Heartbreaker by Linda Howard Page A

doing it right! This is still my land, and I'm not willing to pay the
price you want for your help."
    "I'm not giving you a choice." He
took her arm, and no matter how she tried she couldn't jerk free of those long,
strong fingers as he dragged her over to the truck, opened the door and lifted
her onto the seat.
    He released her then, slamming the door and
stepping back.
    "Drive carefully, honey. I'll be right
behind you."
    She had to drive carefully; the pasture was
too rough for breakneck speed, even if the old relic had been capable of it.
She knew he was easily able to keep up with her on his horse, though she didn't
check the rearview mirror even once. She didn't want to see him, didn't want to
think about selling the cattle to pay her debt. That would be the end of the
ranch, because she'd been relying on that money to keep the ranch going.
    She'd hoped he wouldn't come back today,
though it had been a fragile hope at best. After talking to Roger that morning,
all she wanted was to be left alone. She needed time by herself to regain her
control, to push all the ugly memories away again, but John hadn't given her
that time. He wanted her, and like any predator he'd sensed her vulnerability
and was going to take advantage of it.
    She wanted to just keep driving, to turn the
old truck down the driveway, hit the road and keep on going. She didn't want to
stop and deal with John, not now. The urge to run was so strong that she almost
did it, but a glance at the fuel gauge made her mouth twist wryly. If she ran,
she'd have to do it on foot, either that or steal John's horse.
    She parked the truck in the barn, and as she
slid off the high seat John walked the horse inside, ducking his head a little
to miss the top of the doorframe. "I'm going to cool the horse and give
him some water,' ' he said briefly.''Go on in the house. I'll be there in a
minute."
    Was postponing the bad news for a few minutes
supposed to make her feel better? Instead of going straight to the house, she
walked down to the end of the driveway and collected the mail. Once the mailbox
had been stuffed almost every day with magazines, catalogs, newspapers, letters
from friends, business papers, but now all that came was junk mail and bills.
It was odd how the mail reflected a person's solvency, as if no one in the
world wanted to communicate with someone who was broke. Except for past-due
bills, of course. Then the communications became serious. A familiar envelope
took her attention, and a feeling of dread welled in her as she trudged up to
the house. The electric bill was past due; she'd already had one late notice,
and here was another one. She had to come up with the money fast, or the power
would be disconnected. Even knowing what it was, she opened the envelope anyway
and scanned the notice. She had ten days to bring her account up to date. She
checked the date of the notice; it had taken three days to reach her. She had
seven days left. .
    But why worry about the electricity if she
wouldn't have a ranch? Tiredness swept over her as she entered the cool, dim
house and simply stood for a moment, luxuriating in the relief of being out of the
broiling sun. She shoved the bills and junk mail into the same drawer of the
entry table where she had put the original bill and the first late notice; she
never forgot about them, but at least she could put them out of sight.
    She was in the kitchen, having a drink of
water, when she heard the screen door slam, then the sharp sound of boot heels
on the oak parquet flooring as he came down the hallway. She kept drinking,
though she was acutely aware of his progress through the house. He paused to
look into the den, then the study. The slow, deliberate sound of those boots as
he came closer made her shiver in reaction. She could see him in her mind's
eye; he had a walk that any drugstore cowboy would kill for: that loose,
long-legged, slim-hipped saunter, tight buttocks moving up and down. It was a
walk that came