Love and Honor: The Coltrane Saga, Book 7 (9 page)

Even with the throbbing pain and the blood oozing from her blow, he had managed to counter with a jeer of his own—did
she
really think that he believed her to be a true princess? He had known all along that she was not of royal blood. She was actually a member of the middle class—social climbing by using a phony royal title to gain acceptance. Kurt had known this because he made it his business to know everything about everyone he dealt with, but he’d loved her just the same.

She had paled beneath his verbal assault, toppled from her pedestal. Kurt silently admitted however, that she was victor, for she had torn down the wall he had built around himself…and made him fall in love with her.

Enough reminiscing, Kurt chided himself now, looking once more toward the pens. Maybe the man he was looking for was hanging around down there. He cantered over in that direction.

Kurt saw her even before he reached the wooden corral. She was sitting on a top rung, and her reddish-gold hair streamed down her back, gleaming in the midmorning sun. She was wearing tight denim pants, a fringed suede jacket, boots, and leather gloves.

Completely absorbed watching the young man swinging his cape before a hot-eyed bull, Kit Coltrane did not notice Kurt Tanner, even when he hoisted himself up to sit beside her on the railing.

The young matador performed well, earning the applause and cheers of the spectators as the picadors drove the bull from the ring.

“So, the lady goes from dancing to bullfighting.”

Startled, Kit jerked about. She felt a sudden flush of surprised pleasure, but managed to calmly say, “If you knew anything about bullfighting,
Señor
Tanner, you would know that it’s a form of dance in itself.” The shadow of a smile touched her lips. “At the end of a series of veronicas, when the matador holds the cloth of his cape to his waist and twirls as the bull passes, the cape stands up like the skirt of a pirouetting dancer. It’s called a
robolera
, and if he’s good at it, the matador has the grace of a prima ballerina.”

Kurt’s eyes moved over her hungrily. It had been a long time, and she was ravishing. “Watching ballet doesn’t arouse quite the same emotions as a bullfight,
cara
,” he murmured.

“Oh, I think it depends on what you’re searching for. Beauty, as well as savagery, can be found anywhere. It’s all in how you view it.”

Their eyes met and held. Kurt wondered whether she would let him kiss her if they were alone…while Kit felt a tremor deep within her as she remembered how it had felt when he did.

Around them, the crowd shouted over the matador in the ring, but they were oblivious to it all. Finally Kit gave herself a mental shake. She swung about easily, effortlessly, to drop the few feet to the ground below. She did not want him to see the effect he was having on her, and was afraid that if she tarried, he might.

Kurt followed her, as she had feared…and hoped he would.

“I’m wondering what brings you here,” he said.

“I like to watch the matadors practice.”

“Strange interest for a young lady.”

“Why? Women attend bullfights.”

“But they don’t hang around the pens with the men, wearing men’s clothing.”

Kit laughed. “Who says that men are the only ones who have the right to wear denim?”

“You seem more at home in black velvet.”

She stopped walking and turned to look up at him, frostily declaring, “You were out of place that night.”

Kurt pretended to contemplate her accusation. “You’re right.
It was
out of place. I can think of other places for that kind of…
dancing
.” His tone, the heat in his eyes were filled with sensuous innuendo.

“I don’t call that dancing,” Kit snapped.

“No,” he agreed somberly. “I think it’s called…
desire
.”

“Then that explains why you don’t understand the similarity between dancing and bullfighting!”

Kurt did not respond, and she thought perhaps she’d bested him in their war of wits. She reached out to untie the reins of her powerful chestnut Hispano, and swung up into the saddle. She turned to stare down at him in triumph, but her grin quickly faded.

He was furious! His face was red; his nostrils flared ever so slightly. His eyes glittered with rage as they swept over her stallion. “Where’d you get that horse?” he demanded hotly.

Kit trembled beneath his wrath although she did not know why. She suddenly felt strangely defensive and shot back, “He’s mine!”

“I asked you where you got him.”

“That’s none of your business.”

Kurt reached up and grasped her around her waist, and pulling her roughly from the saddle. As he set her on her feet he growled, “Dammit, woman, I asked you where you got that horse!”

“And I told you,” Kit hissed at him indignantly, jerking out of his grasp, “it’s none of your business.” She tried to mount once more, but he grabbed her arm. She whirled about, intending to slap him, but he caught her arm and held it.

“I’m going to ask you one more time, goddammit,” he said between clenched teeth. “Where’d you get that horse?”

Kit kicked him in the shin, and he held her so that her back was against him as she struggled in his arms.

A few men passing saw their struggle and stared but continued on their way. They knew that she was the
señorita
Coltrane, and he was Kurt Tanner; they weren’t about to stick their noses in
his
business.

Kurt gave her a rough shake. “Okay, little tiger, we’ll just go talk to the local law and see what they do to
señoritas
who steal horses.”

Kit stopped struggling and cried, “What did you say?”

“That’s my horse.”

Kurt released her, and she turned to face him, saying incredulously, “What do you mean—this is your horse?”

“That’s a Hispano, little girl,” he informed her furiously, “and I paid a lot of money for him. I had him all of two days before he was stolen, right from the barn outside my house.”

Stunned, Kit bounced back to challenge, “Where’s your proof? He’s not branded.”

“As I said, I only had him two days. I hadn’t got around to putting my brand on him. Where’s your proof? Where’s your bill of sale?”

Kit started to tell him how she’d come to own the magnificent horse. Then she reconsidered and asked instead, “Where is
your
proof,
Señor
Tanner?”

“I have a bill of sale from a breeder in Morocco. I bought him at a ranch just outside Tangiers. Now…” Kurt drew in his breath and let it out slowly. He did not want to lose his temper, but she had his horse, which meant that his quest was only half over, goddammit. He intended to find the bastard who’d stolen him. One of his hands had told him that a known
bandido
by the name of Galen Esmond had been hanging around that day, asking for work. He had disappeared about the same time as the horse. “So, are you going to tell me where you got him, or do I have you arrested for horse stealing?”

Kit gave her long hair a haughty toss. Lifting her chin defiantly, she said, “He’s not your horse. He’s mine. I won him in a race, fair and square. If you don’t believe me, ask Dr. Frazier’s vaqueros. They are my witnesses that I’m the legal owner. And if he was stolen from you, which I don’t believe for one minute, I suggest you take that up with the man I beat in the race, because it’s no concern of mine.”

Kit swung up into the saddle again. “Pegasus is mine now.” For emphasis, she tugged the reins sharply and dug the heels of her boots into the great stallion’s side. He reared up on his hind legs, forelegs slashing the air menacingly, Kurt leaped back out of the way.

He watched her ride away. For the moment he decided to do nothing except talk to Dr. Frazier’s men and learn what he could about how Kit Coltrane had won his horse—and about the man she’d won him from. But eventually, he silently vowed, feeling the muscles in his jaw tighten, he’d have his horse…and Kit Coltrane.

Chapter Seven

Kit could hear the music from downstairs. Her mother was having a small dinner party for some friends visiting from Barcelona. She’d been polite and genial throughout the evening, but had feigned a headache so she could slip away before coffee and cognac. Escaping to her room, she locked the door and worked feverishly on the letter she was writing to Kitty. She had found paradise…but she needed her grandmother’s help to make it exclusively
hers
.

That morning, after the unpleasant encounter with Kurt Tanner, Kit had just wanted to be alone. The last place she could expect solitude was at home where her mother was always entertaining guests, so she had ridden to one of her favorite sanctuaries—a spot just across the Rió Turia north of town. There on a knoll with a breathtaking view of the river, she spent the golden afternoon contemplating the idiotic charges of the brash and presumptuous Kurt Tanner. His claim was absurd. Where was his proof that the magnificent horse was his? But what was his motive for lying?

Kit had shaded her eyes against the sun as she looked toward the horizon where a little farmhouse stood. Kit had known the old man who had lived there, Gaspar Gaspencia. She had enjoyed visiting him, and sometimes he’d invited her to share a simple meal of tortillas, fish, and his own special blend of gazpacho. Kit smiled wryly to think how she loathed her mother’s sumptuous dinner parties yet was delighted to eat country fare with Gaspar.

They had been friends, and she had loved to hear him talk of his past as a wanderer, a special glow in his eyes as he related faraway adventures. He had finally settled here, buying the little farm with his life’s savings, eking an existence from the field of golden carnations he grew so lovingly to peddle at the flower market in Valencia. He talked of one day planting a vineyard on the slope to the river, for he said the soil was fertile and rich, and he could produce grapes to make the best wine in the region. Only that dream did not come true, and Kit had been saddened to hear of his death recently when she had gone to visit.

As she stood there that morning, fate had stepped in. She had turned at the sound of a carriage approaching. A man dressed in a plain brown suit, with friendly eyes, had waved at her amiably. He had asked if he had reached the Gaspencia farm, and Kit had replied that he had. Then he had taken a wooden post and hammer from the carriage and pounded the post into the ground. On top of that he nailed a sign. Her interest piqued, Kit walked over to read the notice. It proclaimed that the property was to be sold for back taxes.

Suddenly an idea hit her. Kit had quickly asked the man how much taxes were owed. He told her, explaining that he was only posting the sign because the law required it, but he was probably wasting his time since the man who owned the adjoining land had already made a bid for the property.

When he left, Kit’s heart had pounded with excitement. This was the answer to her prayers. Twenty acres! She didn’t need a larger place. With a little fixing up, the house would be fine. She’d have room for a few horses, and what was to stop her from making Gaspar’s dream come true? She could plant a vineyard, and she would certainly keep the field of carnations. And she would not be isolated, because it was not far to Valencia.

She mentally calculated the amount she needed to offer just a bit more than the bid the adjoining landowner had made. The tax office man was not supposed to have told her the amount, but he was a talkative sort, and it hadn’t taken much prodding. If only she could use a little of the trust fund her Grandpa Travis had left her, she could buy the property. She had forced her racing brain to calm down, reminding herself that the money was not to be hers until she reached her twenty-first birthday. And even if she could persuade her father, who was the trustee, to release some of it, her mother would be violently opposed.

That was why she was now writing her Grandma Kitty. All Kit needed was a loan until she was old enough to claim her inheritance. Kitty would understand, she always did. Of course, there would be quite a ruckus when her parents found out, but decided that she would worry about that later, after the papers were signed. It might take some time, but sooner or later they had to realize that she intended to live her life the way she wanted.

She finished the letter, sealed it, and laid it aside to mail first thing in the morning.

She opened the glass doors to the terrace and stepped outside. It was a chilly night, but lovely, with a honey-colored moon creating thousands of dancing lights upon the sea beyond. It was, in fact, such a glorious night that she felt a sudden urge to go once more to the ranch that she hoped soon would be hers. It was perhaps a half hour’s ride, and the road was good. As a precaution against danger she would wear the gun and holster she kept hidden in the barn. Her mother would have a fit if she knew that her daughter carried a gun, much less knew how to use it, Kit mused with a grin.

She put on denim trousers, a flannel shirt, and her worn leather jacket and boots. Then she tiptoed down the back hallway and stairs. As she was making her way through the kitchen, Carasia came in from the dining room with a huge tray of dirty dishes. “Where are you going?”

Kit held a finger to her lips. “Riding. Leave the back door unlocked so I can get back in.”

Carasia shook her head. Giving her a look that said she thought Kit was crazy, she went on her way to finish cleaning up from the dinner party. Kit could hear the sounds of the party—music, laughter, the clink of glasses. Her mother loved to entertain, and people enjoyed her parties. Kit would not be missed.