“All I Ever Dreamed Of Was Having A Home.

“Stability. Roots. But you didn’t want those same things, Pete. That’s why I had to end it.”

He took a step toward Carol, then stopped, thinning his lips. “Do you want me to tell you that I’ve changed?” he growled. “That I want a wife and a family? Well, I haven’t changed. I’m still Pete Dugan,” he said, and thumped an angry fist against his chest.

Carol lifted her chin in defiance. “Looks like you’ll never be anything more than a good-time man, chasing from one rodeo to the next, whooping it up and turning every day into a cowboy Saturday night.”

Scowling, Pete flung an impatient hand at her and turned away. “Go home, Carol. Back to your house and the roots you want so badly. I’m not the man for you. I never was.”

So why did he have to tamp down his instincts to block her exit, to take her into his arms, when she headed for the door…?

Dear Reader,

This Fourth of July, join in the fireworks of Silhouette’s 20th anniversary year by reading all six powerful, passionate, provocative love stories from Silhouette Desire!

July’s MAN OF THE MONTH is a Bachelor Doctor by Barbara Boswell. Sparks ignite when a dedicated doctor discovers his passion for his loyal nurse!

With Midnight Fantasy, beloved author Ann Major launches an exciting new promotion in Desire called BODY & SOUL. Our BODY & SOUL books are among the most sensuous and emotionally intense you’ll ever read. Every woman wants to be loved…BODY & SOUL, and in these books you’ll find a heady combination of breathtaking love and tumultuous desire.

Amy J. Fetzer continues her popular WIFE, INC. miniseries with Wife for Hire. Enjoy Ride a Wild Heart, the first sexy installment of Peggy Moreland’s miniseries TEXAS GROOMS. This month, Desire offers you a terrific two-books-in-one value—Blood Brothers by Anne McAllister and Lucy Gordon. A British lord and an American cowboy are look-alike cousins who switch lives temporarily…and lose their hearts for good in this romance equivalent of a doubleheader. And don’t miss the debut of Kristi Gold, with her moving love story Cowboy for Keeps—it’s a keeper!

So make your summer sizzle—treat yourself to all six of these sultry Desire romances!

Happy Reading!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Ride a Wild Heart
Peggy Moreland

www.millsandboon.co.uk

In memory of Tommy Wilson McCarley,

January 27, 1952–February 7, 1971.

A true cowboy and a gentleman…and my first true love.

A special thanks to bronc rider Travis Ring

for answering a zillion questions about rodeos and bronc riding.

Your willingness to share information

is a testament to the Cowboy Code.

PEGGY MORELAND

published her first romance with Silhouette in 1989. She’s a natural storyteller with a sense of humor that will tickle your fancy, and Peggy’s goal is to write a story that readers will remember long after the last page is turned. Winner of the 1992 National Readers’ Choice Award, and a 1994 RITA finalist, Peggy frequently appears on bestseller lists around the country. A native Texan, she and her family live in Round Rock, Texas.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

One

There were times in a cowboy’s life when eight seconds seemed like a lifetime.

For Pete Dugan those times were few and far between.

Not that he considered himself any more talented than the other bronc riders he competed against, nor did he feel he had more nerve. He just loved rodeoing. The lights, the crowds, the sleepless nights on the road chasing from one town to the next, the people, the camaraderie. The thrill of climbing onto the back of a mean-tempered bronc.

And this rodeo was no different from any other. Country music pulsed from a state-of-the-art sound system, while cowboys milled behind the chutes, shooting the breeze and joking around, passing the time until it was their turn to compete. The air all but crackled with the energy created by wired nerves and was thick with dueling scents—some enticing and drifting from the concession area, others earthy and familiar and associated with the roughstock penned behind the chutes.

Feeling the rush of adrenaline that every ride drew, Pete hitched a boot high on a rail of the chute and pulled himself up to look out over the rodeo arena. Dust thickened the air around the chutes, churned by the livestock, but through it Pete had a fair view of the filled stands.

A full house, he thought, and began to smile. And a noisy one. He liked that. Crowds made some cowboys nervous, but not Pete. He liked playing to a full house. And he liked his broncs full, too…electric, even a little rank.

The blue roan he’d drawn for the Mesquite Championship Rodeo was just such an animal, a high roller who shot straight up in the air right out of the chute and continued that sky-high bucking throughout the eight-second ride. Though Pete knew the horse he’d drawn, Diablo, would score high with the judges, he also knew the remainder of the points were his to earn.

“Ready?”

Pete turned to grin at the chute boss. “Always.”

He gave the leather strap on his resined glove a yank, tightening it around his wrist, then leaned over the railing to check the tension on his rigging’s cinch. Satisfied, he swung a leg over the chute, bracing his feet on the railings and his body above the horse, then slowly eased down over the bronc’s back. He felt the horse blow up beneath him, bowing his back, and knew without a doubt that the roan would be airborne the minute the gate opened.

And Pete was ready to fly.

He jammed his Resistol down over his ears, then leaned way back, curling his gloved fingers tightly around the handle of the rigging. He could feel the heat of the resin working, holding his gloved fingers in place. Drawing his knees up, he positioned his spurs high on the horse’s shoulders, then jerked his chin, signaling he was ready to ride.

The gate swung wide and the horse spun for the opening, looking for freedom…he found it one step out into the arena. He leaped high, then kicked out, throwing his rump hard against Pete’s spine. Muscles burned, and ligaments, already stretched and torn, took another beating as eleven hundred pounds of horsepower hit the end of the hand Pete gripped on the rigging.

He set his jaw against the pain and searched for the rhythm. It was there waiting for him, as familiar as a lover’s dance. With his spine almost level with the roan’s broad back, he focused on the timing, drawing his knees high and his toes out, spurring in sync with the bronc’s wild bucks, while whipping his free hand through the air above his head to keep his hips centered in the swell with each of the horse’s sudden twists and turns. He heard the loud cheers coming from the stands and knew the fans were getting their money’s worth.

Diablo was putting on one hell of a show.

And Pete Dugan wasn’t doing too badly himself.

Sweat stung his eyes, and the muscles in his legs and arms felt as if they were on fire. But Pete was confident that, if necessary, he could ride that bronc all night. Through the roar in his ears, he heard the buzzer sound, signaling the end of his eight-second ride. Cheers rose from the stands, and the grin that was as much a part of Pete’s features as his Roman-shaped nose quickly spread to his ears.

Working his gloved fingers loose in the rigging, he glanced to his left, looking for the pickup man. Just as he did, the roan spun sharply, slamming Pete’s right leg up hard against the arena wall. He heard the collective gasp that rose from the stands even as the pain shot from his knee and up his thigh like a bolt of white-hot lightning, making his stomach churn and his head swim. Clenching his teeth against the dizziness, he made a grab for the arena wall and hung on, letting the roan run out from beneath him.

Gasping, nearly blinded by pain, he glanced up at the faces peering down at him from over the top rail that framed the box seats. His gaze struck a pair of green eyes centered on his. The eyes, filled with concern, were achingly familiar.

Carol?

It couldn’t be, he told himself. He hadn’t seen or heard from her in over two years. He closed his eyes and gave his head a shake, sure that he was hallucinating, a result of the pain. When he opened them, she was gone.

“Eighty-nine points!” the rodeo announcer called out. “Let’s hear it for Pete Dugan, rodeo fans. This cowboy’s just broken the record for the highest score ever made in the bronc riding event at the Mesquite Rodeo.”

Loosening his grip on the wall, Pete dropped to the ground, hopping three steps until he was sure his right knee was going to take his weight. When he was sure he wasn’t going to crumple like a rag doll and humiliate himself in front of over a thousand rodeo fans, he planted both boots firmly in the dirt and ripped off his hat. With a loud whoop, he sailed it high in the air and punched the air with his fists.

The audience went wild.

Grinning, Pete stooped to pick up his hat, then waved it over his head in a salute to the crowd before settling it back over his sweat-creased hair and limping his way back to the chutes.

“You okay?”

Pete waved away the medic. “Yeah, I’m all right.” To prove it, he planted a boot on the fence rail and hauled himself to the top, then swung a leg over and dropped down on the other side. He landed beside his traveling buddy, Troy Jacobs.

“Helluva ride,” Troy said with a nod toward the giant screen where the ride was being replayed.

“Yep,” Pete agreed. “That Diablo sure knows how to raise some dust.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the computerized scoreboard and added, “But Ty Murrey’s up next. We’ll have to wait and see if my score will hold.”

“He’ll give you a run for the money. No doubt about that. But your score’ll hold,” Troy assured him, watching the screen as the chute swung open for Ty Murrey’s ride.

Pete turned his back on the rodeo arena and the giant screen that offered the rodeo fans a live and up-close view of the action going on in the arena. The same as every other cowboy on the circuit, Pete had his superstitions and rituals that he adhered to religiously, and one of them was to never, ever watch the next competitor out of the box after his own ride. Instead, he caught between his teeth the strip of leather that bound his wrist and gave it a tug, loosening it as he glanced back up at the section of box seats where he thought he’d seen Carol. As he pulled off his glove, he swept his gaze across the sea of faces, looking for a woman with flaming red hair and green eyes.

Telling himself he was a fool for even looking, he started to turn away but whipped back when the crowd shifted, revealing the woman he’d seen while hanging from the arena wall. Her gaze met his, and he froze, his heart freezing, too.

Carol. It was Carol.

With his heart a dead, aching weight in his chest, he tucked his glove into the belt of his chaps and started toward the rail, his gaze locked on hers. He hadn’t taken more than two steps when she bolted from her seat and fled up the ramp, disappearing into the crowd.

Pete stared, anger pulsing through him. He debated his chances of finding her in the crowd, then whirled away, ripping off his hat. Swearing, he slapped it against his chaps, making dust fly.

He wouldn’t chase after her. Not Pete Dugan. Not when she’d left him high and dry more than two years before.

Haunted by the image of Carol, but determined not to waste his time thinking about her, Pete strode straight for the bar, his spurs jingling on the planked wood floor. “Beer’s on me!” he yelled and dropped his duffel bag with his bronc riding gear at his feet.

Upon hearing the call for free beer, cowboys crowded up behind him.

Pete slapped a hand on the bar. “Line ’em up, bartender.” He swelled his chest a bit and gave it a smug rub, grinning. “We’ve got us some celebrating to do.”

Pitchers were quickly filled and placed on the bar, thick white foam spilling over their sides and pooling on the bar’s scarred surface.

“What are you celebrating, cowboy?”

Pete glanced over at the woman who pressed herself against his side, and gave her a slow, appreciative look up and down. A smile built as he decided that this little buckle bunny might be just the distraction he needed to take his mind off Carol. “Well, darlin’—” But before he could tell her about the bronc riding record he’d just broken, one of the cowboys picked up a pitcher of beer and dumped it over Pete’s head while the other men looking on cheered and hooted.

Pete yelped as the icy beer sluiced over the brim of his hat and down his back, then gave a loud whoop and ripped off his hat, tossing it high in the air. “Let the good times roll!”

Grabbing the woman around the waist, he danced her a fast waltz around the room, keeping time with the country song currently blaring from the jukebox. He stumbled to a stop when a wide hand closed over his shoulder from behind.

“Pete?”

Dragging a sleeve across his eyes to swipe at the beer that still dripped from his forehead, he turned to find Troy standing behind him. He shrugged off his friend’s hand. “Not now, Troy. Can’t you see I’m busy? Me and—” he peered down at the woman, frowning “—what did you say your name was, darlin’?”

She smiled up at him and sidled closer, rubbing her abdomen against his belt buckle. “Cheyenne.”

Pete grinned and did some belt polishing of his own as he told Troy, “Me and Cheyenne are dancing.”

“Clayton left.”

Pete whipped his head around, his eyebrows snapping together over his brow, his grin disappearing. “Left? Where’d he go?”

“Rena called.”

Noticing for the first time the worried look on his buddy’s face, Pete dropped a quick, if distracted, kiss on the woman’s mouth. “Stay right there, darlin’. This won’t take but a minute.” Taking Troy by the elbow, he herded his friend toward the empty hall where the restrooms were located and the noise level was somewhat less. “What’s the problem?”

“She’s gone.”

Confused, Pete furrowed his brow. “Rena?”

“Yeah,” Troy confirmed with a sigh. “She’s left Clayton. Packed up the kids and went to her mother’s.”

“Oh, man,” Pete said, swiping a shaky hand across his forehead. “That’s a shame. When did this happen?”

“About an hour ago. She called and left a message on his cell phone. He’s already gone. Hitched a ride with one of the boys who was headed for Austin. Said he needed to check on the ranch and pick up his truck. He wants you and me to take care of his ranch while he’s gone.” Troy sighed again, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. “Problem is, I’ve already promised Yuma I’d haze for him at a rodeo in New Mexico.”

Pete mentally rearranged his schedule. “Don’t worry. I can handle things alone.”

Troy looked at him uncertainly. “You sure?”

Pete reared back, bracing his hands low on his hips. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? Some greenhorn?” He swelled his chest and thumped a fist against it. “This here is Pete Dugan, current contender for World Champion Bronc Rider. I believe I ought to be able to handle a little old ranch by myself for a couple of days.”

“I know Clayton wouldn’t ask if he wasn’t desperate,” Troy said, still looking uncertain. “He said his hired hand’s home with the chicken pox. Caught it from his kids. He tried calling Carol, but she wasn’t home.”

At the mention of Carol, Pete sagged against the wall. No, Carol wasn’t home, he thought, swallowing hard. She was right here in Mesquite at the rodeo. He’d seen her himself less than two hours before. “Carol still leases that place down the road from Clayton’s?” he asked uneasily.

“Yeah. And she teaches riding lessons a couple of times a week in his arena. Is that going to be a problem for you?”

Pete dropped his head back against the wall and stared up at the shadowed ceiling. “No,” he said, trying to convince himself it was true. “No problem.”

“How soon can you leave? Clayton said he’d wait until you got there.”

“Three hours, max.”

It was nearly two in the morning when Pete bumped his way across the cattle guard marking the entrance to Clayton’s ranch. His eyes gritty from lack of sleep, he dragged a hand down his face and sighed. Ahead he could see the porch light was on…and Clayton on the top step, pacing.

Though Pete knew he’d miss a rodeo or two by filling in for Clayton, he figured if his efforts helped his friend save his marriage, the sacrifice was well worth any loss he might suffer in the standings. Both Clayton and Troy were his buddies, traveling the rodeo circuit with him, and, for all practical purposes, the only family he had.

Forcing an overbright smile for Clayton’s benefit, he hopped down from the truck. “The troops have arrived!” he shouted, then felt his knee give way beneath him. Cursing, he stumbled, but quickly righted himself.

“You’re drunk,” Clayton said, his eyes narrowing.

Pete straightened indignantly. “I am not.”

Clayton stepped closer, sniffing. Curling his nose, he withdrew. “You smell like a damn brewery. How the hell am I supposed to leave my ranch in the hands of a drunk?”

Angered by his friend’s wrongful assumption, Pete tossed back, “Well, you sure as hell didn’t seem to mind leaving your ranch in a woman’s hands for the past three years.”

Clayton whirled, his eyes dark with warning. “My marriage is none of your business.”

Pete took a step toward him, ready to argue the point, but stumbled again when his knee buckled a second time. He sucked in a breath as pain shot up his leg. Setting his jaw, he bent at the waist and gripped his hands above his knee caps, trying to swallow back the nausea that rose.

“You are drunk,” Clayton accused angrily.

Before Pete could offer another denial, Clayton ducked a shoulder into his midsection, picked him up fireman-style and strode for the corral.

“Put me down, dammit!” Pete yelled. “I’m not drunk!”

“You won’t be in a minute.” With no more warning than that, Clayton heaved Pete from his shoulder and dumped him in the horse trough.

Pete came up sputtering, scraping the water from his eyes. He glared up at Clayton. “You jackass! I’m not drunk! It’s my knee, dammit!” He fished his cowboy hat from the murky water and levered himself from the trough. His shirt and jeans were plastered to his body, and water sluiced down his face and dripped from his chin.

“Your knee?” Clayton dropped his gaze to stare at the bandage wrapped tightly around his friend’s leg.

Pete slapped the waterlogged hat over his head. “Yes, my knee. The bronc I rode last night thought the pickup man was taking a little too long in fetching me, so he decided to scrape me off his back on the arena wall. Wrenched my bad knee.”

Clayton ducked his head. “I didn’t know.”

“No, you didn’t. You just assumed. And you know what happens when a person assumes something, don’t you?”

Scowling, Clayton glanced up. Then, heaving a sigh, he slung an arm around his friend’s shoulders and headed him back toward the house. “Yeah. He makes an ass of himself,” he muttered.

“Apology accepted.”

Clayton whipped his head around to frown at Pete. “I didn’t offer an apology.”

Pete grinned and looped his arm over Clayton’s shoulders, letting his friend take most of his weight. “No, but I could tell you wanted to.” His grin widened while Clayton’s frown deepened. Limping along at his friend’s side, Pete felt the water squishing inside his boots and figured they were ruined…but decided he’d take that up with Clayton later. His buddy had enough on his mind at the moment. “You packed and ready to go?”

“Yeah.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Long as it takes.”

“You gonna put up a fight for her?”

At the porch Clayton dropped his arm from Pete’s shoulders and turned to face him. “If that’s what’s required.”

“She’s worth it,” Pete said with a nod of approval. “Rena’s a good woman.”

Clayton glanced toward the house, his expression unreadable in the darkness. “Yeah. I suppose.” Heaving a weighty sigh, he stooped and picked up his duffel bag. “Are you sure you can handle the ranch alone?”

Pete smiled confidently. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

With a last, doubtful look, Clayton turned for his truck. “I left a list of instructions on the kitchen table. If you need me, you can reach me on my cell phone.”

“You just bring Rena and the kids back home where they belong,” Pete called after him. “I’ll take care of things here.” He lifted a hand in farewell, then, when he was sure Clayton couldn’t see the action, he sank down on the porch step with a groan. He stretched out his leg to relieve the pressure on his throbbing knee…and wondered how he was going to manage a fifteen-hundred-acre ranch when the thought of making the short trek to his truck to gather his gear filled him with dread.

Pete awakened to pain. But that was nothing new. Seemed pain was his constant companion. He rolled to his back, his hand going instinctively to the puckered flesh on his knee. The scar his fingers rubbed at was two years old, left by a surgeon’s knife, but the pain in his knee wasn’t old. It was constant. He’d learned to live with it, as he had another pain…the one in his heart.

Refusing to think about that other pain, or the woman who had caused it, he pushed himself to a sitting position. He swung his left leg over the side of the bed and gingerly guided his right leg to join it. Standing, he kept his weight on his good leg as he tested the strength in the right. When it wobbled, he sighed and reached for the bandage he’d tossed over the chair the night before and sank back down on the bed, knowing he wouldn’t make it very far without the added support. He wrapped the knee tightly, then stood again, testing his knee’s ability to take his weight. Satisfied that it could, he tugged on his blue jeans and reached for his shirt. Barefoot, he limped for the kitchen. His boots were by the back door, where he’d left them, and a pool of water lay beneath the ruined leather soles. And, dangit, they were his favorite pair, too.

“You owe me a new pair of boots, Clayton,” he muttered as he detoured for the coffeemaker. He reached for the can of grounds and caught a glimpse of his hat lying on the counter, its brim limp, its crown crushed. “And a hat,” he added, frowning as he measured grounds into the basket. While the coffee perked, he hopscotched his way across the rocky drive to his truck and dug out an old pair of boots from behind the seat. Grabbing his cellular phone from the base unit on the console, he stuck it in his shirt pocket.

As he turned to head back to the house, he saw a truck by the barn…and stopped, staring, his heart slowly sinking to his stomach. He knew who the truck belonged to. And knew, too, that he might as well get it over with. No sense in avoiding the inevitable.

Bending over, he quickly stuck a foot into a boot, pulled it on, then gritted his teeth as he hopped a full circle, struggling to tug on the other one. Winded by the exertion, he straightened, hitching his hands low on his hips, and stared in the direction of the barn, dreading the confrontation.

But he had to do it, he told himself. There was no way he was going to be able to avoid seeing her, short of leaving Clayton in a bind.

Setting his jaw, he headed for the barn, trying to hide his limp, just in case she was watching. A man had his pride, after all, he reminded himself. He stepped inside the dim interior and paused, letting his eyes adjust to the sudden change in light. He heard her murmuring softly to a horse in the far stall. As the sound of her voice washed over him, he curled his hands into tight fists at his sides. God, how he’d missed her.

But he wouldn’t let her know. Not when she had left him high and dry, without a word of explanation.

Hoping to keep his presence unknown for as long as possible, he followed the sound of her voice, keeping his tread light as he moved down the long alleyway. At the stall where she worked, he moved to the gate and braced his hands along its top rail. Inside, she was bent over, cleaning clods of dirt and stone from a sorrel mare’s rear hoof. Worn jeans covered long legs, slightly bent, and hugged slim hips shaped like an upside-down heart. A bright yellow T-shirt stretched across her back and was tucked neatly into the waist of her jeans. The brim of a stained cap shadowed her face, and hair—nearly the same shade of red as the mare’s sleek coat—spilled like a waterfall from the cap’s back opening and over her shoulders.

At the sight of her his chest tightened painfully.

“Hello, Carol.”

She dropped the mare’s hoof and whirled. He watched her green eyes widen and was glad that he’d had the element of surprise on his side. If the situation had been reversed and she’d walked up on him unsuspected, he was afraid he might have fainted dead away. Or cried. And he wasn’t sure which would’ve been worse.

Her eyes slowly narrowed and she turned her back to him, stooping to lift the mare’s hoof again.

“Hello, Pete.”

“Saw you at the rodeo last night. Were you there to watch me ride?”

She tossed a frown over her shoulder. “In your dreams, maybe.” Turning her attention back to the horse’s hoof, she added, “If you’re looking for Clayton, he’s not here.”

Though her comment stung, Pete hadn’t expected any less from her. She’d made it clear two years ago that she didn’t want to see him again. But what she hadn’t made clear was why. “I didn’t come to see Clayton. I came to take care of the place while he goes chasing after Rena.”

“He’s wasting his time.”

Pete opened the gate and stepped inside, closing it behind him. “What makes you say that?”

“Rena finally wised up and realized that Clayton doesn’t want a wife.”

“He married her, didn’t he?”

She dropped the mare’s hoof and slowly turned to face him. “Only because he had to.” She tossed the hoof pick into the tack box and retrieved a brush. Placing a hand on the mare’s wide rump, she moved to the animal’s opposite side.

Pete watched her, wondering if she felt she needed the barrier of the horse between them. “Clayton didn’t have to do anything. He married Rena because he wanted to.”

She snorted a laugh as she swept the brush along the mare’s neck. “Uh-huh. And I’m sure that’s why he stays on the road all the time, seldom coming home and rarely bothering to call to check on his wife and kids.”

He knew what she said was true. Hadn’t he worried about the same thing, constantly nagging at Clayton to call Rena and let her know that he was all right? Still, he felt an obligation to defend his friend. “You know what life’s like on the circuit. Racing from one rodeo to the next. Operating on little or no sleep. Eating breakfast in one state, dinner in another.”

She stopped brushing and lifted her head, focusing in on the cell phone he’d tucked in his shirt pocket. Slowly she lifted her gaze to his, arching a brow. “You know, technology is a wondrous thing. A person can pick up a phone and make a call no matter what the time or their location.” She gave her head a shake and went back to her brushing. “Sorry, Pete. Can’t buy into that excuse.”

He tossed his hands up in frustration. “Okay, so maybe Clayton hasn’t been the model husband.”

“He hasn’t been a husband, at all. Or a father.”

Pete quickly stepped to the mare’s side to glare at Carol over the animal’s back. “Now wait just a damn minute. Clayton loves those kids.”

She stopped brushing and rested her forearm along the mare’s spine. “Yes, I think he does,” she said, meeting his gaze levelly. “But the sad part is, he doesn’t know how to express it.”

“And you’re a professional when it comes to dealing with relationships head-on, aren’t you, Carol?” He knew the blow was low and well aimed. But he didn’t care. She’d hurt him when she’d disappeared from his life, and the need for revenge was strong.

He watched her face pale, then she took a step back, dragging her hand from the horse’s side. Turning away, she tossed the brush into the tack box. “Don’t go there, Pete.”

“Why not?” he asked, rounding the horse to confront her. “You don’t seem to mind talking about other people’s relationships, their feelings. Why can’t you talk about your own?”

When she angled her head to look at him, the eyes that met his were emotionless. “Because where you’re concerned, I don’t have any.”

Taking the mare’s lead rope, she opened the gate and led the horse out into the alleyway. Pete caught up with her just outside the barn. He grabbed her arm and whipped her around to face him, his fingers digging into the flesh above her elbow. “Yes, you do,” he said, his voice tight with suppressed fury. “You loved me once. I know you did.”

“No,” she said, trying to pull free. “I never loved you.”

He grabbed her other arm and forced her to face him. The mare shied away from the scuffle, jerking the lead from Carol’s hand, then trotted over to graze on the grass growing at the side of the barn.

“Yes, you did,” he growled and gave Carol a shake, determined to make her admit it. “I tasted it every time I kissed you. Felt it every time you put your hands on me. I saw it in your eyes when we made love.”

Panic filled her green eyes, and she frantically shook her head, denying his claim. “No. I didn’t love you. I didn’t.”

He jerked her up hard against him. “Yes, you did.” Then, as if even now he could prove it, he crushed his mouth over hers. He felt her resistance, tasted the denial on her tightly pressed lips…and was even more determined to make her remember what they’d once shared.

He swept his tongue along the seam of her lips and, when she kept them stubbornly pressed together, wondered if he’d been wrong. Maybe she didn’t love him. Maybe she never had. But then he felt a shudder pass through her, and her lips parted beneath his on a low moan of surrender while her hands climbed up his chest to curl around his neck. He felt the dig of her short, blunt nails in his skin as she drew his face closer, the fullness of her breasts as she surged against him, the desperation of a long-suppressed need as she mated her tongue with his.

Carol. Oh, Carol. What happened to us? he cried silently.

Tightening his hold on her, he lifted, drawing her to her toes, and thrust his tongue between her parted lips, deepening the kiss. The early morning sun bored down on his back, and a rivulet of sweat trailed irritatingly down his spine. A memory pushed itself into his mind of another time when he’d held her just this way, the sun warm on his back. Drawing her down to a quilt spread beneath the shade of the old live oak tree that grew on the rise just above her house. Watching the dappled sunshine play over her bare breasts. Feeling the heat of her body burning beneath his. Tasting her. Filling her. The mindless pleasure of losing himself in her, making her his.

But she wasn’t his. She’d cut him out of her life, refusing to see him and never returning his calls.

Remembering that, he pushed her from him, his chest heaving as he stared down into her flushed face. Her lids fluttered up until her gaze met his. He saw the passion that glazed her eyes, the brief flicker of disappointment that he’d ended the kiss…and he knew he was right. She did love him. Or, at the least, she wasn’t as unaffected by him as she tried to pretend.

Slowly her hands slipped from around his neck, and she dropped them to her sides. She took a step back, then another, the heat in her eyes giving way to a cool indifference.

She swept her tongue lazily across her upper lip. “You still know how to kiss a woman, Pete. I’ll give you that.” Turning her back on him, she strode for the side of the barn where the mare grazed.

Two

“Who’s that man?”

Carol glanced down at Adam, her first student of the day, then followed the line of his gaze to where Pete was riding away from the barn, Clayton’s cow dog trotting closely behind. The straw hat Pete wore was old, stained and pulled low over his forehead, shadowing his face. But she could tell by the way he sat in the saddle—shoulders square, spine as straight as an arrow—that he was still angry with her. Even the way his fingers curled around the lariat he held against his leg—knuckles white against his tanned skin and digging into his thigh—was an indication of his dark mood.

With a sigh she turned back to the mare she was saddling and pulled the cinch tight. “That’s Pete Dugan.”

“Is he a rodeo cowboy?” Adam asked, squinting up at her.

“Yes.”

“Is he a roper like Clayton?”

Chuckling, Carol squatted down, putting herself eye level with Adam. At six, his heroes were all still cowboys. “No, he’s a bronc rider.”

His eyes, already magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses, grew even larger. “For real?”

Laughing, Carol tapped the brim of his cap, knocking it down over his eyes. “Yes, for real.” She rose, drawing her hands to her hips. “Now, are you ready to ride this old bronc?” she asked, nodding toward the horse she’d just saddled.

Adam shoved up the cap and scowled at the mare who stood placidly at the arena fence. “Honey’s not a bronc. She’s just a horse.”

Carol bent over and cupped her hands, offering Adam a boost up to the saddle. “That’s what you think, buster. Honey may not buck now, but when she was younger, there wasn’t a cowboy around who could ride her.”

Adam planted a boot in her hands and swung a leg over the saddle as she hefted him up. “No foolin’?”

“No foolin’.” She gathered the reins and passed them to him. “Warm her up, okay? Three laps at a walk. Two at a trot. And remember your posture. Head up, back straight, heels down.”

“You think she can still buck?” Adam asked hopefully as he turned the mare for the arena gate.

Carol bit back a smile. “You never know,” she called after him. “Better keep a deep seat and a tight rein, just in case she takes a mind to unload you.”

She laughed softly as she watched Adam grab for the saddle horn. Shaking her head, she turned and glanced back in the direction where she’d last seen Pete. He was still in sight and, judging by his posture, he was still angry.

With a sigh she stooped to pick up the tack box and set it alongside the fence and out of the way. She’d purposefully hurt Pete and made him angry with her. Not that she’d enjoyed doing so, or had even wanted to. She’d never wanted to hurt Pete. Not then, and not now. But she couldn’t get involved with him again. Not when she’d spent the better part of two years trying to forget him.

I didn’t come to see Clayton. I came to take care of the place while he goes chasing after Rena.

Remembering his explanation of his unexpected appearance at the barn earlier that morning, she stifled a groan of frustration. And how in the world was she supposed to forget him, if he was going to be staying right next door?

She would avoid him, she told herself as she swung the arena gate closed behind her. She’d conduct her lessons, feed her horses and make sure she stayed out of his way. And if they did happen to cross paths while she was at Clayton’s ranch, she’d ignore him…or, at the very least, feign indifference. She could do that, she told herself. After all, she’d successfully managed to avoid him for two years, which was no small feat, considering she lived right next door to one of his best friends.

Saw you at the rodeo last night. Were you there to watch me ride?

Scowling, she squinted her eyes at Adam, who was still walking Honey around the arena, warming up the mare for their lesson.

Wasn’t it just like Pete to assume that she’d gone to the rodeo just to watch him ride? She had, of course, but she would choke before she’d admit that to him. Oh, she’d known she was taking a chance by attending the rodeo, but she hadn’t been able to resist the opportunity to watch him ride, to see him again. Not when she knew he was competing within driving distance of her home. Not when there wasn’t a single day that passed that she didn’t think of him, wonder about him, dream about him.

But she hadn’t intended for him to ever know she was there. And he wouldn’t have known, either, if that bronc he’d ridden hadn’t chosen the spot right beneath her box seat to scrape Pete off his back. Everyone in the section of seats, her included, had run to the rail to see if he was hurt. But when he’d looked up, it was her face he’d focused on. And when she’d seen the surprise in his eyes, the recognition, she hadn’t been able to look away.

She’d look away this time, though, she told herself as she watched Adam smooch Honey into a trot. And she’d stay away, too. Far away.

Pete slapped the coiled rope against the leather chaps that protected his legs from the thorny mesquite trees scattered around Clayton’s ranch. “Get up there,” he called to a calf that had begun to lag. Clayton’s dog, a blue heeler named Dirt of all things, barked and raced over, nipping at the calf’s rear hooves. The calf bawled and ducked back into the herd, pushing its way to the center.

Wiping the back of his hand across his dry mouth, Pete glanced toward the barn. He’d avoided the area all day, working his way down the list of chores Clayton had left, careful to choose tasks that kept him away from the house and the barn. But Clayton had indicated that a buyer was coming to pick up the calves the next morning, and Pete was left with no choice but to round them up and head them for the barn and the corral beside it.

As he drew closer, he could see that Carol’s truck was still parked beside the building, but thankfully she was nowhere in sight. He’d monitored her movements throughout the day—but from a distance—watching cars arrive and kids spill out, ready for the horseback riding lessons Troy had told him she offered in Clayton’s arena.

He pushed the calves on, hoping that he could pen them in the corral and skedaddle before she appeared again.

“Damn,” he muttered in frustration when he saw the gate was closed. Wishing that he’d thought to open it before he’d left to gather the calves, he turned his horse, planning to make a wide arc around them, open the gate, then slip back up behind them and push them through.

Just as he started to touch his spurs to his horse’s side, he caught a flash of yellow out of the corner of his eye, and saw Carol step from the barn, a feed bucket in hand. She glanced his way, immediately saw his problem, and hustled over to swing the gate wide. Frowning, he turned his horse back behind the herd. Dirt darted from one side of the small herd to the other, barking and urging the calves on. When the last calf slipped inside the corral, Carol swung the gate closed and latched it into place.

Pete mumbled a begrudging, “Thanks,” and turned his horse for the barn. At the hitching rail, he reined his horse to a stop and dismounted. But as soon as his right boot hit the ground, taking his full weight, his knee buckled and he crumpled. Howling in pain, he wrapped his arms around his leg and rolled to his side, curling his body protectively around the injured knee.

He felt a tentative hand on his shoulder, then the warmth of Carol’s body as she knelt behind him. “Pete? What’s wrong?”

He heard the concern in her voice, but had to clamp his teeth together to fight back the dizziness, the pain. “My knee,” he managed to grate out.

With her hand braced on his shoulder, she stretched across him and smoothed her other hand down his thigh, her touch so gentle it brought tears to his eyes. But in spite of her care not to hurt him, when her hand swept across his swollen knee, he couldn’t suppress the moan that swelled up inside him. He released his hold on his knee and rolled to his back, flinging his arms wide. She quickly moved out of his way and stood, staring down at him, her eyes wide with horror. His chest heaving, he squeezed his eyes shut and clawed his fingers at the hard-packed dirt, searching for something to anchor himself to, something to grab a hold of to lift himself above the pain. Something to hide behind, so Carol wouldn’t witness his weakness.

Knowing it was useless, he opened his eyes to find her still standing above him, her fingers pressed against trembling lips, tears glistening in her eyes.

Humiliated by his weakness, he tried to make light of it. “Gee, Carol,” he said, trying to force a smile past the pain. “I didn’t think you cared.”

At the teasing remark, she yanked her hands to her sides and glared down at him. “We need to get you to the house,” she snapped. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah.” He set his jaw and hauled himself to a sitting position. “I think so.” Keeping his movements slow and careful, he drew up his good leg until his boot was fitted tightly against his buttocks. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead at the effort. Blowing out a long, shaky breath, he rested a minute, then stretched out a hand. “I might need some help.”

She hesitated a moment, then thrust out her hand. He took it and wrapped his fingers tightly around hers.

“On the count of three,” he instructed. “One…two…three!” He heaved and Carol pulled, and with a growl he rose from the ground. Not wanting to put any weight on his bad leg, he staggered, off balance, and Carol quickly slipped beneath his arm and braced herself against his right side, supporting him.

“Give me a minute,” he gasped, sweat pouring down his face. He dipped his chin and closed his eyes, gulping in air. After a moment he lifted his head and looked across at the house. Five hundred feet stretched like a mile.

“Come on,” she urged, obviously sensing his hesitancy. “You can do it.” Wrapping her arm around his waist, she took a tentative step, then another, drawing him along with her.

By the time they reached the back door, sweat plastered Pete’s shirt to his back and chest and dripped from his nose and chin. With a quick glance at his pale, pain-wrenched face, Carol opened the back door, braced her hip against it, then carefully guided him through the opening. Once inside, she pressed him on toward the master bedroom.

When they reached the side of the bed, Pete twisted around and fell across the tangled covers with a groan, slinging an arm over his eyes.

Carol immediately dropped to her knees and tugged off his boots, knowing that he would need to remove his jeans before his knee swelled any more. Setting the boots aside, she rose and reached for his belt buckle…but jerked her hands back as she realized the intimacy that would require. She stole a glance at him and was relieved to see that his arm still covered his eyes, and he was unaware of her hesitancy. Frowning, she slapped a hand against the side of his uninjured leg. “Come on, Pete. Drop your pants.”

He lifted his arm to peer at her. “’Scuse me?”

She waved an impatient hand at him. “You haven’t got anything that I haven’t seen before, so drop ’em.”

In spite of the pain, Pete managed a weak grin as he reached for his belt buckle. “Maybe not anything different, but definitely more of it.”

She rolled her eyes and grabbed the waist of his jeans. “Braggart,” she muttered.

His grin broadened into a full-blown smile. “No brag, ma’am. Just fact.” He lifted his hips as she carefully worked the denim down over them, then sucked in air through his teeth when her hand grazed his manhood. She froze at the contact, her gaze snapping to his.

Pete watched the color rise on her cheeks, the panic in her eyes…and remembered a time when such an intimacy would have darkened those green eyes with passion, not panic. “Don’t worry,” he said wryly. “My knee’s hurtin’ so bad, you couldn’t get a rise out of me even if you worked at it.”

Her cheeks flaming, she jerked the jeans down his legs, making him yelp as the rough denim scraped over his swollen knee.

She spun away, folding his pants over her arm. “I need to feed my horses,” she said tersely, tossing the jeans over a chair. “Do you need anything before I leave?”

That she couldn’t look at him, or wouldn’t, irritated Pete. “A phone. I need to call Clayton and tell him to head home.”

She whirled, her eyes wide. “But you can’t! He hasn’t had a chance to talk to Rena yet.”

He scowled and shifted a pillow beneath his knee, gritting his teeth against the pain that even that slight movement caused him. “So what? You said yourself that he was wasting his time chasing after her.”

At the reminder, she caught her lip between her teeth and dropped her gaze, lifting a shoulder. “Yes, I did, but still…”

“Look, Carol,” he said in frustration and grabbed for the sheet. “It isn’t as if I want to call him home, but I can’t take care of his ranch for him if I’m laid up in bed.”

Slowly she lifted her gaze. “You could if I helped you.”

He froze, his fingers fisted in the sheet. “Help me?”

“Yes,” she said, and took a reluctant step closer. “You could tell me what needs doing, and I could do it. Just until the swelling goes down,” she added quickly. “A couple of days off that knee, and you should be able to take over again.”

Still scowling, Pete tried to whip the sheet over his propped-up leg, but it snagged on his toes and hung there.

Carol plucked the sheet free and pulled it up over him, letting it drop to settle at his waist. The ease with which she accomplished the task irritated him, but her reluctance to draw near him or touch him irritated him even more.

“We could do it, couldn’t we, Pete?” she asked hopefully. “It would give Clayton the time he needs to work things out with Rena.”

He stared at her, amazed, after what she’d said earlier, that she’d willingly to do anything to help Clayton win back his wife. “Well, yeah, but that’s easy for me to say since I won’t be doing anything but lying here in bed and giving orders.”

“I don’t mind the extra work. Really I don’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” She stooped to pick up his boots and set them out of the way, then headed for the door. “I’ll feed my horses, then I’ll come back and you can give me a list of chores for tomorrow.”

“Will you hand me my pain pills before you go?” He pointed at his duffel bag. “They’re in the side pocket.”

She fetched his pills and a glass of water from the bathroom. Keeping a safe distance, she set both on the bedside table within his reach, then headed for the door. “I won’t be gone long. About an hour or so.”

“Check and see if there’s water in the trough for those calves I penned. Oh, and Carol!” he called after her. “You might ought to throw down a couple of bales of hay for them.”

Carol methodically worked her way through her chores at the barn, putting out hay and oats for her horses and filling their water buckets.

But her mind wasn’t on her work.

It was centered on Pete.

How was she going to avoid him, when she’d have to see him every day in order to get a list of chores?

Frowning, she climbed the ladder to the loft. She wouldn’t be able to avoid him. Not entirely. Not now. Not after she’d offered to help him take care of the ranch. She dragged a bale of hay to the loft doors that opened over the corral, her frown deepening.

“Dang fool,” she muttered, cursing herself as she yanked a pair of wire cutters from her back pocket. “Why couldn’t you keep your mouth shut? Why did you have to offer to help him?” Slipping the tool between the thin wire wrapped tightly around the bale, she snapped the handles together, snipping the wire in two.

She hadn’t made the offer to help Pete because of any latent feelings she had for him, she told herself as she tossed down squares of loosened hay into the corral below. She’d made the offer for Rena’s sake. Rena was her friend and, despite what Carol had told Pete earlier that morning, she knew Rena wanted their marriage to work.

Sighing, she straightened and looked out over the land where the sun was dipping low in the western sky. Rena and Clayton had had a tough time of it, she reflected sadly. An unexpected pregnancy that had forced them into a marriage neither of them were prepared for. The birth of the twins. But in spite of the circumstances of their marriage, Carol knew that Rena loved Clayton. But did Clayton love Rena? Enough to put his family before his rodeo career? Enough to be the kind of husband and father that his family wanted and needed?

At the thought, she glanced toward the house, thinking of Pete and the similarities she saw in their past relationship. She envisioned him in the house as she’d left him, lying in Rena and Clayton’s bed in nothing but his briefs. She knew that being around him again wasn’t going to be easy. But she’d do what was necessary to give Rena and Clayton a chance to reconcile their differences.

Squaring her shoulders, she headed for the ladder and the house. She’d see that the ranch ran smoothly until Pete was back on his feet. And when he was…well, she would avoid him, just as she had planned to before.

At the back door she shucked off her dirty boots, then tiptoed across the kitchen and down the hall that led to the master bedroom, keeping her tread light in the event that Pete had drifted off to sleep. When she reached the open doorway, she glanced toward the bed, but found it empty.

“Pete?” she called softly, looking around. When she didn’t hear a reply, she called a little louder, “Pete?” When he still didn’t respond, she ran for the master bathroom. She found him there, lying in a crumpled heap on the floor.

“Oh, my God,” she cried and dropped to her knees beside him. She placed a hand on his cheek and turned his face toward hers. A lump the size of a marble swelled from his left temple.

“Pete?” she whispered, choked by the fear that crowded her throat. When he didn’t respond, she quickly rose to dampen a washcloth, then knelt beside him again. “Pete,” she repeated frantically as she bathed his face. “Come on, Pete, talk to me.”

His eyelashes fluttered, and she lifted the cloth, clutching it to her breasts, her breath locked tightly in her lungs as she watched his eyes blink open. His gaze met hers, and he squinted, slowly bringing her into focus.

“Carol?” He tried to sit up, but sank back to the floor with a groan.

“Did you faint?” she asked, leaning over him.

“I…I don’t know,” he said, his voice thready and weak.

“What were you doing out of bed?”

“Had to pee. I—” he groaned again and lifted a trembling hand to his forehead. “Took a pill. Made me groggy.”

“You should’ve waited until I got back,” she scolded, “so that I could have helped you.”

“Don’t need a woman to help me pee,” he grumbled.

Frowning, she tossed the washcloth to the sink, then bent over to slip an arm beneath his shoulders. “We need to get you back to bed. Can you walk?”

“Y-yeah. I…I think so.” He pressed an elbow against the floor and, with her help, levered himself to a sitting position. He sat there a moment, breathing hard, his shoulders stooped, his hands dangling limply between his knees.

“Are you okay?” she asked uneasily.

“Give me a minute.” He inhaled deeply, then reached up to brace a wide hand on the edge of the sink. Holding his injured leg out in front of him, he hauled himself awkwardly to his feet. Carol followed, supporting him as best she could with an arm wrapped around his waist. He hopped a couple of steps, his lips pressed tightly together, avoiding putting weight on his right leg. His face was chalk-white, and sweat glistened on his forehead at the effort.

“Just take it slow,” she instructed nervously. Holding on to him and taking as much of his weight as possible, she slowly guided him back to the bed.

He collapsed across it, rolling to his back and throwing an arm across his eyes. Carefully Carol placed the pillow beneath his knee again, then straightened, looking down at him. His face was pale, his jaw slack, his chest heaving with each drawn breath.

And she knew there was no way she could leave him on his own for the night.

“I’m staying.”

“I can take care of myself,” he grumbled. “I don’t need a damn nursemaid.”

“Tough. You’ve got one.” She snatched the sheet up and over his legs. “I’ll need to run over to my house and pick up a few things. You stay in bed until I get back. I won’t be gone long.”

She started to turn away, but stopped when he caught her hand from behind. She squeezed her eyes shut as the warmth of his fingers closed around hers. It would be so easy to let the years slip away. To climb into bed with him. To wrap her arms around him and just hold him. To forget that he wasn’t the man for her.

Taking a deep breath, she forced open her eyes and slowly turned back around, careful to hide her emotions from him. “What?”

“Thanks, Carol.”

She swallowed hard, fighting the desire to go to him, to brush the damp hair from his forehead and press her lips there. To tell him how much she’d missed him. How many times she’d needed him. Slowly she eased her fingers from his and backed away. From him. From temptation.

“N-no problem,” she stammered, then whirled for the door.

Carol parked her truck alongside her house and sank back against the seat, her heart heavy, her nerves raw. But as she stared at the white frame house with its dark-green shutters and its window boxes brimming with a profusion of trailing geraniums and sweet alyssum, the sense of satisfaction and pride she always felt when she looked at her home slowly filled her. This is what was important to her, she told herself. This is what she wanted. A home. Stability. Something she’d never known growing up. Something she would have lost if she hadn’t broken off the relationship with Pete two years ago.

Though she only leased the property, she hoped to own it someday. That and the land that surrounded it. Abandoned for over five years, the house had been in bad shape when she’d first leased it. But she’d accomplished a great deal in the three years she’d lived there. She’d scrubbed it from top to bottom and given it a fresh coat of paint, inside and out. She’d repaired the fencing and made the old barn useable again. She hoped to add an arena soon, so that she wouldn’t have to use Clayton’s for her horseback riding classes. When she did, she’d be able to increase the number of classes she offered. Maybe even hold a few clinics.

And someday she hoped to have a family to share her home with.

Unconsciously she rubbed her hand down her thigh, still able to feel the warmth of Pete’s fingers on her palm. She’d told herself a million times over the past two years that she’d done the right thing in ending the relationship with him…but she’d never been able to forget him. Not entirely. Not when a part of him would be with her always as a reminder.

Her gaze strayed to the oak tree that stood like a sentinel on the small rise behind her house. Tears blurred her vision as she stared at the old tree with its barrel-size trunk and its low-hanging limbs. So many memories were tied to that tree. So many heartaches.

Slowly she climbed from the truck and started toward the tree, stopping along the way to gather a fistful of wildflowers. When she reached the top of the rise, she dropped to her knees beneath the spread of the oak’s comforting limbs and carefully laid the flowers on the ground. Sinking back on her heels, she dipped her chin to her chest and let the tears she’d suppressed all day fall.

Fresh from a shower and dressed for bed, Carol stood in the doorway, tray in hand, staring at Pete, unable to take that first step into the room where he slept. He lay just as she’d left him earlier that evening—flat on his back, his propped-up knee tenting the sheet she’d draped over it. Earlier, when she’d helped him back to bed after his fall, he’d flung an arm across his eyes, as if to block out the last rays of sunlight that had spilled through the bedroom window…or to block out the pain. His other arm lay across his abdomen, bunching the sheet low on his waist.

A wistful smile trembled at her lips as she noticed that his thumb was hooked in the waist of his briefs, a habit of his when he slept that she had often teased him about.

She eased across the room and set the tray on the bedside table, then turned to look down at him, unable to resist this unobserved opportunity to do so. Each feature of his face was so painfully familiar to her, so dear. The roman-shaped nose, the high slash of cheekbone, the faint scar—a parting gift from a bronc he’d ridden—that ran like a railroad track along his right jaw. She had to lace her fingers together to resist the temptation to reach out and touch him.