ESMÉ’S ARMS ACHED.
She had mucked out the stalls and forked in fresh straw bedding for the horses she and Rio had ridden, then started brushing the other horses in their stalls. One of the hands wandered in while she was working, watched for a while, then offered to take over.
“Thank you,” she’d replied politely, “but I’m perfectly capable of doing the job.”
The hand—a new one, and so young she doubted he had to shave more than once a week—had cleared his throat.
“Yes’m. I know you can. I just thought—”
“Don’t think,” she’d snapped. “It isn’t what you’re paid to do.”
Just remembering how she’d spoken to the boy made her cringe.
“I’m sorry,” she’d said quickly, and the boy had said that was okay, she didn’t have to apologize, but it was a lie. She wished she could go back in time and snip out her tongue, rather than say anything so mean to the kid.
And it was all Rio’s fault.
It had been difficult enough, gaining the respect of a bunch of cowboys, especially after half of them had seen her face in magazines, advertising everything from lipstick to automobiles. But she’d done it, showing them what Jonas had remembered, that she had a natural touch with horses.
Rio had ruined it.
She’d have to work twice as hard now to erase what at least some of them had seen—Rio, carrying her off like a prize….
Carrying her here, into the quiet shadows, where he’d have made love to her, endless love, where he’d have buried himself deep within her, rocked her and rocked her until she cried out his name …
The horse she was grooming whinnied its displeasure. She’d stopped brushing him; her hand lay still against his withers. Esmé blinked and looked into the big, dark eyes. More, those eyes seemed to be saying, it felt so good to be stroked….
“Stop it,” she said. The animal snorted and Esmé made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Sorry, sweetheart. I was scolding myself, not you.”
She rubbed the velvet muzzle, left the stall and let herself out of the barn, out into the afternoon. The hot afternoon …
The world spun; the path dipped under her feet.
“Hey,” a voice said, and a pair of arms went around her. Not Rio’s; even as everything grayed, she knew it wasn’t he who’d caught her. “Miz Bennett? You okay?”
Esmé’s vision cleared. It was the young ranch hand who’d caught her before she could faint. He was looking at her as if she might break apart.
“I’m fine.” Her voice was weak; she could tell from the look on the boy’s face that her words didn’t reassure him any more than they reassured her. “Really,” she said, and managed a quick smile. “I’m all right.”
The boy frowned, let go of her, but kept a hand out as if she might sink to the ground.
“You sure?”
She nodded. A mistake, because the simple action made her stomach rise into her throat.
“Yes,” she said, and swallowed hard. “The sun—” She gestured at the blue, hot sky and bright yellow disk blazing against it.
The kid nodded. “Yeah. It can really get to you, if you ain’t used to it.”
“I’m used to it,” Esmé said. “I grew up here. Why is it everyone thinks they know all there is to know about me, when actually …”
The boy was looking at her as if she’d lost her mind. Maybe she had, she thought.
“Thank you,” she said briskly, and headed for the house before the world turned gray again, which was exactly what it was threatening to do.