She pursed her lips, unwilling to confess that she’d been shamed by her guilt.
“Very few horses are actually killers,” Win continued, eyeing the stallion. “Even though he trampled your father, I don’t believe Deil is a killer. I’m just going to have to take things slower.”
“You’re crazy.” How could he continue to work with Deil now that he knew the horse’s true nature? “He nearly trampled you, too.”
“I got cocky,” Win admitted. “I figured he was just like all the others. Now I know better. I’ll be more careful. Besides, your pa thought I could break him.”
“Pa was out of his head with pain and fever.”
“Then why did you send me that telegram?”
Cait’s mouth lost all moisture. “I made a promise.”
“And I’m going to keep my end of that promise.” Win glanced at the rifle, then held it out to her. “Can I trust you not to do anything foolish?”
Cait’s desire to shoot the stallion had faded along with her rage and she took the weapon from his hand with a small nod. Her gaze fell to the drying blood on his forearm. “That wound needs to be tended.”
“I’ll take care of it. It’s just a cut.” He smiled and cupped her cheek, brushing her skin with his callused thumb. “Honest.”
Cait studied his hazel eyes, seeing an echo of the sincerity and tenderness that had been there so many years ago. She nodded, afraid if she touched him-even to treat a wound-she’d be forced to confront feelings she’d laid to rest a long time ago. “I have to clean out the barn, then I plan to work with the mustangs.”
“Deil’s mine,” Win said firmly.
“All right.” Cait swallowed her apprehension and stated her conditions. “But if he attacks you again, I won’t be stopped a second time.”
Win nodded somberly. “Fair enough. But I don’t plan on giving Deil another chance to get that close.”
“Pa didn’t either.”
“I’m not your pa.”
Cait recognized the stubbornness in Win’s eyes and knew there’d be no way to talk him out of working with the killer stallion. She only hoped her pa had been right in placing his faith in him.
Because she’d lost her faith in Win a long time ago.
CAIT concentrated on threading the leather traces through the worn harness. Ever since her father’s death, she’d let things go around the ranch, including cleaning and repairing the tack, which had been his job since he had been more patient and skilled. However, she couldn’t tempt fate any longer. Shabby equipment led to serious injuries, sometimes death, if it broke at an inopportune moment. Cait understood the necessity but that didn’t mean she liked the task.
A sweat droplet trailed down her cheek and, using the back of her wrist, she swiped away the irritation and stifled a hiss of pain. She’d started working with the wild mares again two days ago, after Win’s close brush with Deil, and had earned muscle aches and bruises for her labor.
Although she’d told Win she could handle the work, she was beginning to wonder if she really could keep up with the chores. There were a dozen wild mares, two of which were heavy with foals and three that had already foaled in the last month that had yet to be handled. The eight she’d managed to set a saddle on still had hours of training before she’d be able to sell them.
Glancing up from her task, she spotted Win through the crack in the barn doors. She could see him in profile and his lips were moving, but she couldn’t hear his voice. He was probably talking to Deil again.
Ever since Deil had nearly trampled him, Win had done nothing but remain in the stallion’s presence. Sometimes he sat on the top rail; other times he rested his crossed arms on the rail and leaned into it. And every time she’d walked by the corral, Cait could hear Win talking to Deil in his soothing timbre. She usually hurried past, hating how her body responded to the seductive resonance of his low voice.
That hypnotic voice was what made him so different from other bronc busters. He didn’t just slap a blanket and saddle on a horse, then jump on and claw leather. Nor did he whip the animal until it flinched like a beaten dog every time a person came near. No, Win first gained the horses’s trust, ensuring the spirit remained and only its body was tamed.
He’d worked the same magic on her, and his presence here now was a constant reminder of her naiveté and lost innocence. When he’d gone, he’d left a fifteenyearold to face the consequences of their actions alone. She could never forgive him for that.
Suddenly feeling tetchy, Cait laid aside the harness and stood, stretching her back and shoulders. The popping joints sounded ominously loud in the barn’s silence. She strode outside, determined not to look in Win’s direction. However, her traitorous gaze defied her intentions and fastened onto his denimclad backside, framed by brown formfitting chaps. A plaid shirt spanned his broad shoulders and was tucked into his narrow waist. His body had filled out in the intervening years, transforming a wiry boy’s body into a man’s lean, rockhard one.
Cait never could recall the moment when she’d stopped thinking of Win as a bothersome big brother to deciding he was the handsomest boy she’d ever seen. She remembered how she’d sought his attention, showing off her roping and riding abilities, but he’d only teased her. He’d finally noticed her when she donned one of her ma’s dresses she’d found in an old steamer trunk.
“Where are you going, Cait?”
She blinked the memories aside and focused on Win, who’d turned to face her. Where was she going? “I thought I’d get lunch started.”
Win squinted up at the sun. “It’s only midmorning.”
Was it that early?
“I’m hungry.”
He chuckled and his eyes twinkled, as if knowing exactly what had been on her mind. Although he’d been able to read her like a wellworn book years ago, she hoped she wasn’t as transparent anymore.
Deil’s whinny startled her, and Cait turned to see a rattletrap buckboard rolling into the yard. A familiar frumpy figure hauled back on the reins, and Cait smiled warmly at the old woman.
“Whoa, you worthless sack of spit,” the woman cussed at her swaybacked mule.
“Good morning to you, too, Beulah.” Cait grinned as she strolled toward the wagon.
Beulah Grisman shook a gnarled finger down at her. “Don’t you be sassin’ your elders, young lady.”
Beulah slapped at her patched and faded skirt, and sent a small column of dust rising from her lap, inciting a raspy cough. She waved a blueveined hand in front of her face, and her fit subsided. She adjusted her floppy hat, held by a scarf tied beneath her chin, then glanced around and spotted Win approaching from the corral.
Beulah grabbed the doublebarreled shotgun in the wagon’s box and aimed it at Win before Cait could explain his presence. “Who’s this varmint?” the old woman demanded.
Although the shotgun barrel didn’t waver, Win didn’t seem to notice. He swept off his hat and met Beulah’s suspicious gaze. “Win Taylor, ma’am.”
Beulah’s lips pursed and her eyebrows beetled. “This Injun a friend of yours, Cait?”
Cait’s mouth gaped. Although she knew Win was part Indian, she’d known him for so long that she didn’t even notice the characteristics he’d inherited from his mother’s halfCheyenne side. It was just part of who he was. But the way Beulah said Injun told Cait the older woman didn’t see Win the same way. “He’s the one Pa said could gentle Deil,” she replied, then added firmly, “He’s only a quarter Indian.”
From her lofty perch on the buckboard, Beulah spat a stream of tobacco toward Win, narrowly missing his boot. “Ain’t nobody, not even someone like him, can break that stallion.”
“I’m betting I can,” Win said. “My pa was the best and he taught me all he knew.”
“He’s right,” Cait said. Although she didn’t owe Win anything, past loyalties were hard to break.