The Taming Of Tyler Kincaid

“No,” he said gently, “I couldn’t. I wish it were different. I really wish—”

Adrianna put her hand lightly over his mouth. “Don’t lie to either of us, Tyler. That isn’t your wish. We both know that I’m not the woman for you. I’m not the one you’re looking for.”

Tyler gave a mocking laugh. “I’m not looking for a woman. Not now, not ever.”

“Everyone’s looking for someone, whether they know it or not.”

“You’re wrong.”

Adrianna smiled gently, rose on her toes and pressed a light kiss to his mouth.

“Goodbye, darling,” she whispered.

Tyler watched her walk from the room. He sank down on the edge of the bed, listened to the distant click-click of those ridiculous high heels fading, then to the even more distant sound of her car. At last, he stood and walked slowly to the window.

The moon was setting, dipping into the branches of the old oak just outside his bedroom.

There was nobody inside him, Adrianna had said, but she was wrong. Tyler smiled bitterly. The boy named John Smith was still there, whether he liked it or not. There was an emptiness in his heart, a yearning sometimes that he couldn’t put a name to or get rid of by burying himself in his work, or even by pounding his gloved fists against the body bag at his gym.

She was wrong about him looking for a woman, too. How could a man look for a woman when he was still searching for himself?

He stood at the window for hours, watching as night gave way to dawn. At six, exhausted, he fell on his bed and slept. When he opened his eyes, it was after nine.

Tyler reached for the telephone.

“Carol,” he said, when his secretary answered, “you remember that private detective we used last year? The one who found out who was selling our research plans to our competitors? I’d like his name, please, and his phone number. No, no that’s fine. I’ll call him myself.” A moment passed. Then Tyler scrawled down the name and number his secretary gave him. “Thank you,” he said.

He disconnected, took a deep breath and dialed.

CHAPTER TWO

CAITLIN MCCORD had a passion for horses, dogs and kittens but, because she was a reasonably sane woman, she didn’t like them all in one place at the same time, especially if the dog was barking, the horse was rolling its eyes and the kitten was hissing like a rattlesnake.

The horse, a chestnut mare with the unlikely name of Charlotte, was beautiful, terrified and new to Espada. Caitlin had spent the best part of half an hour rubbing her velvet nose and feeding her carrots while she told her they were destined to be friends. When the mare nuzzled her shoulder, Caitlin smiled, led her from the stables to the paddock and saddled her.

That was when the dog, a black-and-tan hound with a clever nose and a foolish disposition, came wandering by.

“Woof?” said the dog.

The mare rolled her eyes and danced backward. Caitlin held firmly to the bridle, calmed the horse, shooed the dog and devoted another five minutes to telling her life was not as awful as she imagined. When the horse nuzzled her again, she decided it was time to ease herself gently into the saddle.

That was the moment the dog reappeared, this time in hot pursuit of a ball of hissing orange fluff.

Caitlin felt the mare’s muscles bunch beneath her thighs. The animal whinnied, reared and pawed the air before she brought it under control again.

Abel Jones, Espada’s foreman, had been watching the goings-on from his window at the eastern end of the stables. He stepped out the side door into the paddock and spat a thin stream of tobacco juice into the grass.

“Ornery critter, that horse.”

“She just needs to run off some steam.”

“Manuel ain’t doin’ nothin’ much this mornin’.” Able spat another stream of juice down toward his boots. “He’ll take her out, if you like.”

Caitlin shot a grin in Abel’s direction. “And spoil my fun?” She leaned forward, ran a gloved hand over the chestnut’s quivering, arched neck. “I’ll do it. Just toss me my hat—it fell off when this little girl tried to make like Trigger.”

The old man bent down, plucked the Texas Rangers baseball cap from the dust, dusted it against his thigh and handed it up. Caitlin pulled the cap on, tucked her dark auburn curls up under it and tugged the brim down over her eyes.

“Open the gate, please.”

“Sure you don’t want to give Manuel somethin’ to do?”

“Open it, Abel.”

The foreman grunted. There was no mistaking an order, even when it was issued in a quiet voice.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and flung the gate to the paddock wide. Horse and woman shot through in a blur.

“That there mare’s a wild one,” Manuel said, coming up alongside. “Think the señorita can handle her?”

Abel’s narrowed eyes stayed locked on the receding figures of horse and rider. “She’ll handle the mare, all right.” He worked the mouthful of chewing tobacco into his cheek, spat and wiped his pepper-and-salt mustache on his sleeve. “It’s a stallion’s gonna give her trouble, someday.”

Manuel gave the foreman a puzzled look. “We got a new stallion? Nobody told me about it.”

The old man laughed. “It’s what they call a figger of speech, kid.”

“A what?”

Abel sighed, reached for a pitchfork and thrust it at the boy.

“Go muck out the stalls,” he said, and stomped away.

Tyler Kincaid was driving a battered old Chevy pickup along an unpaved road that undulated through the Texas countryside.

He’d paid some old geezer four hundred bucks for the truck after the plane he’d chartered had flown him to a small airfield just outside town. The P.I. he’d hired said there was a private landing strip on the Baron ranch but Tyler had decided that a man reconnoitering a situation was better off doing it without drawing too much attention to himself. That was why he’d dressed inconspicuously, not in a suit and tie but in weekend clothes—faded jeans and a cotton T-shirt. He’d even resurrected his old Stetson and his roper boots from the back of his closet.

Tyler had figured he could rent a car someplace near the airstrip but he’d figured wrong, which was how he’d ended up with the Chevy. The old truck groaned and rattled like the bucket of bolts it was, and there was dust kicking up through the holes in the floorboard and settling like tan snow on his boots but according to the map in his bag, he didn’t have far to go. It was only another ten or twelve miles to the Baron ranch.

The radio worked, anyway. Tyler fiddled with the dial, settled for a station playing the kind of country music he hadn’t listened to since his years breaking horses in the hot Georgia sun, first at Boys Ranch and then on his own, after he’d left the Marines. The sentimental songs were made for the hard life of a cowboy. Right now, he just wanted them to take his mind off what he’d set out to do because he suspected that if he thought about it too long, he might admit he was making a mistake.

Why pay a private investigator to dig into the circumstances of his birth and then go out on his own? It was foolish, maybe foolhardy…but this was his life. If anybody was going to find the answers he sought, it was going to be—

The engine hiccuped, made a noise like a sick elephant and came to a convulsive stop.

Tyler frowned, did a quick appraisal of the dashboard gauges. Gas was okay and so was the oil. The engine temperature read normal. He waited a couple of seconds, then turned the key.

“Dammit,” he said, and flung the door open.

It was hotter than blazes with the sun beating down. A chorus of insects filled the silence with a melody of their own devising.