Yet the misty edges of the sensual haze that had begun to envelop her like the fog in her dream whispered somehow of… betrayal. In the stable loft she'd known what she wanted, and it was Luke. But here, among the shadows surrounding them, Ennis's paintings hanging on the walls downstairs, the easel standing like a sentinel in the corner, she was reminded of old wounds. Some were long buried, and others, still festering, rose and robbed her of the hot, single-minded desire she'd felt earlier.
Whom could I be betraying?
she thought, bewildered. Lindsay's ghost, or her own set of specters, real and imagined?
She thought of Christopher, the only man with whom she'd had sexual relations for more than a decade. She had been a relentlessly faithful wife to an outrageously faithless husband. She couldn't possibly be betraying him! But somehow the memory of Chris and those first, intense months of their courtship, making love in student housing and on the beach at midnight in Malibu, crowded her thoughts. Today in the stable loft, everything had been so perfect. Why must restless phantoms hover about at a time like this? she demanded silently, glancing uneasily around the cottage cloaked in shadows.
By this time Luke had shed his jacket and kicked off his boots. He turned and eased her gently on top of her rumpled bed, lowering his frame to recline beside her.
He had told her in so many words that he'd been a faithful husband. As he stared at her now, brimming with intense desire that was probably fueled by three years of celibacy, she was inclined to believe him.
"Prove to me this afternoon wasn't a dream," he challenged harshly, his fingers starting to undo the fastenings on her pajama top.
"Prove to me you're not a ghost in the mist," she returned the challenge, staring into blue eyes that had changed to the color of the midnight sky visible through their window.
"Couldn't be simpler," he replied, and seized her hand, drawing it toward his midsection.
"The time to dance is when the music's playin'," Blythe murmured, assisting Luke to divest himself of his trousers and briefs and tossing them onto the floor.
"Grandmother Barton?" he chuckled as he removed her pajama top and cast it on top of his own abandoned clothing. Then he lowered his gaze to her breasts.
"Grandma Barton had an endless store of wisdom and advice," she confirmed, feeling self-conscious under his intense scrutiny.
"God bless that woman," he groaned, covering Blythe's body with the length of his own.
And then, mercifully, there was only Luke, and the music, and the dance.
CHAPTER 9
A
n early-morning hiker who had set out on the coastal path at dawn's light the next day would have seen the sun and moon winking at each other across the slate roof of Painter's Cottage. Inside, oblivious to everything but the woman lying next to him, Luke gazed through half-opened eyes at the dim light that filtered through the windows beneath the sleeping loft. Sighing contentedly, he aligned his longer frame, spoonfashion, alongside Blythe's.
"Morning, cowgirl," Luke whispered in her ear. "The sun's up."
"Barely," she groaned, and turned over, facedown, burrowing into her pillow.
"Come back here," he growled, pulling her close. Her backside fit into the curve of his lap to perfection. "Mrs. Q will wonder where I've got to when she brings up morning tea."
"Ummm? Tell her you were out plowing the north forty."
"It's just before six. I feel like I'm back at university, about to sneak a girl out of my rooms before the proctor wakes up."
"You should sneak back in the house," she mumbled, "like a good daddy, so your son won't find out what a rake you've been."
Blythe rolled over again, nuzzling Luke's shoulder and inhaling the wonderful musky scent under his arm. You couldn't really know a man unless you flat out smelled that part of him, she thought lazily, and felt sleep dulling her senses.
The palm of Luke's hand soon put an end to her attempt to return to slumber as he began to stroke her upper leg from hip to knee. Then his fingers gently kneaded her thigh.
"You're so strong here," he murmured against her neck. "Will you go riding with me sometime soon? On a horse?" he amended, a finger gently beginning to trace the crease where the top of her leg met her torso. "There's a lot of the estate you haven't seen, but it's too risky to chance taking the poor old Land Rover over the downs."
"I never ask a man to show me the size of his spread," she giggled.
He laughed. "Look, Blythe, I want to show you the estate—all of it. Shall we have a go later this afternoon?"
"I don't ride anymore," she said, suddenly subdued.
"But you told me all about barrel racing… that you were 'Miss Rodeo Wyoming, 1990.' Last night you certainly proved it."
"Luke…" she chastised him gently, embarrassed by his alluding to her brazen behavior.
"What's the matter?" he persisted playfully. "Think our Cornish ponies aren't good enough for a cowgirl like you, is that it?"
"No… that's not it at all."
She was wide-awake now. Lucas seemed to sense her distress as she stared off into space.
"Blythe… what is it? Why is this subject painful for you? I've asked you to go riding several times, and you've always refused… or changed the subject."
She looked at him, her happy, languid mood evaporating, and sat up in bed.
"A long time ago, in Wyoming… there was… an accident, and ever since I can't bear…"
She leaned her head back against the pile of pillows and shut her eyes.
"Who was hurt?" Luke asked quietly.
"My brother, Matt. He was killed bronc-riding. I was there."
"Oh, Blythe…" he said, pulling her against his chest. "How awful to have seen something like that. But why won't you—"
"Ride? Because I'll never go near a horse again as long as I live!" she blurted, pulling away from his embrace.
"But why? It can't have been your fault that your brother was injured."
"Killed," she corrected him, staring down at the bedclothes. "No. It wasn't."
"Then what's this all about?" he probed in an uncharacteristically direct fashion. After their night of extreme intimacy she could tell this man wanted to know everything about her.
Coming clean about what had happened when Matt had died, however, was asking a lot.
After the Barton family had buried her brother, Blythe had never again spoken of the day—or way—her brother Matt had died. Not to her parents, not to her grandmother, not to anyone, including Christopher. There was nothing to be gained from rehashing it all, and quite a bit to lose. And except for her former husband, they had all been witnesses anyway.
"I did a terrible thing… afterward," she said in a low voice.
"After your brother was killed? What could you possibly do that was so terrible?" he chided, kissing the top of her head. She clamped her lips shut and remained silent.
"Tell me what happened to Matt. How old was he?"
"Seventeen," she whispered.
"Weren't you still at university? How did you happen to be there?"
Blythe was suddenly awash in memories. As she began to tell the story of Matt's death, her words seemed almost to describe a disaster that had happened to someone else, some other family's tragedy.
"I had just graduated from UCLA that June, just like both my parents had. My dad was incredibly proud. I didn't meet Christopher until afterward. That autumn."
"And?" he prompted after a few moments of silence while Blythe remained lost in thought.
"Dad wanted me to come home to Wyoming for the summer before I was to begin graduate school."
"In landscape design. In California, yes?"
She nodded. "Mr. Hill, the head of the Jackson Hole Rodeo Association, asked me to make an appearance that Saturday night after one of the saddle events. Matt being a contestant and all, and my grandmother Barton riding in the Grand Entry every week—it was kind of a Barton family reunion… a 'return of the local heroine,' I guess. I'd won the Miss Rodeo Wyoming title when I was in high school, and hardly any of the girls from there went on to college. I was flattered to be asked."
"And I'll bet while you were away in California, Mr. Hill had missed seeing you in your jeans," he ventured with a smile.
Blythe didn't laugh. She took a deep breath.
"That night," she continued, "when Matt was climbing onto the horse in the chute, the animal went… wild… bucking and practically kicking down the stall. Matt jumped off while the other hands tried to settle it down. Matt knew that horse was really rank and—"
"Rank?" Luke repeated. "Translate, please."
"It means a horse that really bucks… acts ornery… gives a good show to the spectators. Matt knew that if he could hang on, he'd finish in the money."
"Are the horses they use for the rodeo… mental?" Luke asked. "What makes them buck like that?"
"Some horses just like to do it. Others are animals that hurt some amateur rider at some point, or can't be broken. For these types of horses, the only place for them is the rodeo. Otherwise they'd end up as dog food."
"Pity," Luke said mildly.
"The harder a horse bucks, the more points the horse and cowboy can earn. More points, more money. It's the rodeo way of life."
"But I thought the girth strap on the animal's testicles was the thing that made them so wild," said Luke. "Not true?"
"The bucking strap?" Blythe shrugged. "That strap doesn't touch their testicles. As a matter of fact, most rodeo horses don't even have their gonads anymore. Rodeo stock runs to geldings or mares. The strap just feels strange to them and they try to get it off. Basically these are horses that just like to buck—period—and they've never lost their taste for it."
"And Matt's horse?" Luke prompted.
"Sometimes a horse comes along that's more than rank… it's loco… crazy." Blythe was twisting the edge of the bedsheet between her fingers. "The stock contractor's job is to supply all the animals for the rodeo each week—the bulls and bucking horses, the roping calves—everything. And he's trained to judge an animal's temperament and knows how to cull out the real lunatics." She stared up at the rafters and blinked hard. "The broncs are supposed to be rank, not crazy. Rodeos are supposed to test your skill, and they can be very dangerous… everybody involved knows that… but the cowboys are supposed to have a chance."
"And because of that particular horse, you're saying that Matt didn't have a chance?"
Blythe merely nodded.
"Didn't the stock contractor notice that the horse your brother was going to ride was behaving strangely?"
"He did!" Blythe said, her voice catching in her throat. "Virgil Bailey's the best in the business. He spotted that son of a bitch as soon as he was unloaded from the stock truck that week. He told Oatsey—"
"Oatsey?" Luke inquired. "That's someone's name?"
"Nickname," Blythe said grimly. "Otis McCafferty was your typical ex-bull-rider rodeo hand who fancied himself the Marlboro Man. Full of himself and what he carried in his jeans."
"The man who taught you to play poker, yes?"
"And a few other things." Luke cocked an eyebrow at this but remained silent, waiting for Blythe to continue. "I say that, you see, because Oatsey and I had a very brief roll among the hay bales the summer after my second year at UCLA. I discovered really fast that he was a first-class jerk and that was the end of it. I thought."
"And?"
"Virgil told Oatsey not to load the horse my brother drew, but Oatsey… he got distracted and forgot."
"And it threw your brother to the ground?"
"Right out of the chute—like a rag doll. There was no way Matt could have stayed on that horse, bucking like it did. When Matt fell off, his foot caught in the stirrup and he got dragged around the arena. That damned horse deliberately crashed into the chutes… whatever obstacle he could kick. The pickup men couldn't get to my brother in time."
"And…?"
"Matt couldn't get free, you see," she said, her voice cracking. "He just hung there by one leg and the horse kept galloping in circles, dragging Matt like a sack of corn, slamming him into everything in its path. In about a minute my brother's neck was broken and his face was—"
Blythe closed her eyes and fought to regain her composure.
"How did they get him loose?" Luke asked gently.
"Virgil ran into the arena just as the pickup men finally got the bronc cornered and shut down. Virgil got to Matt first and got his foot free, but Matt wasn't breathing. It was too late… his neck had snapped like a dried stick. The emergency crew couldn't revive him. They did their best, but—"
"And where were you when this happened?" Luke asked quietly.
"I was on my horse, all decked out in my glitter-girl Miss Rodeo Wyoming outfit, waitin' to do my thing," she said sarcastically, her eyes rimmed with tears. "I even had my old sash on from the year I won."
"And then…?"
"I jumped off Ranger and ran into the arena with Virgil and everybody else. I screamed at him, 'Why was Matt riding a horse like that?' and he said he'd told Oatsey not to use him, but that Virgil hadn't checked to make sure, and that it was all his fault." She turned to face Luke and added fiercely, "But it wasn't. It was Oatsey and his girlfriend's fault! And then, after they got that horse away from my brother, I took my whip and started beating it on the head and neck as hard as I could!" Blythe had begun to pound her fist against the mattress. "I just beat it and beat it, and would have beat it to death if I could, but Virgil grabbed my arm and hauled me away."