Six White Horses Read online

  Patty glanced at her grandfather, who was virtually ignoring the sharp exchange as he examined Liberty again. She slipped astride Landmark an instant after Morgan had walked to his head, a steadying hand closing over the bridle.

  "Yes, I heard him." Seething temper tremble her words. "But my judgment of the situation told me to take them over the jump again."

  "Well, someone ought to take you over a knee!" Morgan lashed back, a black fury raging in his harsh expression.

  Her hands moved to her hips in challenge. "I bet you'd like to be that someone, wouldn't you? Well, you just try it, Morgan Kincaid!"

  Without warning, he reached up and grabbed her arm, yanking her off the horse's back. Patty fell against his hard chest, but he made no attempt to check her, letting her momentum take her where it would.

  "You pint-sized little devil!" he growled as she recovered and pulled away from the burning contact. "Don't tempt me!"

  "Why don't you take care of your stupid bucking horses and quit sticking your nose into things that are none of your concern!" she flashed angrily.

  The sharply working muscles in his clenched jaw warned Patty of the tight curb he had on his temper. "I don't know whether it matters to you or not, but that stupid stunt of yours added ten years to your grandfather's age. The next time you decide to play the courageous Annie Oakley," his lip curled with sarcasm, "give a thought to him."

  The flame of her anger flickered at his sobering observation, lessening her belligerent stance. Squaring her shoulders, she returned his steel-hard gaze.

  "Grandpa knows I don't take unnecessary chances," Patty replied.

  "But you do put my heart in my throat once in a while," her grandfather inserted, walking to Lodestar's head. "Now, if you two don't mind, I'd like to get these horses back to the stables. And that reporter of yours might be getting impatient, Morgan."

  The broad chest rose and fell as Morgan took a deep, calming breath. "Carla wants to interview you," he told Patty, "and get some pictures of you with the horses."

  "Carla?" Patty haughtily raised a brow. "On first names already? My, but you do work fast!"

  His gaze narrowed on her for a split second before focusing on the two spectators at the arena gate. He waved at them to enter the arena while Patty walked to Landmark's head, using the time to smother the last of the anger. She managed to smile quite naturally when Morgan introduced her to Carla Nicholson, the feature writer, and the photographer Fred Kowalski.

  "What beautiful animals," the woman reporter murmured. "Such a pure white, and so graceful and spirited." She flashed Patty a professional smile, leaving Patty with a terribly unsophisticated feeling. "I do hope their names match their beauty."

  "The front pair are Liberty and Lodestar," Patty recited. "The middle ones are Legend and Legacy and the wheel horses are Landmark and Loyalty."

  "Alliterative and imaginative names. That's a nice touch. Fred, get some photos of Miss King with the horses."

  When the photographs were taken, her grandfather led the horses from the arena. Patty remained, patiently answering all the questions that had been put to her before at one time or another. Despite the way the attractive woman centered her attention on Patty, there was the sensation that she was attempting to impress Morgan that she was very good at her work.

  "Considering how well trained your horses are, how do you feel toward the other horses in the rodeo, specifically the bucking horses?" Carla Nicholson inquired.

  That question had never been asked Patty before, but she replied readily. "If you're asking if I have any favorites, the answer is yes," she smiled. "Red River."

  The blonde leafed back through the pages of her notebook. "I believe Morgan mentioned that horse, didn't you?" she glanced quickly at him.

  "Yes," he nodded. "He's been bucking horse of the year a few times. This will be his last season on the circuit."

  "I remember." A smile warmer than any she had given Patty spread across the woman's face as she looked at Morgan. "You told me you were going to be retiring him this year. I wanted to look at some of your stock. Would you mind, Miss King, if we walked to the pens now?"

  "Of course not," Patty answered.

  She half expected the woman to fall into step beside Morgan, but he and the photographer led the way while Carla Nicholson continued her questions.

  "I'm curious why this particular horse is your favorite, Miss King."

  "He's something of a ladies' man, I guess," Patty explained. "He's very affectionate whenever there's a woman around, although he still won't let them ride him."

  "Do you know how he got his name?"

  Morgan answered, "My father kept hearing about this rancher in the Red River Valley of Texas who had a horse nobody had been able to ride. He went to see him, got bucked off, and bought the horse. Originally he was named Star. After the first year on the rodeo circuit, he was referred to so often as the horse from the Red River that my father changed his name."

  When they arrived at the enclosure containing the bareback stock, Morgan whistled and a golden chestnut separated itself from the other horses, trotting close to the rails and stopping to toss his head at the man who had called him. Not until Patty climbed onto the rail did the chestnut horse with the white star on his forehead come closer to butt his head affectionately against her leg, muscular and sleek, moving lightly on his feet. The gray white hairs around his nose were the single outward indication to reveal the weight of his twenty-one years.

  The blond reporter remained on the ground on the opposite side of the fence from the horse, admiring him through the slatted rails.

  "I assure you he's quite friendly," Morgan promised, a warm smile softening his face. "Come on, I'll give you a hand onto the fence so that you can get a good look at him."

  Patty thought that winning smile was grating and unnecessary. Carla Nicholson was already under his spell. Although she pretended an interest in the horse, she saw the provocative look the blond reporter gave Morgan when she was perched on the fence beside him.

  Neither the cranberry red pantsuit nor the pair of sandal-heeled shoes were the attire Patty would have chosen to tiptoe through the rodeo grounds. She wondered in passing if her inability to actively like the woman was because her fairness reminded her of Lije's wife.

  The mocking glint in the look Morgan gave her sent a creeping heat into her face. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he was reading her mind again.

  "He is a beautiful horse," Carla Nicholson was saying. "It's a pity an animal like that has to earn his keep by bucking in a rodeo. It must be a rough life for him."

  There was an immediate chuckle from Morgan. "If humans can come back to life in animal form, I would certainly choose to be a bucking horse! So far this year, Red has come out of the chute fifteen times. Five of those times he was ridden to the eight-second limit. This year he will actually work only four minutes and in return, he's fed, watered, sheltered and cared for as if he were a prize thoroughbred racehorse. If that's a rough life, I'll take it any time!"

  "But surely those four minutes are painful, with that strap tied around his middle to make him buck?" the photographer questioned.

  Morgan exchanged an amused smile with Patty before he turned slightly on the rail to call to one of the cowboys standing not too far from them.

  "Kirby, bring me a flank strap." Then his attention was back to the two rodeo novices. "The hue and cry that's raised every so often at the apparent cruelty of the rodeo producers to get animals—horses and bucking bulls—to perform the way they want them to is caused by the fact that a little knowledge is dangerous because it leads to inaccurate conclusions."

  Directing the two newspaper people's attention to the horse docilely nuzzling Party's hand, he continued, "If you put an ordinary saddle on Red or any horse in the string, he would buck the average rider off every time. It's his nature. He's discovered he can get rid of the rider and be his own boss, so he'll do it every time he can for the sheer fun of it."

/>   The flank strap was handed to Morgan by the cowboy who had fetched it. Morgan, in turn, handed it to Carla Nicholson and the photographer for their inspection.

  "In rodeos, the flank strap is used to get the best performance out of the horse. It's fastened around his belly, back by the horse's hindquarters. Just like a saddle cinch, it can't be fastened too tight or it will interfere with a horse's movement. If that happens, chances are he'll simply stand in one spot and wait until you loosen it." Morgan turned the strap up so they could examine the area that actually touched the horse's belly. "This wool padding on the underside is partially for the horse's protection. But its main function is to tickle the horse's belly. Essentially what happens is that a horse will kick out with his hind feet, trying to stretch away from the object that's tickling him, exactly as a human would do. The result is that he becomes harder to ride, even for a professional rodeo rider."

  "You mentioned that Red River came from a ranch. Is that where you find the majority of the rodeo stock?" Carla Nicholson asked.

  "For the most part," Morgan agreed. "Dependable bucking horses are a rare commodity and a good one is expensive. That wild stubborn streak is generally being bred out of today's horses to make more tractable mounts."

  "Do the people contact you and tell you that they have a horse that bucks?"

  "Either that, or when a rodeo is in town, the owner brings the horse in for the stock contractor to try out."

  "Have you ever competed in any of the events?" Carla asked.

  "When I was younger and more foolish," he replied with a wide, mocking grin.

  "What about you, Miss King?" Carla turned to Patty. "You're a good rider. Have you ever given any serious thought to riding a bucking horse? Or trying to, at least?"

  "Sure I have, dozens of times," she shrugged. "Strictly as a lark, just to see if I could do it, but I wouldn't ever consider trying it professionally. I find enough thrills and risks in my own act."

  "Are those the bulls in that far pen?" the photographer asked.

  "That's right. Would you like to see them now?" Morgan asked, and received an immediate endorsement from both of them at his suggestion.

  "I'd better go and help Gramps with the horses," Patty said, sliding easily from the top rail to the ground.

  The photographer kept a protective hand on his cameras as he swung down. A vaguely helpless look crossed the blonde's face as she still sat on top of the fence rail. In the next instant Morgan, who had been the first to climb down, was reaching up, his large hands closing around her waist and lifting her safely down. Patty had the distinct impression that the feminine maneuver had been deliberate to arouse Morgan's response. She had to conceal her dislike for such trickery as the woman reporter turned to her.

  "I want to thank you for your time, Miss King." Carla Nicholson offered Patty her hand, and manners dictated that she should take it. "You have a very interesting and exciting life."

  To a stranger, Patty decided it might look like that, but those weren't the adjectives she would have used. The grind of constant travel, practice and almost nightly performances had become monotonous. Perhaps her outlook had become tarnished since Lije had married.

  "It was my pleasure, Miss Nicholson," she nodded politely. "I know you'll find the rest of the tour just as interesting. Now I really must go."

  "Wait!"

  The clipped command was accompanied by a halting hand on her wrist, the hold ostensibly casual, but Patty could feel Morgan's fingers biting into the bone. Without a word of explanation, his gaze swiveled to the grizzled cowboy walking by with his arm in a cast.

  "Lefty, would you step over here, please?" The battered-looking cowboy complied while Patty tried furtively to pull free of the punishing grip, without success. "I would like you to meet Carla Nicholson and Fred Kowalski from the local paper. This is Lefty Robbins, a permanent fixture on the rodeo circuit." When the introductions were out of the way, Morgan turned to the blonde. "Would you mind, Carla, if Lefty took you to the bull pens? I want to have a few words with Patty before I join you."

  "Of course not." A curious glance slid to Patty's less than pleased countenance, as the blonde nodded her agreement.

  As soon as the new trio were several yards away, Patty no longer tried to conceal her efforts to twist free of his hand.

  "I don't know what you have to say to me," she said in a low, angry voice, "but you don't need to cut the circulation off in my hand to say it!"

  The grip slackened to allow the blood to pound in her fingers again, but he didn't release her. The mask of politeness vanished with the disappearance of the newspaper people as Morgan turned the harshness of his gaze on Patty.

  "I want to clear up this nonsense about you riding any bucking stock!" he snapped.

  "Nonsense?" Patty frowned in startled anger.

  "Yes, nonsense!" Morgan affirmed, an intimidating hardness to the set of his jaw. "You can get that ridiculous notion out of your head, because you are not climbing aboard any saddle bronc."

  "Don't give me orders, Morgan Kincaid," she warned. "You're not my keeper."

  "I'll give you any damned order I please and you'll obey it!"

  He towered above her, black hair springing from beneath his hat while his brows were drawn together in a solid, threatening black line.

  "Don't count on it," she hissed in return. "If I decide that I want to ride a bucking horse, you're not going to be able to stop me from doing it, Morgan!"

  "Oh, Annie Oakley, do you have a surprise in store for you!" Morgan breathed in deeply to control his temper, blue eyes glittering with complacent triumph. "That rodeo stock in those pens belongs to the Kincaid Rodeo Company. No amateur is going to get on board any of them. They're restricted to card-carrying professional riders."

  "I'm hardly an amateur!" protested Patty vigorously, refusing to give in though his point had been made. "I can ride as well as any man on this circuit!"

  "Maybe you can, but you're not going to break your foolish neck while I'm around."

  "Maybe?" Her voice squeaked in indignant anger. "Did you say 'maybe I can'?" Her free hand struck a defiant pose on her hip.

  "Listen, you pint-sized little witch," Morgan growled. "I'm not going to argue over every word with you! I don't care if you can ride every animal in the string. I am not going to give you permission to try! Have you got that?"

  "You've made your point. Now, let me go!" she demanded as she glowered at the unrelenting expression on his face.

  "Not until I have your word."

  "You can go to—" The rest of her sentence was lost in an outcry of pain as he sharply twisted her wrist behind her back, forcing her against the granite wall of his chest.

  "Your word, Patty," he repeated.

  "You're a bully and a brute. Do you know that?" She gasped at the shooting pains that were still traveling up her arm.

  The nearness of his uncompromising face was unnerving, nearly as disturbing as the firm outline of his body pressed against hers.

  His gaze narrowed on her trembling mouth. "I swear there's only one way to stop your insults!" he muttered savagely.

  Her head was already tilted back to glare into his face. The fingers that twined punishingly into her hair jerked it back even farther. Patty's brown eyes widened; she knew that masculine mouth was about to capture hers and realized that she had not the strength to prevent it. Her pulse accelerated its pace to pound in her ears as a betraying weakness flowed into her legs.

  "Hey, Morgan! Do you need any help?"

  The amused laughter from a pair of on looking rodeo hands stopped the slow descent of Morgan's mouth. It also brought a surge of renewed strength to Patty's limbs as she struggled wildly against his hold.

  "Your grandfather must be the only one who has the patience to deal with you," he declared, swearing beneath his breath.

  Blatantly disregarding her flailing arms and kicking feet, he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. The blood rushed with throbbing intensity to
her head as she beat at his back with her fists.

  "Put me down! Do you hear? Put me down!" Her strident demands were ignored, her face flaming with the combination of blood and furious embarrassment because of the loud laughter from their audience.

  His long strides began eating up the distance to the stable area; he was carrying her effortlessly. Patty tried pushing herself upright, but the grip on her thighs merely tightened.

  "Put me down!" she echoed her previous demand, this time in a lower voice.

  "You'd better shut up," Morgan replied with biting softness. "You're in an excellent position to be spanked, and I can't say that the thought doesn't appeal to me."

  "You're an insufferable, arrogant cad!" Patty muttered, but her struggles to be free subsided at his threat. "If that blonde Carla Nicholson knew what you were really like, she wouldn't think you were nearly so attractive."

  "She doesn't act like an irresponsible child either." There was an underlying thread of dry amusement in his voice.

  Meaning I do, Patty thought angrily.

  "What in the world—!" came her grandfather's exclamation.

  Her somewhat limited view, restricted mainly to the ground beneath Morgan's feet, unless she turned her head to the side, had not told Patty how near they were to the stables where her horses were quartered.

  Gasping in outrage, she found herself being unceremoniously dumped onto a bale of hay.

  "Here's your granddaughter, Everett," Morgan stated, hands on his hips as he surveyed her attempts to maneuver into a less ignominious position. "Maybe you can attempt to talk some sense into her."

  Her grandfather's mouth opened, the question silently written in his curious and confused eyes about to be spoken, but Morgan had abruptly turned and walked away, leaving Patty to supply the answer.

  "What was all that about?" Everett King inquired with a confused laugh.

  "Oh, Morgan was being his usual obnoxious self, throwing his weight around—or my weight, in this case," Patty answered grimly, brushing the hay stalks from her jeans.