# Taming Blackhawk

Barbara McCauley

He could tame any wild mustang – but no woman had come close to taming Rand Blackhawk.Yet one lady spitfire dared enter the arena with the tantalizing Texas maverick. Socialite Grace Sullivan desperately needed Rand's expertise, but she didn't figure her pleas to save a herd of horses would lead to a world of sensual self-discovery in Rand's strong arms.He branded her as his own, taking her virginity one powerful night and searing her guarded soul. But when their mission ended, would Grace be forced to release her untamable Blackhawk…or could she hold her unbridled lover forever?

## How Could He Have Known She Was A Virgin?

Grace was a grown woman, for crying out loud. It had never entered Rand’s mind that she hadn’t been with a man before.

But she hadn’t. And though he wasn’t proud of it, there was a part of him, that primitive male arrogance, that was actually glad he was her first. She’d said he’d made it special for her, but she’d made it special for him, too. Special in a way it never had been before.

He glanced over his shoulder at Grace. Her cheeks were flushed, her deep green eyes alert and sparkling.

Something slammed into Rand’s chest. Lust, most definitely. But something more than that. Something that made him sweat.

There was no future for them, he was certain of that. But that didn’t stop him from wanting her.

Dear Reader,

Looking for romances with a healthy dose of passion? Don’t miss Silhouette Desire’s red-hot May lineup of passionate, powerful and provocative love stories!

Start with our MAN OF THE MONTH, His Majesty, M.D., by bestselling author Leanne Banks. This latest title in the ROYAL DUMONTS miniseries features an explosive engagement of convenience between a reluctant royal and a determined heiress. Then, in Kate Little’s Plain Jane & Doctor Dad, the new installment of Desire’s continuity series DYNASTIES: THE CONNELLYS, a rugged Connelly sweeps a pregnant heroine off her feet.

A brooding cowboy learns about love and family in Taming Blackhawk, a SECRETS! title by Barbara McCauley. Reader favorite Sara Orwig offers a brand-new title in the exciting TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB: THE LAST BACHELOR series. In The Playboy Meets His Match, enemies become lovers and then some.

A sexy single mom is partnered with a lonesome rancher in Kathie DeNosky’s Cassie’s Cowboy Daddy. And in Anne Marie Winston’s Billionaire Bachelors: Garrett, sparks fly when a tycoon shares a cabin with the woman he believes was his stepfather’s mistress.

Bring passion into your life this month by indulging in all six of these sensual sizzlers.

Enjoy!


Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

## Taming Blackhawk. Barbara McCauley


www.millsandboon.co.uk

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## BARBARA MCCAULEY,

who has written more than twenty Silhouette romances, lives in Southern California with her own handsome hero husband, Frank, who makes it easy to believe in and write about the magic of romance. McCauley’s stories have won and been nominated for numerous awards, including the prestigious RITA® Award from the Romance Writers of America, Best Desire of the Year from Romantic Times and Best Short Contemporary from the National Reader’s Choice Awards.

To Melissa Jeglinski, the best editor an author could ever hope to have. Thanks for keeping me focused, for trusting me, for making me laugh and, most especially, for just being you. This one’s for you!

## Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

## One

Rand Sloan had a reputation.

In fact, depending on who you asked and their gender, he had several. If you were a man, then bastard, hardheaded and bad tempered were a few of the words used to describe Rand. If you were a woman…

Well, there were so many words. Amazing. Incredible. And certainly the most popular overall—extraordinary.

But if there was one thing that everyone agreed on, men and women alike, it was that Rand Sloan was the best damn horse trainer in the entire state of Texas.

At thirty-two he had an edge to him, as if he’d already done and seen more than any other man his age. On Rand, though, the lines that etched the corners of his coal-black eyes and firm mouth only added to his appeal. His hair, thick, shiny and black, fell untamed down his neck. More often than not, his strong, square jaw bore the same dark stubble. He never hurried—a fact greatly appreciated by the women who knew him—and he always carried his entire six-foot, four-inch, lean, hard body with purpose.

Self-control and discipline were critical to Rand. When a man worked with a wild horse, those attributes could mean the difference between a nasty bruise or a broken leg. Even between life and death. Untamed horses were inconsistent and unpredictable, a few of the animals even teetered on the precipice of insanity. But all they needed was a little coaxing, a little patience, and he could pull them back, give them self-respect. Make them whole again.

Perhaps that was why he’d been drawn to wild horses, Rand thought absently. Why he’d chosen his profession—or why it had chosen him. Because he understood what those animals were feeling.

Because there were days, too many, when he also stood on that precipice.

“Here we go, sweetheart,” he murmured as he led Maggie Mae out of her stall. The mare nuzzled the front pocket of his denim shirt, looking for a treat. He gave the animal a thick slice of crisp apple, rubbed the blaze of white on her forehead, then clipped her bridle to a ring on the redwood post outside her stall. The horse was small, but feisty and smart, a pretty two-year-old sorrel who would be auctioned off with the rest of the livestock and equipment when Rand’s mother put the ranch up for sale next month.

Ignoring the hot, San Antonio breeze that swept through the barn, Rand set about his work. Work always cleared his mind, gave him balance. Today he needed that balance more than he’d ever needed it before.

It wasn’t every day a man found out that his entire life—or at least his life from the time he was nine years old—was a complete lie.

That Seth and Lizzie, his precious little Lizzie, were not dead. They were alive.

Alive.

That one word wrapped around his chest like a steel band and squeezed. Alive. His brother and sister were alive.

Dust swirled around him as he raked numbly at the old straw, then replaced it with new. After he’d read the letter this morning from Beddingham, Barnes and Stephens Law Offices in Wolf River, Texas, he’d shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans. He hadn’t looked at it since, but he knew every sentence, every comma, every word by heart.

But only one sentence mattered to him, only one that kept running through his mind, over and over…

Seth Ezekiel Blackhawk and Elizabeth Marie Blackhawk, son and daughter of Jonathan and Norah Blackhawk of Wolf River County, Texas, were not killed in the car accident that claimed the lives of their parents…

There were dates and the usual legal mumbo-jumbo, requests to contact the law firm as soon as possible in order to discuss the estate. But what the hell did he care about an estate? Seth and Lizzie were alive.

Seth would be about thirty now, Rand knew. Lizzie maybe twenty-five or six. Over the years, Rand had never allowed himself to think about his sister and brother or the night of the accident. But there were times, late at night, when even a bottle of whiskey couldn’t chase the persistent demons out of his head.

And then he would remember—the lightning bolt, the sound of screeching wheels and crunching metal. His mother’s scream and Lizzie’s cries.

Then silence. A deafening, sickening quiet that pounded in his ears to this day.

How many nights had he woken in a sweat, the sheets ripped from the mattress, his heart racing and his hands shaking?

Too damn many.

Even now, as he thought about Seth and Lizzie, about the letter in his pocket, his hands shook and his heart raced.

“Rand?”

Startled from his thoughts, he glanced up at Mary Sloan’s soft call. At sixty-one, she was still an attractive woman. Her raven hair was peppered with gray; her skin looked healthy and tanned, with deep lines around her blue eyes. She looked exhausted, he thought. But then, she usually did. Ranching was hard work, long hours and little pay. In her twenty-nine years of marriage, she’d never known any other life.

Mary and Edward Sloan had adopted Rand Blackhawk immediately following the accident. Mary had always been good to him, Rand thought. Raised him like her own, loved him.

Edward Sloan had been another matter entirely.

“Are you all right?” she asked, and took a step closer.

His first reaction was to say that he was fine. That everything was fine. Isn’t that what everyone had always done in the Sloan family, pretended all was well, when in fact, it was anything but?

“I don’t know what the hell I am, Mom,” he said honestly. Or even who I am.

Mary knew about the letter, who it was from, what it said and what it meant to Rand. “It’s one-fifteen,” she said after a long moment. “Are you coming?”

Was he? His hand tightened around the handle of the pitchfork.

“Yeah.” He stabbed at a flake of straw and tossed it into the stall. For her he would. “I’m coming.”

“Rand—” She took another step closer. “I—”

She stopped again, not knowing what to say.

Hell, he didn’t know what to say, either.

“It’s all right, Mom. You go on. Soon as I finish here, I’ll be in.”

She nodded, turned slowly to leave, then stopped at the sound of car tires crunching on the gravel driveway outside. They both looked at each other.

“Are you expecting anyone?” she asked.

“Not me. You?”

“No.” Her eyes, which had looked so tired just a moment before, now simply looked sad. “I’ll go see who it is. Maybe it’s one of Matthew or Sam’s friends.”

They both knew that was doubtful. His younger brothers, Mary and Edward’s birth sons, had both left the ranch years ago. Like himself, they’d come home only yesterday. No one knew any of the Sloan boys were back in town.

Once again she turned to leave, and once again she turned back. “We’ll talk later. All right?”

Rand nodded. He watched his mother suck in a deep breath, straighten her shoulders, then walk out of the barn.

He stabbed another forkful of straw and tossed it. They’d talk, no doubt about that. He had no idea what they would say to each other, but one thing was certain, they would talk.

Grace Sullivan pulled her rented black Jeep Cherokee in front of the two-story farmhouse and parked. Tipping her sunglasses up, she took in the name carved roughly on a strip of pine over the front porch: Sloan.

Finally.

She closed her eyes on a sigh of relief and cut the engine. She’d been all over Texas looking for the legendary Rand Sloan. Even if he didn’t live here, maybe someone who did could help her.

If anyone lived here.

She stepped out of her car into the blistering August sun and slid her sunglasses back down to shield her eyes as she looked at the house. Its once-white paint had begun to peel, the screens were torn, and the composition roof needed repair. The flower beds had long turned to weeds and dust, and the corrals were empty. On the porch a wooden swing with faded blue cushions swayed slightly in the breeze.

Her gaze swept back toward the mile-long dirt driveway she’d followed off the main road. A cloud of dust still hung in the heavy air from where she’d driven in. The land was flat, dotted with cactus and thornbush, and stretched as far as the eye could see. Grace listened, but the only sounds she heard were a hawk shrieking overhead and the squeak of the wooden sign moving gently in the hot wind. The place looked and felt deserted.

Not that there would be much taking place in this heat at this hour on any ranch, she reasoned. Still, she would have expected some kind of activity. Maybe a ranch hand smoking in the shade of the large oak tree beside the barn, or a horse nuzzling a patch of grass. But she saw no sign of life at all. Not even the customary mangy ranch dog had rushed up to bark at her.

Not your typical ranch, she thought as she closed her car door and headed for the house. But then, from everything she’d heard, Rand Sloan was not your typical man.

“May I help you?”

Grace turned and saw the woman standing at the edge of the house, her expression wary but not unfriendly. She was a tall woman, Grace noted, slender, but not delicate. Her short, dark hair was starting to gray; she wore black slacks, a short-sleeved cotton blouse and black cowboy boots.

“Hello.” Grace smiled at the woman. “My name is Grace Sullivan. I hope I’m not bothering you.”

“Not yet you’re not.” The woman moved closer and offered a firm handshake. “Mary Sloan.”

A wife? Grace wondered. Sister? She knew so little about the man. “I’m looking for Rand Sloan. Does he live here?”

The woman smiled, as if Grace had said something funny. “Rand hasn’t lived here for fifteen years.”

Disappointment stabbed at Grace. Not another dead end, she thought. She didn’t have time for another dead end.

“Would you have any idea where I might reach him?” Grace asked. “It’s important that I speak with him right away.”

“Take a number,” Mary said, then nodded over her shoulder. “He’s in the barn.”

He’s in the barn? Grace swiveled a look at the barn, tried not to let her chin hit her knees. That simple? After dozens of phone calls and three wasted trips, had she actually found the mysterious Rand Sloan?

Excitement skittered up her spine.

“Is it all right if I go on in?” Grace asked.

“Help yourself.” Mary walked past Grace and moved up the porch steps. The woman hesitated at the front door, then said over her shoulder. “But if you’re from that lawyer’s office in Wolf River, you best give him a wide berth.”

Grace frowned. “I’m not from a lawyer’s office.”

Mary nodded. “Good.”

The wooden screen door slammed behind the woman as she disappeared inside the house. Brow furrowed, Grace stared after her. Now that was odd, she thought.

But her excitement over finding Rand Sloan pushed the strange woman out of Grace’s mind. Gravel crunched under the sturdy flat heel of her ecru pumps as she made her way toward the large, weather-beaten barn. She wished she’d had time to change her clothes earlier, but if she’d wanted to catch her flight from Dallas to San Antonio, she’d had no choice but to go directly to the airport from the board meeting this morning. The off-white skirt and jacket might fit in at the glossy, teak, ten-foot-long table at Sullivan Enterprises, but on an isolated, dusty ranch one hundred miles from The Alamo, silk and high heels were definitely out of place.

The story of my life, Grace thought with a shake of her head.

She quickly ran through her proposal in her head as she approached the open barn doors. From the time she was old enough to read and write, if she had wanted something, Patrick Sullivan had insisted his only daughter present her case in an organized written and oral form. When she was eight, she’d gotten Princess Penelope’s Tea Party by demonstrating the usefulness of learning social skills; when she was sixteen and wanted her first car, she’d argued the necessity of independence and self-sufficiency. She’d used visual aids for that presentation. Even now, at twenty-five, she still had fond memories of that sleek, shiny black Porsche.

She pushed all thoughts of tea sets and cars out of her mind, then squared her shoulders and stepped into the barn.

“Hello?” she called out, hesitated when she saw the man bent over a stall in the corner of the barn.

When he glanced over his shoulder at her, her mind simply went blank.

Good Lord.

Grace had no idea what she’d been expecting. Someone older, certainly. Maybe middle-aged, with bowed, skinny legs, slumped shoulders and skin like crushed leather. Maybe a bushy mustache and graying temples. Your typical, well-worn cowboy.

There was nothing typical about Rand Sloan.

He was probably in his early thirties, she guessed, though there was something about his piercing black eyes that made him look older.

He straightened, pitchfork in his hand, and turned those eyes on her. Grace felt as if she’d been speared to the spot.

He was well over six feet, lean, hard-muscled and covered with dust. His jeans were faded, his denim shirt rolled to the elbows. Sweat beaded his forehead and dripped down his neck.

And then there was his face.

She thought of Black Knights and Apache warriors, could almost hear the distant drums of battle. The pitchfork he held in his large, callused hand might have easily been a lance or a sword. A dark stubble of beard shadowed his strong jaw. His eyebrows, the same dark shade as his hair, were drawn together in a frown.

His narrowed gaze swept over her, assessing, moving upward slowly, sucking the breath from her as he touched her with those eyes of his.

Her knees felt weak.

“Something I can do for you?” he asked in a raw, hot-whiskey voice.

Now there was a loaded question, Grace thought, and quickly dismissed all the options that jumped into her brain.

“Rand Sloan?” she asked, annoyed at the surprise in her voice and the breathless quality that accompanied it.

He stabbed the pitchfork into the ground and nodded.

“I…I’m Grace Sullivan. I’ve been trying to contact you for the past two weeks. You’re a hard man to get a hold of.”

Grace blushed at her words. What woman wouldn’t want to get a hold of this man?

“Sometimes I am,” he said simply. “Sometimes I’m not.”

“You don’t have an address or phone number and I tried just about—”

“Why don’t you just tell me what you want, Miss Sullivan?” His eyes dropped to her hand. “Or is it Mrs.?”

“What? Oh—it’s Miss. Grace, I mean.”

He lifted a brow. “Miss Grace?”

“No.” Dammit. There was that blush again. She rarely blushed, and now she couldn’t seem to stop. “Just call me Grace.”

He nodded, his expression telling her that he was waiting for her to answer his question.

And what was the question? Oh, yes. He’d asked her what she wanted. She had to think a minute to pull her thoughts together.

“I’m from the Edgewater Animal Management and Adoption Foundation,” she finally managed. “Maybe you’ve heard of us. We rescue wild horses and care for them until they can be adopted out. We’d like to hire you to round up some stray mustangs in Black River Canyon and bring them out.”

“You went to a lot of trouble, Grace.” He turned his back to her and stabbed another flake of straw. “My answer is no.”

No? Just like that? No?

Grace stared at him, did her best not to notice the firm backside he’d turned toward her.

“We’ll pay you very well, Mr. Sloan, plus all expenses and travel costs.” She stepped closer, and the scent of fresh straw, horse and sweat-covered male assailed her senses. Strangely, the combination was not at all unpleasant.

“You’ll have to find someone else.”

He continued to work, his muscles rippling as he tossed another forkful of straw into the stall.

She’d met some difficult people before, Grace thought in annoyance, but Rand Sloan took the prize.

“I don’t want anyone else.” She moved beside him, refusing to be ignored. “I want you.”

Rand straightened and leveled his gaze on Miss Grace Sullivan. In a different situation, he might have taken the woman’s comment and carried their conversation in a different, more interesting direction. But this was not the day, and—he took in her light-colored silk suit and heels and caught the scent of her expensive perfume—this was not the woman.

Not that she hadn’t caught his attention in the looks department. That thick, tousled, auburn hair of hers was enough to catch any man’s eye. It was the kind of hair a man could fist his hand into, then pull that long, slender neck back and dive in. Her skin looked liked porcelain; her eyes were bottle green, wide and tilted at the corners, with thick, dark lashes.

And that mouth. Lord have mercy. Those lush lips of hers were meant for a man’s mouth.

She had long legs—he guessed her to be around five foot eight—narrow waist, full breasts…

He glanced at the fresh straw, then at the woman.

What a damn shame.

“Why me?” he asked.

“Everyone says you’re the best,” she said. “This is a difficult job. Probably dangerous. I heard that’s your specialty.”

Another time he might have been flattered, and he definitely would have been interested. He’d always enjoyed a challenge, and the danger part made his blood race.

Another time.

He unclipped Maggie Mae’s bridle. “You’re wasting your time, Miss Grace.”

“You’re my last hope,” she said quietly.

Her words, spoken with such intensity, made something catch in his chest. He didn’t want to be anyone’s last hope. Didn’t want anyone to depend on him. He closed Maggie Mae’s stall door.

“That’s too bad.” He tugged his handkerchief from his back pocket and swiped at the sweat on his face. “But my answer is still no.”

“Mr. Sloan,” she said when he started to walk away, then, “Rand, please.”

He stopped when she said his name so softly.

“Could you please just give me a few minutes?” she asked.

“I haven’t got a few minutes, Miss Grace.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to my father’s funeral.”

## Two

The sound of a car door slamming startled Grace awake. She hadn’t meant to doze off, but after only five hours sleep the night before, the early-morning board meeting, the flight to San Antonio, then renting a car at the airport and driving one hundred miles, her eyelids had simply grown too heavy to keep open.

She rose from the comfortable easy chair in Mary Sloan’s living room and looked out through the lace curtains. Mary and Rand had already stepped out of an old, dust-covered tan truck. A second truck, newer, deep blue with dual cab, pulled up in front of the house, as well. Two men younger than Rand, also tall, with dark-brown hair climbed out.

Grace glanced at her wristwatch, surprised that the Sloan family was back so soon from the funeral. The service must have been a short one, and the reception, if there had been one, even shorter than that.

Grace hadn’t intended to stay at the Sloan house. As badly as she wanted—needed—Rand’s help, she knew she couldn’t intrude at such a difficult time. But it was a long drive to San Antonio, and after Rand had left her standing in the barn, Grace had knocked on Mary Sloan’s door to ask for a glass of water before heading back to the airport. Next thing Grace knew, Mary had sat her down at the kitchen table and asked point-blank what Grace wanted with Rand. Grace had told Mary about the foundation and the horses, then Mary had insisted that Grace stay and join them for dinner.

Grace had politely turned down Mary’s offer, but the older woman had refused to take no for an answer. It had been a long time since she’d had any company, Mary had said, and she would certainly appreciate another female in the house tonight.

The genuine concern in Mary’s eyes, the sadness, made it impossible for Grace to say no. Since Rand had turned her down, Grace had nowhere to go, no one else to turn to, anyway. So why not stay a few hours if Mary wanted her to? Grace could only imagine how devastated her own mother would be if anything happened to her father. If Mary Sloan wanted female companionship, then it was the least Grace could do for the woman.

She looked up when Rand opened the door and stepped inside. He’d obviously showered and shaved since she’d seen him last. He now wore black dress jeans, a white shirt and shiny black boots. He glanced at her, unsmiling. Obviously, Rand did not approve of his mother’s request that Grace stay.

Well, the hell with him. The man was just going to have to deal with it.

Their eyes locked for one long moment, then he boldly slid that dark, intense gaze of his all the way down her body, then slowly back up again. It annoyed Grace when her breasts tightened and, dammit, her nipples hardened. She pressed her lips firmly together. She decided he was crude and coarse and…just about the sexiest man she’d ever met.

“I heard you’re staying for dinner,” he said at last, bringing his gaze back to hers.

“Your mother—”

“Mind your manners, Rand Sloan.” Mary swept in the house behind her son and moved past him. “I asked Grace to stay. A woman needs a breather with all that testosterone that’ll be filling this house tonight. I need some feminine balance.”

“Matt and Sam will be here,” Rand called after Mary, then turned and looked at his brothers as they strode through the front door. “That should balance the femininity about right.”

Surprised, Grace glanced at Rand. The man had actually made a joke, she realized. A sarcastic one, true, but a joke nonetheless. She wouldn’t have thought he had it in him.

“I’ll give you feminine when I’m picking your teeth out of my knuckles.” One of the brothers walked toward Grace and stuck out his hand. “I’m Matthew Sloan,” he said with a smile. “This is Sam.”

Heavens, but the Sloan men were a handsome lot. Though Rand had darker hair and eyes than his brothers and his face was more sculpted, they were all rugged and tall, with killer smiles. Not that she’d seen Rand smile, she thought dryly.

“Grace Sullivan.” She shook each of their hands. “I’m sorry about your father.”

There was an awkward moment of silence, as there always was with condolences, then Matt said, “Thanks for staying. After looking at Rand’s ugly mug all day, my eyes could use a break.”

Rand frowned at his brother, but there was no malice in the look. If anything, Grace thought, it was the first sign of affection Rand had displayed.

“Matthew and Samuel,” Mary called from the kitchen. “Get your butts in here now. I need help.”

Matt and Sam excused themselves, leaving Grace alone with Rand. “I…I should go help, too,” she said.

He took her arm when she started toward the kitchen. “In all the years I’ve known her, my mother hasn’t asked for help in the kitchen once.”

Confused, she simply looked at him.

“She’s thinking we need a minute alone.”

“Oh, I see,” Grace said, then gave him a weak smile. “I’m sorry. I’m sure the last thing you want is to be alone with me.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

Grace felt her throat go dry at the flare of interest in his black eyes. She looked down at the hand he’d laid on her forearm. A working man’s hand. Large, with long fingers and tanned, rough skin. Against her smooth, cream-colored silk jacket, the contrast was amazingly sensual. The heat of his fingers burned all the way through the fabric.

She really needed to get a grip on her hormones.

“Rand,” she said carefully, “your mother asked me to stay, but I have no intention of intruding on your grief. Just forget why I came here and think of me as you would any other guest in your mother’s house.”

It might be hard to explain to the woman that his mother rarely had guests in her house, Rand thought. But it really wasn’t anything that Miss Grace Sullivan needed to know, anyway.

“Samuel Sloan, you get your fingers out of that potato salad right now!”

Rand watched Grace’s head snap toward the kitchen. At the sound of a loud thwap, those deep-green eyes of hers went wide.

“Shoot, Mom, someone’s gotta make sure it tastes right,” Sam told his mother.

“You saying I don’t know how to make potato salad?”

Another loud thwap!

Rand heard the sound of Matt’s laugh, then again, thwap!

“Hey! What’d I do?” Matt complained.

“It’s for what you’re gonna do,” Mary said. “I saw you eyeing that cake.”

“You hold her, Matt,” Sam said. “I’ll grab the cake.”

“You so much as—” Mary’s reprimand was cut off abruptly and there was a lot of hollering.

A good sound, Rand thought. When Edward Sloan had been around, the family rarely joked. The best times in this house had been when the old man was gone, either on a business trip or one of his hunting and fishing excursions. Fortunately for everyone, Edward took those trips often. It was the only time they ever really relaxed, the only time they could have fun like this without Edward hollering they were all making too much noise.

“Matthew Richard Sloan,” Mary yelled from the kitchen. “Get your fingers out of that frosting right this minute!”

Grace looked at Rand, her brow furrowed with concern. “Shouldn’t you go help?”

“Why would I do that?” Rand shrugged. “Unless you want some cake. I could probably grab it while they’re all busy and be out the back door before they even noticed. My mom bakes a chocolate cake that could make a grown man cry.”

“Chocolate cake, you say?” Grace lifted a brow and glanced at the kitchen. “With chocolate frosting?”

“Is there any other kind?”

“I suppose I could start my car and you could jump in,” she said thoughtfully. “I’d expect a fifty-fifty split, though.”

Rand felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. It felt strange to joke with a woman, especially a beautiful one. His entire adult life, when there’d been interest between himself and a woman, there’d been few preliminaries. There’d been the usual amount of flirting and silly banter, he supposed. But there’d been no pretenses, no long courtships. If he wanted a woman, he simply said so. If she wanted him back, then fine. If she didn’t, then that was fine, too. He respected a woman’s right to say no. There were always more women in the next town he’d drift to.

Not to say that he slept with every pretty female that came along. In spite of the rumors, Rand had always considered himself a man of discriminating—and careful—tastes. He was no fool, and he wasn’t stupid when it came to sex.

He looked at Grace, watched those big, green eyes of hers widen at the sound of a crash from the kitchen. She wasn’t going to be around long enough for him to give it a lot of thought one way or the other, Rand knew. She’d be gone after dinner, and he would never see her again.

And that, he thought as he looked at those gorgeous lips of hers and killer body, was a damn shame.

Unlike the worn and neglected exterior, the inside of the Sloan house was neat and tidy and clean. The furniture was utilitarian: a plain brown sofa and chair in the living room, maple coffee and end tables. A bookcase filled mostly with history and ranching books. No TV, no DVD or video equipment, not even a stereo, that Grace could see. Simple and practical and down to the basics, would best describe the Sloan residence.

It wasn’t a cold house, but it wasn’t exactly a warm one, either. Except for the dining room, Grace thought, where the family had gathered around an oval pine table to eat. She felt comfortable here, relaxed. Well, not completely relaxed. It was pretty difficult to truly relax with Rand sitting across from her, those incredible black eyes of his watching her. Not that he was staring. In fact, it seemed that every time she’d looked at him, he was intentionally not looking at her.

Nevertheless, she felt his eyes on her, felt the intensity of that dark gaze. No man had ever made her so…aware. Of him, of herself, of everything around them. The feeling confused her, made her unsteady. It also annoyed her that she was being such a nervous Nelly. Such a scaredy-cat. A big, fat—

“Chicken?”

Startled, she snapped her gaze to Rand. “What?”

“Would you like a piece of chicken?” He held a large platter of fried chicken in front of her.

“Oh. Yes, of course.” She helped herself to a leg and smiled at Mary. “This all looks wonderful.”

A person would have thought that an entire football team was coming to dinner instead of three men, Grace thought. Mile-high, fluffy mashed potatoes beside a tureen of velvety brown gravy; a heaping bowl of baby peas; golden, steaming biscuits with a tub of honey-sweetened butter. The smell alone was enough to make Grace’s mouth water.

And when she took a bite of the chicken, it was all she could do not to groan. Mary’s sons, on the other hand, were not subject to the same restraint. Every one of them, including Rand, expressed their pleasure with sighs and groans and enough compliments to make Mary beam with delight.

“Lord, I’ve missed your cooking,” Matt said around a bite of biscuit. “When you sell this place and move, I’m just gonna have to follow.”

“You’re selling the ranch?” Grace asked as she scooped up an extra ladle of gravy. She didn’t care if she had to do three extra miles on her treadmill at home. This meal was worth every calorie.

“She’s moving to Sin City,” Sam said. “Las Vegas, Nevada.”

“I have a brother there,” Mary said. “I haven’t seen him in ten years. It’ll be nice to catch up.”

Grace listened while they all talked about Mary’s move and their uncle Steve. It seemed odd to her that not once was there any mention of the funeral or Edward Sloan. No shared memories of their life together. And not one person had stopped by to pay their respects. It was almost as if the man had never existed.

“My mom says you’re from Dallas, Grace,” Sam said, interrupting her thoughts. “What do you do there?”

She glanced at Rand, who appeared intent on buttering a biscuit. She’d promised not to mention the wild horses, but she supposed it was all right to mention the foundation. “I work with Edgewater Animal Management,” she said.

“I saw an article in the Dallas Chronicle about Edgewater Animal Management.” Matt teased his mother by reaching for her already buttered biscuit. Without missing a beat, Mary slapped her son’s hand and kept on eating. “If I remember correctly, the piece mentioned its founder was the daughter of some mega-millionaire Dallas businessman.”

“Probably some spoiled, buck-toothed debutante who wouldn’t know the backside of a mule if it stared her in the face,” Sam muttered.

“I do believe I would know,” Grace said curtly and stared at Sam.

There was a long beat of silence, then Sam’s eyes widened, and he had the decency to blush. Matt and Mary both started to laugh, and even Rand had a grin on his face. Sam took his knife and made motions of cutting his wrists.

“Hot damn, Grace,” Matt said, still laughing. “Any woman who can put my brother in his place is the woman I want to marry.”

“The fact that she’s beautiful and rich don’t hurt, either,” Sam added. “Come on, Matt, I’ll arm wrestle you for her.”

Mary shook her head at her sons’ nonsense while she offered Grace more chicken. Grace declined, shocked that Matt and Sam actually had their elbows on the table and hands locked, ready to wrestle. Never in her life had she seen anything like this. Dinner at her parents’ house was always quiet and sedate, a five-course meal prepared by a cook and served by a maid on fine china and linen tablecloths.

Dinner with the Sloan family was like getting on a roller coaster at Six Flags, Grace decided. An exciting, fun, adventure-filled ride that took your breath away.

Rand was the only one that held back, she realized. Not that he wasn’t at ease with his family. He was. But there was something about Rand that Grace couldn’t quite put her finger on. It was subtle, but he was different somehow from his brothers.

He was watching her now, she knew, ignoring his brothers’ shenanigans and focusing his attention on her. The intensity of his gaze made her shiver. The worst of it was, she couldn’t look away.

“If you want that chocolate cake,” Mary said to her sons, “you boys best get your elbows off that table. I taught you better manners than that. And, Rand, stop staring at Grace. You’re embarrassing her. Just look at her, she’s all red in the face.”

Grace dropped her gaze. She hadn’t been embarrassed, she’d simply been hot and extremely bothered. But she couldn’t very well tell Mary that.

The meal finished in relative peace—relative being a very broad term when it came to the Sloans. Sam and Matt flirted shamelessly with her, plus there were more wisecracks and insults between the brothers. Even Rand jumped in a time or two, but for the most part he was silent and thoughtful, as if his mind was somewhere else.

When Mary rose to get the cake, Rand told her to sit right back down, then looked at his brothers. Matt and Sam went out the front door, with Mary wanting to know what all the fuss was about. The two younger Sloan boys came back in a few moments later, carrying a large, blanket-covered box. They set it down at their mother’s feet and pulled the blanket back.

“Happy Birthday, Mom,” Sam said quietly.

It was a thirty-five-inch color TV with remote control and picture-in-a-picture feature.

Mary stared, then blinked furiously, got up without a word and walked out the front door.

Bewildered, Grace watched while the brothers all looked at each other and smiled.

It seemed that Rand wasn’t the only Sloan family member who wasn’t inclined to show emotion, Grace thought.

“Let’s set it up,” Matt said, then he and Sam carried it into the living room.

“It’s your mother’s birthday?” Grace asked Rand.

“Sort of,” he said cryptically and looked at the door his mother had walked out. When he glanced back at Grace, there was a grin on his face. “She just might need a little ‘feminine balance’ right about now,” he said. “Would you mind?”

She had no idea what he was talking about, but if Mary needed company, then Grace would be happy to sit outside with her. She looked at all the dishes on the table, but he took her by the arm and led her to the front door. “Never mind the mess. We’ll take care of it.”

It was the second time he’d put his hand on her today, the second time her body reacted with a mind of its own. Grace opened her mouth, but hadn’t time to speak before he’d opened the door, gently shoved her outside, then closed the door again.

The light from the living room window illuminated the front porch, but beyond the porch railing, it was pitch-black. Grace could see Mary on the porch swing, staring out into the dark. Grace waited, not certain if she was intruding or not.

“Come sit by me, Grace,” Mary said.

Grace sat and together they listened to the loud er-rick-er-rick-er-rick of an army of crickets and the rhythmic squeak of the swing. Inside the house, the sound of Mary’s sons talking and laughing in the living room drifted out into the warm night air.

“Rand doesn’t mean to be rude,” Mary said after a few moments. “He’s having a tough time right now.”

“You mean because of his father?”

“Heavens, no. There was no love lost between Rand and my late husband.” Mary sighed. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about or why I wanted you to stay.”

“Why did you want me to stay?”

“Rand needs a woman like you right now,” Mary said.

Grace missed a beat on the swing, then picked it up again. “Excuse me for saying so, Mrs. Sloan, but I don’t think your son needs anyone, especially me.”

Mary laughed softly. “That’s where you’re wrong, Grace. I know my boy and I know what I see. He might not even know it yet, but believe me, he needs you.”

“Mrs. Sloan—”

“Mary.”

“Mary,” Grace said, shaking her head. “I came here because I need Rand’s help. He turned me down flat. The only reason I’m still here is because you asked me to stay.”

“And I’m glad you did.” Mary patted Grace’s hand. “It was refreshing to have another woman around. Sometimes living out here, without any woman friends stopping by for coffee or cookies, makes me forget I’m a woman myself.”

The sound of a baseball game blasted from inside the house, and Mary’s eyes lit up. “Well, I suppose I should go take a look at what they bought me,” she said matter-of-factly. “Wouldn’t want to hurt their feelings.”

“Would you mind if I sat out here for a while?” Grace asked. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been away from the city lights.”

“Take your time,” Mary said. “I’ll make sure my boys save a piece of cake for you.”

“No easy task, I’m sure,” Grace teased.

Smiling, Mary went back into the house. With a sigh, Grace settled back in the swing and mentally went over the events of the afternoon and evening. The Sloan family perplexed her. The sons had buried their father, Mary her husband, but Edward Sloan’s name had not been mentioned once amongst them. Mary had plainly said that Rand and his father did not get along. Then the boys had given their mother a television for her birthday, only it really wasn’t her birthday.

Rand needs a woman like you.

That comment from Mary had to be the most perplexing of all. Though there was no question there was chemistry between herself and Rand, Mary certainly hadn’t been speaking of need in a physical nature. She’d been speaking of something else, something on a deeper, more meaningful level. Grace couldn’t imagine what Mary meant, but it really didn’t matter at this point.

Grace couldn’t put it off any longer. It was almost nine and she needed to leave in a few minutes. It was a long drive back to San Antonio. She’d need to find a place to stay for the night, then catch the first flight back to Dallas tomorrow.

She knew she was leaving her last hope behind her, but she refused to think about that right now. Grace knew that she was still foolish enough to believe in miracles, and she also knew that it would take one now to save those mustangs.