The Horseman. Jillian Hart

      It was something else. Something about her, and her alone. He didn’t know what it was, and he wasn’t a man who was good with words or feelings, but he did know people, the same way he knew animals. When he’d locked gazes with Miss Green through the snow this morning, he’d seen the quiet gentleness inside her. Rare, indeed.

      Back on the acreage he owned next door to his brother, he had a mare like her with big scared eyes and it had taken nearly two whole years of work before she’d let him stroke her neck without flinching.

      Not that a woman was like a horse, but it was horses he knew and not women. Yep, women were pretty much a mystery to him. His ma had died when he was a small boy. He had no recollection of her, and that left only his pa and his five brothers. Pa had never remarried, never tried to replace the love of his life, and so there was no woman’s influence in Dillon’s life as a boy.

      And as a man, he was bewildered to think about beauing one of those pretty creatures in soft dresses that swept the floor whenever they walked, giving the impression their dainty feet did not touch the ground like mortals. Women were different entirely and far too fine for the likes of him.

      Even if he could catch a lady’s attention, what would he do then? He wasn’t given to fancy language and insincere flattery to make a woman like him. Hell, it would probably take more than a mountain of flattery to do that. Even if he could manage to speak instead of remain tongue-tied, what would he say? He wasn’t citified and he wasn’t educated. The only thing he knew was horses and horse breeding.

      He couldn’t imagine walking up to Katelyn Green and asking her opinion on which stud should service the thoroughbred mare that was coming in heat.

      The same mare the wild stallion had wanted last night when Katelyn Green had been out wandering in the dark in her slippers and housecoat, her hair down and unbound and billowing around her in the wind and snow. He wanted to know what she’d been doing. And why, when she was infirm, was she up, limping in obvious pain?

      He had little doubt her parents had no compassion to spare. Cal Willman’s hard countenance and heartless manner told Dillon all he needed to know. He’d met a hundred rich men just like him over the years, and they were all the same. Every last one of them. Ruthless and cruel, men who cared only about themselves.

      As for the wife, she was as harsh as a Montana blizzard. It was clear in the way she ignored her own daughter.

      Dillon wished he knew what had happened. He couldn’t help feeling sorry for Katelyn. He didn’t seem able to stop wondering about her. Maybe he’d round up enough courage to ask one of the hands what had happened to return her childless and wounded to her parent’s home and what would become of her next.

      Not that he had a chance, but he was a man. He noticed a pretty, available woman. He was lonelier than he wanted to admit. He’d been wanting to get married for a long time, but he’d never been able to talk to a lady, much less court her.

      That proved a terrible problem. He had a house he didn’t live in. A bed he didn’t sleep in. A life he didn’t live because he had no one to share it. He would give anything for a kind, gentle wife to call his own.

      He would give his soul and more to marry a woman like Katelyn Green.

      But even if she was recovered from her loss, she’d hardly glanced at him. He’d lay down good money that she didn’t know his name. And if she did, what could come of it? He would be gone in a few weeks, when his work here was done.

      The new stallion—a pale comparison to the magnificent black stallion—was progressing fine. And the problem mares were responding to him. They’d come around soon. His work here would be done and he would leave, as he always did, with a pocket full of cash, heading in the direction of the next ranch in need of him.

      He didn’t like the notion of leaving at month’s end. Not that he was fond of the place. The truth was, he couldn’t stand Cal Willman or his wife. What he would miss, even more than the horses here, was the pretty blond woman who made him very aware of being all man.

      Was it his imagination, or did he hear something?

      A female’s voice lilted on the wind as sweet as a song. “That’s it, don’t be afraid. Come closer. I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

      That had to be Katelyn. Who else could it be? Not Effie, the cook—the tone and cadence were too soft for her. Not Mrs. Willman, who talked with enough venom to poison a rattler. Not the housemaids, for both were Chinese and spoke very little English.

      “That’s right. See? You’re perfectly safe.”

      Katelyn had to be just beyond that rise. Ten yards away. He jerked the horse to a stop and ignored the gelding’s protest. Normally he was steady with his horse, trustworthy and calm, but the thought of seeing Katelyn Green was enough to make him break out in a cold sweat.

      She was here alone. What should he do? He could keep on riding and wave at her as he went by. Or he could stop and talk with her. Hmm, that could work. But what would he say? The thought made his throat close shut. His tongue had become paralyzed and wouldn’t work. Dang his shyness.

      He could picture the impending disaster. He’d ride on up to her, stop his horse, brace his fist on the saddle the way he’d seen other men do to look tough, and stutter and stammer like a fool.

      Wouldn’t that impress her?

      A rugged man like him shouldn’t be shy. He ought to be bold. Be brave. He should talk to her the way he talked to anyone.

      He was tough. He’d faced down killer stallions and an attacking cougar. He’d been kicked, bit, stepped on, bucked off, crushed against fences and thrown to the ground more times than there were numbers to count with. He was one of the best at what he did.

      A pretty, delicate little woman shouldn’t terrify him.

      You can do it, Hennessey. Just ride on up to her and smile. Then say howdy.

      The wind seemed colder as he pressed the gelding into a fast walk. The ground was too uncertain and the snow too deep for anything faster, but if he could, he’d gallop full tilt past the beautiful woman and never think of her again.

      She came into view as he rode over the rise. He eased the gelding to a halt at the crest, gazing down the gently sloping field of white to the slim woman wearing a dark blue cloak, buttoned tight from ankle to throat. A small feed pail dangled from her left hand.

      What a sight. Joy filled him. Snow dappled her like a Christmas angel, clinging to the woolen cap and the rippling sheen of golden hair flowing down her back. White flakes hugged the delicate line of her shoulders and the rise of her breasts. Snow clung to the curve of her waist and hips and caked the long hem of her cloak, a womanly shape of grace and loveliness that made his chest tight. Awe swept over him, sweet as a morning breeze.

      Just then came the slightest movement in a grove of trees tucked into the lee of the slope. A predator? God knows cougars didn’t like to hunt in the snow. Dillon had spied cat tracks a half mile to the north. They preferred their warm dens on days like this, but that didn’t mean, if a lone cat was hungry enough, he wouldn’t go in search of a meal.

      And that meal wouldn’t be Katelyn. She was all alone out here, unprotected. With that pail on her arm, she was probably putting out feed for the birds and unaware of the danger stalking her.

      Fierce protectiveness surged through him, spilling hot in his blood. Careful not to make a sound, he eased the Winchester from its holster and covered the cocking action with his free hand to hide the chink of metal. A cat would hear it and bolt, and that was unacceptable. There was a threat to Katelyn Green and, damn it, Dillon Hennessey would stop it.

      He held the rifle steady, aiming just at the edge of the trees, anticipating that first glimpse of a shadow. He hugged the trigger, ready and alert, as the shadow nosed toward Katelyn.

      It wasn’t the fast strike of a cougar. Dillon took a breath, waiting, as Katelyn’s melodic voice lifted up to him on the wind.

      “That’s