Gerrity's Bride

His grin became a smile of anticipation as he allowed his own gaze to slide downward over the bodice of her dress, admiring the slender curves beneath the black silk.

“Why then, Miss Carruthers, I’ll have to find something appropriate of Maria’s for you to wear,” he said with mocking assurance.

“Maria’s?” Her glance was skeptical, questioning his intelligence without words.

Arrogantly he ignored her insinuation, viewing her dark garb measuringly. “You’ll need a different outfit, if you expect to go riding with me. We’ll just have to make Maria’s fit.”

“I hardly think so,” she said, denying his suggestion. “We just aren’t built the same.”

His grin caught her unawares, and she bit at her lip. His threat to stuff her into Maria’s clothing had been mere foolishness. No two women could be more different. Once more he’d managed to rile her with his teasing.

And then he relented, his smile shamefaced now. “Peace? A truce of sorts?” He lifted his hand in a placating gesture, waiting for her nod of agreement. “I have just the thing for you to wear,” he said softly.

Matt Gerrity in the role of a supplicant was not to be believed, and Emmaline privately gloated at the sight. She could afford to be generous, she decided, then smiled and shrugged eloquently.

“You’re going to have a chance to make good on your claims,” he told her, reaching for her hand as he reminded her of her boast. “I’ll get you outfitted, and then we’ll see just how well you can ride some good Arizona horseflesh.”

* * *

“Whose is it?” she asked as she smoothed the soft leather garment with the palm of her hand. Dark against the pristine white of the coverlet on her bed, the riding skirt was spread for her approval. Made of tanned leather, sewn with careful stitches, it was certainly not Maria’s. Slim at the waistline and flaring into a full, separated skirt, it was obviously some woman’s prized possession. Her hand brushed once more at the creamy texture of the leather as Emmaline admired the garment.

Matthew Gerrity’s jaw clenched, tightening for a moment as he watched her slender fingers. “It belonged to my mother,” he said finally, his voice clipped, as if he found the words difficult to speak.

Emmaline’s eyes widened as she stood erect, clutching the skirt to her breast. “Oh...well, maybe I shouldn’t...”

He shrugged, lifting one shoulder, as if it were but a minor detail, this protest on her part. “It’s too fine a garment to go to waste,” he said soberly. “I don’t think she’d care if you wore it.”

As if a veil had lifted, his mouth twisted into a smile when Emmaline nodded, accepting the gift he offered.

“Thank you,” she said gently. “I’ll be very careful with it.”

His smile widened into a grin, quick and unexpected, taking her by surprise. Another side of this man, she realized, one she hadn’t expected. A warmer, softer element that had caught her unprepared.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the grin vanished and the taciturn rancher once more stood before her. “Get ready,” he said gruffly. “I’ll get someone to saddle up a couple of horses.”

She nodded, lifting the soft leather to brush it against the curve of her cheek, watching Matt as he turned away to leave her room. Deep within her body, a coiling heat radiated, bringing about a tingling awareness of him. Of high cheekbones and dark hair, a strong jaw with deep slashes defining his cheeks, wide shoulders and hard, heavy muscles beneath the cotton shirt he wore.

The door shut behind him quietly, and she closed her eyes, intent on recapturing the purely masculine look of him to ponder for a moment. The width of his shoulders, the strength of those wide-palmed hands that had lifted her so casually, taking her weight as if it were nothing. Her heart pounded more rapidly while she remembered the moments on the porch, when he’d held her and kissed her with harsh intent. Yet his kiss had not repulsed her or caused her to fight his embrace.

It was a puzzle, she decided, her eyes blinking open. And nothing in her sheltered past had prepared her to interpret the feelings that ran rampant within her. To give her his mother’s riding skirt... She shook her head unbelievingly, inhaling the fine scent of the leather.

And this was the same man who was intent on riding roughshod over any objections she might have to offer against his manipulating her life. Biting her lip against the thought, she shook her head. “I don’t begin to understand you, Matthew Gerrity,” she murmured.

Even as she uttered his name, she heard the telltale sound of his boots in the corridor outside her door.

“Ten minutes, Emmaline,” he called impatiently through the closed panel.

“Bossy,” she grumbled as the footsteps moved on, and then she sighed as she crossed to the heavy wardrobe to find a shirtwaist that would be suitable for her ride.

* * *

The mount he placed her on was small, a compact cow pony with muscular haunches and leashed power that surged between her knees. The saddle was strange, high in back and equipped with a knob in front, cradling her in its depths. She held the reins as Matt directed, both across her palm, guiding the horse with the pressure of the narrow leather strips across his neck.

“Not exactly what you’re used to, is it?” Matt’s wide palms were lodged against his hips, and his eyes glittered with unconcealed glee. Watching her and assisting her in mounting the gelding had been an experience he’d thoroughly enjoyed. Holding her left foot in his palm, he’d hoisted her easily, one hand at the waistband of the skirt she wore. Regrettably, he hadn’t been able to fit her as neatly with boots. The ones he’d found in his mother’s room were a size too large, but he’d stuffed the toes with batting that secured her feet for safety.

“I’ve ridden astride before,” she told him. “But we box our reins and hold them with both hands.” Her palms rested on the horn of the saddle, and she scooted about in the cradle, seeking a spot where she would feel comfortable and yet in control of her mount. Her legs clung to the pony’s sides, and she spent a moment sending a prayer heavenward that she’d not disgrace herself on this first day. A vision of falling headlong in front of Matt or losing control of the horse she rode caused her to tighten her grip on the reins. Her horse pranced sideways, sensing her unease.

“Let up on the reins!” Matt said sharply.

“I am!” she retorted, attempting to soothe the animal. Ears back, the gelding was skittering toward the corral fence, and Emmaline realized she was facing her first test.

With soft words and a gentle, even pressure on the reins, she turned the horse and then allowed him to move out at a quicker pace. Automatically, she rose to meet his quick trot, and behind her Matt howled his dismay.

“No...not like that! You can’t post on a western pony. Just ride the trot...keep your rear end in the saddle and get used to the motion.” He shook his head in scorn at her eastern ways. “You’ll be laid up with liniment on your bottom at this rate,” he said, catching up with her as she rode beyond the confines of the corral.

She glanced at him with as much dignity as she could muster, given the bouncing ride she was coping with. “I’d like to see you on a saddle with one of our big hunters between your legs and watch how you handle it!” she snapped.

“You’ll never find me perched on one of those pancakes you call a saddle. We don’t ride for pure fun, lady. Out here, our horses are just equipment that allow us to do our work.”

“Well, I certainly don’t call this ride pure fun.” But, gradually, she caught the rhythm of the animal she rode and settled deeper into the saddle, rolling more easily with his gait. One hand slid from the leather of the saddle to smooth the mane, which flowed against the dark neck of her mount.

“Does this animal have a name?” she asked.

He shrugged at her question. “I think Claude calls him Brownie.”

Her hand ceased its motion.

“Brownie?” The word dripped with derision. “You actually call a horse Brownie?”

He swept her a mocking bow from his saddle, and his eyes sparkled. “Actually, I don’t call him anything. What would you call him back in Kentucky?”

“Our horses all have names they’ve been registered with, and we usually call them by some part of that name. Mine is Rawlings Sweet Fancy. I call her Fancy.”

“Well, today you’re riding a cow pony named Brownie, bred for cutting cattle,” he drawled, urging his horse into a slow lope. Hers followed suit, and she settled with relief against the saddle.

Emmaline scanned the horizon, where low hills melted into each other, covered with a dark underbrush and dotted with taller scrub. Before them lay a sparse pasture where mares and foals were kept. Surrounded by a double strand of barbed wire, the mares appeared to have docilely accepted their confinement. But the foals were frolicking, kicking up their heels and racing to and fro, carefree in the hot sunshine with their mothers close by.

“We’ll be working with these foals later today, if you want to watch,” Matt said, his gaze ever alert to her. She’d changed, thawing before his eyes as she watched the young ones leap and play in the pasture. A faint smile hovered over her lips, and the rigid control she’d donned at the beginning of this ride had slipped, to reveal the softening of the woman within.

“I’d like that. I’ve helped with the young ones back home,” she told him casually, and then, as her smile broke into a wide grin, she lifted her hand to point at one particularly adventuresome colt.

“Look at that little fellow,” she said with a chuckle. The long-legged dove gray creature had overestimated a leap and gone spraddle-legged in the grass, shaking his head and looking about in surprise.

Their horses had slowed as they spoke, and now they walked abreast of one another. The air between them was free of the abrasiveness they had set out with.

“Thank you for the loan of the skirt,” she said finally, after a few long minutes of quiet.

“No problem,” he answered curtly. “My mother was generous. She’d approve.”