Sweet Enemy by Diana Palmer Page A

of the mammoth pecan trees in
the sprawling orchard. Maggie never failed to be impressed
with the orderly lines they'd been planted in so many years
before.
    "I wonder how old they are," she murmured absently.
    "The trees?" Clint smiled. "Older than either one of us, that's
a fact."
    "Speak for yourself, Grandpa," she returned impishly.
    He slanted a vengeful glance her way and pulled his hat low over
his brow. "Dangerous ground, Maggie."
    "I'm not afraid of you," she teased. "Your poor old bones are so
brittle they'd probably break if you chased me."
    He reined in his stallion and glared at her. "I think Brent had
a point," he told her. "How about guns at fifty paces
tomorrow morning?"
    "Are you sure your hand's steady enough to hold a
gun…?"
    "Damn you!" he laughed.
    She laughed back, and the years nearly fell away. "Race you to
the meadow!" she called, and put her heels to Melody's flanks.
    She thought she had him beat as they rode across the green
pasture with its scattering of wildflowers and headed toward
the woods. But before she could reach them, Clint passed her as if
the small mare she rode was backing up. No one, she thought
miserably, could beat him at this. He was a superb horseman, almost
part of the horse he rode, and a study in masculine grace and
power.
    " Where've you been?" he asked as she reined up beside him. He
paused in the act of lighting a cigarette to grin at her flushed,
angry face. "Sore loser!"
    She made a face at him. "Why do you always have to win?"
    "It's my land," he replied nonchalantly.
    Her eyes swung over the lush, grassy pasture to the fences far
away in the distance, to the herds of cattle that looked
like red and white dots. "It's beautiful," she murmured softly.
    "You didn't always think so," he reminded her. "And you
were right. Ranch life has its drawbacks, Maggie. There isn't much
night life around here, much excitement. It can get pretty
lonely."
    "Is that how I strike you?" she asked with a wistful smile. "A
city girl with a passion for nightclubs?"
    He studied her narrowly over his cigarette. "Definitely a
city girl. You always were."
    She let her eyes follow the flight of a vivid yellow and black
butterfly nearby. "I'm glad you know me so well."
    There was an explosive silence. "If you hate the city so damned
much, why do you live there?"
    She flinched at the quiet fury in his voice. "What else could I
do? All I know how to be is a secretary." She glared at him. "There
aren't many jobs available for women cowhands, in case you've
forgot-ten. Or is it," she added coldly, "that you just never noticed I
wasn't a boy?"
    His eyes twinkled with humor. "To tell the truth, honey, I never
gave it much thought."
    She touched the mare's flanks gently and urged her into a walk.
"Thanks."
    The path through the woods was wide enough for both horses to
walk abreast- more a fire road than a trail. The peace was
hypnotic, only broken by the soft swish of the pines in the breeze,
the near-far sound of bubbling, soft-running water.
    "This way," Clint said, turning his mount down a smaller, less
clear path.
    She followed him to what seemed to be a wall of underbrush. He
stepped down out of the saddle and tied the stallion,
motioning Maggie to tie the mare several yards beyond.
    He held the branches back for her, and as she strode forward
into the small clearing, it was suddenly like stepping back
through time. The tiny stream where she and Janna once spent lazy summer afternoons wading and
sharing dreams over a picnic lunch was there. As clear and sweet
and sandy as ever.
    "Watch where you walk," he cautioned her as he settled his tall
form under a low-hanging oak. "I've had cattle mire down in that
soft sand."
    She glared at him as she sat down to pull off her socks and
boots. "If I moo politely, will you haul me out?"
    He grinned under the concealing brim of his hat, as he lay back
with his hands under his head. "I might."
    She waded into the clear stream, delighting at the feel of
the cold