closed her eyes, the emotions that Rafe’s kiss and subsequent statement had aroused in her came back to haunt her.
Obviously they had a sexual chemistry that wouldn’t quit. He had only to touch her and she caught fire; he had only to tell her how he felt and she practically melted into a puddle athis feet. But she had to ask herself how much of their desire was rooted in nostalgia. She also had to wonder whether the question was moot now that he’d found out about Tony.
Jeannie realized that Rafe probably hated the Cranes with a passion. And with good reason, she had to admit. One had run him off the ranch, and one had robbed him of precious years of his son’s life. Now he was going to extract his revenge, and unless she wanted a messy court battle with Tony in the middle, she was going to have to pay.
Rusty’s bay snorted restlessly in the silence, eager to get moving. Dust clouded the horizon as cowhands herded prime beef toward the holding pens. A pregnant mare, her abdomen swollen to twice its normal size, munched tender sprigs of green grass in the pasture.
Nature quickened in spring, as did the ranchwork—sorting cattle, branding calves, and catching foals. Add to that the task of keeping up with Tony and the business of settling Big Tom’s estate, and Jeannie hadn’t had time to discuss what she had learned the day of the funeral with Rusty.
“You knew all along that Big Tom had sent Rafe away, didn’t you?” she whispered when he finished the letter and handed it back to her.
There was a short pause before he answered. “He didn’t come right out and tell me what he’d done, but it didn’t take long for me to figure it out.”
“Why, Rusty?” She choked on a sob, as always demanding from him the answers she couldn’t find elsewhere. “Why did he do it?”
As spare with words as he was in appearance, the old cowboy said succinctly, “He was trying to protect you.”
“In the long run he punished me—and Tony too.”
“He thought the sun rose and set in that boy.”
She hid her bitterness behind a sardonic smile. “He was so desperate for a male heir, he was even willing to overlook the fact that Tony’s father was Hispanic.”
Rusty seemed disinclined to speak ill of the dead. “Aren’t you judging him a little harshly?”
“Harshly?” Jeannie was in neither an understanding nor a forgiving mood. “By rights I ought to hate him.”
“There’s no hate in you—only grief.” He dropped the reins and gently gathered her into his arms, their embrace speaking volumes about the strong bond between them.
Big Tom had given Jeannie her first horse, but it was the red-headed Rusty who’d taught her to ride, then wiped her tears and told her to get right back up in the saddle when she was thrown. And it was Rusty, grinning as proudly as any father there, who’d taken her to those barrel-racing contests she’d competed in as a child and cheered her on to victory.
Her mother had thought the world of him too. Laurrinda Crane might have been BigTom’s beautiful blond wife, but within months of his hiring on as ranch manager of the Circle C, Rusty Pride would have walked barefoot over barbed wire for the former debutante from San Antonio.
There had hardly been a day that Laurrinda hadn’t called on the cowboy to run some errand that her husband was too busy or too dad-blamed impatient to do. Once, years ago, when Big Tom had gone to a cattle auction, she had even asked Rusty to help her host an old-fashioned barbecue for the planning committee for the Bluebonnet Ball, one of the most prestigious social events of the season. Big Tom had gotten back in time to escort his wife to the ball, of course, but Jeannie would never forget how eagerly Rusty had danced attention on her mother the night of the cookout.
Laurrinda had counted on him more than ever toward the end. When the lump in her breast was pronounced both malignant and metastatic, it was Rusty—not Big Tom—who’d sat
Obviously they had a sexual chemistry that wouldn’t quit. He had only to touch her and she caught fire; he had only to tell her how he felt and she practically melted into a puddle athis feet. But she had to ask herself how much of their desire was rooted in nostalgia. She also had to wonder whether the question was moot now that he’d found out about Tony.
Jeannie realized that Rafe probably hated the Cranes with a passion. And with good reason, she had to admit. One had run him off the ranch, and one had robbed him of precious years of his son’s life. Now he was going to extract his revenge, and unless she wanted a messy court battle with Tony in the middle, she was going to have to pay.
Rusty’s bay snorted restlessly in the silence, eager to get moving. Dust clouded the horizon as cowhands herded prime beef toward the holding pens. A pregnant mare, her abdomen swollen to twice its normal size, munched tender sprigs of green grass in the pasture.
Nature quickened in spring, as did the ranchwork—sorting cattle, branding calves, and catching foals. Add to that the task of keeping up with Tony and the business of settling Big Tom’s estate, and Jeannie hadn’t had time to discuss what she had learned the day of the funeral with Rusty.
“You knew all along that Big Tom had sent Rafe away, didn’t you?” she whispered when he finished the letter and handed it back to her.
There was a short pause before he answered. “He didn’t come right out and tell me what he’d done, but it didn’t take long for me to figure it out.”
“Why, Rusty?” She choked on a sob, as always demanding from him the answers she couldn’t find elsewhere. “Why did he do it?”
As spare with words as he was in appearance, the old cowboy said succinctly, “He was trying to protect you.”
“In the long run he punished me—and Tony too.”
“He thought the sun rose and set in that boy.”
She hid her bitterness behind a sardonic smile. “He was so desperate for a male heir, he was even willing to overlook the fact that Tony’s father was Hispanic.”
Rusty seemed disinclined to speak ill of the dead. “Aren’t you judging him a little harshly?”
“Harshly?” Jeannie was in neither an understanding nor a forgiving mood. “By rights I ought to hate him.”
“There’s no hate in you—only grief.” He dropped the reins and gently gathered her into his arms, their embrace speaking volumes about the strong bond between them.
Big Tom had given Jeannie her first horse, but it was the red-headed Rusty who’d taught her to ride, then wiped her tears and told her to get right back up in the saddle when she was thrown. And it was Rusty, grinning as proudly as any father there, who’d taken her to those barrel-racing contests she’d competed in as a child and cheered her on to victory.
Her mother had thought the world of him too. Laurrinda Crane might have been BigTom’s beautiful blond wife, but within months of his hiring on as ranch manager of the Circle C, Rusty Pride would have walked barefoot over barbed wire for the former debutante from San Antonio.
There had hardly been a day that Laurrinda hadn’t called on the cowboy to run some errand that her husband was too busy or too dad-blamed impatient to do. Once, years ago, when Big Tom had gone to a cattle auction, she had even asked Rusty to help her host an old-fashioned barbecue for the planning committee for the Bluebonnet Ball, one of the most prestigious social events of the season. Big Tom had gotten back in time to escort his wife to the ball, of course, but Jeannie would never forget how eagerly Rusty had danced attention on her mother the night of the cookout.
Laurrinda had counted on him more than ever toward the end. When the lump in her breast was pronounced both malignant and metastatic, it was Rusty—not Big Tom—who’d sat
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