The Cowboy Who Broke The Mold. Cathleen Galitz

for a woman alone, you know. And call me Jud. Unlike the big city, we don’t stand on formality around here.”

      Bristling, Carrie wondered whether the only place this Western Neanderthal thought women belonged was the bedroom and the kitchen—in that order.

      Judson Horn’s smirk did not diminish in the least at her obvious antipathy. If anything, he seemed to take malevolent pleasure from her disapproval. Sidling closer to the door, Carrie turned her head sharply away and looked out the window, determined to tune out the decidedly handsome stranger with whom she had no choice but to share the next hundred or so miles.

      Jud passed off the new schoolteacher’s cold shoulder as typical urbane snobbery. As a rule, outsiders gener- ally considered themselves culturally superior to locals. A man of the land himself, he was certain that only twisted thinking could suppose concrete and skyscrap- ers preferable to a life in wide-open spaces. His ances- tors had been wise in their desire to protect Mother Earth from the white man’s butchery, their children from his poisoned thoughts.

      It amused him to think that Little Miss Eastern Know-It-All was sorely mistaken in her assumption that he was some two-bit hired hand whom she could dis- miss however rudely she pleased. Though he briefly considered clarifying his identity, his rather bent sense of humor stopped him from doing so. It would simply be too much fun to see how sophisticated Ms. Raben would react when she discovered that a half-breed In- dian was her new boss!

      True, he had fallen into the position by default. And gauging by the volume of public dismay when his ap- pointment to the Board of Trustees had been announced, it would have been wise for him to have simply de- clined the “honor.” Instead, ignoring the raised eye- brows of his neighbors, he’d dug in his heels, deter- mined to prove the patrons of School District No. 4 wrong about him once again.

      As if it wasn’t enough just raising twin cyclone kids by himself and trying to keep his ranch profitable in tight times, he could do without the headaches that in- evitably went along with local politics—particularly for someone of his temperament and dubious background.

      But Judson Horn wasn’t a man who took the easy way out of anything. Besides, if there was ever a way to protect his own children from the biases that had plagued his own schooling, serving on the school board was the surest way to guarantee the education to which they were entitled. If that meant the twins had to endure some cruel teasing by their classmates, then so be it. He’d endured it. And when all was said and done, he would have to say he was a stronger person because of it.

      Even if his biological father had undoubtedly played on the sympathy garnered by his terminal illness to pub- licly acknowledge the son he’d refused to claim at birth, there wasn’t a damned thing Judson could do about his father’s deathbed wish. He only knew it must have taken an Academy-Award-winning performance to con- vince Harmony’s strictly anglo Board of Education to accept a bastard half-breed in their hallowed ranks.

      Judson fought the anger that rose like bile in his throat. He would have liked the opportunity to tell that sorry excuse for a man not to bother. Coming at the end of a lifetime of denial and betrayal, such a gran- diose public gesture had been vulgar at best. At worst, the final joke of a hypocrite who hadn’t bothered to claim his illegitimate son when it would have mattered to him. Arthur Christianson had only deluded himself during his last days with the thought that he could somehow buy righteousness and lay claim to his only grandchildren through a last will and testament. It mat- tered little to Judson that his inheritance was substantial. As far as he was concerned, his old man would spend eternity in hell waiting for his forgiveness.

      Eternity and then some.

      

      “What was that?” Carrie asked, interrupting the dark thoughts that cast a shadow across Judson’s handsome features.

      Her eyes were like those of a child as they followed the movement of a graceful brown and white creature that darted across the road in front of them and slipped beneath the barbed-wire fence lining the highway.

      “Haven’t you ever seen an antelope before?” he scoffed.

      Aware that Judson Horn seemed to think such lack of knowledge was grounds to revoke her teaching cer- tificate, Carrie reluctantly admitted her ignorance.

      “Well, you’d better get used to ’em. There are more of those crazy goats than people in this state.”

      “They’re beautiful,” she said simply.

      “They’re a damned nuisance.”

      Carrie’s eyes darted to the gun rack directly behind her head. Speculating on what fate awaited “nuisances” in the State of Wyoming, she clamped her mouth shut.

      Judson lifted the hat from his head to wipe the sweat from his brow. The pickup was without air-con- ditioning, and it was hot, miserably so. Both windows were rolled down, allowing dust to coat everything in- side the cab with a dirty film. He had a lot of things to do today, and picking up this silly little greenhorn did little to improve his mood. Though he was tempted to voice a caustic comment about her obvious unsuitability for the job that lay ahead, there was something so utterly wide-eyed about Carrie’s excitement that he stayed his tongue. She reminded him of a miller furiously beating its wings against the draw of a light bulb, trying its damnedest to immolate itself.

      And she somehow made the experience seem enviable.

      Most assuredly there would be time enough for Ms. Raben to realize the mistake she had made. Until then, Judson decided that there should be no reason why they couldn’t coexist amicably. Turning off the interstate and onto a less traveled road, he reached into the small cooler on the seat between them.

      “Want something to drink?” he asked, pulling out a cold one.

      Carrie cringed.

      Drinking and driving made her nervous. Though there wasn’t another soul on the road and the likelihood of an accident seemed minimal, her hand tightened on the door handle. It was one thing to be traveling alone with a stranger and quite another to be riding with a drunk.

      “No,” she stated coolly.

      “You sure?” Judson asked with a peculiar look in his eye. He held the cold can to his forehead for a sec- ond before pulling the tab and taking a long, cool swig.

      Carrie’s throat was parched. Inviting beads of mois- ture dripped down the sides of the can. She had to resist the temptation to dab away the rivulets of sweat forming between her breasts.

      “Positive.”

      A hard glint turned eyes the color of a cloudless sky to gunmetal as he asked, “Even if it’s nonalcoholic?”

      Again Carrie cringed, this time not out of fear but embarrassment. Without so much as bothering to check the label, she had simply assumed that drinking and driving was de rigueur for the Western male.

      “I didn’t mean to—”

      “Just because I’m an Indian—” Judson’s voice was cold enough to drop the temperature in the cab several degrees “—doesn’t mean I’m a drunk.” He tilted his head back and took an especially long pull.

      His words came as a total surprise. An Indian with blue eyes? Carrie was as taken aback both by Judson’s declaration of his ancestry as by the vehemence with which it was uttered.

      “I didn’t think that—”

      “I’ve yet to meet a white who hasn’t jumped to the same conclusion as you—that we’re all good-for- nothing drunks living off government handouts. You don’t need to worry, Ms. Raben.” Her name came out as a hiss. “You’ll fit in just fine around here.”

      Carrie drew back as if his words were fists. She had never meant to imply such a thing.

      Unmindful of the bewildered look on that pretty face, Judson continued. “There’s a long line of alcoholism in my family history, and I can assure you that I’ve learned something by burying the dead, so you can just let go of that door handle and