Six White Horses Page 13

  She started to explain that she loved Morgan, then stopped. Her grandfather had shared so much of her pain when Lije married. It wasn't fair to ask him to shoulder more of her misery. She was an adult, a woman. It was time she stopped carrying her tears to others and faced the consequences of her actions alone.

  "I—I think I'll take Lodestar out," she faltered.

  "That's a good idea."

  The days trickled by with the slowness of grains of sand in an hourglass. Patty worked with the horses to the point of exhaustion, collapsing in bed at nights to cry herself to sleep. Her appetite was nonexistent and she lost weight. Her laughter, when it was reluctantly summoned, was hollow and without its usual zest.

  To her grandfather's concerned queries, she merely shrugged that she was fine. But the frown of worry was almost perpetually lining his forehead.

  One day he had asked pointedly, "Is it still Lije? Are you still breaking your heart over him?"

  The rhythmic stroke of the currycomb hadn't paused as Patty had made her reply deliberately ambiguous. "You don't stop caring for someone simply because they don't care for you."

  Her grandfather had sighed and walked away, his peppered gray head shaking sadly. From that day on, she had truly tried to regain her former buoyant spiri's to ease her grandfather's mind. But she didn't think she had fooled him, Two months later, she was driving the pickup that pulled their travel trailer through the entrance gate of the rodeo grounds. Until the moment she saw the stock truck and the bold letters Kincaid Rodeo Company, Patty hadn't realized how much she had been anticipating the moment when she would see Morgan again. Out of sight had never made him out of mind.

  Her eyes searched the Western-clad figures for a glimpse of his ebony black hair and broad shoulders. But he was nowhere to be seen. There were plenty of welcoming shouts and waves as their van and trailer were recognized, but no sign of Morgan. He had known they would be coming. Her grandfather had telephoned last week to confirm that they would be keeping the engagement.

  As the disappointment and depression set in, Patty realized that secretly she had been praying that Morgan would be there to welcome them back—if not her, then at least her grandfather. Hope was a difficult emotion to ignore.

  All the while they were unloading the horses and settling them into the stall, she kept watching for him, trying to convince herself that the minute the word reached him that they had arrived he would come to greet them. News traveled fast around the rodeo grounds. Too many people stopped by especially to welcome her and her grandfather back to the circuit. Finally she could pretend no longer that Morgan didn't know they were there. He knew, but he just didn't care.

  The bitter taste of rejection nearly gagged her as she walked to the trailer. She felt physically sick and utterly beaten. The pain in her heart that she had been certain couldn't get any worse throbbed with excruciating agony. She wanted to do nothing more than throw herself onto her bed and die, but she forced herself to go through the motions of putting the trailer in order.

  Sitting at the small table, her cheeks cupped in her hands, Patty saw her grandfather's lean figure making its way toward the trailer. She breathed in deeply, ordering the self-pity to leave. For his sake she must keep up appearances, smile and be happy.

  The pot was on the stove, fresh coffee warming on the low flame. She rose from the small couch to pour him a cup. Through the window, she saw him stop in midstride and turn around. Wild joy leaped into her heart as Morgan came into view, a broad smile of welcome flashing across his ruggedly powerful face. The warm handshake, the friendly clasping of shoulders were seen but not noticed. She was drinking in the sight of him, her heart filling with the fullness of her love.

  Then the smile vanished from his face, his expression hardening as he glanced at the trailer. His head moved to the side in curt refusal. An invisible knife was plunged into Patty's stomach. It didn't take much intelligence to guess that her grandfather had invited him to the trailer, no doubt informing him at the same time that she was there. Morgan had no desire to see her.

  For an instant, Patty submitted to the surge of pride that rooted her to the floor, the pride that insisted that if he didn't want to speak to her, she didn't want to speak to him. But it had always been her pride that had stood in her way, blinding her for so long from the truth that she loved him, always adding fuel to the animosity between them.

  Ignoring the jelly sensation in her legs, Patty walked to the door and opened it, fixing a smile of greeting on her face as she stepped outside. The metallic glint in the gaze that met hers nearly sent her back inside, but she gathered her courage and walked forward.

  "Hello, Morgan." Her voice was deliberately controlled to conceal the inner gladness that had no hope of being returned.

  "Hello, Patty," he replied in a clipped tone.

  For the first time in her life, she would have welcomed Skinny, or kid, or any of the other nicknames he had used. The impersonal use of her name was like a bucket of cold water. He looked at her as if she were a nodding acquaintance.

  "Excuse me a minute." Everett King touched her arm, seemingly oblivious to the coolness in the air. "I want to go and say hello to Lefty."

  Her eyes left Morgan's face long enough to see the grizzled, man hobbling alongside one of the pens. Then her grandfather was walking away, lifting a hand in greeting and calling to his friend. Her gaze slid apprehensively back to Morgan.

  "You're looking well, Morgan." Trite words, but the only ones her stilted tongue could speak.

  The line of his mouth thinned. "Thank you." Again the clipped response.

  Her nerve was slowly beginning to shatter. "Your mother sent her love and—this." Patty had barely touched her fingers on his chest, starting to rise on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek when his fingers were digging into the bones of her shoulders, roughly pushing her away.

  "You don't need to transmit the message literally," he snapped.

  What had she hoped? That at the touch of her lips Morgan would fold her into his arms and sweep away the barriers with the mastery of his kiss? Why had she so foolishly exposed herself to his rejection? She buried her chin in her neck.

  "I thought… hoped things had changed," she murmured.

  "We aren't friends, Patty." Sardonic laughter punctuated his words. "Let's not pretend that we are."

  "I wasn't," she defended softly.

  "Of course, you were only delivering a message from my mother, I'd forgotten how very faithful you can be to your misguided sense of duty," he mocked harshly. "Your single-minded devotion must be a by-product of your stubbornness. You're like a bulldog. Once you get hold of an idea, you won't let go even when you know it's wrong."

  "You don't know everything, Morgan Kincaid," Patty flashed tiredly.

  "At least I don't keep feeding a hope that I know will never bear fruit," Morgan jeered.

  "I don't need you to preach to me!"

  "Well, you need somebody!" Then he clamped his mouth tightly shut and directed the blazing fires of his gaze to the side. "Nothing has changed," he said in a quieter and grimmer voice. "Five minutes and we're yelling."

  Her retaliatory temper vanished. "Morgan—" An apology formed.

  "Tell your grandfather I'll talk to him later," he cut in with a heavy sigh, and turned away.

  Dejectedly Patty returned to the trailer. The wish that they might find some ground of neutrality was gone. Before their arguments had only served to anger her further. Now the harshness of their exchange hurt deeply. And, as Morgan had said, the sparks seemed inevitable. If she wanted to avoid further heated words, she would have to avoid him. But her love drew her to him unconsciously. And how could she avoid someone that she was likely to run into around any corner of the rodeo grounds?

  The next morning's practice rehearsal was flawless. The horses were at peak form, their injuries healed and back in top condition. The only lasting effect had been the lessening of Liberty's speed, but her grandfather had compensated for that by
switching his lead position to Landmark's wheel spot.

  "They're ready for tonight, gramps!" Patty declared with a satisfied smile as she halted them at the arena gate and vaulted to the ground.

  "They're eager, too," Everett King agreed, patting the snorting nose of Landmark. "It's hard to believe the accident ever happened."

  "Hey, Princess!" Jack Evans was climbing the arena gate and hopping to the ground. "I heard you were back." He winked as he put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed her tightly. "I missed you."

  "I bet there was some pretty blonde around to console you," Patty laughed.

  "She never takes me seriously." The comment was addressed to her grandfather with a mock frown.

  "I wonder why," he murmured dryly.

  "Are you going with me to the big doings Sunday night?" Jack ignored the remark by her grandfather to smile widely at Patty.

  "What big doings?" she stalled, a ghost of a smile dimpling her cheeks.

  "For Morgan, of course."

  Unconsciously, she stiffened, the faint smile vanishing completely. "Morgan?"

  "Sure, Morgan," he nodded firmly. "Haven't you heard the news?"

  "I g-guess not." She glanced uncertainly at her grandfather.

  "He's sold out—lock, stock and barrel to a rodeo outfit out of Dallas," Jack explained.

  "You—you must be mistaken," Patty frowned her disbelief.

  "No, it's a fact. The new owner is taking over on Monday. Morgan's not even going to finish out the season. So we're throwing him a farewell party Sunday night."

  "Did you know about this, Grandpa?"

  He didn't squarely meet her questioning look. "I'd heard talk," Everett King hedged.

  Patty shook her head. "I don't believe it."

  "Well, there's the man," Jack shrugged. "You can ask him yourself."

  Morgan was standing at the far end of the corridor that led to the arena gates, talking to one of the local rodeo promoters. As Patty followed Jack's look, she saw Morgan touch a hand to his hat and turn away from the man.

  "I will ask him," she said determinedly.

  Scrambling over the gate, she ran down the corridor after the retreating broad back. She called to him once and he stopped and turned, his hands moving to his hips in silent challenge. She halted a few feet in front of him, her eyes searching his inscrutable expression.

  "Is it true?" she asked in a voice slightly breathless from her run.

  "Is what true?" Morgan countered blandly.

  "That you're selling out?"

  "Yes." He turned and began walking away. His long strides almost forced her into a trot in order to keep up with him.

  "You've sold everything? The horses, the bulls, the stock trucks?"

  "Everything except Red River," Morgan replied, referring to the aging bucking horse that was to retire this year. "I'm taking him back to the ranch with me and turning him out to pasture."

  "Why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why are you selling?" Patty asked.

  "I've been thinking about quitting for quite a while. Since Alex doesn't want to travel with his wife and family and Dad is getting too old, we decided to sell," he explained in the same unemotional tone that he had used before.

  "But why now? Why not finish out the season?" she persisted.

  Morgan stopped and faced her, the hard remoteness of steel in the eyes that held hers. "You once indicated that this circuit wasn't big enough for both of us. I've come to the conclusion that you're right." There was a cynical twist to his mouth. "Isn't it a pity that you didn't wait another week before coming back? Then we wouldn't have had to see each other again."

  Patty breathed in sharply at his cutting jeer. One dilemma had been solved—how to avoid meeting Morgan. It was confirmed. He was selling and she was supposed to be rejoicing at the news. That was what he expected. With a belligerently defiant toss of her head, Patty confirmed his opinion.

  "I'm glad I'm here now instead," she retorted. "This way I can dance at your farewell party."

  "Bring some champagne. It's going to be a night to celebrate," Morgan agreed, a muscle twitching uncontrollably in his jaw. "We can drink a toast when they play 'Auld Lang Syne.'"

  "I'll bring a whole case of champagne!" she vowed. "Just don't expect me to join in the chorus of 'For He's A Jolly Good Fellow.'"

  "Whatever you do," he muttered beneath his breath, "please don't make my last days here pleasant ones. I'd hate to ruin a perfect record."

  Her hand connected with his cheek in a resounding slap. Before he could retaliate, she was stalking away, tears streaming down her face.

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  Chapter Ten

  FROM A STRANGER'S POINT OF VIEW, Morgan's farewell party was a huge success. A local tavern had been reserved exclusively for the celebration. There was music and laughter, hoorahing and backslapping, plenty of food and drink for an army.

  Patty was one of the last to arrive. She had turned down Jack's invitation to the party, choosing to go with her grandfather instead. If she hadn't been certain that Morgan would notice her absence, she wouldn't have gone at all. At least with her grandfather, she could leave when she pleased and not be dependent upon a fun-loving date to take her home.

  It wasn't easy to adopt a jubilant attitude, not when her heart was sick at Morgan's leaving. Only knowing how much he wanted to be away from her enabled her to do it with her head held proudly in the air.

  She only faltered once—when he had proposed a toast to her.

  "To Patty King, alias Annie Oakley, the fastest tongue in the West. May she rest in peace," Morgan had proclaimed with mocking laughter, and downed the contents of his glass.

  She hadn't been able to lift her own glass to her lips. She hadn't been able to break away from the savage glitter of his gaze. Within seconds, her grandfather was at her side, gently leading her away from Morgan's table.

  "He hates me, grandpa," Patty had whispered as he led her out the door.

  "No, gal," he had replied quietly, putting a comforting arm around her shoulder. "It just seems that way."

  When the sun blinked into her window the next morning, it was hard to accept that he was really gone, that he had left at daybreak. She and her grandfather were staying over another day before traveling to their next stop on the circuit. He wanted the horses to have one full day of rest before trailering them on a long drive.

  At the stables, Patty learned from Lefty that the new owner of the rodeo stock was keeping them over one more day as well—not to rest the animals, but to complete the installation of his managers and chute bosses and to test out some horses that a couple of local ranchers had brought in.

  A few minutes after Lefty had gone, Jack Evans leaned over the stall door where Patty was currying Lodestar.

  "Some local bronc busters think they have some rough, tough horses, and I've volunteered to top them off for them. Why don't you come on down and watch?"

  "I don't feel like it, Jack. Some other time maybe." She wanted to be left alone.

  But Jack wasn't the type to take no for an answer. He opened the stall door and walked in, taking the currycomb from her hand at the same time that he grasped her by the wrist.

  "Those stupid old horses of yours can wait. You and I are going to the arena and have some fun," he announced.

  "But, Jack—" Patty protested as he continued to drag her along with him.

  "You turned me down flat to that party last night," he reminded her. "Now you gotta make up for it."

  "I think you partied too much last night," she said with thinly disguised exasperation.

  "I could be stone-drunk and still ride those mangy-tailed excuses of horses. Even you could ride one of these 'wild' horses." His eyes widened with mock fear as he emphasized the wild. "You come watch me and I'll buy you breakfast."

  They were nearly at the arena. "Do I have much choice?" Patty asked, sighing as she accepted her fate.

  "None at all, my princess," Jack grin
ned back at her, drawing a reluctant smile in return.

  There were a dozen or so cowboys perched on the rails of the arena near the chutes. Half a dozen more were working behind the chutes running the ranch horses into the partitioned runway, dropping the gates as each one was at its designated place, trapping them inside.

  "Hey, Rafe!" Jack called. "Have you got my rigging with you?"

  One of the men in back of the chutes waved that he had.

  While Patty found herself a seat on the top rail, Jack made his way to the first chute where a horse was haltered and ready for the saddle. Working in the close quarters of a chute, the saddling and flanking of a horse was something that was never hurried. But experience made the procedure swift and sure. A few minutes later, Jack was sitting deep in the saddle, his hat crammed tightly on his head, his blunted spurs lying along the horse's neck, one hand on the rope and the other in the air. A quick nod to the man on the chute gate and it was swung open with an accompanying, "Let 'er buck!"

  The horse bucked, but even Patty's less than experienced eye could see that it was not of the caliber of the rodeo horses. It wasn't a genuine bucker, just a rank horse that needed to be shown who was boss. Before the bell signaled the end of the ride, the horse was only buck jumping around the arena. Jack waved off the pickup riders and jumped from the horse, landing on his feet with a flourish of his hand.

  "How was that, Princess?" He ambled cockily to the fence, a wide grin of triumph on his face. "I told you it would be a snap. Do you want to try one?" Before she had a chance to respond, he was turning away.

  "Paul, do you care if Patty here tries out one of your horses?"

  The man named Paul shook his head that he didn't mind and went back to his conversation with two men who appeared to be the owners of the horses in question.

  "Eddy," Jack waved to one of the men on the fence rail, "Patty's going to ride."

  Then he was taking her hand and helping her down from the rail, taking it for granted that she intended to ride. In sort of numbed shock, she followed him without protest. Unbidden the thought came that if Morgan had been here, he would have hit the ceiling.