Midnight Faith. Gena Dalton

where I should unload my horses.”

      She stared at the colt for a minute, then met Clint’s gaze again. He clenched his jaw so hard he could hardly speak. One reason Cait had always irritated him so was that she had no end of nerve.

      “Your horses,” he repeated flatly.

      “Yes.”

      “How many head?”

      “Seven.”

      What in the name of good sense was she doing dragging seven head of horses in here?

      “I know you don’t want to miss any of the McMahan festivities,” he said sarcastically, “but it’s early yet. So why don’t we do it this way? You take a run on over to Roy’s and unload his horses and we’ll hold up on the eggnog until you get back. How’s that?”

      “These aren’t Roy’s horses.”

      He stared at her, trying to figure out what she was up to and steady the colt at the same time. All he needed now was to fool around and let the black throw him right in front of her.

      “Then whose are they?”

      “Mine.”

      He stared at her some more. She was so full of life and so full of confidence. Not once did she smile or try to charm him into giving permission, as another woman might have done.

      “Did Bobbie Ann invite you for Christmas or for the rest of your life?”

      “Roy’s not going to let an assistant trainer keep any personal horses over there, much less seven head,” she said, so reasonably that he wanted to punch something. “You know that.”

      His blood ran cold, then hot, with anger.

      “Are you telling me that you just drove to Tulsa and bought seven head of horses that you’re fixing to keep here? On the Rocking M?”

      He bit his tongue to hold back the rest of the words that leapt to it. He ought to go ahead and tell her to haul them on out of here, but he didn’t. Never had he ever known anyone, man or woman, who had this much sand.

      She looked up at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read.

      “Yes.”

      “How long do you want to leave ’em?”

      She shrugged her beautifully square shoulders, tilted her head to the side and he saw once again what every man always saw: Caitlin McMahan wasn’t really what you’d call beautiful, but she was one magnificent woman. Already. And she was barely past being a girl.

      “I’ll be straight with you, Clint,” she said, unnecessarily. “I want to leave ’em indefinitely. I told Bobbie Ann not to say anything because I wanted to tell you myself.”

      Tell you. Not ask you. That was Cait.

      He stood in the stirrup and stepped down off the black. Whatever she was up to, he’d better give it his full attention. This could affect him for a long time to come.

      Without another word he led the colt toward the gate. Sure enough, Cait met him there. She walked at the colt’s other shoulder as they headed for the saddling bay.

      “I’m starting a riding school,” she said.

      That was Cait, again. Not “wanting to” or “planning to,” but doing it. She wasn’t asking permission, either.

      “On the Rocking M,” he said.

      His tongue was thickening with fury. His blood thundered with it. She’d be hanging around, here in plain sight, all the time.

      She read his mind.

      “I’ll only be here a couple of hours in the evenings,” she said. “I won’t interfere with your trainers or anybody else using your facilities.”

      He tied the colt and began uncinching the saddle. He paused to glare at her.

      “They have amateurs that come to ride in the evenings,” he snapped.

      Why’d she have to get this insane idea in the first place? Why couldn’t she just stay away from the Rocking M the way she’d been doing?

      “I know,” she said. “But I’ll only be here in the late afternoons and I’ll use the old outdoor pen.”

      “Give me a break, Cait,” he interrupted. “Ask my permission, at least.”

      She flashed those eyes at him again.

      “I don’t have to, Clint,” she said. “I have every right to be here.”

      “Don’t start telling me you inherited part of this ranch from John,” he said harshly. “It’s bad enough you’re spending his blood money.”

      She stiffened.

      “You know he’d still be alive if you’d gone with him,” he blurted. “With his wife there to protect, he’d never have taken any chances.”

      Cait stepped right up and got in his face.

      “Watch your mouth,” she growled, her eyes bright with fury. And hurt. Maybe even with tears. Maybe tears of guilt.

      Even if she did feel guilty, shame stabbed through him. He had crossed a grave line here and he wasn’t one to do that.

      “Sorry,” he muttered.

      He turned his back on her, unwrapped the latigo, took the saddle and pad off, and strode toward the tack room, searching his mind frantically for a way to get rid of her. Bobbie Ann had already heard about this, and, knowing her, she’d approved the idea.

      She would welcome Cait’s presence every day. She would say it reminded her of how happy John had been in his marriage to Cait.

      And he had been, poor sucker. Nobody had ever been able to figure out why the striking, bold nineteen-year-old girl from up north who’d come to Texas to be Roy Bassett’s assistant trainer had ever agreed to marry quiet, thoughtful, unexciting John McMahan. It had to be the name, the ranch, the money.

      Wasn’t that true of 90 percent of the women who chased after any of the McMahan brothers?

      Cait O’Doyle could’ve had any man in Texas if she’d so much as crooked her finger. Any one of those men would have been a better match for her than John.

      Why, even he would’ve been a better match for a girl with her spirit.

      He took as long as he could to put the saddle on the wall and the steaming pad to dry on the rack. That reminded him that the colt had worked up a sweat and he needed to get him back to the stall.

      What was he doing, letting Caitlin’s appearance and then her announcement unsettle him? This was ridiculous. He could handle her and her half-baked ideas.

      Quickly he crossed the hallway again and went into the open bay. Cait was rubbing the colt down.

      “I want to get him back and get him blanketed,” he said.

      “Right,” she said in a sensible tone, and stepped away to drop the rubber currycomb into the tray that topped the roll-around cart.

      “Thanks,” he said stupidly, before he thought.

      Out of guilt? Or in an effort to prove he did have some manners, after all? What was the matter with him, giving her any shred of encouragement to do anything around here?

      For answer, she looked over her shoulder and smiled at him. His pulse raced.

      Maybe she wasn’t beautiful, but her smile certainly was. At every horse show some guy said something about her smile. Or just about her, period.

      Well, about her looks or her horsemanship or what a good hand she was. Very few people knew anything about her.

      He avoided looking at her again, went to the colt’s head and untied him, started to lead him away. He needed a chance to think.