The Horseman's Bride. Elizabeth Lane
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past few months he’d learned to savor every day of freedom as if it might be his last. Today was no exception.
“I know a fine animal when I see one,” she said. “What’s your stallion’s name?”
“Doesn’t have one.”
“Why on earth not? A horse as grand as this one deserves a name, at least.”
“Why?” Jace was playing her now, parrying to keep her at a distance. “Does a horse care whether he has a name or not?”
“No. But maybe I do.” In the silence that followed, Jace could imagine her ripe lips pursed in a willful pout.
He forced a chuckle. “So you name him. Go ahead.”
Again she fell into a pause. The stallion trotted beneath them, its gait like flowing silk. “Galahad,” she said. “I’ll name him Galahad, after the knight in the King Arthur tales.”
“Fine. Galahad’s as good a name as any.”
“May I ask how you came by him?”
“You’re wondering whether I stole him, aren’t you?”
“Did you?” she demanded.
“I borrowed him. He belongs to my sister.” That much was true, at least. Never mind that she wouldn’t believe him. He didn’t give a damn about her good opinion. He only planned on staying until he earned enough to move on. Maybe he could make it to California before the cold weather set in. Or maybe Mexico. A man could get lost in Mexico.
“So how do you come to be working for my grandmother?” Her voice dripped suspicion.
“I came by the ranch a couple of days ago looking for work. She was kind enough to hire me and feed me in the bargain. She’s one fine lady, Mrs. Gustavson.”
“That she is. And my family would kill anybody who tried to take advantage of her, or harm her in any way.”
“I take it that’s a warning.”
“You can take it any way you like.” Her arms tightened around him as the horse jumped a shallow ditch. The chestnut colt had raised its head and was watching their approach. Jace slowed the stallion to a walk.
Galahad. At least Clara had chosen a sensible name. Hollis Rumford, his sister Ruby’s late, unlamented husband, had probably called the horse Archduke Puffington of Rumfordshire or something equally silly. Hollis had cared more about his damned horses than he’d cared about his wife and daughters. The last Jace had seen of the bastard, he’d been lying in a pool of blood with three bullet holes in his chest. Jace’s only regret was that the shots hadn’t hit lower.
Jace hadn’t planned on keeping the stallion. But he’d come to realize that traveling on horseback through open country was safer than going by rail or road. And, for all his resolve to remain unattached, he’d developed a fondness for the big bay. As long as Galahad understood who was boss, he was amiable company. The fact that he could outrun any horse west of the Mississippi gave Jace even more reason to keep him.
“Stop.” Clara’s fingers pressed Jace’s ribs. The chestnut colt watched them warily, poised to bolt at the slightest perceived threat. Jace halted the stallion, holding steady as she shifted behind him. “Stay here,” she hissed, easing to the ground.
Jace watched her walk away. Despite his teasing, he had to admit she had a horsewoman’s grace, an easy way of moving like the sway of long grass in the wind. Her mud-streaked denims—made for a boy, most likely—clung to her hips in a most unboyish way, outlining her firm little buttocks. Her hair fluttered down her back in a glorious tangle of mahogany curls.
Clara had an hourglass figure, her womanly curves offset by a tiny waist. Jace couldn’t help comparing her with Eileen Summers, the governor’s niece he’d been courting back in Missouri. Eileen was as lean as a saluki, her champagne hair flawlessly sculpted, her usual silken gown skimming her elegant bones. In her slim, white fingers, she’d held the key to a world of power and influence—a world that, for Jace, had vanished with his sister’s frantic telephone call. He’d had no chance to tell Eileen what had happened and why he had to leave. But that was likely for the best.
He had no doubt that word had spread like wildfire after he’d left. And the very proper Miss Summers wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with an accused murderer on the run.
“Easy, boy …” Clara walked toward the nervous colt, the tall grass swishing against her legs. One hand held the small apple she carried for such emergencies. The stranger sat his horse, his cool gaze following her every movement.
Tanner. Was that his first name or his last name? No matter, it probably wasn’t his name at all. He had the look and manner of a man with something to hide. She would need to have a serious talk with her grandmother. Mary Gustavson was far too trusting.
Maybe she should talk with her father as well. Judd Seavers would probably run the stranger off the place with a shotgun. But then the stallion would be gone. She would lose the chance to add his splendid bloodline to next spring’s foals.
Her father had enough on his mind. She wouldn’t trouble him about the stranger. Not yet, at least.
“Easy.” She held out her hand with the apple on the flat of her palm. Foxfire pricked up his ears. His nostrils twitched. He took a tentative step toward her, thrusting his muzzle toward the treat. “That’s it. Good boy!” As the colt munched the apple, Clara caught the bridle with her free hand. Moving cautiously, she eased herself back into the saddle.
The man who called himself Tanner was grinning at her. “Right fine job of horse-catching, Miss Clara,” he drawled. “Couldn’t have done it better myself.”
“You needn’t patronize me, Mr. Tanner. There’s not that much to catching a horse that I’ve trained.” Clara turned the colt back toward the last open section of fence. “Why not build a gate here? We come this way all the time to visit my grandmother. If we can’t get through, we’ll have to go by way of the road. It’s three times the distance.”
“Not a bad suggestion. But I’ll need to get the boss’s approval and see what’s in the shed that I can use.” He pulled his horse alongside hers. “Meanwhile, as long as we’re going the same way, I hope you won’t mind my company.”
Clara bit back a caustic retort. Tanner’s high-handed manner made her bristle. But she’d made up her mind to learn more about the stranger. Here was her chance. She slowed the colt to a walk.
“You seem to know plenty about me,” she said. “But I don’t know anything about you. Where did you come from?”
Tanner’s narrowed eyes swept the grassy pastureland, looking everywhere but at her. In the silence, a meadowlark called from its perch atop a fence post.
“I grew up in Missouri,” he said at last. “But whatever kept me there is long gone. Drifting’s become a way of life for me. Can’t say as I mind it.”
“No family?”
He shook his head. “None that I’ve kept track of. My parents died years ago. The rest moved on.”
What about your sister? The one you said lent you the stallion?
The question burned on the tip of Clara’s tongue. She bit it back. Confronting Tanner would only put him on guard. Let him go on feeding her lies. He’d already confirmed her suspicions that he was holding something back. Give him enough rope and he was bound to hang himself.
All she needed was a little patience.
But he wasn’t making it easy for her.
Why did the man have to be so tall and broad-shouldered? Why did he have to have a chiseled face and eyes like twin blue flames? Right now those eyes looked as if they could burn right through her clothes. Any town boy who looked at her like that would be asking to get his face slapped.
The