Taming Blackhawk. Barbara McCauley

had insisted his only daughter present her case in an organized written and oral form. When she was eight, she’d gotten Princess Penelope’s Tea Party by demonstrating the usefulness of learning social skills; when she was sixteen and wanted her first car, she’d argued the necessity of independence and self-sufficiency. She’d used visual aids for that presentation. Even now, at twenty-five, she still had fond memories of that sleek, shiny black Porsche.

      She pushed all thoughts of tea sets and cars out of her mind, then squared her shoulders and stepped into the barn.

      “Hello?” she called out, hesitated when she saw the man bent over a stall in the corner of the barn.

      When he glanced over his shoulder at her, her mind simply went blank.

      Good Lord.

      Grace had no idea what she’d been expecting. Someone older, certainly. Maybe middle-aged, with bowed, skinny legs, slumped shoulders and skin like crushed leather. Maybe a bushy mustache and graying temples. Your typical, well-worn cowboy.

      There was nothing typical about Rand Sloan.

      He was probably in his early thirties, she guessed, though there was something about his piercing black eyes that made him look older.

      He straightened, pitchfork in his hand, and turned those eyes on her. Grace felt as if she’d been speared to the spot.

      He was well over six feet, lean, hard-muscled and covered with dust. His jeans were faded, his denim shirt rolled to the elbows. Sweat beaded his forehead and dripped down his neck.

      And then there was his face.

      She thought of Black Knights and Apache warriors, could almost hear the distant drums of battle. The pitchfork he held in his large, callused hand might have easily been a lance or a sword. A dark stubble of beard shadowed his strong jaw. His eyebrows, the same dark shade as his hair, were drawn together in a frown.

      His narrowed gaze swept over her, assessing, moving upward slowly, sucking the breath from her as he touched her with those eyes of his.

      Her knees felt weak.

      “Something I can do for you?” he asked in a raw, hot-whiskey voice.

      Now there was a loaded question, Grace thought, and quickly dismissed all the options that jumped into her brain.

      “Rand Sloan?” she asked, annoyed at the surprise in her voice and the breathless quality that accompanied it.

      He stabbed the pitchfork into the ground and nodded.

      “I…I’m Grace Sullivan. I’ve been trying to contact you for the past two weeks. You’re a hard man to get a hold of.”

      Grace blushed at her words. What woman wouldn’t want to get a hold of this man?

      “Sometimes I am,” he said simply. “Sometimes I’m not.”

      “You don’t have an address or phone number and I tried just about—”

      “Why don’t you just tell me what you want, Miss Sullivan?” His eyes dropped to her hand. “Or is it Mrs.?”

      “What? Oh—it’s Miss. Grace, I mean.”

      He lifted a brow. “Miss Grace?”

      “No.” Dammit. There was that blush again. She rarely blushed, and now she couldn’t seem to stop. “Just call me Grace.”

      He nodded, his expression telling her that he was waiting for her to answer his question.

      And what was the question? Oh, yes. He’d asked her what she wanted. She had to think a minute to pull her thoughts together.

      “I’m from the Edgewater Animal Management and Adoption Foundation,” she finally managed. “Maybe you’ve heard of us. We rescue wild horses and care for them until they can be adopted out. We’d like to hire you to round up some stray mustangs in Black River Canyon and bring them out.”

      “You went to a lot of trouble, Grace.” He turned his back to her and stabbed another flake of straw. “My answer is no.”

      No? Just like that? No?

      Grace stared at him, did her best not to notice the firm backside he’d turned toward her.

      “We’ll pay you very well, Mr. Sloan, plus all expenses and travel costs.” She stepped closer, and the scent of fresh straw, horse and sweat-covered male assailed her senses. Strangely, the combination was not at all unpleasant.

      “You’ll have to find someone else.”

      He continued to work, his muscles rippling as he tossed another forkful of straw into the stall.

      She’d met some difficult people before, Grace thought in annoyance, but Rand Sloan took the prize.

      “I don’t want anyone else.” She moved beside him, refusing to be ignored. “I want you.”

      Rand straightened and leveled his gaze on Miss Grace Sullivan. In a different situation, he might have taken the woman’s comment and carried their conversation in a different, more interesting direction. But this was not the day, and—he took in her light-colored silk suit and heels and caught the scent of her expensive perfume—this was not the woman.

      Not that she hadn’t caught his attention in the looks department. That thick, tousled, auburn hair of hers was enough to catch any man’s eye. It was the kind of hair a man could fist his hand into, then pull that long, slender neck back and dive in. Her skin looked liked porcelain; her eyes were bottle green, wide and tilted at the corners, with thick, dark lashes.

      And that mouth. Lord have mercy. Those lush lips of hers were meant for a man’s mouth.

      She had long legs—he guessed her to be around five foot eight—narrow waist, full breasts…

      He glanced at the fresh straw, then at the woman.

      What a damn shame.

      “Why me?” he asked.

      “Everyone says you’re the best,” she said. “This is a difficult job. Probably dangerous. I heard that’s your specialty.”

      Another time he might have been flattered, and he definitely would have been interested. He’d always enjoyed a challenge, and the danger part made his blood race.

      Another time.

      He unclipped Maggie Mae’s bridle. “You’re wasting your time, Miss Grace.”

      “You’re my last hope,” she said quietly.

      Her words, spoken with such intensity, made something catch in his chest. He didn’t want to be anyone’s last hope. Didn’t want anyone to depend on him. He closed Maggie Mae’s stall door.

      “That’s too bad.” He tugged his handkerchief from his back pocket and swiped at the sweat on his face. “But my answer is still no.”

      “Mr. Sloan,” she said when he started to walk away, then, “Rand, please.”

      He stopped when she said his name so softly.

      “Could you please just give me a few minutes?” she asked.

      “I haven’t got a few minutes, Miss Grace.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to my father’s funeral.”

      Two

      The sound of a car door slamming startled Grace awake. She hadn’t meant to doze off, but after only five hours sleep the night before, the early-morning board meeting, the flight to San Antonio, then renting a car at the airport and driving one hundred miles, her eyelids had simply grown too heavy to keep open.

      She rose from the comfortable easy chair in Mary Sloan’s living room and looked out through the lace curtains. Mary and Rand had already stepped out of an old, dust-covered tan truck. A second truck, newer, deep blue with dual cab,