She badly wanted to throw the shovel at him and flounce away, but she knew that was what he wanted. He wanted her to give up and make this easy for him, so he gave her a task that he knew would disgust her in every way possible. But the one thing he hadn't figured on was her steely determination to never fail, especially in front of him.

She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “Fine,” she grumbled. “Where do I put it?"

Tristan stuck his thumb to the other side of the barn's entrance. She spotted a four wheeler with a trailer attached on the back.

"After you're done, it gets hauled across the ranch to a compost site where we dry it and sell it to local farmers."

"You're kidding me. You sell it?"

"It's great fertilizer."

"Ever heard of E. coli?"

He ignored her comment. “You better get started; you've wasted five hours already,” he said as he turned to walk away.

"Wait!” she called, and he turned around with a raised eyebrow. “You're just going to leave me here doing this by myself? There're forty stalls here!"

"And you better get busy because those horses will be coming back at the end of the day. Remember, the manure goes out along with the old hay and new hay goes down. Very easy."

Then he walked away, whistling a little tune.

Damned arrogant jerk! All right, she did this once twenty years ago, shouldn't be that hard to dredge up the memory. Unfortunately she couldn't think clearly. Her mind rolled with images of his smirking smile, and the only thing she could concentrate on was plotting her revenge for this little trick.

"You're not exactly dressed for mucking out stalls,” came an amused voice.

Heather looked around and saw a cowboy leaning against the doorway, watching her, his arms folded across his chest. He wore a black hat pushed back on his head, allowing her to see his amused blue eyes.

"I don't need comments from the peanut gallery,” Heather retorted, turning back to face the stall. She swallowed hard, forcing her breakfast back down.

"I'm just saying. The urine is going to destroy the lacings on your, er, boots."

Heather huffed and looked at her feet. “Well, these definitely are going to live up to their name."

The cowboy laughed.

Heather narrowed her eyes as she looked at him. “Do I know you?"

"I'm wounded you don't remember me."

Her brain went into overdrive and then stopped when his face clicked into place. “Ah, the BFF. Dave?"

"Duke."

"That's right. Duke.” They studied each other for a moment. “If I flirt with you, would you clean out these stalls for me?"

"Not a chance."

Heather shrugged. “Had to ask."

"Good try.” Duke righted himself and shoved his hands in the front of his jeans. “Don't forget to remove all the feed tubs, water buckets, and stall toys. Clean ‘em out and then put them back."

"Seriously?"

"And make sure the hay on the ground is even when you're done."

Then he winked at her and walked away. Heather watched him for a moment before leaving the stall she was in to stand in the long hallway. She closed her eyes, breathing in the pungent smell of the stable, a mixture of horse, hay, and dirt. It wasn't unpleasant; in fact it brought back the tiny slip of memory from the one time she had cleaned out a stall way back when.

She looked around and saw a bunch of stuff piled against the wall—a wheelbarrow, a pitchfork, a broom, gloves, and even a pair of rubber boots. Somehow, in her anger and resentment, she had missed seeing the things that Tristan must have laid out.

Her anger thawed. Okay, so he wasn't totally a jerk. And if the positions had been reversed, she would have set up something equally disgusting for him in hopes he would give up. A lot was at stake. Heather wondered how large the ranch measured, in terms of land and cattle. Perhaps she needed to do her own investigation and learn how profitable a claim she'd be inheriting. After all, she wouldn't mind selling the ranch to Tristan, as long as she got the market value for it.

With renewed vigor, Heather grabbed the rubber boots and traded her own out. They were big and flopped a bit with each step, but at least she wouldn't have to worry about muck leaking onto her feet. Then she grabbed the wheelbarrow and positioned it before picking up the pitchfork.

Tristan was still smiling as he leaned against the fence and crossed his arms. Even from this distance he could see Heather moving around the stable. He almost felt sorry for her.

Almost.

"She's legal now,” Duke commented as he joined Tristan.

Tristan arched an eyebrow. “Don't even think what you're thinking."

"You're no fun."

"And you're way too obvious."

Duke shrugged. “Hey, just looking out for you, buddy."

Tristan shook his head and marched away, heading toward his patiently waiting horse. He grabbed the reins and mounted, kicking off toward the pastures that lay north of the homestead. One of the hands had reported seeing some wild hogs the other day, and he wanted to make sure the fences were still intact.

As he rode, his mind wandered toward Heather Hart, as it always seemed to lately. The woman dominated his every thought, though he wasn't sure if it was from sexual attraction or from sexual frustration. Unfortunately, both involved the word “sex,” which had never really occupied him too much. Until recently.

Lincoln Hart had really messed things up, pitting Tristan against her. It had seemed the safest course of action was to make her so miserable that she'd walk away. But the woman had the notorious stubborn streak inherited through the Hart genes. The memory of her jutting chin and the fire burning in her eyes brought a small smile to Tristan's lips.

He shook his head and scowled to himself. If this was to be a competition, then Heather Hart better watch out. He never played to lose.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Six

She had barely finished with the seventh stall when the cowboys started coming back for the evening. Her body ached in places she never knew existed, her mind completely blank with exhaustion, and her nose finally immune to the smells around her. She was so tired she didn't even notice any of the men making a wide berth around her as she walked, in zombie fashion, from the barn up the path that led to the house.

All she cared about in that moment was sliding into a hot bath. Her eyes glazed over at that heavenly thought.

"Heather!"

The call of her name brought her up short, and she stopped about ten feet from the back door of the house. She turned and saw Tristan striding up to meet her, his eyebrows raised.

"You're not thinking about walking in there dressed in the rubber boots caked in shit and grime, are you?"

Heather blinked and then looked down at herself. Her clothes would have to be burned. No way would she ever wear them again.

"Oh my God,” she moaned. “That was utterly horrific."

"I'm impressed that you managed to finish seven stalls,” he murmured in a soothing tone, much like one he used with the horses. “You can finish the rest tomorrow if you get an earlier start."

She just stared at him, her brain too slow to think of a witty retort. Instead, she started shedding her clothes. Being careful to touch only the tops, first went the nasty rubber boots. Then she unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans, shimmying out of them down to her lilac-colored panties. Next, she whipped off her top and threw that on the small pile. She looked at Tristan, who stared with his mouth hanging open and his eyes almost bugging out of his head as he took in her thong and see-through bra. Satisfaction hummed through her. It was almost worth it, cleaning out those horrendous stalls, to have him this flustered.

Turning, she paused long enough for him to get the full effect of the bottom of her well-shaped ass cheeks. Then she marched into the house, letting the screen door slam shut behind her.

She ignored Mabel, who shook her head in disbelief. She ignored Duke, who sat at the table with his fork halfway to his open mouth. She marched up the stairs to the bathroom and turned the shower on full blast, peeling off her undies and dropping them in the trash can. At this rate, she'd need that money just to go shopping for more clothes.

The hot water was the best thing she'd felt against her skin in a long time. Just washing away the stink of the day was pure bliss. She lathered herself from head to toe, rinsed, and lathered again. She stayed until her fingers pruned, and the suds were all washed away. Then she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a big towel before sitting on the closed toilet seat to mentally regroup.

The fading light trickling in from the bathroom window intensified the depression lingering in her soul. She'd always been alone, having only herself to rely on, and today had taken a huge chunk out of her self-reliance. Tristan expected her to go back tomorrow and do it all again, and in order to win this ranch, she had to. But every single muscle in her body ached, from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. She looked at her hands and saw blisters had begun to form despite the gloves she had worn.

How Tristan would laugh at her if he saw her, practically defeated over a little hard work. She let her mind drift for a moment, remembering the last time she had been at the ranch. Her grandfather had been healthy then, working the ranch alongside his men. Her father had argued with him constantly, yelling matches that had only embittered both.

Her father had walked away, from this ranch and from her. For a moment, a very brief second, she opened the door to her memories, to the darkness that had turned her from a child into a shell of a person. Her life had forever changed because of one stupid decision, and her father had given up when the pressure to believe in the innocence of his only child had become too great. If only she could go back and be a young girl again, back to being fifteen and visiting this ranch again for the first time. She would do so many things differently.

Heather sniffed away the tears threatening to fall. She closed her eyes and cleared her mind, as she always did when things seemed too overwhelming to bear. Obstacles made spirits stronger, and she considered hers unbreakable. She might bend but she would never snap.

With her equilibrium back in place, she rose and exited the bathroom, heading into her bedroom, where she dressed in her nightclothes before sitting on her bed to comb out her hair. By now the sun had set and the night sounds started their lullaby.

She lay back on her quilt, intending only to take a quick nap. But exhaustion pulled her under, and she slept like the dead.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Seven

Since she had busted her alarm clock the previous morning, Heather had nothing to throw at the door when Mabel came around knocking at four a.m.

But she sat up and scowled at the door, gave it the finger, and then wrapped herself back into her quilt as she turned over to burrow back into her pillow. Yet she hadn't gotten more than a half hour extra sleep when her door burst open, scaring the daylights out of her. Heather screeched as Tristan stomped into the room, she howled when he stripped her of the quilt, and she cursed as he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder.

"What the fuck are you doing?” she screamed, kicking her feet and banging her fists against his back as he carried her, fireman style, down the stairs and into the kitchen. He plopped her down in a chair at the table.

She scrambled to push her hair out of her eyes, ready to spit fire at him, but stopped when she saw she was far from alone at the table. Besides Tristan and Duke, two other men stared at her with wide eyes. One man reminded her of Brad Pitt, with golden hair and sky blue eyes. The other man reminded her of Willie Nelson, complete with long, gray hair and beard stubble. Mabel stood at the stove, her back turned from them as she finished cooking breakfast.

Smells of bacon, eggs, and sausage assaulted her. Heather wrinkled her nose, shot evil glares at each man, daring them to make one comment, and then rolled her shoulders back as she crossed her arms.

"Mornin', Heather,” said Duke. He gave a nod toward the Brad Pitt-look-alike. “This chap sitting to my right is Tony Billings, vet extraordinaire. I can't figure out why the girls call him Handsome Tony. And this older gent is Jim Breedlove, our resident farrier."

Heather blinked, and cocked her head in confusion. “Ferret?"

Jim laughed. “A farrier. I take care of the horses’ hooves. Hoof care, trimming, balancing, putting the shoes on. All that."

"Oh.” She bit her lip. “I would think a veterinarian would do that."

Handsome Tony shook his head. “I'm usually too busy with the cattle. I maintain the correct procedures for the beef to be labeled as organic."

"Free-range cattle?"

"Yes, but also maintaining that the medical services, medicines, and vaccinations fall under the USDA organic guidelines."

"Lincoln decided to go organic about ten years ago,” Tristan told her. “It's a demanding market right now so he made the right decision. And since we're a medium-size operation, our profits have escalated."

"Go Grandpa."

Mabel placed a full plate in front of her.

"No, thank you,” Heather said and pushed the plate away.

"Eat your breakfast. You have a busy day,” Tristan ordered.

They eyed each other, staring without blinking. In that moment, it became a contest to see which one would back down first.

"I don't eat meat,” she replied.

"Then eat the eggs."

"I don't like eggs."

"Then eat the toast."

"It's burnt."

"Hide it with jam."

"I have a figure to maintain."

"You just gotta argue, don't you?"

"I'm not the barbarian who dragged an innocent woman out of bed in the middle of the night to shove animal by-products down her throat."

"Again, it's morning."

"Again, there's no earthly reason to be up at four a.m."

"You've got stalls to muck out."

Heather placed her palms on the table and scooted her chair back. There was a collective indrawn breath from the observers around the table.

"I suppose it's too much to hope that you might have stevia for some coffee? No? Of course not,” she muttered to herself. “That's only in civilized places, I suppose."

She turned to leave the kitchen.

"Where are you going?” Tristan demanded.

"I refuse to destroy any more of my clothing, so I'll be back when I've located suitable replacements."

She strode away with a wave of her hand.

At the top of the stairs she glanced toward her grandfather's room where a DO NOT DISTURB sign hung on the door.

"Figures,” she muttered to herself. “The one person who gets to sleep in is the one dying."

"Hey,” Tristan called from the bottom of the stairs. “Heather."

"What?"

"Come here."

"Giving orders now?"

"Come here please."

Heather sighed and marched back down the steps, halting when she saw him holding something out to her.

"What's this?"

"Some clothes."

She hesitated taking them until he prompted her.

"There's a shirt, some thick socks, and a pair of old jeans. I know they're probably too big, but I figured they would suffice for now."

She cocked an eyebrow at him questioningly.

Tristan shrugged. “I didn't want you ruining any more of your clothes."

Heather's heart started to thump, and she didn't quite know what to say. The gift was nothing, worthless really, only it brought a tingle over her fingertips as they gripped his clothing.

"Thank you,” she mumbled.

He cleared his throat and backed up. “Yeah, so, I'll see you at the stable."

She nodded and hugged the clothes to her chest, watching until he turned and walked quickly away.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Eight

This time she set things up differently.

The day before had challenged her resolve, tested her commitment, and taxed her strength. Every muscle in her body ached from labor she wasn't used to. Aerobic exercise had nothing on slinging a shovel and moving hay. And though the work continually became easier and less complicated as she moved down the line, it was unequivocally boring.

So she brought out her MP3 player, set up the speakers, found her Linkin Park collection, and turned it all the way up. The heavy rock/punk sound overlaying the rap echoed down the long barn corridor, which provided an excellent amplifier and allowed Heather to sing at the top of her lungs.

She danced her way through the work, clearing her mind of everything except the focus of her goal. Eight done. Then nine. Pretty soon she had half the stalls done. The sun was shining overhead, so she wrapped a bandanna around her mouth and nose, switched off the music, lifted the wheelbarrow handles, and deposited the manure at the recycling compound.

Once the manure had been delivered, Heather dumped the wheelbarrow, ripped off her mask, and ran all the way back to the house.

Once she had showered off the grime of the day, she headed to her grandfather's room and walked in without knocking. He lay on his bed, looking very small and fragile among the wires and monitors. His skin was translucent, with dark veins bulging out of his arms. He seemed to be slowly disintegrating before her eyes. Unexpectedly, a surge of sadness flashed through her. She hadn't had enough time to get to know him.

"Pretty soon I'm gonna be nothing more than a memory,” he wheezed, startling her. She hadn't realized he'd been awake.

"Such maudlin thoughts,” she replied as she pulled up a chair and sat, flinging her feet upon his bed.

"'S truth,” he said with a shrug of one pitifully thin shoulder.

"How long did you smoke?"

"I started at age twelve and stopped when my doc said I had lung cancer. Let me tell you, this is a helluva way to die."

"Want me to put your boots on?"

He cackled, but the laugh hurt her ears. “I'm old, girl. Time to go meet my maker, be with my Gloria."

She raised one eyebrow. “So you believe in heaven?"

"Don't you?"

"I believe that you don't have to look very hard to find hell."

"That's not what I asked."

She remained silent for a moment as she gathered her thoughts. “For a time I thought anyplace was better than the land of the living,” she admitted in a quiet voice. “But I discovered I'm too much of a coward to find out if there really is a heaven."

"You're a Hart, and we're made of sterner stuff."

Heather had to smile at that, and they fell silent once again, only this time, for some reason she couldn't name, she didn't feel on edge as she had before. For the first time in a long time, she felt comfortable talking about the shadows that haunted her, perhaps because her grandfather now faced his own shadow, the looming specter of death.

"Your father had always been a dreamer,” he said, filling in the silence. “Avery was always by my side, but Jack lived in daydreams. He ran off to California, and I didn't hear from him again until after you'd been born. Your mother sent me a letter and a picture."

"I hate my father,” she replied in a voice devoid of any emotion.

"Yes."

"If you leave me the ranch when you die, I won't ever invite him here. I just want you to know that."

Lincoln Hart gave a huge sigh and closed his eyes. “I don't wanna talk about Jack. Tell me what you've learned the past couple of days."

"I've learned I hate horses."

Her grandfather gave a rusty laugh. “Hard to run a ranch if you don't like horses. What did Tristan make you do?"

"The polite term for it is mucking out the stalls. However, shoveling shit is pretty...shitty.” She grinned, liking her own play of words.

"Grunt work is never pleasant. And what does Tristan have planned for you next?"

"I got one more day of cleaning stalls, and then who knows. Perhaps picking up cow pies from the pasture?"

"I'll talk to him."

"No,” she said sharply. “No special treatment because of my last name. I won't have my competition crying foul."

"All right. No favors granted."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far,” she protested. “I still got a month to go."

The sun had barely started its descent as she stepped back outside, wearing her new string bikini, to make her way to the pool. The evening had turned a little cooler, but not much, making it the perfect swimming temperature. She felt rested and relaxed after her talk with her grandfather. The old man seemed to be all right.

The pool had been built after she had visited the first time. Her grandfather had told her that it was a gift to his workers so they could have some place to relax whenever they had time off. But due to his failing health, the area around it had fallen into a state of neglect, much like the house. Her three-inch stilettos were ridiculous for navigating along the broken concrete path, but she didn't care. She knew she looked fantastic. And she could feel the stares of the men following her. This is what she wanted, what she craved: the lust of nameless, faceless men. She would reel them in, make them salivate for just one look from her, and then kick them hard where it hurt most.

It was a game she knew well. In her opinion, men were only good for one purpose...to give her things. So she used them and then lost them when she'd had her fill. Some called her a bitch, some a slut, but what the hell did it matter? After all, once upon a time she had been in that position. Used. Discarded like trash.

Damaged beyond repair.

Heather figured a little payback to the male race was exactly what she needed.

At the poolside, she dropped her towel onto a lounger, slipped off her heels, and put a toe into the water to test the temperature.

She then moved to the low diving board, jumped once, and dove in with a clean splash. She swam one lap, then another, and when she had completed her third, her gaze caught a pair of worn boots standing near the water's edge. She stopped swimming and looked up at Tristan, whose frame was silhouetted against the twilight sky.

His arms were crossed over his chest, never a good sign, but one that provoked Heather to turn on her tease.

"Come on in; the water is fabulous. And I don't mind if you skinny-dip."

"The stalls aren't done. If they're done daily, it would probably only take an hour or so. If weekly, then the better part of the day. It's been two days, Heather!"

"I finished half of them."

"And the other half?"

"I'll do them tomorrow."

"What don't you understand? Finish the stalls!"

"Don't yell at me! I'm doing the best I can."

Tristan sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Heather—"

"You never once said I had to be finished in a day,” she shot back. Tired of treading water, she swam to the side and hauled herself out.

She saw his eyes widen a bit at her state of dress, or state of undress, as the case may be. The water sluiced over her skin, caressing her body like a lover's touch. She slicked back her hair and caught his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. The air around them suddenly thickened as lust hit her fast and hard. Her nipples tightened with need. Her pussy turned slick with desire. And the next thing she knew, she was in his arms, meeting his kiss with a savage hunger.

He didn't use any finesse or seduction, and he really didn't have to. She matched his desperation, as if she were lost in the desert and had just found an oasis. Where this urgency came from, she had no idea. It wasn't a feeling she'd ever experienced before, and she wasn't quite sure if she liked it. She didn't want to need him, she didn't want to crave him, and yet she couldn't get enough.

He nibbled at her lips, sucking on each one before sliding them apart. His tongue entwined with hers, initiating its own mating ritual. The lust that welled inside her was like a vortex, and she was helpless to avoid it.

She snaked her arms around his neck and rubbed her body against his like a cat wanting to be petted. She could almost hear her own purr. She twirled the hair at the nape of his neck, accidentally hitting his cowboy hat and knocking it off-center.

The movement seemed to shock Tristan out of the sensual haze that engulfed them. His head snapped back and he stared at her with wide eyes. His chest heaved. “Tristan?” She reached for him again.

But whatever spell had woven around them had already shattered. Without a word, he jerked away from her and turned to walk briskly back to the house.

Heather watched him, more upset than she cared to admit, and wondered what on earth had caused him to freak out like that. She tried desperately to ignore her tiny inner voice that asked why seeing him walk away from her hurt so much.

Fury washed through him, and he didn't know quite what to do to alleviate it. He was pissed at Heather's game, her manipulation of him, and his need of her. He literally ached inside with the desire to impale her, to fuck her until they both lost consciousness.

He was getting too sentimental, that was the problem. Giving her the clothes was his first mistake. His second had been letting her slide with taking three days to muck out the stalls.

Now he seemed to be stuck with a permanent case of blue balls. He reached down to adjust the tight denim confining his hard-on. Even the touch of his own hand excited him to the point of bursting. Jacking off in the shower had become routine the past couple of nights, and though that provided some relief, looking at her every day didn't help ease the situation.

And damn if she didn't meet his challenge, though he didn't expect her to cave too quickly. His next assignment would really test her mettle. And if that failed, then he'd think of something else that would frustrate her enough to give up the notion that she deserved the ranch.

When it came to taking care of this ranch and the men who worked it, Tristan knew he was the best choice. The only one, because Heather Hart had the look of someone desperate for money.

Of course, there was something else in her eyes, something dark and twisted. Damned if he knew what, though. Tristan frowned as he marched into his trailer and into the kitchen to grab a beer from the refrigerator. As he chugged back a long, cold drink he absently wondered what had happened that had put such sadness and hurt into eyes as beautiful as hers.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Nine

Heather glanced at her new clock one more time, noting that only five minutes had passed since the last time she checked. Two fifteen in the morning, and she couldn't sleep.

Damn cowboy.

The kiss haunted her, but she couldn't fathom why. Maybe because she and Tristan had a semipast together, albeit a very short one. Perhaps he didn't remember her, though, at least not in the way she remembered him. He had been her first crush, at a point in her life when hormones ruled her every waking daydream. And she'd had plenty starring him. But the schoolgirl infatuation she had harbored did not even compare to the hot sting of desire he now resurrected.

Damn cowboy.

And now she was locked in a tug-of-war with him over a ranch she really didn't want except for the resale value. She was tired of living paycheck to paycheck, never having quite enough to get ahead. She was sick of having to rob Peter to pay Paul, only to turn around the next month and reverse it. She'd done every trick in the book, including sending checks with wrong names on them. But she got herself into the mess, and she'd get herself out of it, even if it meant cleaning horseshit

Three days down on her month long safety net. One task almost complete. Finish all those stalls in one day? She snorted in disbelief. No way. It took her at least thirty minutes to enter a damn stall once she stood in front of it, staring at the mess that lay before her. Good thing she didn't drink.

Twenty stalls left. Ugh.

Damn cowboy.

With a deep sigh of resignation, Heather rose and dressed quickly. First, as quietly as she could, she went to the kitchen and grabbed the box full of sugar cubes she had spotted the other day and then exited out the side door. She paused for a moment as she stared around the dark shrouded grounds of the ranch, illuminated by the large moon overhead. The cool air ruffled her hair and brought a sheen of goose bumps to her arms. She hadn't expected the land to be so still, so peaceful. The moment made her feel as if she were all alone in the universe.

Slowly, she made her way to the horse barn, almost enjoying the solitude the night offered her. She had never been up at this hour of night, except occasionally in L.A. when she had been out with friends. Louisiana was a completely foreign land to her, beautiful and strange at the same time.

Starting where she left off, Heather gathered her tools and equipment and led the first horse out of his stall. Some things she did remember from her one time visiting. Contrary to what she said, she had enjoyed walking the horses back then, helping to bathe them and cool them down after a day's work. She patted the horse on his neck and crooned soft words to him, giving him a bit of sugar to sweeten the deal.

Over and over she repeated the routine until the sun touched the horizon, and the dawn of a new day began. She continued, even as ranch hands came to collect horses, harness the animals up, and ride off for a day's work. The men were pleasant to her, though she did get many odd looks. Heather guessed that they were remembering her aerobics session the first day, and had to cringe a little bit. Thinking about it now, she wondered how she had the gall to be so outrageous. Her pride had gotten in her way. The old man had hit a nerve, and she just had to act out, a folly she'd been doing ever since the incident in her past. She had learned early on that the only person she could rely on in life was herself, and so she tended to take her self-sufficiency to extremes.

She worked through the morning, not even stopping when Tristan came looking for her. She knew he watched her, because her skin tingled every time he came near her. But she ignored him and stayed focused.

Somewhere along the way, she had decided she wanted to prove she was more than just a pretty face and more than Old Man Hart's granddaughter. This ranch and this competition provided a platform unlike anything else in her life, though she still struggled to understand how to balance on it. Every day seemed to be getting a tad easier, and when she clicked the last stall's latch, she knew she had just accomplished something tremendously huge.

Heather had no idea of the time as she deposited the last of the manure into the recycling compound, but her stomach rumbled loudly. She made her way back to the house, taking her time to really look around the spread of the land. The recycling compost lay at the far end of everything, probably because of the smell. A dirt path led back to the immediate happenings of the ranch, several outbuildings, and fenced-off areas. The main horse barn lay farther away, nearer to the main house, with the arena some distance away to the right of everything. Beyond that were pastures, green grass as far as the eye could see, with the landscape dotted with cows. She had never thought of it before, but where did all the cows go at night? Were they rounded up and brought into a large holding area, or did they just stay out to graze all the time? She had vague ideas from seeing movies and from books she'd read, but they were questions she honestly never thought she'd ask her whole life.

People were everywhere, performing tasks she couldn't even begin to fathom. She heard laughter, yelling, talking, animals baying, and hammering, a cacophony of sounds all merging together that made her feel left out. This was a world she hadn't grown up in, could never fully understand, and yet something inside her wiggled to be understood and to understand, even if she didn't really know exactly what.

As she walked slowly back to the house, she saw a crowd gathering over by a fenced-off area of yard and hollers rising from the spectators. Curious, she went over to see the goings-on. Tristan sat on the back of a chestnut-colored horse, one end of a rope around his saddle horn and the other end pulled tight on the bridle of a wildly bucking horse. The unbroken horse neighed in protest, rearing on hind legs and pawing the air. Tristan kept the rope taut, but allowed his own horse to move with the bucking horse enough as to not cause it damage or allow it to hurt itself. Men stood around watching the duel between man and beast, as magnificent to watch as it was sad, because Heather saw the freedom in the horse who didn't want to be broken.

She turned away, left the men cheering behind, and continued toward the house. She walked through the kitchen, not saying a word to Mabel, who sat at the table cutting vegetables, and went up the stairs. She entered her grandfather's bedroom, ignoring the DO NOT DISTURB sign, and sat next to his bed. He lay sleeping, his face still a mask of pain, even in rest. His labored breathing hurt her ears. He looked sunken and sallow as his body slowly imploded upon itself.

If things had been different, if her father had stayed at this ranch and let her grow up here, then she wouldn't have run from watching the horse being broke, and it wouldn't have taken her three days to clean forty stalls. If she had grown up a part of this land, would she have been stronger? A better judge of character?

Would she still have an unbearable sin eating at her soul?

She didn't know how long she stayed by her grandfather's side, but she didn't leave until night had fallen completely and Mabel had come to check on the old man and shooed her out.

Perhaps it said something morbid about her that the only man she felt truly comfortable around happened to be at death's door.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Ten

"I'm impressed."

"Shut up, Duke,” Tristan absently said, his words devoid of any passion. He was quite used to telling his friend to shut up.

"She got up early to finish all the stalls. Not bad for a city girl."

"It took her three days.” Tristan threw some gear into the back of the truck and then walked around to the driver side.

"And it takes me three days to change my underwear. Time is all relative, my friend."

"You're a really gross man."

Duke grinned and opened the passenger side.

"Uh-uh,” Tristan replied with a shake of his head. “Take the day off."

"Why? Those stumps need to be pulled."

"I got it covered."

"You can't do it alone."

"Of course not.” Tristan raised an eyebrow full of meaning.

"Oh,” Duke replied, shaking his head. “That's not very nice. That lake is filthy."

"Yes. Yes it is."

Duke closed the door and grinned at him through the open window. “I expect details."

Tristan rolled his eyes and started the truck, driving over the dirt road that led up to the main house.

If she thought she'd get rest on Sunday, she had been very mistaken.

Tristan maneuvered the truck over the hilly terrain with ease as the morning sun broke through the trees. Heather yawned as she leaned her head back and closed her eyes, wishing she either had a cigarette or her bed. Cigarette first and then her bed. Her nice warm, comfy bed with the covers pulled up over her head and her pillows piled around her.

"Are you okay?"

Heather bolted up, blinking at her disorientation. “Huh?"

"You groaned,” Tristan said without looking at her. “I thought maybe you were in pain."

She eyed his mouth, positive she just saw it twitch.

"Do you work seven days a week?"

He shrugged. “I will if need be. Spring and fall are labor intensive."

"What happens in the spring and fall?"

"Calving in the spring, and weaning in the fall."

"So, what does a foreman actually do?"

"Care for the ranch and livestock, maintain vehicles, equipment, work on fencing and roadwork. Ranch security.” He shrugged. “A little bit of everything."

"Have you ever thought of a desk job?” She snapped her fingers. “Right. You'd have to take off that hat on your head. By the way, do you ever wash your hair? Do you even have hair?"

"Do you stay up at night thinking of completely ridiculous questions to ask me?"

"Sometimes. So do you? Have hair?"

"Yes, I have hair, and yes, I wash it. You've seen me without the hat."

"Oh yeah,” she said, pointing at him. “Middle of the night breakfast. I remember now."

He shook his head and muttered something too low for her to understand. Heather turned her head to hide the wide grin that popped on her face.

They came to a halt next to the rather large lake that lay in the field east of the house. Several large weeping willow trees graced the banks, providing a charming picture.

"What are we doing here?” she asked.

Tristan brought the truck to a stop before pointing. “See that area over there, where several large trees are growing out of the water? We're going to remove them."

"Why? They look like perfectly good weeping willows to me."

"The seeds form this spongy encasement that hogs the water supply. It prevents draining through the levees for the herd."

"And how do we remove them? Do we pull them up?"

"We tie a chain around the spongy trunk and then yank it out. Then we'll go back and repack the dirt at the levee from the bottom up, making sure to blow back through the pipe to clear it."

"I know you're speaking English, but it's just blah blah blah to me."

"This lake provides water to the cows over at the other pasture through underground pipes, but the trees have formed a stoppage with the root ball."

"Oh. That I understand. And are there snakes in the water?"

"Focus, Heather."

She stuck her tongue out.

He reached behind him and pulled a folded piece of vinyl off the backseat. With a deceptively innocent face, he handed her the garment.

"What's this?” she asked.

"Waders."

"Waders? As in wading?” Comprehension was immediate. “Oh man, why do I always have to get dirty?"

"Because you're learning."

"I hate you."

He only smiled widely.

She sighed and grabbed the waders out of his hand, opening the truck door with a little growl. As she stepped into the large waterproof pants, Tristan turned the truck around, backing up to the edge of the pond. He jumped out of the cab and unhooked the steel cable from the winch on the tail bumper.

"You'll have to loop the cable around the spongy trunk twice and then use the hook to secure it."

"Wait, you never answered my question."

"What question?"

"Are there snakes in there?"

"Probably."

"What! Oh no fucking way, Tristan Rogers!"

He laughed. “Just water snakes, nothing poisonous. They're more scared of you than you are of them."

"That's so not true."

"Get a movin', Heather,” he said, still chuckling.

She grabbed the chain from him and marched to the edge of the pond, biting the inside of her lip as she stared over the murky water. Her hands were encased in rubber gloves, but they were pretty useless in keeping them dry, because she had to submerge her arms into the water to wrap the chain around the spongy trunk. The muddy bank sucked at her feet, her weight pulling her down into the ooze.

"Wrap it around twice so it doesn't slip off!” Tristan called out from the dry, clean truck cab.

Heather really wanted to punch him.

Instead she huffed and took a baby step forward. Luckily, the trunk wasn't too far into the water so she only was in up to her knees. She felt something brush past her, and she jumped, dropping the cable.

"What was that?” she cried, spinning around and looking, trying to see through the muddy water.

"A fish, Heather,” he answered in a humorous tone.

She gave him a poisonous look and shot him the bird, which only made him laugh more.

The morning was long and tedious, and Heather learned more about water and run-offs than she ever wanted to know. Even though he had teased her, Tristan worked next to her, dressed in rubber pants and boots just like she. Side by side they waded in and out of the lake, scraping mud and piling it away as they traced the pipelines and cleaned the end caps. They repacked the levee from the bottom up. By the end of the day, Heather wondered if more dirt and mud caked her than what lay in the water. She was absolutely filthy and tired, and her stomach rumbled.

They used towels to clean up as much as they could. Heather wondered if the mud that had seeped into her pores was cleansing or not. Probably not if it had fish and snake poop in it. She made a face at the mental picture.

"Ready for lunch?” Tristan asked.

"I'm so hungry I don't even care about sitting here covered in God-knows-what."

He reached into the truck bed and lifted up a blanket and a picnic basket. As he set up the surprisingly romantic gesture, she could only watch him with raised eyebrows.

"Come on,” he urged as he walked to a nearby tree and spread out the blanket. “This is the best spot on earth to enjoy lunch.” He sat down and stretched out his long legs, which managed to spike a sliver of lust in her tired body. He proceeded to lift the various plastic containers full of food and set them around in an organized manner.

"What's all this?"

"Hm? Let's see, cantaloupe, some cheese and crackers, pasta salad, and fried chicken. Mabel's special."

"Fried chicken? You know how much cholesterol that has in it?"

He shot her a pointed look. “You smoke, and you're worried about cholesterol?"

"I'm surprisingly complex,” she answered as she sat cross-legged next to him. She grabbed a plate and took everything but the chicken. “Besides, I don't eat meat, remember?"

"I don't understand how anyone can be a vegetarian,” he replied, holding up a drumstick and licking his lips in an exaggerated manner. “This is the best fried chicken ever."

"That is so gross."

They ate in silence. Heather felt comfortable, for once, being near him. The thrum of sexual attraction still arced between them, but the animosity had dimmed. After the food was gone and the dishes put away, they lay on the blanket and stared up into the blue sky.

"You grew up here, didn't you?” she asked.

"Yeah. My dad worked here. He died when I was six, heart attack. Then my uncle became foreman. He was great friends with Avery."

"And they died together."

"I used to wish that I could stay forever on this ranch, and then when they died, I got my wish. Took me a long time to get over the guilt."

"Guilt? You didn't kill them."

"No, but I benefited from their death."

"And now there's me."

He turned his head to look at her. She turned her head as well to meet his gaze.

"And now there's you,” he confirmed.

"God, I wish I had a cigarette,” she muttered.

"So when did you start smoking?"

"Right before my sixteenth birthday."

"Why?"

She fell silent, watching the clouds, thinking of the right answer. “At first people expected me to act a certain way, so I obliged them. Pretty soon, however, it became a way to cope."

"Why did they expect you to act a certain way?"

She didn't answer. She couldn't without revealing too much of her inner struggle, so she shrugged the matter away. He understood the message and changed the question.

"You gonna quit?"

"Someday. But not right now."

He reached over and touched her cheek with the back of his fingers. Heather turned her head to look at him. Whatever pull existed between them snapped like a rubber band, stinging her skin and sensitizing her nerves.

His fingers trailed around to her neck until they tangled in her hair. He pulled her face up and fitted his lips securely over hers, teasing her lips apart to allow his tongue to dance in and twirl with hers. Heather breathed in his scent, an intoxicating blend of male and raw sexuality. She raised her arms and encircled his neck, allowing his body to press into hers. She felt the hard ridge of his cock and shifted to part her legs and brought him flush to the area where she needed him most.

He settled into her, his heartbeat striking against her forcefully. He moaned a sexy sound that hurled her closer to losing all sense and control. Tristan pulled away from her mouth to trail hot kisses over her cheek toward her ear. He sucked on her earlobe, tracing the shell with his tongue. She shivered and clutched him tighter. He started working on the buttons on her shirt, opening them to reveal a white lace bra, the cups pushing her cleavage up. He licked over the swells, pushing the delicate lingerie up and baring her nipples to his hungry mouth.

Heather arched her back, urging him, and he wasted no time. His right hand held her breast to his mouth, and he feverishly sucked the nipple deep. His other hand, meanwhile, traveled down, over her hip to reach the apex of her thighs. His fingers pushed against the material that hid her sex, and through the tough denim he found her clit, teasing the sensitized nerve nexus.

"Mmm,” she groaned, her hips moving to grind against his hand.

It took only a moment for Tristan to undo her pants and ease his calloused fingers inside, sliding through the curls and into her wet heat. His finger dipped inside, teasing and then finding a rhythm that quickly escalated the fire in Heather's blood. He traced the moist path to her clit, brushing it lightly as she started to wiggle from the torture. Another finger moved in, as his palm applied just enough pressure to make her writhe. In and out his second finger moved as the first one hit her clit. In seconds an orgasm flushed over Heather, robbing her of breath for a few moments. She rode it out, humping his hand that still teased, desperate for more and yet wanting his flesh in hers.

"Take off your pants,” she begged when her ability to speak returned.

He eased back, not far enough for his body heat to leave her but allowing enough space to stare down into her passion-filled gaze.

"I'm not gonna have sex with you here, Heather,” he told her. Heather tensed, the warm glow of climax slipping away quickly. “When I do, we're going to do it right."

"Do it right?” She pushed him off her and scrambled hurriedly to her feet, zipping her jeans. “What the hell does that mean?"

He sighed and encircled his knees with his arms, linking his hands together as he watched her. “It means we're not going to fuck where anyone can ride up and see us. It might get back to Lincoln."

Heather stiffened. “Is that what you're worried about? Him finding out you fucked the competition?"

In a flash Tristan was on his feet, his hands balled on his hips. “Competition? Is that how you still view me, Heather? As your enemy?"

"You are the enemy, Tristan. You want to take this away from me."

"Take what from you, Heather? A ranch you care nothing about?"

"Just because I didn't grow up here doesn't mean I'm not capable of learning. This land may not be in my blood, but you aren't blood either."

"You can be such a bitch."

Heather folded her arms. “Sticks and stones."

He swore under his breath and marched past her. He opened the door to his truck and got in. He didn't even look at her as he started the engine. She watched as he drove away without once looking back at her.

Heather looked at the picnic basket and blanket still lying on the grass. She could see the ranch house in the far distance, if she squinted. She could walk back, but it would be dark by the time she arrived.

She wished she had a cigarette.

Damn cowboy.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Eleven

Seeing Tristan's shocked face the next morning at breakfast was well worth waking up at the ungodly hour. Heather sat at the table, nibbling on a bagel, dressed in her own jeans and T-shirt.

"What are you doing up so early?” he asked in a gruff voice.

"I want to learn to ride."

"Ride?” He walked over to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup, blowing to cool it before taking a sip.

"A horse. Not you."

He choked a bit on the coffee. Mabel snickered, and he shot her a warning look. “I don't really have time today,” he said dismissively.

"I do,” Duke said as he walked into the kitchen. “Mornin', Mabel. Heather."

"Awesome!” Heather smiled at him.

Tristan narrowed his eyes, looking at them both, a frown indenting the space between his eyes. But he didn't say anything.

After breakfast, Heather followed Duke to the stable and watched closely as he selected a horse.

"An older mare that won't mind an amateur,” he said as he put on the harness. Duke walked them into the area where she had seen Tristan breaking the horse the other day.

"First,” he said, turning to face her, “let's go over the features of a saddle. The pommel, the horn, the gullet.” Duke pointed to each piece of the saddle as he named it.

"This is the back of the saddle, or the cantle, and you can use it to help swing yourself up. The rest of the saddle you don't need to know right now. To mount, use your left hand to hold the reins and mane. No, short hold the reins. Don't let them droop, keep them secure."

He walked behind her and moved her hands in the right positions.

"Now go ahead and pull yourself up."

Heather took a deep breath, suddenly overwhelmed as she faced the horse. The mare had looked small and docile as she came out of the stall, but now all Heather could think about was the distance between the saddle and the ground. Tentatively she put her left food in the stirrup, took a deep breath, and pulled herself up. Surprisingly, she didn't have any difficulty as she settled into the saddle.

"I did it!” she exclaimed excitedly.

"We'll stick with walking to make sure your rear end doesn't kill you tomorrow."

"Yes, it's not like sitting on a fluffy chair, is it?"

Duke grinned at her.

"Duke!"

They both looked over to see Tristan watching them. He waved the cowboy over, so Duke led her and the mare to him.

"I need you to go check the fencing on the eastern border, make sure those wild hogs hadn't ripped it apart."

The two men shared a look that Heather couldn't quite identify. Then Duke eased back, shrugging. He handed the reins over to Tristan. “Sure, boss."

"Use the truck in case you come across some wandering cows."

Duke nodded, gave a salute to Heather, and left them.

Tristan ducked through the railing, holding the reins, but didn't look at her. He checked to make sure the stirrups were the right length for her legs before leading the horse around the small arena. “A horse has a four-beat walk, meaning you should be able to feel each hoof strike the ground. Keep your heels down, chin up, back straight."

"I thought you were busy."

"Duke is handier with a hammer and nails, so I thought it best he take care of the fence."

Heather bit her lip. Yesterday was a heavy albatross hanging between them. The mare must have sensed the unease, because she tossed her head. Tristan immediately went to soothe her, rubbing the soft spot on her forehead and crooning soft words.

Feeling a little jealous of the horse, Heather decided to play along with his not-so-subtle hint and dismiss the memory of yesterday.

"This is a lot easier than I thought it would be."

He shot her a neutral look, relaxing slightly as he saw her bland smile. “There's a lot more to it than this, but we'll go easy for now. Just practice the basics awhile before getting too ambitious."

For the next hour, they both stayed silent as he led the horse, and she learned the feel of the animal's gait. It wasn't unlike riding a motorcycle, actually, where she had learned how to move her hips with the swerve of the machine. But just as Heather started to feel her butt going numb, Tristan called a halt to the lesson and told her to take it easy for the rest of the day.

She watched as he led the mare back to the stable. Somehow, the breach between her and Tristan felt like an ocean, and she wondered how they could close the distance.

But then, was it really wise to try?

The next day, Tristan waited for her with the little mare already saddled. Heather gobbled her cereal quickly and practically skipped out the door.

The morning was cool but not cold, the air crisp in her lungs. The sun had just risen, coating the green hills with a golden sheen. Tristan led them past the immediate workings of the ranch and into the pastures where she saw hundreds of tan and brown cows.

"Do they live out here on the range?"

"For the most part. We've got buildings up where they can go to escape the sun during the day. Once the calves are weaned from their mother, they're put out to pasture. Lincoln adheres to strict organic codes for his cows. It's a longer process than cows raised on grains the factory way, but grain isn't the best diet. It makes the cows sick, which in turn makes them need antibiotics. So when the meat goes to market, it's chock-full of drugs."

"I've read about the hidden lies of organic diets. You know, how if calves are grass fed for the first couple weeks of life and then switched over to factory living, then technically the meat can be labeled ‘grass fed.’”

Tristan nodded. “It's expensive to do it like we're doing it here. We can only keep about a thousand head while other ranches can herd ten times that. But Hart Ranch has built a solid reputation for quality meats, and we've actually seen our profits increase over the past couple of years."

For the next hour they talked as he led her horse in a ride that stuck close to the house but allowed her the feel of the land. She could see the house in the distance, and it looked like a regal palace in the center of a small universe. She saw men and cows and horses out in the pastures. Even the smell of the air seemed new and unique.

For the next few days, despite how busy he always seemed, Tristan took her out for a daily ride around the ranch. He pointed things out, told her so many facts that she actually started to find the ranch's operations interesting. Her muscles even loosened up until it didn't hurt to plant her rear end into the hard, unyielding saddle.

She started sleeping through the night, something she hadn't done in a long time. Heather realized one morning as she came back in after the morning ride that she felt peaceful. Away from millions of people, blaring city noises, and mounds of traffic, Heather felt the constant tension she lived with slowly draining out of her.

After each ride, after removing the saddle and wiping down her horse, Heather lingered for a time in the stable. It was fast becoming a place she liked hanging around, though she wasn't quite sure why. Maybe because the horses were neutral parties, accepting without prior judgment. She still felt uneasy around Tristan, even though she felt the barriers between them slowly start to come down. She wouldn't say things were good, or even fine, but she felt like they were starting to reach a level of mutual respect.

"Don't even think about getting involved with her, Duke,” Tristan's voice rang through the early morning, making her stop in midstride.

Heather had been on her way for their morning ride, but Tristan's warning halted her on the other side of the stable door, out of sight.

"And why is that, Tristan? Jealous?"

"Don't be ridiculous,” Tristan said dismissively in an angry tone. “She's not the type of girl you get jealous over."

"What does that mean?"

"It's not like she's gonna stick around here forever. All we have to do is wait until she's bored out of her mind, and then she'll go running back to the bright lights of the big city."

"Harsh, dude."

Their voices faded away. A moment later Duke walked out, not noticing her as he marched away. Heather went inside, her heart pounding furiously. The calmness she had been feeling the past couple of days had vanished. Her fists lay clenched at her sides, and it was an effort not to swing them at the handsome cowboy who looked at her over the mare he was saddling.

"Mornin', Heather,” he mumbled.

"I'm not going riding with you,” she said with a bite in her voice.

Tristan frowned. His eyes flickered to the stable door and then back to her.

"Yes,” she answered the unspoken question. “I heard your sterling opinion of me."

He sighed, shoulders dropping a bit. “Listen, you don't understand—"

"No, you don't understand. I had started to think of you as a friend, Tristan. But clearly you're a fucking hypocrite."

She spun around, ignoring his call, and marched her way back to the house. She felt Mabel look at her but ignored her. Today she was going to sulk.

Heather didn't come down for dinner that evening.

Tristan watched the stairs and played with his food, missing the looks that Jim and Tony shot one another.

She had completely misunderstood what he had been saying to Duke. Missed the point, really.

Yes, he was jealous anytime Duke came near her.

Yes, he wanted to take her to bed and keep her there until they were both too sore to walk.

Fuck. What was he going to do?

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Twelve

The next day brought rain. Heather stood on the porch, under the wide veranda, watching the storm, chain-smoking. A half-empty water bottle had become a graveyard for the butts.

Dark clouds obscured much of the sun, making everything seem murky and depressing, just like her mood. She'd been watching the damn rain for almost an hour.

The door opened behind her, and Mabel came out with a broom. She gave Heather a surprised look before turning to sweep the porch. For the most part Heather ignored her, as she always did. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate Mabel or thought since she was the housekeeper, she was beneath her. They had nothing in common. Heather hadn't the foggiest notion of cooking or caring for an invalid, so she didn't try to force communication.

"What're you doing out here?” Mabel asked.

"Apparently watching the grass grow,” Heather let out a stream of smoke and then popped the finished cigarette in her bottle, “since the television reception seems to be reliant on the forecast."

"We have Internet. No reason to have cable when there's DSL."

"True.” Heather shrugged. “I don't know. I don't really feel like vegging in front of the computer."

"Restless? The ranch too quiet for you?"

Heather shot her a suspicious look. “You working against me too, Mabel?"

"Don't really know you well enough to be for you or against you, Heather Hart."

"But you don't really care for me, do you?"

"I care about Lincoln, and he cares about you. Is that answer enough?"

"Does he? Care about me?"

Mabel stopped sweeping and leaned against the end of the broom. Her appraisal made Heather feel as if she were on an auction block. Whatever Mabel saw must have been all right, because she gave a nod and gestured toward the house. “Go upstairs. Last door on the right."

"What's in there?"

"See for yourself."

Heather shoved her cigarettes and lighter in her back pocket, then tentatively walked back into the house, the darkness of the stormy day deepening the shadows that seemed to fester in the corners. The decor was stuck somewhere between the seventies and the eighties, with a plastic cover on the crushed velour couch. The television, one of those that weighed about a thousand pounds and sat housed in a wooden frame, only added to the decrepit air.

The stairs emptied to a landing that circled around, giving access to the four bedrooms. The last bedroom, she remembered, had belonged to her Uncle Avery. She marched up to it and opened the door.

The room was dark because of the drapes completely covering the window. The air was slightly musky, with a hint of leather. She flipped the light switch and froze at the sight before her.

It wasn't that the room had been turned into a shrine. No, her grandfather had been too manly for such sentimentality. Instead, the room had been filled with a little bit of everything. All the furniture remained from Avery's room, plus a few extra pieces that Heather remembered belonging to her grandmother, Gloria. Boxes were stacked everywhere, and a saddle peeked out from under the bed. As she looked over the room, a bit of mirror on a vanity caught her attention.

Her jaw dropped a fraction, and she moved through the cramped room toward it. Her heart started to pound as she came to recognize the vanity that had been in her room when she had last visited. She heaved boxes off the top of it until the mirror was fully exposed.

The glass had a sky with big, white fluffy clouds lined in silver painted on and the words “Every Cloud Has A Silver Lining” right above them.

"You found the memory closet,” Tristan said from the door.

Heather turned her head toward him, all feelings of anger temporarily forgotten. “Memory closet?"

"When Avery died, your grandfather packed everything of value here and shut the door."

"This vanity isn't worth anything,” she whispered.

Tristan shrugged and followed her path toward her side. He put his hands in his pockets and looked around. “To your grandfather it is."

"I painted it,” she admitted, clearing her throat. “I did that when I was last here."

Tristan looked at the small mural. “It's pretty good."

"I used to love to paint.” She could feel his gaze on her, but she couldn't look away from the mirror. “I used to love to do a lot of stuff."

A wealth of bitterness clawed from her heart, threatening to choke her.

"You don't anymore?"

"A lot of things changed after that summer,” she replied, turning away from the vanity mirror. He watched her like a hawk eyeing his prey, and a shiver ran down her spine.

"What happened to you? Was it your parents splitting up? Oh yes, I know,” he said at her surprised look. “After my leg healed, Avery hired me full time. I ate dinner every night in that kitchen, and Lincoln would talk."

A surge of panic shot through her heart, making it stutter at the unexpected surge of adrenaline. “What else did he tell you?"

Tristan cocked his head, studying her. “Your father abandoned you and your mom, making her ask Lincoln for money to survive. She died not too long after that."

"Breast cancer at forty-three. My dad couldn't even be bothered to come to the funeral,” she replied with a tinge of sadness echoing through her words. She allowed herself one moment to think of her mother before she cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. “She belongs with this room of forgotten memories."

He reached out and took her hand. “It's okay to remember, Heather. Everything needs to be grieved."

She yanked her hand back, fury filling her, choking her. “When my grandfather dies, I'm going to take everything in this room and burn it."

Tristan stiffened, the tenderness in his face and body disappearing in an instant. “Why do ya gotta be like this? Every time someone shows you a bit of kindness or friendship, you throw a wall up."

"What does it matter if I have a wall up or not? We're not exactly friends, Tristan."

He sighed. “I want to be your friend, Heather."

She crossed her arms. “I'll be your lover. I'll be your sex kitten and play all kinds of dirty little games. But don't ask me to be your friend."

Tristan stared at her for a minute, and she could see a thousand different emotions sweeping across his face. Everything from pity to hate to acceptance all blended together, and she knew in that instant he would accept her proposal, though he may not have known it yet himself. He wanted her. She could feel it every time he approached her. And she wanted him too. Tristan had always been in the back of her mind, a teenage fantasy, and here they were, twenty years older and able to act on those old feelings.

She dropped her arms and stepped closer to him, sliding her hands up his chest and over his shoulders, pushing her breasts against his hard chest. The flame that always existed between them leaped to life. She heard his breath quicken. Beneath her palms, she felt his chest rise and fall quickly as his heart hammered. He grabbed her arms, halting her, staring at her with an equal mixture of lust and hate. She wet her lips with her tongue. That little gesture made him capitulate. He groaned low in his throat and hauled her into his body. One hand curved around the back of her head, holding her steady as he dominated her mouth with his. The kiss wasn't soft; it gave no quarter. It demanded, it took. Desire swept over her, wiping out everything. Her world narrowed to focus on him, his rage and his appetite.

He pushed her against the wall as his lips trailed down her neck. He pushed her shirt up, his fingertips brushing lightly over her skin, traveling upward until he reached her breasts. She hissed and arched her back, thrusting more into his hands. He moved the bra up to expose her, his thumb flicking lightly over her nipples. When he tried to move his mouth to them, her clothing got in the way. Impatiently, he swept the shirt and bra over her head, throwing them carelessly on the floor somewhere behind them.

"You drive me crazy,” he muttered, just before his mouth fastened on her right nipple. His right hand started kneading her left breast, his fingers rolling the taut nipple. Heather threw her head back, her body tensing at the unbelievable sensations radiating up from her groin.

Tristan was a man possessed. His other hand moved to her legs, pushing them wide to fit his body between them. His hand swiped over her overly sensitive pussy, causing her to jump in surprise from the friction of the rough material pushing back.

Impatiently he unzipped her jeans, pushing them down her legs before picking up her naked body to hold against his. Heather felt her juices start to run as one hand slid between them, a finger sliding deep within. In and out he finger fucked her, finding the fleshy nub of her pleasure spot and rubbing it over and over as he bit and licked her neck and mouth.

She splintered. Stars popped into her eyes. The world tilted on its axis. She was only vaguely aware of him moving his own clothing aside.

There, against the wall, he pushed his hard cock into her. He gave her no mercy, no finesse, only the most fulfilling moment of her life as he finally took possession of her body.

"Oh!” she cried, the euphoria returning as he filled her.

He pulled back only slightly, making sure she was okay, until she flexed her inner muscles and squeezed him. His eyes rolled back, and he thrust again, into her, going deeper.

Heather met his thrusts with sharp jabs of her pelvis, up and down. Sweat poured from their bodies. Their breathing turned harsh. His thrusts got deeper, harder as he pushed his cock in and out. Heather moaned as his onslaught propelled her up and down in a blur, causing his hands to hold on to her hips to keep her steady.

"Fuck me, Tristan,” she said through her teeth, the sing of her orgasm sweeping through her. “Oh God! Yes, yes!"

She fell first. She mewled as the dam burst and her cream ran. Her inner muscles once again flexed, milking the hard cock rooted deep inside her. Tristan let out his own harsh groan as he climaxed with her, pouring himself deep inside.

"Shit,” he whispered a moment later, his head resting against her naked shoulder. Through his open shirt she felt his heart racing. “I didn't use protection."

The sensible words snapped her out of her sensual haze. She stiffened in his arms and pulled back far enough to force him to look at her.

"Don't worry, I'm on birth control, and I'm clean. I get tested regularly,” she told him in a bland tone.

He frowned. “Regularly? How regularly?"

"Every couple of months. What about you? Something I should know?"

He shook his head. She wasn't quite sure if he was answering her, or if he simply had to clear his postclimactic brain.

"Tristan? Are you clean?"

"Yes."

"Good.” She stepped away from him and proceeded to put her clothes on, ignoring the juice that ran down her thigh. In a matter of moments, she had re-dressed. “So, you wouldn't fuck me outside, but you'd fuck me three doors from his. So much for caring about Grandpa's sensibilities."

And picking up the pieces of her fractured pride, she held her head up as she walked out of the memory closet.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Thirteen

"He hasn't talked to me in three days."

"Is that the reason you've been reading me that damn book?” Lincoln demanded.

Heather waved the copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray in front of his face. “This is literature."

"It's boring. I don't understand a word of it."

"Look past the words, old man,” she said. “It's about a man who doesn't want to grow old. It's my favorite novel."

"Bah. Gimme Zane Grey."

"I'm going to read you this damn book, so shut the hell up!"

Lincoln raised his eyebrows at her. “I thought you wanted to talk about Tristan."

She huffed and crumpled a bit as the wind exited her sails. The book thumped back on her lap. “He hasn't talked to me in three days,” she repeated.

"Were you a bitch to him?"

"Why is that the first thing you ask?"

"Why aren't you answering?"

"I may have said some un-nice words, but he should know I always say un-nice words!"

His brow arched as he gave her an exasperated look that spoke volumes. She wilted. Her shoulders hunched as she slumped back in the chair.

"I don't know why I have to fight all the time,” she admitted quietly. “A haze seems to cover my brain, and before I realize what I'm saying, all the bad things just pour out."

"If you do enough of the bad, then people aren't let down when you fail."

Her head snapped up. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. For once, her snappy comeback died in midthought.

"You aren't the only person who's done some stupid stuff,” he admitted, coughing a bit at the end.

Heather jumped from her chair to bring his glass of water to his lips, helping him drink before wiping his mouth with a tissue.

"I know all about it, girl,” he whispered through bloodless lips. He looked washed-out, as pale as the ghost he was turning into.

"Know about what?"

He opened tired, dull eyes. “I wanted you to come live with me, but your mother refused. Said all you needed was time to heal. But I knew better. I knew that place was a constant reminder of the pain you went through. Nothing good would come from there, but your mother didn't want to listen to me. By then your father had left you both, and she didn't trust me."

Words eluded her. Her grandfather's admission opened a floodgate of emotion that swarmed her mind and condensed all her thoughts down to one mantra: He knew! He knew!

"Why did you come here, Heather?"

His gruff, scratchy voice broke through her scattered introspection. Her focus snapped back, and she quickly jumped to her feet.

"Don't,” she ordered. “I don't want to go there."

"Ain't no use running, girl. What's done is done. Time to let it go. I think you came here, to this ranch, for that reason. Didn't you?"

Heather shook her head. “I came here because I ran out of money and needed a place to stay."

"Is that what you want the ranch for? Money?"

She didn't answer. Instead she turned around and headed for the door.

"Don't go,” Lincoln Hart said with a wheeze. “If you don't want to talk about this, then read me the damn book."

Heather dropped it in the trash can before opening the door and leaving.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Fourteen

Once again, she couldn't sleep.

She lay in bed thinking about what the old man had said. A big part of her psyche warned her not to, to push everything away and hide from it like she usually did. But a small sliver of insanity insisted she remember, that she face her demon in order to bury it properly.

But if she did that, then what did she have left? She didn't know if she was strong enough to face the fact that twenty years of her life was gone, devoted to a single incident that had ruined her future and her dreams. If she were to start over, then where would she start? What would she do? All she really knew how to do was teach aerobics.

Could she live here and learn about ranching?

Heather rose from her bed and dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. She pulled on socks and tennis shoes and left her bedroom, making her way silently out of the house. The night air was cool, as opposed to the humid heat that lingered through the daylight hours.

She could get used to the peace that surrounded the night. Times like this allowed her to imagine she was free, that she was all alone in the world and didn't have to raise her defenses. The smells of the ranch wafted on the breeze, a mixture of hay and dirt and animals. A little of that smell clung to Tristan all the time.

Without realizing it, the restlessness that had snaked its way through her system brought her to his trailer. Butterflies danced in her stomach, and a thousand denials raced through her mind. But her hand lifted and knocked.

It took him a moment to answer. He wore jeans that were zipped but unbuttoned, with no shoes or shirt. His nipples puckered in the cool air. His expression was grim.

"Is it Lincoln?"

She shook her head, and his shoulders relaxed a bit.

"Then what is it?"

"Can I come in?"

The moon cast a soft glow over his face, turning his chiseled and angular features into soft planes and shadows. She could tell he wanted to say no, but he stepped aside to allow her to pass.

"Do whatever you want, Heather. You always do.” He stomped away, leaving the door open.

Heather walked in and looked around the spacious trailer. The door opened into the living room, where a large flat-screen had been mounted on the wall. A large brown leather couch and a chair sat facing it, with an end table between them. Beer cans, magazines, and newspapers littered the surface of the glass coffee table. To the right, toward the front of the trailer, stood the kitchen with a small table and chairs. Toward the back, a hallway branched off to what she assumed must be the bedroom, bathroom, and laundry facilities.

Tristan stood in the center of the room, arms crossed. “If you're trying to win this competition by driving me crazy, then it's working” he said flatly.

"I'm sorry,” she said, meaning it. “I know how difficult I can be. I didn't mean to insult you after we—"

"Fucked,” he finished harshly.

Heather winced at the angry tone. She sighed. “Tristan, I'm sorry. My defense is being insulting."

"Why do you need defenses with me?"

"Are you kidding?"

He sighed and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. Silver peppered the dark layers, adding a depth to his rugged appeal. She wanted to run her fingers through the glossy mass.

"I'm forty-one years old, Heather, too old for games."

"How come you're not married?"

He waved a hand around. “My life has been devoted to this ranch. After Avery and Simon died, I never found the time to actively pursue a relationship. What about you? I thought marriage was every woman's dream."

"My dream is security,” she replied.

"And this ranch could bring a nice price to you, enough to give you that security."

She bit her lip. “I'm not going to lie and tell you that hasn't crossed my mind."

"You keep sucking up to your grandfather, and I'm sure he'll reward you."

"I'm not here to argue."

"Then why are you here?"

"I don't know!"

"Heather, I don't want to play games—"

"I'm not. I came here to...I just wanted to...damn it! I really don't know why I'm here. First you reel me in, then you insult me. And you ignore me for days! So why am I here, Tristan? Why am I always thinking about you?"

Her stared at her for a heartbeat, then grabbed her arms and pulled her into his embrace. His mouth came down on hers, almost brutally, but she met the force with equal hunger. This was what she wanted, what she craved. Her fingers slid though his chest hair, over firm pecs and hot flesh.

He broke the kiss and leaned back far enough to peer down into her face. “What do you want, Heather? Come on, tell me why you're here."

"I told you, damn it, I don't know!"

"Yes, you do,” he said, and he brought his mouth to her neck. He grazed his teeth over the sensitive area right under her ear, causing her to shiver, before taking a nip.

"Again,” she whispered.

She felt his smile against her throat. His next bite was a little harder, a little deeper. She knew instinctively it was going to leave a mark, but she didn't care. At the moment, all she knew was that her heart raced, excitement rushed through her blood, and cream coated her panties.

"This.” He breathed against the bruise he just made. “This is what you want. You want to be fucked. You want me so deep inside that you don't know where you end and I begin."

She squirmed against him, not sure if she wanted to admit he was right. But then he nipped the tender spot on her neck, proceeding to lick downward, stopping when he reached the V of her shirt.

Tristan pulled back, putting space between them. Heather panted, watching him as he stared at her. One of his eyebrows was lifted.

"I'm right, aren't I, Heather?"

She tried to bring her breathing under control, but having him stand two feet away, half-undressed and looking like a Greek god did not help the situation. Instead she thrust her chin up.

"Are you saying you don't want me?” she countered.

When he didn't answer, she took off her shirt. She saw his nostrils flare as he took in her white, lacy bra, the color stark against her tan skin.

"Huh, Tristan?” she taunted as she unbuttoned her jeans. “Works both ways. You fuck me; I fuck you. Does it really matter who gives in?"

"Of course it does,” he said.

She pushed her jeans down a little, revealing tiny, white panties. His gaze was glued on her hands as her fingers played against the smooth skin on her hips.

"And if I said I wanted to be on top?"

He swallowed, then licked his lips. She smiled.

She drew her pants down, stepping out of them gracefully. She posed, knowing she looked good, and watched as Tristan looked her up and down. She felt his gaze like heated coals raking over her body.

Heather stepped into him, pushing her breasts against his hard chest, and slid her hands up his shoulders to encircle his neck. With her body tight against his, she stood on tiptoe.

"My turn,” she murmured, breathing slightly into his ear, making sure she gave the shell a tiny lick before biting the lobe. Hard.

Tristan winced, but the pain seemed to shake him from his lust-induced coma. He put his arms around her and crushed her to him as his mouth found hers. He swept his tongue in, finding and mating with hers, plunging in and out as his hand buried in her hair to keep her head still.

He picked her up, and Heather wrapped her legs around his waist. She enjoyed the slight friction of his jeans rubbing against her stimulated clit and ground her hips into the hardness of his cock. Moving with deliberate, exaggerated movements, he backed up until his ass hit the arm of the sofa. He half sat, half stood, allowing her legs to fold over his lap. This angled her pussy in direct alignment with his cock, giving her the control she sought despite the clothing still between them.

Heather took the opportunity to rub herself up and down his body like a cat in heat. She kissed his face, his neck, and his shoulders, liking the friction against her sensitive breasts. He reached up and unhooked her bra, helping her slide the scrap of material off. He kneaded the soft flesh and teased the hard nipples as her kisses became more aggressive.

She ground her pelvis into his. Teasing him, teasing them both, letting the tension build until she wanted to explore more. Carefully she stepped off the sofa arm. She traced a pattern with her lips and tongue down his chest. She opened his fly and pushed his jeans down the hard muscles of his ass. She carefully guided his stiff cock around the zipper's teeth, relishing the tortured groan he emitted as she slowly started to pump it up and down.

Using the precum that beaded the top, she let her right hand play as she used her left to push his jeans farther down. Tristan stepped out of them and mindlessly kicked them aside before widening his stance to allow her to explore.

Heather cushioned the huge cock between her breasts and rocked back and forth in a pumping motion while her fingers teased his backside, running along his crack and dipping in to trace along his puckered hole. Tristan stiffened and started to pull away a little, but Heather held him firm and dug her nails into his cheeks. He got the hint and held still but kept his body rigid.

She took his cock in her mouth just as she sank her little finger into the raised ridge of his anus.

"Oh my God,” he muttered.

Heather could tell he was incredibly turned on by her blowjob but extremely unsure about being penetrated. She moved her mouth, mimicking the pumping action to his hole, until she found the smooth nub of his prostrate. When she did, he seized suddenly.

"Holy Christ! What the fuck was that?” he said with a moan.

"That's your sweet spot,” she murmured as she pulled her mouth off his cock to look up at him. “Do you like it?"

In response he closed his eyes and wiggled his ass. Heather engulfed him again, her little finger rubbing him within. It was incredibly sexy to see such a powerful man withering at her touch, her mercy, and it turned her on in a completely different way. She had done this before, with other men, yet somehow, with Tristan, none of this seemed dirty or ugly.

"Enough.” He pulled her up by her arms. Heather's finger left his body as she lounged against him, cradled between his thighs. Only the barrier of her sheer panties separated them.

He rested his forehead against hers, his chest heaving. Then he suddenly picked her up and swung her around, planting her ass on the back of the couch.

"I need to be in you!” he muttered in a deep, tortured voice.

"I wanted to be on top,” she replied.

"Believe me, you've more than proved your dominance of me.” He pulled off her panties and stepped into the juncture of her legs. She stopped him, holding her arm against his chest, and stared into his eyes. For a moment, there was a feral light in his eyes, wild and out of control, and she struggled against him.

He stilled and stepped back. “Heather?"

The uncertainty in his tone cleared her head and pushed away the tiny glint of fear that had blossomed. Desire returned in a rush, erasing the need to be in total control. Heather pulled him back into her. Tristan held her hips as he pushed his hard cock into her body. He held still for a moment, his forehead resting against hers, until she flexed her vaginal muscles and squeezed him. His eyes fluttered closed as he thrust again, his angle causing his shaft to rub against her clit.

She wrapped her legs around his hips as she dug her nails into his shoulders. He pulled her tight into his body, and she loved the sensation of feeling all of him all over her. He started rocking his hips slowly, allowing her time to digest every sensation. But the tension built all too soon. In moments she wanted more, harder and deeper. She urged him on, speeding him up by pumping her own hips to meet his.

Tristan understood her command and met the demands. He bent his knees slightly, getting a better angle, which caused his cock to bump against her sweet spot. Stars exploded behind her eyes. Heather gasped and started bucking wildly.

They strained together, dangling on the edge of a precipice. His breathing was harsh in her ear, and he shuddered first, crying out as he convulsed and poured himself into her. The knowledge that she had caused him to lose control triggered her climax.

As their bodies collapsed, they half slid off the back of the couch. He pulled from her, and immediately their combined juices started flowing down her thighs. Tristan caught her and heaved her warm body next to his. He just stood there for a long moment, holding her.

"Are you going to spend the night?” he asked in a quiet voice.

"No."

He eased back a little to stare into her eyes. She met his gaze, but veiled any hint of emotion she felt. This was just sex. This was all they could ever have. She reached for her panties, jeans, shirt, and bra before marching toward the hallway to find the bathroom.

As she cleaned herself up, her reflection caught her attention. Pale blonde hair, bleached lighter than her normal color, and big hazel eyes that seemed too hard for someone her age. She barely resembled the girl she'd been twenty years ago.

When she returned to the living room, Tristan had his jeans back on and sat at the table drinking a beer. Without another word, she turned and left. She walked back over the dark land, not quite sure what to think. But even if everything else confused her, she did know that sure as the sun rose in the morning, she'd be at Tristan's trailer again.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Fifteen

The next few days proved her theory correct. Every night she would leave the house to find her way to his trailer, where they would push aside everything between them and use each other's bodies to satisfy their insatiable hunger for one another. During the day she kept herself busy by either visiting with her grandfather or watching the ranch hands perform their duties.

So when he left during the day to run some ranch errands and hadn't come home for dinner, the restlessness settled over her once again. She took her usual walk and, without realizing it, had made her way to the stable. Most of the horses watched her, nodding their heads in greeting or snorting their hellos. She could tell it was time to muck out the stalls again from the odor of manure that grew stronger the farther she walked in.

She greeted her little mare with a lump of sugar, petting the pretty horse around the ears. Tristan's bay gelding watched her with dark eyes from his stall, and with a last pat to the mare, she walked over to the other horse and patted the white star on his forehead. He leaned into her caress, the hair flopping over his face and obscuring his eyes. Heather laughed and picked up a brush from a bench. Gently she brushed his hair out.

He must have liked it, because he rested his forehead on her shoulder, his big body shuddering in pleasure. Over and over she ran the brush through his wiry hair, the motion as soothing to her as it was to the big horse.

"This hair is just going to flop in your face again,” she said softly and scratched around his ear. “I have an idea; stay right here."

She sat the brush back down and hurried from the stable. She ran to the house, making her way silently to her room and searching through her luggage until she found what she was looking for. Then she made her way back to the stable, smiling at the greeting the horses gave her.

Tristan's horse watched her with alert eyes. Heather picked up the brush and started the grooming session again.

Heather sat at the breakfast table, drinking her coffee and eating a bagel. Mabel stood at the stove, cooking the usual breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage, and whatever else cowboys liked to eat.

"Do you do all the cooking, Mabel?"

"Sure do. I like cooking."

"Why do Tony, Jim, and Duke get to eat here too?"

"Because besides Tristan they're full-timers here; the rest of the hands are contracted to come every day."

"Cool. So you're a cook, an accountant, a nursemaid, and a housekeeper all rolled into one? You're Wonder Woman!"

Mabel chuckled. “I don't know about the housekeeper part. This place is a mess, if you hadn't noticed."

"Yeah, what's up with the nostalgic decor?"

"Lincoln never cared about that kind of stuff. Gloria did, but when she died, he just ignored it all."

"He loved her a lot?"

"Yep. I think one of the reasons why he didn't fight the cancer was because he wanted to be with her and Avery as quickly as possible."

Heather sighed. “I wonder what that's like."

"What?"

"Loving someone."

Heather could feel Mabel's searching glance, but she wasn't brave enough to meet it.

"Heather!” Tristan yelled her name a moment before he marched into the kitchen. He stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, glaring at her.

"What?"

"What did you do to my horse?"

Heather blinked and relaxed, sipping her coffee. “I brushed his hair. He liked it."

"I'm not talking about the brushing. I'm talking about the decoration!"

"Hold up, Tristan,” Mabel said. “What did she do?"

He pointed to the screen door. “Go look."

Mabel wiped her hands and then went to the door. A moment later she started laughing. Heather got up and stood beside her.

Tristan's horse stood there, the reins dangling on the ground, his mane brushed and molded into many braids with ribbons tied around the ends. His bangs had been teased to stand up and were held in place with a bright pink bow.

"See, his hair isn't in his eyes anymore,” Heather explained, very pleased with herself. “He likes being able to see."

The situation only got worse when Duke, Tony, and Jim walked up and got an eyeful of the horse, immediately laughing. Duke actually doubled over, holding his stomach.

"Heather!” Tristan growled. “He's a boy!"

"He's gelded."

"That doesn't make him gay!"

"There's nothing wrong with being gay."

"I didn't say that! Get the fucking ribbons out of his hair!"

"All right, all right,” she said with a huff as she stomped down the steps and up to the horse. He nudged her shoulder as she patted his forehead and untied her handiwork. “By the way, what's his name?"

There was an obvious hesitation on his part, so she turned her head to look at him, one eyebrow arching.

Finally he said, “His name is Dorian."

She didn't say anything; she didn't have to. Tristan swore under his breath and marched over, grabbing the dangling reins. Dorian followed his master meekly, his tail swishing, a pink bow tied at the top.

Duke and Tony collapsed upon each other, laughing so hard that tears streamed down their cheeks.

"That's got to be the funniest thing I've ever seen,” Mabel said, smiling widely.

But Heather wasn't laughing. She stared after Tristan, and her heart hammered against her chest. Unexpected tenderness sluiced through her, an emotion she had long thought dead, spreading warmth throughout her body. She blinked back tears, turning abruptly to march back into the house.

It was just a name, damn it. Why did it make her want to cry?

Damn it! Why hadn't he named his horse something else? A name not associated with her favorite book?

Tristan ran a hand over his face. She was tearing him apart. He wanted her all the time, thought about her all the time. He looked for her whenever she wasn't near and smelled her scent on his skin. She sneaked into his dreams, usually turning them into something wet and wild. He was quickly losing his mind.

And then the obvious hit him, causing him to stumble and stop in horror.

He loved her.

Dear God in heaven. Somehow, some way, she'd wormed her way into his heart.

Fuck!

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Sixteen

Tristan came stomping in around dinnertime. He hung up his coat, then slipped out of his boots before entering the kitchen. The few minutes allowed Heather to watch him openly, without having to conceal her feelings.

It wasn't the first time she wished she was a normal woman with uncomplicated feelings. But her baggage included a whole armada of suitcases.

He turned, and Heather immediately focused back on the potatoes she was currently peeling. She had spent all afternoon cutting up a whole grocery store of fresh food. Her fingers were sore and stiff, but she didn't complain. There was something very therapeutic about cutting up vegetables.

Tristan grabbed a beer out of the fridge. He turned to face her as he popped the top. She was acutely aware of his stare though he didn't say a word. By the end of supper, her nerves were stretched to the breaking point. He left immediately after, walking out of the kitchen without so much as a good-night.

Tony, Jim, and Duke left a little while later, so Heather helped Mabel wash dishes and clean up the kitchen. Yet through all the chores, her mind stayed focused on Tristan. It seemed all she did lately was think about him. When did that happen? When Mabel excused herself to go check in on Lincoln, Heather quickly dried her hands and left.

She banged on his screen door until he opened it with force.

"What?” he said with a growl.

"Let me in."

"No."

"Tristan, let me in."

With a sigh, he turned and stalked back inside. She followed, walking up to him, and though she didn't touch him, she felt the coiled tension thrumming through his body. A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw as he regarded her with wary eyes. She swallowed heavily, her heart beating like a hammer. “Tristan, touch me."

She thought he was going to ignore her. She could see in his eyes that he wanted to tell her to get the hell out, but she also felt the threads of desire weaving around them. Ensnaring them. And he was just as helpless to ignore them as she.

With a groan he reached for her, yanking her to his body, folding her back as he took her mouth with a kiss that touched her soul. He mastered her mouth, dominating it, his tongue sweeping inside to twirl with hers. Heather strained against him, feeling his erection, hot and hard for her welcoming warmth.

Tristan took her shoulders and pushed her back until she hit the wall, then he brought her hands up and held on to both of them with one of his.

"What are you doing?” she demanded as she tested the strength of his grip.

"You came to me,” he told her.

She struggled. “Let me go."

He leaned in close, sniffing the fragrance of her hair near her temples. “Don't you trust me?"

He wedged his knee between her legs, causing her breasts to be thrust upward. He bent his head and nuzzled her cleavage.

"Heather?” he prompted, his breath tickling her sensitive skin. “Do you trust me?"

There came a point in every relationship, good or bad, where trust had to be considered. Heather thought back to every moment with Tristan and realized that, yes, she did trust him. She'd trusted him from the moment she met him so long ago.

"Yes,” she replied softly.

He jerked his gaze to hers. Something passed between them, tangible and electric. He took her mouth again with his, the kiss somehow deeper. Emotional. He picked her up, and she wrapped her legs around his waist as he took her to the bedroom. He practically threw her on his bed, and before she could gather her scattered wits, he was on her, ripping clothes away. His, hers, they all disappeared in moments.

He kissed his way down her body, licking, nipping, making her cry out with pleasure. His hard body pressed against her, branding her. His scent, a blend of sweat, male and wind, filled her senses. She wanted him, wanted everything about him.

Tristan flipped her over, brought her to her hands and knees, positioned himself behind her, and thrust hard, impaling her. Heather cried out at the exquisite feeling as he slid in and out, stuffing her full. Her sex sucked him in deeper as she used her walls to milk his pleasure. She was so wet that a syrupy sound accompanied each thrust.

Eventually her arms collapsed, unable to hold her up any longer, and she fell facedown. Tristan held her ass up by curving one hand around her waist and propping the other on the bed.

"Yes, oh God yes,” she panted. “Harder."

She pushed against him as much as she could, reaching under to flick her own clit against his onslaught.

"Heather!” he said with a groan. “You're so beautiful. So tight. God, I can't last!"

With a loud moan, his climax shot out of him. He stiffened, jerking once, his ragged cry triggering her release.

They collapsed in a pile of sweaty arms and legs. She felt him kiss her tenderly on the top of her head, and emotions she'd never felt before suddenly crashed over her in waves. There were so many, it became difficult to sort through them, to identify all of them. Heather tried reining them in, pushing them away. Not here, not in his arms. She couldn't lose it now.

But her mind no longer controlled her heart, and before she knew it, tears were sliding down her cheeks as words she never thought she'd say came tumbling out of her mouth.

"I was raped."

Heather felt him stiffen, but he didn't pull away. That gave her the courage to soldier on, to open the wound that had been festering for years.

"After I left here, we went back to LA, but things were already deteriorating between my parents. They should never have gotten married, and they most certainly never should've had a kid."

His arms tightened around her, but he didn't say anything.

Heather cleared her throat. “In a typical teenage thought process, I determined that it had to be my fault, that they were both stuck in the awkward situation because of me. So I tried everything to make sure I didn't cause them any problems. But my dad, you know, he was just too immature to be a family man."

"I remember him,” Tristan replied.

"In school I was this nerd who kept to herself, usually reading or drawing.” She shuddered as the memories tumbled forth. “And then he asked me to meet him under the bleachers after a game, and I went because I wanted to know what it was like to be popular, to have the captain of the football team like me.” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “No one believed me when I said he raped me. He told everyone I asked for it, that I led him under the bleachers, that I seduced him. They called me a tease and a slut, and he got away with it."

"Your parents—"

"Believed him. At least my dad did. My mother didn't want to upset my dad any further, so she said nothing."

The tears burned her skin. She quickly wiped them away, ashamed of the weakness.

He lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were dark, searching. Unreadable. She had no clue to the thoughts tumbling in his head. But did it matter? Did she really care about his opinion of her?

Why did she tell him about that part of her past anyway? It had been a door she never opened, so why did she feel the need to unlock it now?

"You don't believe you asked for that, do you?"

She pulled out of his arms, sitting up to wrap her arms around her knees. “I tried ignoring what everyone said about me, but if you live with a lie long enough, then the truth disappears."

"Heather—"

"At first I was hurt, disappointed in my parents, in the teachers at school, in me. But then I got angry, and I don't know how to let go of that anger. I've learned that I can use sex to get anything I want, that if I play the bad girl everyone expects me to be, then I don't have to fulfill any expectations."

Tristan placed his hands on the sides of her face and turned her to look at him. She thrust out her chin and compressed her lips, defiance oozing out of every pore. But the look in his eyes took her breath away. Compassion, warmth, admiration. What she didn't see was pity, condemnation, disappointment, or mistrust, everything that she had expected to see shining back at her.

It made her heart soar. It thawed the ice that had frozen her deep inside.

Their lips came together softly. His thumb rubbed against her chin, a light caress that encouraged her to open for him. His tongue swept in, meeting hers in a dance. His lips moved over hers in a sensual rhythm that slowly built in need.

But with a little shove, he fell back on the bed, and she quickly straddled him, giving him a kiss made to burn. She raised his arms and held them above his head with one of hers. At any moment he could easily take over, dominate her, but he must have sensed that she needed to be in control, right now after sharing so much of herself.

"Keep your hands up,” she ordered.

He obliged, grabbing hold of the headboard as she let go to explore his hardened body.

She ran her hands over his chest, his arms, touching everywhere she could reach. She pinched his nipples until he squirmed deliciously. She kissed and nipped her way over his jaw, licking the salty sweat from his skin.

Even though he had hit his forties, he really didn't show any signs of aging. His abs were firm, contoured, with a sprinkling of hair that condensed into a line that ran to his groin. His cock had surged back to life and lay curved upward, almost long enough to touch his navel. A drop of precum glistened at the tip, and she bent her head to lick it.

Tristan groaned, and his hips shifted a bit, but he still held firm to the headboard. Encouraged, she took his cock in her hands and felt the stickiness of their encounter. She licked more, tasting him, tasting herself. It jumped like it had a mind of its own.

His hair encircled the base, wiry against her hand as she held him up to her mouth. She swallowed him, sucking hard, the tip hitting the back of her throat. She swallowed against her gag reflex and relaxed the muscle. Up and down she slid her mouth. Tristan kept moaning, and his hips kept moving, so she straddled his legs and held his hips down to keep him still. She wanted his torture. She wanted his pleasure to be uncontrollable.

"Stop, or I'm going to come in your mouth,” he hissed between clenched teeth.

"Then come,” she said.

"No. I want to be in you."

The mental image blossomed in her mind, and suddenly she was so turned on she couldn't think straight. All she wanted was his big cock stuffed inside her, so she pulled back and shifted her hips higher, holding his large cock in her hands as she sank onto him.

Both arched in hot, primal lust at the sensation. Heather put her hands on his pecs as she started to ride him, slow at first, but quickly building the tempo. She rocked against him, feeling him deep inside. She felt his thigh muscles clench every time she impaled herself onto him. Over and over she pumped herself, and her own muscles started to burn with the ride.

Heather threw back her head. She felt her hair tickle her ass. Tristan must have liked the sensation as well, because he bucked at the tickling swish of the strands over the tops of his legs. He started trembling. She felt his cock twitch and expand inside.

Sweat ran off their bodies, making the skin slick. Heather reached down between them to find her clit. She flicked it once, gave it a pinch, and exploded just as he slammed up hard.

She screamed in pleasure, and as her pussy clamped down on him, Tristan groaned deep in his throat as his orgasm broke. He finally let go of the headboard to grab her hips. He slammed her down once, twice, then held her still a third time as his cum filled her.

She collapsed on top of him. Boneless. Sated.

"Jesus, woman,” he managed to say as he sucked in a lungful of air, “you could kill a hard-working cowboy."

She smiled against his slick chest.

He put his arms around her, nestling her into his body.

For the first time in her life, Heather relaxed into the arms of a man, feeling safe. Warm. Home.

"I love you,” he whispered into her hair.

And just that quickly, her ease and comfort disappeared.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Seventeen

Why?

Why had he said that?

Why did he have to ruin everything?

What could he possible love about her?

Heather paced back and forth in the stable, the only place she felt comfortable enough to go and walk out her agitation. The horses stared at her curiously, but she ignored them, the four questions swirling around in her brain until a headache blossomed between her eyes.

Fuck!

She yanked out the crushed pack of cigarettes and lighter from her back pocket, glad that she had an unbroken one left. She put it to her lips and lit it, dragging in a lungful of sweet smoke, instantly relaxing as the nicotine hit her system.

It had to be the postcoital bliss that had him mumbling that drivel, because no way could he have fallen in love with her in three weeks! Could he? And if he really did love her, what did she feel toward him?

She'd never been in love, had never really believed in the notion of it. But Tristan was something completely different, something she'd never experienced before. He infuriated her, but he also calmed her. He knew just what to say to push all her buttons, good and bad. When she wasn't around him, she thought about him. She looked forward every morning to that moment when he walked in for breakfast.

And the sex was amazing.

Was this love?

Well, whatever it may be, his declaration had to be addressed. Didn't it? Maybe it would be better to wait and see what he would say to her in the morning light. Perhaps it would be best to pretend she hadn't heard him. Be cautious.

Heather took a deep breath, satisfied with the decision she had reached. Yes, it was definitely better to hold on and see if he even remembered what he'd said right after his orgasm.

Without thought she flicked the cigarette butt away and marched out of the stable, proud of her logical conclusion. The sun had just broken over the western horizon and men started mingling around, preparing for the day. A cacophony of animal sounds rose around her, and she smiled at the familiar noise.

"Fire!"

Heather spun toward the sound and saw white smoke spiraling out of the stable's open doors. Her eyes widened as fear and disbelief suffused her body, numbing her mind. Her feet couldn't move even though people rushed by her. The ranch hands swarmed around like ants, and she heard the stables rafter sprinklers turn on.

Tristan came running from his trailer and halted next to her.

"What the hell happened?"

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

He gave her a cold glare before running off to help. Heather stood frozen, her mouth hanging slightly open, the sound of terrified animals tearing at her heart. She watched as men started hacking with axes at one wall free of fire, working hard until they were able to get in and get the animals out. She watched with anxious eyes until she saw her mare come out unharmed, and then her bones melted, and she fell to her knees in relief.

Her relief, though, was short-lived. Seconds later Tristan yanked her by the arm, making her stand in front of him. His face blazed with fury.

"I told you to never smoke in the barns, Heather!” He shook her. “Goddamn you! We could have lost the horses!"

"I'm sorry! I wasn't thinking!"

"Obviously!” He let go of her and turned away. He swept off his hat to run a hand through his thick hair. “I don't understand you. Why the fuck are you smoking out here?"

"Because of you!” He stared at her in shock. “Why did you have to say you loved me? Why did you have to ruin everything?"

"How did I ruin it, Heather?” he shouted back. “Maybe because you love me too? Was that not in your plans? You figured to cover your bases for the ranch? If grandpa didn't will it to you, then you'd just keep me pussy whipped?"

She reached up and slapped him. The crack reverberated in the air around them. He didn't reach up to touch the area that already started turning bright red with her handprint.

She hadn't a clue what to say to him, so she quickly drew up her defenses, the walls she had built to keep the hurt far away. It was surprisingly easy to gather her sarcasm. She propped her fists on her hips and cocked her head.

"I really hope you enjoyed yourself, because you'll never get this pussy again.” She turned and flounced away, head up and shoulders squared. He called after her, but she ignored him.

She was done.

Heather sat beside her grandfather, her shoulders slumped and her head bowed. She felt ashamed. She hadn't felt that emotion in quite a long while, and it rested uncomfortably on her shoulders. Years ago she had vowed never to be ashamed of anything ever again, and for the most part, she had kept that promise.

But they had lost the stable. Horses almost died. Men could have been hurt. Because of her.

"I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I didn't mean to do it; I'm never touching cigarettes again."

"I can't yell at you for smoking, ‘cause hell, I'd be a hypocrite,” Lincoln Hart said, followed by a fit of coughing.

Heather quickly handed him the glass of water that rested on the nightstand. When Lincoln had drained the glass, she dabbed with a tissue at the water that trickled from the side of his mouth.

When he fell back against his pillows, she could see he was exhausted. His little bit of strength had been zapped. In the time she had been at the ranch, he had shrunk, his body slowly falling into decay. The stench of death overwhelmed the lavender sachets scattered around, a putrid, pungent odor that oozed from Lincoln's skin like cloying perfume. It lodged in the back of Heather's throat, causing her to swallow reflexively. She hoped she didn't gag while sitting next to him.

"I'm sorry,” she said again.

He waved the apology away and closed his eyes.

"Why are you here, Heather?"

"You asked me to come. Don't you remember?” she asked, confused.

"I'm not senile, just dying,” he replied with a huff. “I meant why are you staying? For the money?"

She didn't answer, but she raised her chin a hair.

"Tell me the five things you've learned, Heather Hart, and you'll get your money."

She didn't dispute his words, though she wanted to. She had a feeling he wouldn't believe her anyhow. “I've learned that a lifetime isn't long enough to learn it all. That no matter how long I stay here, I'll always be an outsider. I've learned that I like the warm feeling of the new sun on my face. I've learned that horses aren't so bad, and they don't care a wit what color ribbon is in their hair."

"And?"

She hesitated. She didn't really want to acknowledge the last thing.

"Heather?"

She sighed. “Tristan deserves this ranch. His whole life is here."

He grunted his acknowledgment of her statement.

She stood. “I'm leaving tomorrow."

"You're leaving before I die?"

"I can't watch you die. I can't..."

Her voice faded. She waited awkwardly, watching him, until he closed his eyes and turned his head.

Heather left the bedroom, passing Tristan, who stood outside. They each halted and stared at one another. He smelled of smoke, and the aroma caused her nose to twitch. Neither spoke, but she wanted to feel his arms around her, hugging her and telling her it was okay. That he forgave her.

But he didn't. Instead he walked past her into Lincoln's room and closed the door. It didn't quite click shut, and Heather could hear every word they said. She was helpless to do anything but listen.

"Tristan, I'm going to give you the ranch,” her grandfather said, his voice sounding heavy and tired.

Heather felt tears sliding from her eyes, burning her cheek.

"No, you're not,” Tristan replied.

Heather's heart stuttered.

"All of her life people have abandoned her,” Tristan continued. “Her father, her mother, you. I can't be the next. This ranch is hers, Lincoln."

"She'll sell it!"

"Then that's her prerogative as your heir."

"You love this land, Tristan. Can you say the same about her?"

"It doesn't matter. It's the right thing to do, Lincoln. I'll walk away before you pit us against each other any more. But if she keeps it, I'll guide her. She's a pretty amazing woman under the tough exterior, the dirty mouth, and shock value. You just gotta listen to what she doesn't say, rather than what she does. She's an innocent girl yearning for a place to belong. This is that place, Lincoln. I can see it in her eyes."

Silence descended upon her grandfather's bedroom. Quietly, Heather backed away. She didn't need to hear any more of the conversation. She had a lot to think about, a lot to digest.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Eighteen

For the next two days, Heather didn't leave her room except to go to the bathroom and to find something to eat. But she always went when no one else was in the house or when Mabel was in the old man's room.

She spent all the time in her bed with the covers pulled up to her chin as she stared into space and, for the first time, analyzed the rape. She had been a virgin and had liked the kissing part, but hadn't the experience to notice when the kissing had turned into deeper intentions. Before she knew what was happening, she lay beneath a boy, screaming in terror and humiliation. Heather could still feel his hands holding her down, the fear and the pain. The memories were sharp and clear even after twenty years.

For years she ignored everyone, until one day, when she was eighteen, she noticed an older man staring at her at the mall. He had walked up to her and held out a piece of paper, disappearing into the crowd. The note had said he found her sexy, and if she wanted to earn a little money, she should call him. She wasn't stupid; she realized what the note implied. But it made her realize that she had her own type of power. From that day on she saw herself differently, not as a victim or a shadow, but as a woman who could exact her own revenge against the male population.

So she had used that knowledge to her advantage and had discovered that sex really wasn't that bad or as painful the second time around.

But with Tristan sex was something amazing. She had touched heights she'd never really felt before. He had managed to erase the shame she had always associated with the act. He looked at her differently. He made her look at herself differently. So many people expected her to be strong, to be a fighter, but the truth was she was just surviving.

At that moment, sunlight broke through the clouds hovering in the sky and streamed through her window. The brightness hit her face, causing her to blink, and for a second she thought she saw a flash of silver in the sunshine before she closed her eyes against the brilliance.

The warmth felt good against her face. It helped chase away her cold memories. She started thinking of the past few weeks, the happiness she had started to feel. No matter what, Heather would always be grateful she'd had the chance to be here.

Tristan left her alone.

He realized Heather had gone through some intense emotions the past couple of days and probably needed some time and space to analyze it all. She wasn't the type of person who talked about her feelings, at least not easily, and he felt honored that she trusted him enough to be so open. It gave him hope.

Maybe it wasn't so crazy to think that she could fall for him.

Without seeing her, however, the days were long and tedious. He missed her at night. His arms felt empty and his bed cold. He walked into Mabel's kitchen each morning, but Heather never showed. He knew it was different than when she'd first arrived and refused to come down. That Heather and the present one were two totally different people.

That Heather had been a spoiled, selfish brat. This Heather, his Heather, was an emotionally crippled woman who needed some time to heal. However, he could only be patient for so long, and tomorrow he planned to invade her sanctuary and make sure she was okay.

He knew he freaked her out with his declaration of love, but he wasn't scared of it. And he was determined to make sure she wasn't either.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Nineteen

That night Lincoln Hart died in his sleep.

Mabel discovered him when she came in the morning to check on him, and she called Tristan immediately.

Heather stood in her bedroom doorway, crying, watching as the paramedics came to take her grandfather's lifeless body away. She regretted that she never got the chance to thank him, to let him know how her stay had changed everything for her.

The days that followed were mostly a blur as Mabel, in her efficient way, made all the funeral arrangements. Heather did what she could to help but found staying out of the way helped most of all.

People from all over the parish came to pay their respects, bringing food and drink, staying until late hours of the night to visit and reminisce. Heather found it comforting to talk to people who had known her grandparents. She liked hearing the stories. Now, it would be the only way to learn anything about him. It saddened her a bit that she'd wasted so much time with him when she had first arrived.

She saw Tristan throughout the days, but for the most part, he didn't look at her. She didn't blame him. He interacted with the neighbors and friends, taking their sympathy and sharing in their stories. This was what Hart Ranch was truly about. She saw that now. Community, togetherness, people caring about each other. It lifted her heart, knowing that the land would be well taken care of.

They buried her grandfather next to her grandmother, in the small parish cemetery in the nearby town of Mer Rouge. The sermon was thankfully short, and afterward Heather stood next to the beautiful dark casket draped in white roses.

"Ms. Hart?"

Heather turned around and saw a sturdy man dressed in black. He looked to be in his mid-to-late sixties, with silver hair and a heavily tanned face. “I'm Clevant Grand, Lincoln's lawyer. We talked before, when he requested you come for a visit."

"Yes,” she said. “I remember.” She had known this moment was coming and had dreaded it.

"Can we talk?"

"Would you like to come back to the ranch?"

He nodded. “I'll meet you there."

Heather stood in the den, staring out the window. Her black dress felt uncomfortable, like a glove that had been put on wrong.

Mr. Grand walked into the room and shut the door behind him. Heather turned and watched as he loosened his tie.

"Do you mind?” he asked with a gesture to the minibar in the room.

She shook her head.

"Lincoln was a friend, as well as my client,” he said with a sigh as he poured himself a tumbler of scotch. “I'm going to miss him.” He downed the drink before placing the glass aside. “It's all yours, Ms. Hart. But then again, I guess you're not surprised. You were his granddaughter, after all—"

"I'd like to give it to Tristan."

The lawyer blinked. “Excuse me?"

"Can you do a transfer of ownership? I don't know the legal name for it, but I would like the deed to the ranch and all the holdings turned over to Tristan Rogers."

It took a moment for Mr. Grand's mouth to close before he shook his head to clear it. “Ms. Hart, do you know the net value of this ranch? Or how much your grandfather was worth? You're a rich woman."

"I was a rich woman when he was alive, Mr. Grand. Now I'm an intruder in a place I don't really belong. My grandfather tried to make me feel like a part of this land, but it was an experiment that failed. Tristan should have been named successor."

"But you're his granddaughter. You're a Hart."

"It's just a name, Mr. Grand. A thousand other people have the same."

The lawyer's eyebrows drew together in confusion. Heather didn't have the heart to explain her comment.

"It'll take some time for me to draft up the papers, clear the title."

"That's fine.” She felt the tears welling, and she wanted to escape before they fell. She didn't want anyone seeing her heart shattering. “Well, then, that's just great. I, uh, have to go. I'll be leaving tomorrow, so I have to pack."

"Leaving? Where are you going?"

She fell silent for a moment and just stared at him because she would never, ever, tell him that of all the possible destinations, here is where she wanted to stay.

Instead, she smiled and said, “I have your number so I'll let you know my address so you can, you know, send the papers."

She hurried out of the den, her heels making loud staccato raps on the hardwood floor as she escaped up the stairs and into her room. She barely had the door closed before the tears burst forth, unable to be contained any longer.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Twenty

She left early the next morning without telling anyone good-bye. Perhaps it was cowardly of her, but she hadn't the strength to say farewell. Her little SUV chugged its way down the road, and she refused to look in the rearview mirror.

She headed south, having picked Baton Rouge as her destination. She didn't want to go back to Los Angeles, back to a city that held so many bad memories. She wanted to start over, to be someone new. Someone who could be happy.

Lincoln Hart had been true to his word and had made sure that a thousand dollars had ended up in her bank account. She used the money frugally, setting herself up in a small apartment. She found a job as an aerobics instructor at a local gym. And when the papers came in the mail from Mr. Grand, Heather had no trouble signing everything over to Tristan. It was the only thing she could give him to acknowledge how much he meant to her. And as soon as she signed her name, the band around her heart eased. Life flowed back into her, and the pain of losing him lessened just a tiny bit.

It didn't really surprise her to see Tristan's truck at her apartment complex several days later. She'd figured it was only a matter of time until he came to confront her. She didn't say a word as she walked to her door, Tristan following on her heels.

As soon as he came inside, he halted and glanced around at the empty apartment. She could imagine what he was thinking. The only money she had spent was to buy a secondhand mattress, some sheets from the thrift center, and a wobbly bar stool so she could sit at the counter when she ate. But she didn't mind the starkness; it made her feel clean and humble.

When she turned the dead bolt on the door, he spun to face her.

"What's the meaning of this?” Tristan demanded as he held up the papers.

"I thought that was obvious. I'm giving you the ranch."

"Why? You inherited it—"

"The old man was right. You love that land, Tristan; it should have been yours."

"Heather, I don't understand. I can help you work the ranch, to run it correctly. Come back home."

"I can't. Don't you understand? Leaving it behind is the only punishment I have for my sin."

"What sin? Being raped isn't a sin, Heather!"

"I'm not talking about the rape, Tristan. I'm talking about the consequences."

"Consequences?” And then she saw it dawn on him. He blinked. “You got pregnant."

Heather nodded. “My father blamed me, my mother tried to defend me, and I thought if I had an abortion, it would make my father stay. But he didn't, so I murdered my child for nothing."

She could see the news staggered him.

"Oh my God, Heather."

"How can I possibly find happiness, Tristan, when I'm such a horrible person?"

He immediately reached out and pulled her into his arms. “If you were a horrible person, Heather, you wouldn't be suffering over twenty years from a mistake made through the eyes of a child. And that's what you were, an innocent child who needed protecting. And instead everyone abandoned you."

"The only atonement I can give is through you, Tristan."

He pulled back to look down at her. His brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?"

She sighed and gave him a small smile. “When I signed those papers, I felt a burden lift from my soul because for the first time, I did the right thing. I've hated myself for so long that I didn't even recognize when I stopped, but I understand it all now. I get it."

He brushed the hair off her cheek. “What do you get?"

"The bitterness was a poison. And you and the ranch were the antidote. I think the old man knew it, that's why he invited me there."

Silence descended over them. She stared at him, and he at her.

"Don't leave me, Heather."

Her breath hitched in her throat. “What?"

"I meant what I said. I love you. I'm not running from that. I refuse to let you run from it, either."

"How can you love me?” The words came out in a broken cry, and it stunned her a little to realize that question had been burning inside for a long, long time.

"Because I remember a little girl who once asked me who saves the clown, and the answer is you. I've waited years for you, and you're more beautiful, more courageous, and stronger than any person I know. How could I not love you?"

Tears overflowed, cascading down her face. Heather threw her arms around his neck, and their mouths met in fierce need. He cradled her face with his hands, deepening the kiss, turning it from tender to scorching in seconds. Their tongues met, dueled, meshed.

He bent and lifted her up in his arms, carrying her into the tiny bedroom and settling her on the mattress that was on the floor. Clothes disappeared in moments, moved aside in quick motions to bring skin together.

They teased, they touched, the fire igniting white-hot. Heather let her legs fall open, and immediately Tristan surged in. Both moaned, and Heather pushed up to meet his thrust. Their mouths met again, kissing, licking, as they moved.

He held her hips as he penetrated deep, in and out, over and over.

"You're so fucking tight,” he whispered, slipping a hand between their bodies to rub against her clit. His forehead rested on her shoulder.

"Tristan!” she cried out in pleasure. “Harder! Please!"

Obeying, he used his free hand to lever himself up, making his cock sink even farther. He pulled out and then plunged back in, ramming hard into her tight sheath. Sweat slicked off him onto her body, lubricating their skin. She licked the salty moisture from his arm, his chest, giving as good as she got. She felt an orgasm rising, singing through her body, and she didn't hold it back. It crashed over her, stars bursting behind her closed eyes.

Panting, she didn't protest when Tristan pulled out and flipped her over, pulling her up on her knees. She propped herself on her elbows, then looked over her shoulder as he positioned himself behind her.

He plunged in, drilling down deep, using her hips as leverage to ram inside her. Heather pushed against him, meeting every thrust, his testicles slapping against her ass. She stretched out her knees farther, causing her to bend lower, giving him a better angle and allowing her to reach underneath. As he pushed, she gave his sac a gentle tug.

Tristan went wild, moaning her name over and over until his crest hit. Unexpectedly, another orgasm swept through her as she felt his cock jerking inside her. They collapsed in a heap, hearts pounding, breathing like they'd just run a marathon.

"I love you,” he whispered.

This time, she embraced the words.

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Chapter Twenty-one

Three years later...

A high-pitched squeal reverberated through the house, immediately followed by the pounding of Tristan's booted feet as he chased after his son. Heather paused in her painting to smile and wait for Linc to come bounding into her studio.

"Mama!” He laughed and launched himself at her.

"The tickle monster needs to tickle!” Tristan appeared in the doorway, his hands up and his fingers working in a wiggling motion.

Two-year-old Linc squealed again, laughing, as he buried his head in Heather's lap. Tristan stalked forward, being careful not to hit her easel, until he reached mom and son. Then he began tickling both.

Laughing, Heather tried protecting Linc at the same time she tried to push Tristan away. They all collapsed in a heap of tangled arms and legs.

"Bad Dada!” Linc said and immediately tried his own tickling with his tiny hands. Tristan howled and lay there passively as his son gleefully retaliated. Heather sat back and watched her family. She had grown used to the contented feeling that now filled the once hollow ache deep in her heart. She couldn't imagine life without her two special men.

Tristan caught her eye and winked.

She gave a silent, special thanks to the old man for the competition that had brought her back, to this home and to this love.

THE END

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Loose Id Titles by Beth D. Carter

A Man After Midnight

A Silver Lining

Spirals

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Beth D. Carter

I've been pretty fortunate in life to experience some amazing things. I've lived in France, traveled throughout Europe, Australia and New Zealand. I am a mom to an amazing little boy named Hadrian. I live in Los Angeles, surrounded by friends and family, and work in a career that I love. I've managed to fulfill my lifelong dream of being published. I can't imagine not creating stories and becoming obsessed with characters I create. I am constantly trying to better my craft and each book is something near and dear to my heart. I love writing characters who are real, complex and full of flaws, heroes and heroines who find redemption through love. I draw much from my own experiences and journeys and hope that readers find a part of themselves between the pages. I love to hear from people and can be found on Facebook and at www.bethdcarter.com.

Visit www.loose-id.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgement

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Loose Id Titles by Beth D. Carter

Beth D. Carter

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