Secrets and Lies: He's a Bad Boy\He's Just a Cowboy (35 page)

“And Turner? What do you think he’d do in the city? Take you to the theater? Do you see him standing around an art festival and listening to jazz music? Or do you see him dancing in a tuxedo in an expensive restaurant?”

“No, I don’t think—”

“He belongs to the open range, Heather, and to the mountains. His idea of a wild time is having a couple of beers after a rodeo in a small town in the middle of nowhere. He’d never be happy in the city.”

Heather’s heart nearly stopped. She wanted to say something, to defend herself, but her tongue was all tied in knots.

“There was a time when I thought I could change him,” Sheryl said softly. “I’ve been working here since my senior year in high school and I guess I had a crush on him.” She fingered her pencil nervously and avoided Heather’s eyes. “I thought…well, that given enough time…he’d grow up or away from ranch life. I was wrong. I’ve been here six summers. This spring I’ll have my master’s in architecture. I’ve already started looking for jobs in L.A. Two years ago, I gave up on Turner. I knew I couldn’t change him.” Tears filled her eyes. “God, he’s got a girl in just about every town from here to Alberta! I was crazy. I…I just don’t want you to make the same mistake I did.”

“I’m not—” Heather protested, but knew she was lying.

“You belong in the city, Heather. Don’t kid yourself.” Clearing her throat, Sheryl motioned toward the cans of corn stacked on one of the deep shelves. “How many tins have we got?” she asked, and Heather, shaking inside, her dreams shattered, started counting again.

* * *

I
N THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS,
Heather thought about Sheryl’s warning, but she couldn’t help herself where Turner was concerned. She knew she was beginning to care about him too much, looking forward to their time alone together, and she refused to let Sheryl’s confession change her. Besides, she couldn’t. She’d waded too far into emotional waters and there seemed to be no turning back.

Every evening, when the heat of the day fused with the coming night, Heather felt that she and Turner were alone beneath a canopy of ever-growing stars. They weren’t alone, of course. Laughter and the rattle of the coffeepot could be heard from the ranch house and every so often one of the hands would come outside to smoke or play harmonica or just gaze at the stars. But it truly
seemed
as if nothing else existed but the horse, Turner and herself. Silly, really. Nonetheless she did feel a change in the atmosphere whenever she was with him, and she began to notice him not so much as an adversary or a teacher, but as a man.

The lone rider on the ridge.

Yet he never so much as touched her again.

“He’s such a hunk,” Jill said after work one evening as Heather changed for her lesson. “God, Heather, you’re so lucky! I’d give anything to spend a few hours alone with him.”

Heather fought down a spasm of jealousy. “I’m sure he’d like that,” she said, brushing her hair and noticing the little lines between her eyebrows. Those little grooves always seemed to appear when Jill was gushing about cowboys in general, and Turner in particular.

“Oh, no. He’s half in love with you.” From her bed, Jill sighed enviously.

Heather nearly dropped her brush. It clattered on the bureau. “You’re crazy,” she said, but felt a warm glow of contentment at Jill’s observation.

“No way.” Ripping a black headband from her hair, Jill offered Heather a conspiratorial smile before tossing the headband onto the bureau and rummaging under her bunk for a well-worn magazine. “I’ve seen it before.”

Turner? In love with her? Absolutely ridiculous! Still, the idea had merit. “He doesn’t like me any more than I like him.”

“That’s what I said. He’s half in love with you,” Jill replied, licking her fingers and flipping the page. In the mirror, Heather saw the wash of scarlet that was causing her cheeks to burn just as Sheryl walked into the room. Her lips were pressed into a hard line, and if she’d heard any of the conversation, she pretended she hadn’t.

However, Jill thought Heather cared about Turner. Heather glanced at Sheryl, but the girl was fiddling with her Walkman and fitting the earphones over her head. Heather fingered her brush and tried to convince herself that Turner wasn’t her type. Too cynical. Too hard. Too…threateningly male. His sensuality was always between them, always simmering just below the surface of their conversations, always charging the air. And yet she’d wanted him to kiss her when they were alone at the deer trail. She wouldn’t have stopped him.

The next few lessons were more difficult than ever.

Though she tried not to notice, Heather found herself staring at the way his jeans rode low on his hips, the magnetism of the huge buckle that fit tight against his flat abdomen, the insolent, nearly indecent curve of his lips and his eyes… . Lord, his eyes were damned near mesmerizing with their cynical sparkle. Worse yet, whenever she had a few moments alone and she began to sketch, it was Turner’s face she began to draw, Turner’s profile that filled the pages of her book.

Was she falling in love with a man who was only interested in the next rodeo? A cowboy who had seen too much of life already? He was a little bit mystery, and a lot rawhide and leather.

It was dusk again—that time of day she seemed destined to spend with Turner. A few stars dappled the sky and the wind, blowing low over the Siskiyou Mountains, tugged wayward locks of her hair free of her ponytail. Clouds had gathered at the base of the mountains and the air felt charged, as if a storm were brewing.

Turner was waiting for her in the corral, arms crossed over his chest, back propped against the weathered fence. His eyes were dark and serious, his expression hard as granite.

“You’re late.”

She felt the need to apologize, but shrugged and said, “Large dinner crowd.”

As she reached the corral, he opened the gate. Sundown stood in the far corner, no bridle over his head, no saddle slung across his broad back.

“Aren’t we going to ride?”

“You can—soon as you catch your horse.”

“Oh, no way…” She started to protest, knowing how stubborn the sorrel could be and how he hated to be saddled. Always before, Turner had seen that the gelding was ready to start the riding lesson. Tonight was obviously different. “What if he decides that—”

“Do it.” Turner yanked the bridle from a fence post and threw it at her.

She caught the jangling piece of tack by the bit and, stung by his attitude, said crisply, “Anything you say,
boss
.”

His lips flattened a little, but he didn’t reply. Arms over his chest, a piece of straw in one corner of his mouth, eyes narrowed, he glared at her.

“Are you angry with me?”

“Has nothin’ to do with you.”

“What doesn’t?”

His eyes flashed fire for a second, then he tamped down his anger and glanced pointedly at his watch. “I don’t have all night. Go on—get him.”

The task was an exercise in futility. Sundown had it in his thick skull that he wasn’t going to let Heather touch him. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the game of having Heather chase him around the corral. Nostrils flared, tail aloft, he pranced around the corral as if the evening wind had rejuvenated his spirit.

“Come on, you,” she said, clucking softly to the horse, but no matter how she approached him, he let her get just close enough to nearly touch his sleek hide, then he bolted, hoofs flying, as he sent a cloud of dust swirling in his wake. Heather was left standing in the middle of the corral, her hand outstretched, the bridle dangling from her fingers.

“Nice try,” Turner remarked on her third attempt.

“Look, I’m doing the best I can.”

“Not good enough.”

Damned cowboy! Who did he think he was? How in the world had she fancied herself in love with him? Humiliation burned bright in her cheeks, and she decided right then and there that she’d show Turner Brooks what she was made of. Even if it killed her. Gritting her teeth, she started after Sundown again, slowly clucking her tongue, her gaze hard with determination. He breezed by, nearly knocking her over.

“I’m gonna win,” she told him, and again the horse took off in the opposite direction.

By the time she finally cornered the horse and threw the reins over his neck, the big sorrel was soaked with lather and she, too, felt sweat clinging to her skin and beading on her forehead. “You useless piece of horseflesh,” she muttered, but gave him a fond pat. Despite his temperament, or maybe because of it, she felt a kinship with this hard-headed animal.

She adjusted the chin strap of the bridle and led a somewhat mollified Sundown back to the side of the corral where Turner was waiting.

“’Bout time,” Turner had the gall to remark as Heather tossed the blanket and saddle over Sundown’s glistening back. She tightened the cinch, making sure the horse let out his breath before buckling the strap. Thrilled at her small victory, she climbed into the saddle and picked up the reins. This was the part she loved, when she was astride the horse and she and Turner rode the night-darkened trails. “Now what?” she asked, her hopes soaring a bit.

“Now take his gear off and groom him.”

“But—”

Turner looked pointedly at his watch and swore under his breath. “I can’t hang around any longer.” Without another word, he put two hands on the top rail of the fence and vaulted out of the corral. Once in the yard, he strode straight to a dusty blue pickup and hauled himself into the cab. There were a few silent seconds while Heather, still astride Sundown, sat stunned, disbelieving; then the pickup’s old engine turned over a few times and finally caught with a sputter and a roar of blue smoke. Turner threw the rig into gear and, spraying gravel, he drove off.

“Terrific,” Heather muttered, patting the sorrel’s shoulder as the pickup rounded a bend in the lane and disappeared from sight. The rumble of the truck’s engine faded through the trees. “Just terrific!”

Turner had been different tonight and Heather wondered if she’d pushed him too far in their last lesson, but she couldn’t think of anything she’d said or done that would provoke this kind of treatment. True, they had nearly kissed—she was certain of it—but nothing had happened. She kicked Sundown gently in the sides and rode him the short distance to the stables. Why did she even care what was going on with Turner?

She spent the next half hour grooming the gelding and stewing over the cowboy who had touched her heart. Her emotions seemed to change with the wind that blew off the mountains. One minute she was angry with him, the next perplexed and the next she fantasized about loving such an unpredictable man.

Telling herself to forget him, she walked back to the ranch house and swatted at a bothersome mosquito that was buzzing near her face. Muttso, a scraggly shepherd with one blue eye and one brown, was curled up on a rug on the porch near the screen door. He yawned lazily as she passed. Inside the kitchen, Mazie was washing a huge kettle she’d used to cook jam. The fruits of Mazie’s labor, twelve shining jars of raspberry preserves, were labeled and ready to be stored in the pantry.

“How’d the lesson go?” Mazie asked as she twisted off the taps. The old pipes creaked and the faucet continued to drip. “Damned thing.” Mazie swiped her hands on her apron, then mopped her sweaty brow with a handkerchief. Her face was the color of her preserves and she was breathing hard.

“The lesson? It was fine,” Heather hedged.

“Turner take off?” Mazie asked. Without waiting for a reply, she shoved aside the muslin curtains and looked out the window to the parking lot and the empty spot where Turner usually parked his truck. Absently, she reached into a drawer for her cigarettes. “That boy’s got a lot to carry around,” she said as she lit up and snapped her lighter closed. Letting out a stream of smoke, she said, “His pa’s got himself in trouble again.” Mazie untied her apron and hung it on a peg near the pantry door, then turned toward Heather.

“Booze. Old John can’t leave it alone, and when he goes on a bender, look out!” Mazie pressed her lips together firmly and looked as if she was about to say something else, but whatever secret she was about to reveal, she kept to herself. “It’s a wonder that boy turned out to a hill of beans. You can thank Zeke Kilkenny for that. Never had a son of his own—took his sister’s boy in when he needed it.”

“So Turner went to meet his father tonight?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Long as I can remember, Turner’s been bailing John out of jail. Looks like nothin’s changed.” Mazie, as if suddenly realizing she’d said too much, waved toward the preserves. “Now, you put those jars where they belong in the pantry. I don’t have all night to sit around gossipin’.”

Heather did as she was told, but she couldn’t help wondering where Turner was and when he’d be back.

Later, she climbed into her bunk bed and picked up her sketch pad. Gazing through the window, she began to draw idly, her fingers moving of their own accord. Soon, Turner’s face, scowling and dark, was staring back at her.

Sheryl, face scrubbed, walked into the room. She glanced up at Heather, her gaze slipping quickly to the sketch pad propped by Heather’s knees. Sadness darkened her eyes. “I heard that Turner left,” she said, flopping onto her bed. The old mattress creaked.

“That’s right,” Heather replied.

“Is he gone for good?”

Heather’s heart froze. “For good?”

“For the season. His shoulder’s healed up and I thought he’d entered a few more rodeos—that he’d be leaving soon.”

“I—I don’t know,” Heather admitted, her insides suddenly cold.

“Well, even if he comes back, he’ll be leaving soon. Believe me. He always does.”

There was no riding lesson the next day, nor the following evening, either. Turner hadn’t returned, and Heather silently called herself a fool for missing him. Was Sheryl right? Had he just taken off without saying goodbye? Her heart ached as if it had been bruised. She hadn’t realized how much she’d looked forward to their time together.

“You must really be bored,” she told herself on the third evening when Turner’s pickup rolled into the yard. Her heart did a stupid little leap as she watched through the dining-hall window and saw him stretch his long frame out of the cab. He looked hot and tired and dusty, and the scowl beneath three days’ growth of beard didn’t add to his charm.