The Horseman's Bride. Elizabeth Lane

I’d never do anything to put you in harm’s way.”

      “You sound as if you’re asking for my soul.”

      His laugh was quick and harsh. “And you’re looking at me as if I were the devil himself.”

      “For all I know, you could be.”

      He laughed again, flinching at the pain in his shoulder. “Would the devil be lying here bleeding on your grandmother’s porch, Miss Clara? Galahad’s a champion Thoroughbred with a pedigree as old as the Mayflower. I can’t show you his papers but I can promise he’ll sire damned good foals. So what’s it to be, yes or no?”

      “What if it’s no?”

      “Then it’s no loss to either of us—and no gain.”

      Clara hesitated. At the age of six, on a visit to her uncle Quint in San Francisco, she’d survived a frightening ordeal at the hands of kidnappers. And while that story had a happy ending, having brought her uncle Quint and aunt Annie together, the experience had left her with an excess of caution. She tended to seek out familiar situations where she felt safe. That need for security had colored her choices, including the decision to stay on the ranch instead of going away to school.

      Now she quivered on the edge of what she feared most of all—the unknown. Tanner’s stallion could sire a line of superb horses, maybe the finest in Colorado. But to get that line demanded risk—perhaps more risk than she dared take.

      The man intrigued her as well—his air of mystery, the virile energy that drove his body and the secrets that lurked in his eyes, like a flash of darkness in a blue mountain lake.

      How could she trust him?

      How could she walk away?

      Mary’s heavy tread echoed across the kitchen floor. Any second now she’d be coming outside. Tanner lay watching, waiting for his answer. His eyes blazed with challenge, measuring her courage, daring her to step off the precipice.

      Mary’s footsteps were approaching the door. The words trembled on Clara’s lips. She drew a sharp breath.

      “You have my answer,” she said. “It’s yes.”

       Chapter Three

      Jace’s breath hissed through clenched teeth as Clara laid the steaming poultice on his wound. The heat of the cudlike herbal mass reminded him of the mustard plasters his mother had used on his chest when he was a boy. But the concoction smelled more like a mixture of swamp mud, skunk cabbage and cow manure.

      “What the devil’s in this stuff, Mary?” he muttered.

      The older woman had taken a seat in the nearby rocking chair. “Nothing that would hurt you. When Soren and I settled this land there were no doctors and none of the medicines you can buy now. An old Indian woman—a Ute, as I recall—showed me the plants her people used. I’ve kept a stock of them on hand ever since.”

      “Grandma’s shown me a few things for doctoring horses. But I’ll never be as good as she is.” Clara smoothed the edge of the poultice and covered it with a folded square of clean muslin. She had cut away the sleeve and shoulder of Jace’s shirt with Mary’s scissors. Through the haze of pain he felt the brush of her fingertips on his bare skin. She had small, almost childlike hands, the nails clipped short and the palms lightly callused. They worked with quiet efficiency. Tender, sensible little hands.

      Her breath warmed his ear as she leaned close to wrap the dressing in place. Her hair smelled of fresh lavender soap.

      “You mean to say your only doctoring experience is with horses?” he teased her.

      “Horses and men are pretty much the same.” Her eyes flashed toward him. In the shade of the porch, their color was like dark maple syrup flecked with glints of sunshine. For a breath-stopping instant her gaze held his. Then she glanced down again, veiling the look with the black fringe of her lashes.

      Jace exhaled the breath he’d been holding in. Lord, didn’t the girl realize the effect those eyes could have on a man? She seemed so artless, so damnably innocent.

      The lessons he’d like to teach her.

      Jace gave himself a mental slap. If he didn’t get his mind back above his belt line, he could find himself in serious trouble.

      Resting his arm across her knees, Clara wound the wrapping over his shoulder and around his arm, once, then twice more before she split the end and tied the tails in a knot. “There, it’s done.” She glanced up at her grandmother. “Now what?”

      “Now he needs to rest.” Mary rose from her chair. “I’ve got some tea brewing that will ease the pain. Help him inside, Clara. He can stretch out on that spare bed in my sewing room.”

      “Now wait a minute,” Jace protested. “I’ll be fine. There’s no reason to—”

      “I won’t have you getting up and keeling over on me,” Mary snapped. “The bed’s made, and you’re going to rest until you’re stronger. Come along now while I get the tea.”

      Jace gave in with a sigh. He respected Mary Gustavson too much to argue. Besides, he felt like hell.

      He waited while Clara braced herself beneath his good arm. Her body was warm and curvy against his side. Thankfully, he was in no condition to take advantage of her nearness. His shoulder throbbed, his vision swam in and out of focus and his knees felt like rubber.

      “Here we go.” She supported him with one arm and used her free hand to open the screen. Jace swore silently. He felt as helpless as a baby. If these two females wanted to turn him over to the law now, he’d have no chance of getting away.

      Leaning to balance his weight, she guided him across the floor to the little room that opened off the kitchen. The curtains were drawn, but in the dim light Jace could see the treadle sewing machine in one corner and the patchwork quilt on the narrow bed. Glancing at the door, he was relieved to notice that it had no lock.

      Mary followed them into the room holding a blue china mug between her hands. She thrust it toward Jace as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Drink this before you lie down,” she said. “It will help you rest.”

      The molasses-colored liquid was barely cool enough to drink. Its taste was bitter, but Jace knew better than to argue or to ask what was in it. He emptied the mug in a few swallows, suppressing the urge to gag.

      “Give me your feet.” Clara worked Jace’s boots down over his heels and dropped them on the floor. It occurred to him to wonder whether his socks smelled, but it was only a fleeting thought. By now his eyelids were leaden weights. His body seemed to be sinking into the patchwork coverlet. The instincts that had kept him free for the past four months were screaming in his head, but he had no power to act on them.

      Clara leaned over him, her eyes dark smudges in the pale oval of her face. “Rest now,” she said. “I’ll be back tomorrow with the mares. You should be feeling better by then.”

      Remember … one favor. Jace struggled to speak, but his lips refused to form words. He only knew that the promise he’d extracted might turn out to be the one chance of saving him, like a hidden ace up a gambler’s sleeve.

      But now it might already be too late. He was losing his grip, sinking into a black fog.

      He kept his eyes on her face until the darkness pulled him under.

      Clara took the colt at an easy trot toward home. The sun was at high morning, the sky a blazing blue that promised a hot afternoon. But the weather was the last thing on Clara’s mind.

      She’d left Tanner asleep on Mary’s spare bed, his shoulder dressed and bandaged, his senses drugged by Mary’s potent jimsonweed tea. Knocking him out was the only way to make sure he’d stay put. His body was in shock and he’d lost enough blood to make him weak. He needed to stay off his feet, at least until tomorrow.

      After