The Wildcatter

Miguel let go the horn, stole a glance at her, then transferred his reins to the left hand the way she held hers. He rested his right hand on his thigh, fingers clenched in spite of himself. “Aren’t you missing your supper?”

His own stomach growled at the taunt and she laughed. “Yes, but I’m waiting for my fiancé.” Reining in, she gazed out over the twilit valley. “That might just be him there, coming back from Durango.” She nodded toward the county road, some five miles to the east, and a tiny pair of moving headlights.

But they passed the ranch entrance and crawled on to the north. Her fiancé. “You mean Señor Mercedes?” A pity. He would make a poor husband, ill-tempered and overbearing. And a man who was full of himself would be selfish in bed.

“I mean Eric Foster, who does happen to own a Mercedes, and it’s a nice one, too.”

“Except for that dent in the door. Must be a careless driver?”

“Ha!” She touched her spurs to her palomino’s ribs and the horse surged toward the river.

Without signal from his rider, Miguel’s own horse followed. Miguel grabbed the horn—grimaced and let it go—yelped and clutched it again, half standing in his stirrups. Dios, a mile of this and he could forget having sons!

She glanced back at him around the brim of her hat and called mockingly, “Let go of that horn, cowboy!”

“¡Brujita!” he swore under his breath. She was a little witch, with her hair of burning embers blowing back over her face as she laughed and tortured him. Impossibly slim in the saddle. And graceful, her hips barely bouncing against the polished leather, while he slipped and jolted like a clown.

Abruptly she took pity on him and reined in, letting him catch up to her at the next cut down to a lower level. “Why haven’t you sold these worthless brutes for dog food and bought yourselves something useful? All-terrain vehicles or dirt bikes?”

She smiled as she rubbed her horse’s glossy neck. “Oh, they sort of grow on you. No bike’s going to blow down your collar or rest his head on your shoulder.”

“Gracias a Dios.”

“Of course, it’s partly your choice of ride,” she added with a twinkle. “Did they tell you his name?”

“Jack is what Wiggly called him.”

Her smile broadened. “That’s short for Jackhammer.”

“And thank you, Wiggly!” He dared to touch Jackhammer with his heels, and miraculously the beast didn’t resent it but moved on. His tormentor pursued, drawing even with him again. Their knees brushed for a moment and he glanced at her sharply. “I suppose you’ve been riding since you could walk.”

“Oh, no. I started late myself. Fourteen.”

He cocked an eyebrow; how could that be? But she’d swung away from him, was gazing off in the direction her fiancé would come. The pale line of her profile against the gathering dusk was a thing of beauty, like Venus rising in her veils of light, there in the east. Someday, once he’d made his fortune, he’d find himself a woman like this one, all grace and spirit and fire.

But first, but first, he reminded himself. First came the means to win, then keep her. Because a man without money—

“There he is!” she cried on a note of satisfaction. A pair of headlights slowed for the turn into the ranch, then seemed to glare at them across the intervening miles as the car topped a low rise.

She reached over and laid two fingers on Miguel’s wrist. Her touch shot up his arm like a spark leaping to tinder and he sucked in his breath. “Pull back on your reins and hold them,” she commanded.

“Like so? But why?”

“Because I’ve got to run and you don’t want to follow.”

Or do I? But already her horse had spun in its length, snorting and dancing.

She gave him an absent smile, her mind filled with another already. “Have a good ride.” The palomino thundered away uphill.

Jackhammer threw up his head, fighting the reins, eager to race for the barn. “Whoa, you cabro! ¡Cabrón! Who’s the boss here?”

A good question. By the time they’d settled it, she was long gone.

THIS WASN’T THE SUMMER Risa had pictured when she’d invited Eric to Suntop. She’d imagined them riding out daily. She’d show him all her favorite, secret spots—the canyons, the swimming holes, the high country. They’d pack picnics along every day, and somewhere outside, sometime this summer, sometime just…right, they’d make love. She wanted her first time to be outdoors, under the stars. Or in a high-mountain meadow, in the lush grass and flowers, with the sun blazing down, only eagles for witness.

Wanted some way that distinguished the act from the casual rolls in an unmade bed, in a small shabby room with cobwebs in the corners and cigarette smoke hanging heavy in the air. Half-empty beer cans on the bedside table. That was her earliest impression of love, the way her mother had gone about it.

For herself, Risa wanted something different, so different. But how was she to get it when Eric wasn’t welcome at Suntop? Ben had looked her fiancé in the eye at the supper table for three nights running and asked how long he planned to hang around Suntop.

And Eric was sensitive. Eric had his pride. Eric could take a hint. He’d come back last night from Durango to tell her he’d found a job for the rest of the summer. He’d be working pro bono for the biggest law firm in that city. The senior partner was a friend of his father’s. He’d sublet an apartment there, and they’d see each other weekends and evenings. “I’d like to be closer, sweetheart, but what with your father…” He’d shrugged and smiled bravely.

She’d flown to lock her arms around his waist. “Oh, Eric, that’s just his way. He gives all our dates a hard time.”

“He’s going to have to get used to the fact that I’m not just some pimply-faced date. I’m here to stay, Risa. There’s no way he’s stopping me. Stopping us.”

What had she done to deserve such devotion? she’d wondered as he kissed her. It seemed such a miracle. That a man like this could love someone like her. Too tall, too shy, too awkward. Neither brilliant nor beautiful. Never quite belonging anywhere.

A castoff, a stray. Her younger sisters were both legitimate, but she was not.

Ben had never bothered marrying her mother. Never troubled himself once in fourteen years to visit his daughter, not till Eva’s death. Then he’d brought Risa back to the ranch like an afterthought. When he’d adopted her and given her his name, well, that must have been for no more reason than that all Suntop stock wore his brand.

Compared with Ben’s brusque and offhand affection, Eric’s unswerving attention was cool water in the desert. In his arms she’d found her home at last.

But, oh, she was missing him already, and this was only the second day he’d been working. So to pass the hours till sundown, she’d ridden out with her youngest sister.

“Who cares if we didn’t bring our swimsuits? I’m positively, absolutely melting! Come on, Risa. Race you there!” Twelve-year-old Tess Tankersly wheeled her paint pony midbridge and spurred south down the river trail.

“Tess!” Risa had wanted to return to the Big House, in the hope of finding a message from Eric waiting there. But she couldn’t let her youngest sister swim alone. “Darn it. Wait up, you silly goose!”

No answer but a wavering war whoop. Tess ducked her dark head alongside her pony’s neck and vanished under the green-fringed curtain of a willow tree.

Risa growled something wordless and urged her lathered mare into a lope. Exasperating as her little sister was, she was right. It was hot today. They should have ridden into the heights instead of the valley, but Tess had wanted to show her the latest crop of yearlings. She had her eye on a black, half Arab, half quarter horse filly that she was determined to make her own. Her first grown-up mount.

So far, Ben, in his usual fashion, had made Tess no promises. There was so much more power in maybe, than sure.

That’s why he doesn’t like Eric, Risa told herself. Because he can’t control him. And once they married, Ben would lose control over her. She smiled as she crouched along her mare’s shoulder, willow leaves stroking her back.

Two more twists along the narrow trail and she came to the swimming hole. Here the river made a wide bend around the cliffs on the opposite shore. The current slowed, the bottom was sand, the water deep and dark.

Tess had shucked the saddle off her paint and was leading him into the river. She’d left her T-shirt on, thank heavens, but she’d wriggled out of her jeans. Her skinny little butt gleamed bright red with her cotton bikinis, then vanished beneath the olive-gold water. Beside her, her pony snorted and launched himself into the depths, paddling like a dog.

“You twerp!” Risa called. Now they’d have to wait for Oscar to dry off before Tess could saddle up again.

“He was as hot as I was.” Swimming alongside, Tess grasped the pony’s black mane and squirmed up onto his withers, then threw a leg over his surging rump. “Wheee, we’re flying!”

“What do you think—want to swim?” Risa asked Sunrise as she folded her jeans on top of her boots. Sunny dipped her head and actually seemed to nod. Risa laughed and reached for the cinch knot. “Just like old times.”

They swam the horses downstream as far as the next bend in the river, then back against the current, to come ashore on the opposite bank, where a narrow sandbar edged the cliffs. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, legs outstretched, digging their bare heels into the damp, sugary grit, they talked aimlessly, while Sunny and Oscar prowled the bank behind them, seeking mouthfuls of grass growing from the cracks in the rocks.