Six White Horses Read online

  "What do you know about Oklahoma?" he asked.

  "The usual," Patty shrugged, watching the traffic zooming along the expressway.

  "There are quite a few interesting places to visit within easy distance of the ranch. You and Everett should do some exploring while you're here."

  "We might do that," she agreed tautly.

  "To the east of Ardmore is a small town called Tishomingo. It's the site of a major wildlife refuge and the headquarters of one of the Five Civilized Nations," suggested Morgan.

  "Indian tribes?" she queried, biting her lip the instant the question was out, wishing she had let the conversation die its own death.

  "Yes, Indian tribes," he replied with patient humor. "The Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Creek and Seminole Indians are known as the Five Civilized Nations. I'm sure you're aware that Oklahoma was originally the Indian Territory. Originally, sixty-seven tribes were transported to reservations here. But a lot of the credit for the development of the Indian Territory into the State of Oklahoma belongs to the Five Civilized Nations. When they arrived, they brought with them an advanced system of education and a complex tribal organization and government as well as Christianity. It was their leadership that truly organized the Indian Territory."

  "I didn't know that," Patty murmured, her tone self-conscious.

  "The first newspaper in Oklahoma was the Cherokee Advocate, published in Tahlequah, Oklahoma, the capital of the Cherokee Nation."

  The expressway on which they were traveling began to climb into the Arbuckle Mountains, monoliths that were weathered and rounded by time, sand-colored rocks thrust out here and there or exposed in sheer cliffs where the concrete road carved its way through.

  Morgan pointed out the exit to Turner Falls, explaining that there were two large swimming areas near the base of the famous waterfall as well as a campground and picnic facilities. On the north side of the Arbuckles were the rolling flatlands.

  "Pauls Valley," Morgan identified the town they were approaching. "The last Saturday in June the World Championship Watermelon Seed Spitting contest is held here."

  In spite of herself, Patty smiled, carving dimples in her cheeks. Morgan caught the brief look she darted at his reflection in the rearview mirror, a suggestion of an encouraging smile around his mouth. He was arousing her interest and he knew it. She had the distinct feeling that he was determined that she enjoy the trip, although she didn't know why he should care.

  "I'm not boring you with my trivia, am I?" he asked.

  There was a slight negative movement of her head. "No," she responded.

  "I know gramps coerced you into this trip." Morgan darted a look at the older man who was trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. "Since you are gallantly tolerating my company, I thought the least I could do was to be as informative as I could."

  He had read her thoughts again and was gently, and mockingly, letting her know that he had. As long as he didn't read any more than that, Patty didn't mind.

  "I thought there was a purpose behind your history lesson," she replied.

  "If you want to go back in history," he said, checking for traffic before edging into the passing lane to go by a slow-moving truck, "then you should visit the Heavener Runestone State Park in eastern Oklahoma."

  "What's that?" her grandfather asked, Morgan's glance ending his self-imposed silence.

  "More than four hundred years before Columbus supposedly discovered America, some Norse explorers traveled through that section of the state and marked their passage by carving runes, characters from their runic alphabet, onto a stone."

  During the rest of the trip into Oklahoma City, Morgan told them about the cattle trails that had crossed the state, the Chisholm and the Western Trails and the Butterfield Overland Southern Mail. He talked about the government land rushes that opened the Indian lands to homesteaders.

  Then they crossed the bridge over the Canadian River, skirted Norman, Oklahoma, and entered the city limits of Oklahoma City. Leaving the expressway, Morgan took a route through the city streets to the state capitol grounds. As the domeless capitol building came into view, he glanced in the mirror at Patty's reflection.

  "The only state capitol in the world with an oil well underneath it," he smiled.

  His statement was unnecessary. The steel derrick almost directly in front of the columned portico entrance to the gray stone structure spoke for itself. More derricks were dotted throughout the capitol grounds, straddling pumps that monotonously bobbed their heads up and down to extract the precious oil from beneath the surface.

  At the north edge of the city, Morgan drew their attention to a hill looking over the downtown section. He turned onto the street that lay at its base. The white peaks of a roofed structure were visible on the top of the hill, along with flags snapping in the wind.

  "That is Persimmon Hill and the National Cowboy Hall of Fame on top of it. One of the branches of the Chisholm Trail used to run along the foot of the hill," Morgan explained. From the street at the base, he turned onto a side street and onto another that climbed the mountain. "The flag esplanade on the side displays the flags of the seventeen Western states that built and sponsored this national memorial to the cowboy, as well as the United States flag."

  Bypassing the parking area, he drove close to the walk leading to the entrance and stopped. Patty was halfway out of the car when the hand she placed on the opened door for balance was taken by Morgan. She found herself trapped in a triangle, the car, the door and a set of broad shoulders forming the three sides.

  For a paralyzing instant, she stood immobile, her head tilted back, her brown eyes staring into his impassive face. Mockery glinted in the blue depths of his eyes, sootily outlined with dark lashes. Morgan made no move to let her pass, while her heart hammered like the trapped bird she was.

  "Well?" A brow arched complacently.

  "Well what?" Patty frowned.

  "Did I keep my promise or not?"

  "What promise?" She was too disturbed by his nearness to think straight.

  "That I'd be on my best behavior." He ran a dancing eye over her.

  Her tongue moved nervously over her suddenly parched lips. She regretted the stalling gesture immediately as Morgan's attention shifted to her lips. Her senses quivered in response, but the deliciously pleasant reaction was not one that she wanted to feel.

  "Yes, I suppose you were," she murmured, wondering if he noticed the slight breathiness in her voice.

  "You don't sound certain."

  "The trip isn't over yet." Her response was meant to come out cold and sharp, instead it was weak and apprehensive.

  "What are you afraid of, Skinny?" he asked thoughtfully.

  She gained a hold on her composure and gripped it tightly. "That's absurd. I'm not afraid of anything. Now let me pass."

  "Something is troubling you. It's there in your eyes." His gaze narrowed, trying to pierce through her fragile mask of pride. "What is it? An attack of melancholy? Or homesickness?"

  "Maybe I'm simply tired of fencing words with you." Despite the pressure of his fingers, she yanked her hand free of his. "I'm entitled to the privacy of my thoughts and I certainly don't intend to confide them to you."

  "I do make you angry, don't I?' Morgan smiled.

  "Yes, you do!" Patty glared. "I think you enjoy making me lose my temper."

  "It's better than seeing you wasting your time mooning over Lije Masters," he shrugged complacently, and stepped to one side.

  "I don't want to hear you say his name again!" she flashed.

  "When are you going to get over that ridiculous infatuation?"

  I am over it, Patty wanted to shout. But of course she couldn't. He might ask how and why. And the answers to those two questions were all tied up with her feelings for him.

  "I've told you before," she said instead, "that I wish Lije all the happiness in the world. What more do you want?"

  "It's not what I want that counts. It's what you want," countered Morgan. />
  "At the moment all I want is to tour the Cowboy Hall of Fame," Patty snapped.

  "Nothing's stopping you." He glanced at the open passageway between himself and the car, and Patty walked hurriedly past him. "My business is going to take me a couple of hours, so the two of you can take your time."

  "We intend to," Patty shot back, darting an angry glance at her grandfather for leaving her to Morgan's mercy and not attempting to rescue her.

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  Chapter Nine

  DESPITE HER BOASTFUL BRAGS to the contrary, Patty raced through the first part of the exhibits and had to retrace her steps to see it again. It seemed impossible that her emotions could be in such a turmoil, so contradictory. While she had been quivering with desire to know Morgan's love, she had been shouting at him in anger. Or had it been frustration?

  Her confusion was eased or at least distracted as she studied the art and sculpture exhibit with its renowned works of the great Western Art masters, including Russell and Remington. The National Rodeo Hall of Fame section she toured with her grandfather, enjoying his accounts of some of the rodeo contestants he had known, always conscious of the life-size replica of Russell's "Bronc-Twister" that dominated that section.

  Finally Patty went to the last exhibit, the pure, gleaming white statue called "End of the Trail," symbolizing the end of the frontier and the life-style of the Indian. No matter from what angle she viewed the massive work, sitting on its matching white pedestal, it dominated and awed her. Strangely it stood out against its background of glass walls and steeply sloping white ceilings.

  "It's impressive, isn't it?"

  Patty had not paid any attention to the footsteps behind her, thinking it was another visitor like herself. A startled look over her shoulder was returned by Morgan's bland gaze before he reverted it to the statue. His hands were slipped casually in his pockets, his stand relaxed. Patty felt as taut as a high tension wire.

  "Is it that late already?" She glanced at her watch. More than two hours had passed, closer to three.

  "I haven't been here but a few minutes," he assured her calmly. "My business took longer than I anticipated. I was afraid you were waiting for, me."

  "Grandpa—"

  "I've already seen him," Morgan interrupted. "He told me where you were."

  "If you'd like to leave now—" Patty began. She couldn't summon any coldness. He had caught her by surprise and her responses were stilted and nervous.

  "No hurry." He brought his gaze from the statue to her face. "Have you seen the fountains?"

  "Only from the windows."

  "Let's go outside, then."

  His fingers lightly closed around her elbow and guided her toward a glass exit door. Strolling around the walk, they followed the bridge walk that meandered over the fountain pools. The water shimmered a pale blue, reflecting the color of the milky sky. Here and there jets of water sprayed into the air. Once by the pools, Morgan directed her along a path to the point of the wooded hill. There they stopped and gazed back at the modern structure.

  "The building was designed to symbolize the tents used by the early settlers. At night, with the light radiating from the center, it resembles a tent encampment around a camp fire," Morgan explained. "The fountains and pools are reminders of how very vital water was to the pioneers. The glass walls are to remind you of the vast spaciousness of the West."

  "It's beautiful," Patty murmured.

  Morgan nodded and guided her toward the graves on the overlooking nob of Persimmon Hill where some of the famous bucking horses were buried—Midnight, Five Minutes to Midnight, and others. There Patty paused, resting a hand against a tree and looking out over the valley below.

  "It's quite a view."

  "Nothing like what the eighty-niners saw," he agreed.

  His voice came from directly behind her, but Party's sensitive radar had already signaled his nearness. She moved closer to the tree, leaning slightly against it for support.

  "Shouldn't we be leaving?" she asked.

  "Everett is going to join us out here when he's finished." Morgan braced an arm against the tree trunk, his hand inches from her head, but his gaze was on the city below.

  A dangerous lethargy was seeping into her limbs. Patty shifted away from the trunk and Morgan.

  "I'd better see what's keeping grandpa."

  "I said he'd be along." His blue gaze swerved to lock onto hers.

  "I know, but—"

  "But you can't stand to be in my company another minute, isn't that right?" Morgan asked smoothly.

  His lack of anger or mockery was unexpected. The expression in his face only revealed a calm acceptance of his statement.

  "Not really," Patty contradicted him, even though it was true.

  "I have some news that should bring a smile to your face," he continued without acknowledging her reply. "I'll be joining up with my brother on Sunday. He's going to help me with the rodeo stock for a week, then come back."

  "But I thought—" Frowning with surprise, she began to remind him that the two weeks weren't up yet.

  Again Morgan ignored her words. "That calls for a celebration, doesn't it?" he smiled, a casual easy smile without any bitterness or taunting anger.

  "That's unfair," Patty breathed, turning from him to stare sightlessly at the city below.

  "Face it, Skinny, we're just making each other's lives miserable," he said quietly. "We're always at each other's throats in one way or another. You're not going to change and I won't.

  Her hands were clenched into fists at her side, her fingers digging into the palms to keep the tears from filling her eyes.

  "If you wouldn't make fun of me all the time," she began.

  "And if you weren't so stubborn and proud," he supplied with a trace of humor. "There isn't anything we can agree on. All our conversations end in an argument of some sort."

  "That's because you—"

  "See what I mean?" Morgan queried lightly. "Already you're starting to argue. You told me once that you were tired of this constant state of war between us. Well, we can never be friends." His dark head moved to the side in negative resignment. "I couldn't make that transition after all this time."

  His compelling look was asking her a question. "Neither could I." Patty accepted at last that she loved him, fully and completely. To be just his friend would be bitterly intolerable.

  "But I admit that I'm tired of the fighting, too." His gaze swept the skies, then concentrated on some distant cloud. "But I also admit that I can't ignore you. Whenever you're around, the sparks are there, the friction. So I'm leaving, ahead of schedule."

  "You've made this decision rather suddenly, haven't you?" She stared at the same cloud, a coldness in her heart.

  "It's been building for some time, but I kept thinking something would change, if only for your grandfather's sake. I tried today to be impersonal and friendly, but it didn't work. So I'm getting out of the picture."

  "I'm sorry, Morgan."

  "Be sorry for yourself." He refused her faint apology. "You're the one who wants to live with ghosts for the rest of your life and you're too stubborn to open your eyes to see what else the world might have to offer."

  "I do not—" Pain flickered in her brown eyes as she instinctively raised her voice.

  "I take it back." His hand raised to hold off the rest of her denial. "I take back what I said. Our last private conversation is not going to end in an argument."

  White teeth bit into her trembling tower lip before Patty exhaled a shaky sigh. "Yes," she agreed. "We should be capable of that."

  "Here comes Everett." Morgan pushed his hands into his pockets and turned toward the lean older man walking their way.

  A strange brooding silence hung over the Kincaid ranch on their return, one that had begun on their journey and remained to throw a dark cloud over Morgan's last two days. It was an atmosphere that everyone noticed and no one commented on.

  For those same two days, Patty had carefu
lly rehearsed the goodbye speech she was going to give to Morgan, a hopeful attempt to keep the door between them from closing permanently. When she came down to breakfast Sunday morning, she discovered that Morgan had left two hours earlier.

  "But he didn't even say goodbye," she murmured in an unconscious protest.

  "He told us," Molly Kincaid replied, "that the two of you had already said all there was to say." She hesitated, then added quietly, "I'm sorry, Patty."

  Patty's fingers clasped the edge of the table as she stared at the coffee cup in front of her. "It doesn't matter," she replied tightly.

  But it did matter. It mattered very much. The backs of her eyes were being scorched with tears. Any second now they would tumble into view. She pushed herself away from the table, mumbling a polite permission to be excused as she rose to her feet and hurried to the door.

  In the solitude of the stables, the burning tears refused to flow while acid pain ate away at her heart. Her hand unconsciously caressed the butting head of a white horse, not even aware of which horse it was stroking.

  "I think Lodestar could do with some exercise." Her grandfather's voice spoke quietly at her side.

  She stared into the luminous brown eyes of the white horse. "You know why he left, don't you, Grandpa? It was because of me."

  There was no need to identify Morgan. Everett King knew whom she was talking about.

  "I guessed that," acknowledged Everett King.

  "His parents?"

  "I think they knew the reason, too."

  The muscles in her throat constricted into a near stranglehold. She forced herself to swallow, lessening her throat's grip but not the knot in her stomach.

  "I feel awful." She closed her eyes and rested her head against the horse's forelock, "How do you put up with me, gramps?

  "I love you," he replied simply.

  "I'm sorry," she murmured.

  "Why? Grandfathers are supposed to love their granddaughters," he teased, a sympathetic twinkle lighting his brown eyes.

  "You must be so ashamed of me," Patty sighed.

  "You can't help the way you feel toward Morgan any more than he can," he said quietly. "I must admit that I had hoped you might bury your dislike."