Jim Tremain watched the magnificent bird soar through the air and land on Dahlia Kincaid’s gloved arm. The eagle was, stunning, but Dahlia was the most breathtaking woman he’d ever seen. Would this beautiful ornithologist allow him to headquarter his search for an international poaching ring on her Colorado ranch?

Jim reminded Dahlia of Nar, her golden eagle: he was dangerous, powerful, gloriously masculine. But Jim Tremain wasn’t the predator he’d first seemed. His eyes contained kindness and understanding. Could she risk her heart—with everything to lose, but so much to gain?

Heart of the Eagle

Lindsay McKenna

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To my mother, Ruth May Gent, who took four turkeys and taught them how to be eagles….

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter One

What the hell! He didn’t have time to think, only react. There, coming down the muddied ranch road, was a fully grown golden eagle. The raptor’s wings were outstretched, talons bared as he skimmed the earth toward his prey, a zigzagging jackrabbit. Simultaneously, Jim slammed on the brakes of his Blazer and hit the horn. The eagle was so intent on capturing its prey that it had not seen his truck come up and over the crest of the same road.

The Blazer slewed sideways. The eagle screamed indignantly, its amber eyes glaring as it barely missed the truck and sailed skyward. Jim eased the Blazer to the side of the road, drew in a deep breath and loosened his grip on the steering wheel. He watched the bird for a few moments, puzzled by its actions. Then, grabbing the pair of binoculars he always carried with him, he eased out of the truck. His scuffed cowboy boots sank into the mud and snow on the road. He glanced at the watch on his wrist; he had a few minutes before he had to make the appointment.

Crossing the deeply rutted gravel road, Jim walked to the grassy ledge on the opposite side. He followed the movements of the magnificent golden eagle as it spiraled lazily below the gray clouds that hung like a blanket above the valley. The late April weather was sharp and Jim pulled his sheepskin coat tighter as he halted at the edge of the drop-off that slid into a shallow slope of the valley. Lifting his binoculars, he trained them on the raptor. His mouth pulled into a pursed line as he followed the eagle as it stooped into a deep dive and plummeted into attack position.

Expecting that the eagle had found another quarry, Jim followed the dive. Instead, at the last moment, the eagle exploded into a flurry of braking movements with its seven-foot wing spread, beating countermotions as it slowed down its approach to the outstretched arm of a woman.

What the hell! Twice in the span of five minutes he’d been taken by surprise. The eagle had no jesses or leather straps dangling from its yellow legs to evidence that it was domesticated for falconry. Without realizing it, Jim was holding his breath. As the eagle landed, he saw the woman bend her knees to take the bird’s weight and velocity. She wore a soft leather gauntlet type of glove that extended from her left hand up to her elbow to protect her from the razor-sharp talons of the raptor as it settled on her arm. Jim watched as her entire body absorbed the tremendous impact of the eagle’s landing, the woman nearly dropping to a kneeling position so that she didn’t lose her precarious balance.

Jim felt his heart rate accelerate. Beautiful! My God, they’re beautiful together. Part of it was from the primal beauty of the wild eagle. Part was the thrill of watching the slender woman, who reminded him more of a graceful deer, as she slowly stood to her full height. Even the heavy sheepskin coat couldn’t hide the grace of her carriage. A deer and an eagle. Natural enemies. Now natural partners. The morning…no, the day, was turning out to be one of incredible surprise, and the rare, intrinsic beauty of the moment simply tore the breath from his tense body.

Jim moved his binoculars from the woman and her eagle. There was a black horse standing nearby, ground tied at the far end of the large meadow. Beyond rose the Rocky Mountains, still clothed in snow at the higher elevations. He returned his attention to the woman, hoping that she had turned around by now. His black brows knit as he concentrated on her face. Was it? No, it couldn’t be. Dr. Dahlia Gordon was a staunch opponent of falconry. It couldn’t be her. And yet, Jim could vividly recall that one moment they had met in the past. Dal Gordon had a haunting, expressive face that was imprinted in his mind. Yes, it was her…

A slow smile edged his mouth as he watched her walk with the eagle resting imperiously on her arm. My God, the raptor was huge! A weak streamer of sunlight chose that moment to slice through the leaden clouds and strike the meadow. The eagle’s dark brown body blazed to life in a molten bronze color. Jim watched in appreciation as the sun struck Dal Gordon’s shoulder-length spice-colored hair, bringing more of a flush to her pale features. How long was it? he mused. He had heard Dr. Gordon speak three years before in Washington, D.C. on saving the predatory birds that were being callously slaughtered in the Rockies. Despite the ravages of her recent divorce, she was still one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

Jim lowered the binoculars, a deprecating smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. His light brown eyes narrowed as he watched the woman and eagle. It was a thrill to be undetected and witness the harmony between her and the magnificent predatory bird. Was it her eagle? How had she gotten it? Jim glanced at his watch. It was time to go. Reluctantly, taking one last look at them, he turned and crossed the road to the Blazer. Some of his happiness backwashed. In half an hour he would be facing her and asking her for help. Would she give it? Jim got in, settling the black felt cowboy hat on hair of the same color. His hands tightened momentarily around the wheel as he started the engine. She had to help. Without her, his entire plan would be destroyed.

“Yes?”

Jim removed his hat as he stared across the doorway at a woman in her early sixties who was built like an overly plump pigeon. “I’m Jim Tremain, from the Department of the Interior. I have an appointment to see Dr. Dahlia Gordon at ten.”

The woman’s small mouth puckered. “You mean Dr. Kincaid?” she challenged, eyeing him.

The divorce. “Yes, I guess so.”

“Humph! Dal didn’t say she was expectin’ anyone.” Her blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You got some ID?”

He dug out his wallet, producing the evidence. The housekeeper appeared mollified—to a degree. She reminded Jim of a keg of dynamite ready to go off. Or perhaps a guard dog would be a more appropriate comparison, he thought, smiling to himself.

“I had my secretary call and confirm the appointment two days ago,” he said, trying to smooth her ruffled feathers. “I’m from Denver, the regional office.”

She stared up at him. “Well…I don’t know. She isn’t here right now. And if she was expectin’ someone, she wouldn’t have left.”

Patience, Jim reminded himself. He gave her a slight smile. “I saw her down in a meadow as I drove up here to the Triple K.”

“All right, come on in, Mr. Tremain.”

Jim stepped into the foyer, immediately at ease in the rambling ranch-style home. As the housekeeper escorted him from the cedar foyer, through the living room, which housed a huge stone fireplace, and then to the study, Jim collected his impressions.

“You can wait here. Dr. Kincaid ought to be comin’ back shortly.”

Jim placed his hat on the well-used leather couch, inhaling the scent of the large, brooding study, whose walls were lined with books. “Thank you.”

The housekeeper hovered at the door, her pinched features softening a bit. “Coffee?”

Jim shook his head. “No, thanks.”

“No tellin’ when she’ll get here, Mr. Tremain.”

“That’s all right, I’ll wait.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Have it your way, Mr. Tremain. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”

His smile was genuine. “Thank you, Mrs….”

“Millie. I’m the housekeeper for the Kincaid family.”

“I see.”

Millie gave him one last predatory look before she left. Jim shrugged out of his sheepskin coat and draped it over the arm of the couch. He drank in the atmosphere of the quiet study, impressed with the titles of the books; most ranchers wouldn’t be interested in Tolstoy or Shakespeare. But someone was and he wondered who. Above the bookshelves were many brilliantly colored photographs of the wildlife that no doubt inhabited the forty-thousand-acre Triple K Ranch. Jim found himself applauding the hanging of photographs of the animals on the walls, rather than their stuffed heads. Yes, the Kincaids were known for their strong conservation efforts, and were longtime friends to the Department of the Interior.

He sauntered out of the study and into an adjoining alcove. More slats of sun were peeking through the overcast as Jim looked out the window at the ceaseless activity of cowboys on horseback and the brown-and-white Hereford cattle they were herding. Ten acres on the south side of the house were enclosed in paddock after paddock of milling animals. It was time for the cows to calve, and Jim spotted more than one wobbly kneed youngster sticking close to its mother.

His sharp hearing caught the opening and closing of a door. The housekeeper’s voice was barely discernible. Jim realized his hands were damp, and he laughed at himself for such an uncharacteristic show of nerves. Turning back to the window, he once again forced his concentration on the scene outside.

In the kitchen Dal shrugged out of her coat, handing it to Millie. “Who did he say he was?” she asked. Her left arm ached where Nar had gripped her. He had been upset about something; otherwise, he wouldn’t have bruised her with the powerful grip of his blue-black talons that could easily have shredded her kidskin gauntlet as well as put puncture holes through the thick sleeve of her sheepskin coat. While she absently rubbed her arm, her sapphire eyes darkened.

“Jim Tremain. From the Department of the Interior. I thought you said you wanted to rest, Dal. No more travel, no more lectures. Just to rest from that…that awful divorce,” Millie said, sputtering.

Dal touched her brow. The divorce. Six months of freedom from a daily hell. She still wasn’t herself. Inwardly, she wasn’t ready to meet anyone. Not yet. “It’s all right, Millie. You know me, no memory.”

“Humph! That’s ‘cause of that no-good ex-husband of yours. Runnin’ you into the ground like he did.”

“That’s over now, Millie,” she began tiredly, not wanting to discuss it ever again. Dal glanced down at herself; she didn’t look very presentable in her blue jeans and long-sleeved white blouse, with her hair in tangled disarray about her shoulders. Compressing her full lips, Dal touched her hair. God, Jack had beaten her down so far, she even forgot to tend to herself beyond the most necessary of tasks needed for daily survival. “Well, Mr. Tremain is going to see me the way I am,” she muttered to the housekeeper. “I don’t remember the appointment. But that’s nothing new. Where did you say he was?”

“In your brother’s study. Like some coffee and a freshly made roll?”

Dal touched her ribs. She ought to eat more, she knew. Her brother, Rafe, was on her constantly to regain the lost weight. “No, just coffee, Millie.”

“I’ll bring it in to you, lamb.”

Managing a smile of thanks, Dal headed toward the south wing of the ranch house. The cheerful crackle of a fire soothed her sudden raw-nerved feeling. How could she have forgotten an appointment? Especially when she had refused to see anyone over the past six months? Running her slender fingers through her cinnamon-colored hair, Dal stepped into the library.

Her irritation with herself was torn away as she came to a halt. A man dressed like a wrangler rather than a businessman stood with book in hand. It wasn’t his appearance as much as the aura surrounding him that caught Dal completely off guard. The cougarlike leanness to his body shouted of someone who braved the elements regularly—and won. Her eyes moved up his tightly muscled frame, taking in the faded blue jeans that emphasized his long thighs and narrow hips. Unconsciously, she licked her lower lip. The pale-blue long-sleeved shirt emphasized the powerful breadth of his chest and shoulders. Her heart began an uneven pounding as her gaze met and held his. Clear, light brown eyes flecked with gold gently held her in check. A tremor passed through Dal and suddenly she felt panicky. This man, whoever he was, was affecting her on levels she had thought were destroyed long ago.

She didn’t want to admit that she was drawn to his large, intelligent eyes, which smoldered with some unknown emotion in their honey-colored depths. Or was she attracted by the harsh, chiseled planes of his face, which made him appear hawklike? Immediately, in her chaotic thoughts, Dal thought he resembled Nar, her golden eagle: dangerous, beautiful in a breathtaking male way and excruciatingly masculine. Was it the deep tan and his softly curled black hair that made him look dangerous to her? She was perplexed. It was only April in Colorado and no one had seen enough sun to get a tan yet.

Was he Indian? No. Part, perhaps? Yes, as evidenced by the high cheekbones and the oval-shaped face, which was completed by a mildly stubborn chin. Her gaze fell to the hands that cradled the leather-bound book; long, tapered hands that were large knuckled and almost artistic looking. Hands that held the book so gently that Dal found herself wondering what it would be like to be held by him.

What an idiotic thought! She upbraided herself, giving herself a mental shake for the scattered feelings that this stranger evoked in her. With a slight, embarrassed smile, Dal said, “I’m Dr. Dal Kincaid.” She watched as he placed the book back onto the shelf and turned to take her hand.

“Jim Tremain, doctor. I’m the regional supervisor with the Department of the Interior.” Her hand was slender and the fingertips cool to his touch. She was just as tense as he was, he realized. Did it show on him as obviously as it did on her? The nervous gesture of her tongue caressing her full lower lip sent an unbidden tremor through him. Jim released her hand, thinking she was like a delicate-boned bird. And then his eyes narrowed as he began to drink in her present condition: she was far too underweight, with dark smudges beneath her luminous blue eyes. The flesh across her cheekbones was stretched with fatigue and appeared almost translucent. Jim found himself wanting to hold her, to tell her that everything was going to be all right….

“I’m sorry I’m late. Millie told me we had an appointment.” She gave a forced laugh and gestured for him to take the wing chair near the desk. “Lately my memory hasn’t been what it should be. If you’ll take a seat, Millie is bringing us coffee.” Dal touched her breast as she rounded the desk, her heart pounding like a trapped animal. But one look into his eyes and she began to relax. He wasn’t the predator he seemed to be, she thought, relieved. She had been married to a man who had turned into one; that was enough. No, only Tremain’s countenance was that of a hawk. His eyes contained kindness. And understanding. Those two discoveries helped Dal relax in his presence as she walked to the desk and sat down.

Jim waited until she sat down before taking the chair opposite the desk. The tiffany-style lamp suspended over the massive cherry furniture highlighted her spice-colored hair, bringing out strands of nutmeg shot through with gold. He found himself wondering if it was as thick and silky as it looked, lying with a slight curl across her shoulders. “No problem.” He smiled, the stoic planes of his face easing. “As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t have traded my drive up to the Triple K for anything, if you want the truth.”

“Oh?” Her smile was in response to his. He had a wonderfully shaped mouth, Dal thought. Neither too thin nor too thick; his lower lip was full and somewhat flat. She wanted to know if he was Indian, but had the good manners not to ask him.

“I was about three miles from the main ranch house when I crested a small rise and saw this golden eagle heading straight for me.” He watched her blue eyes widen. Did she realize how beautiful she was? Probably not, Jim decided. There was an artless femininity to Dal that couldn’t be bought or worn at any price. She wore no makeup on her heart-shaped face—the red of her lips combined with the blush now creeping across her cheeks all that she needed.

“Oh, my God…Nar!”

“Nar?”

“Yes, the golden eagle. He disappeared over the hill near the ranch road and I lost sight of him. When he came back, he was upset.” She touched her left arm, rubbing it gently to ease the remembered throbbing from her flesh.

Jim crossed his legs, enjoying her sudden emergence from her guarded stance. Her eyes had been lifeless, as if a part of her had been destroyed. Now he saw cobalt sparks in their depths, and breathed easier. She was pale and exhausted looking and it bothered him. “He’s yours?” he asked, a hint of teasing in his voice. “The famous Dr. Kincaid who advocates freedom for all predators, with a golden eagle on her arm?”

Dal felt heat flow up from her neck and sweep across her face. She managed a slight smile. Since Jim Tremain was from the Department of the Interior, he had to know a great deal about wildlife conservation. For a moment, she studied him, searching her memory. A man like him would be hard to forget, and some vague spark of recognition flashed in her mind. Where had she seen him before? “Nar belongs to no one, Mr. Tremain. He’s wild by nature, although he comes to visit me every morning.”

“Call me Jim,” he invited. “And what does the name Nar mean?”

A slight tingle flowed through her. His voice was husky and intimate. She sat up, clasping her hands in front of her on the desk. “That’s Arabic for fire. His plumage, when the sun strikes it just right, becomes like molten fire. I rescued Nar from sure death seven years ago.”

“Tell me about it.”

Dal took a deep breath, finding herself comfortable with a man for the first time in a long while. Jack had made her distrustful of all men and their intentions. All except her brother, Rafe. And now, Jim. Funny, she mused, that she wanted to be on a first-name basis with him, when at all other times she wanted an arm’s length between her and any other male.

“I was with my older brother, Rafe, and we were taking notes on where the nests of the golden eagle and red-tailed hawk were located on the ranch one summer. We came up to the base of a cliff and I spotted Nar floundering in the brush. Apparently something had frightened him and he had fallen out of his nest on the cliff, or else the wind had pushed him out. We couldn’t climb up the cliff to put him back into his nest, so we brought him back here.” Some of the sadness fled from her eyes as Dal recalled that special day in her life.

“He was nothing but a fuzzball of gray down. When I dismounted and went over to rescue him, he sat perfectly still. I had expected him to try and escape when I leaned down, but he seemed to realize I wouldn’t hurt him. There was instant trust and it hasn’t stopped to this day.”

Jim nodded, enjoying her sudden warmth when she talked about the eagle. What had nearly destroyed her? She appeared tentative, almost frightened. Why? “You have no jesses on him, I noticed.”

“No. I think it’s wrong to keep a hawk or eagle tied to a block, only to fly them against game. It’s a cruel form of imprisonment, to me. Nar comes and goes as he pleases. He usually comes to greet me every morning if I happen to be here at the ranch. Even during those six years when I was married and away, Nar would fly over.

“So this eagle imprinted and adopted you as his mother?” he said, making a guess.

Dal looked at him closely. He knew a great deal more about predators than she had given him credit for. A knock at the study door erased her next question.

Millie came in bearing a tray of freshly made cinnamon rolls glazed with butter and two mugs of steaming coffee. She handed each of them a mug and a plate with a roll, then left, but not before giving Dal a stern look that said, “you’d better eat that roll or else….”

Dal laughed softly. “I think Millie has decided we’re both underweight and need to gain a few pounds.”

Jim grinned, inhaling the spicy aroma of the roll, and suddenly felt hungry. “You definitely need to put on some weight, doctor.”

“Call me Dal. Everyone else does.” And then her heart banged at the base of her throat. Why had she said that? Because, her heart responded, Jim Tremain is trustworthy. Nervously, Dal picked at the roll, not really hungry, only wanting to camouflage her unexpected friendliness with a man who was a total stranger.

The next few minutes were spent in silence as they tackled their cinnamon rolls. Dal poured cream and sugar into her coffee, noticing that Jim drank his black. Then, wiping her hands on a napkin, she returned to business.

“So, what does the Interior Department want, Jim?”

He put his plate on the tray and stood up, coffee mug in hand. Some of the hardness returned to the planes of his face as he studied her. “I know this is probably going to be painful to discuss, Dal.”

Her arched brows moved downward. “What is?”

Jim took a sip of his coffee and set it on the tray. Typical of any cowboy, he allowed his hands to hang loosely on his hips. “Five years ago you and the department started a project to bring goshawks from Canada to nest here in the Rockies.”

“Yes, and it’s been a success.”

Jim nodded. “A little too successful, it seems, Dal.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Triple K has a high number of hawks and eagles that are natural to this area.”

“We have red tails, golden eagles and Cooper’s hawk.”

“Plus the goshawks.”

Dal nodded, resting her chin against her hands, watching him. She felt the sudden shift in energy around him. His walk belied the tension in him as he crossed the oriental rug that lay in front of the desk. His mouth, once relaxed with the corners softly turning upward, was pursed. Dal felt her stomach knotting. “I’ll be going to the high country in another month to check on all the predator sites, plus log in the new nests,” she said.

Jim turned, pinning her with his now umber-colored eyes. “I don’t think so, Dal. It could be dangerous at that time.”

She lifted her chin, eyes flaring wide. At first she started to smile and then she saw he was serious. “What do you mean, dangerous?”

“The FBI has been working closely with the government of Canada on a group of poachers who have been stealing goshawk, peregrine, red-tail and golden eagle eggs from northern Canada.”

“All right, go on.”

“These poachers are a multinational band of men and women who know predatory birds well. Not only that, but they’ve got outlets for the stolen eggs, or eyesses, over in the Middle East. As you know, falconry is a major way of life for the sheikhs and princes of those kingdoms. And now, they have a penchant for the types of birds I just mentioned, to train them into falconry.”

Dal nodded grimly. “Falconry is popular in Europe, also.”

Jim halted. She looked vulnerable to the point of fragility. What would she do when she found out the rest of the problem? “The demand is on an upswing. You know there’s a black market for exotic or imported hawks and falcons. Some people will stop at nothing to acquire a unique specimen—much like the first kid on the block with a new car. The Middle Eastern clients are willing to spend any amount of money to get these eggs or the resulting hatched eyesses. If a prince is seen with a golden eagle, then every one of his noblemen wants one, also. The demand becomes astronomical and creates lucrative blackmarket rings that operate against the law to acquire the birds.

“Basically what’s been happening is that such a group is active in North America and has been supplying falcons and eagles to these countries. Like jewel thieves, they’re professionals. Many times they’ll send in a team of three people: two who are mountain climbing experts to scale the cliffs to get the eggs or nestlings, and a third member who’s an expert on spotting nests, or is familiar with the nesting habitat of a given area. They fly in by helicopter and ferry out their stolen goods. Or, they may go into an area posing as hikers on a pack trip. They’re ingenious and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police have been close to capturing them, but they’ve always eluded them at the last moment.”

“And they’re operating in the States, too?” Dal asked.

“Yes. Five months ago, information pinpointing certain predator nesting areas was found to be missing in Washington,” he said, watching her closely. “Information that was in a computer to which only a few knew the access code. The maps showing locations of these birds, their nesting habitat and exact location were taken, Dal.”

Her brows drew down. “That means the locations on the Triple K are open for poaching?”

“Those and several other key areas in Wyoming and Montana.”

She pushed her fingers through her hair in an aggravated motion. “Damn these people! If it isn’t the ranchers shooting these poor birds, or sheepmen poisoning them with meat, we have poachers to contend with!” Her voice took on an anguished edge. “Where is it all going to end? My God!”

Jim put his hands flat on the surface of the desk, holding her gaze. “There’s more, Dal.”

“How can there be?”

“Your ex-husband, Jack Gordon, is suspected of paying the government employee who took the information from the computer. Not only that, but evidence leads us to suspect he will mastermind the U.S. connection to the international poaching ring this year. The FBI has been following this case closely, and photos of Jack Gordon with key members of this ring were taken down in the Virgin Islands early this year. With Gordon’s knowledge and skill as a trapper of exotic birds, the poaching would be a piece of cake if he chooses to get involved in it.”

Dal blinked once, a gasp escaping as she stared at him. She felt as if someone had hit her in the chest, leaving her heart aching with a blinding jolt of pain. Pain that she was trying to get some distance on and forget. And then Jim Tremain blurred before her eyes as tears silently ran down her drawn cheeks.

“Here,” Jim said, placing a linen handkerchief in her hands. He rose, unable to stay that close to her and not reach out and touch those tears that were falling.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered and then turned away, unable to absorb the pain so apparent on her suddenly waxen features. He walked toward the door and opened it. He felt stifled and helpless to do anything for Dal. As he turned back toward her, he saw her wiping the last of the tears from her cheeks. She looked like hell.

Dal controlled her breathing, willing back the rest of the tears that wanted to fall. She was vaguely aware of Jim moving toward the liquor cabinet. An avalanche of conflicting emotions ripped through her: anger over what Jack had done and then anger at Jim Tremain for dredging up a part of her life that she wanted to forget.

“Drink this,” Jim offered quietly, putting a shot glass filled with apricot brandy in front of her. “Go on….”

Wordlessly, Dal took a hefty gulp, the brandy burning all the way down. But it staunched her tears and steadied her roiling emotions. “Thanks,” she murmured, setting the glass down.

“I’m sorry. I know you were recently divorced.” Jim’s mouth worked into a grim line as she lifted her head and looked at him. “I had a choice: come to you for help or let the FBI start crawling all over the place trying to capture Gordon and his counterpart. I came to you for help because you know the location of all these nesting areas. No one knows predators like you do.”

Dal gave him a mirthless smile. “Certain two-legged predators, Mr. Tremain. The feathered variety, not the human ones.”

Jim steeled himself. Now it was Mr. Tremain and not Jim. She was on the defensive again, but he couldn’t blame her. He kept his husky voice low and steady, as if calming a frantic horse. “My men and I will take care of the other two-legged predators. If you can act as guide, we’ll set up a trap that will capture Gordon and his people.”

“Am I a suspect, Mr. Tremain?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Jim steadily met her blue eyes. “Given your record of conservation of predators, doctor, I felt you were innocent.”

“So someone didn’t think I was?”

He met her cool smile. “The FBI considers you questionable. If you want to know.”

“And you don’t?”

“No.”

She gave him a flat glare of disgust. “I’m surprised I’m not an accessory to the fact, Mr. Tremain.” Dal rose and paced the study for a minute before meeting his gaze. “Let me get this straight. You want me for a guide in late May to find the location of the eggs or nestlings?”

“Yes.”

“And then what?”

“I’ll have the men who are at my disposal close in on the ring once we know they’re in the area. The eggs of most predators will be hatched by early June, making them prime for poaching. The eyesses are best caught just before they learn to fly. I think Gordon will start with the nests in the southern regions and work his way north with the warmer weather. And the Triple K is the farthest south of all the areas.”

Dal paced some more, explosive anger building within her. “I came to the Triple K for a long rest, Mr. Tremain. I don’t want to play tour guide. I don’t want to even think about that ex-husband of mine!” She halted, drawing herself up, her face mirroring her feelings. “Jack wouldn’t step on Triple K land. Rafe would kill him and he knows that.”

Jim spread his hands in a gesture of peace. “Look, I know this comes as a shock but—”

“I won’t do it, Mr. Tremain.”

He winced at the anguish in her voice. “I need your help, doctor. If I can’t enlist your aid, then the FBI is going to come barreling in here and take over. I don’t think your brother would like to get the law entangled in the daily running of his ranch. Right now, there’s calving and moving the herds to higher country for the summer. Do you want a bunch of three-piece-suited dudes from D.C. overrunning this place? I know they’ll botch the capture of the poachers because they’re unfamiliar with the terrain and methods that it will take to capture them. And they’ll also make a mess of things here.”

Dal glared at him, rubbing her temples with her fingers. “What are you talking about?”

“If you don’t agree to help me, they’re going to set up operations here at the Triple K. I persuaded the inspector to let me take on the task and see if I could get you to work with us. That way, your brother can go about his business of running his ranch and we’ll stay out from underfoot.”

“Either way, you’ll be here,” Dal said bitterly, crossing her arms.

Jim felt his heart wrench. The kind, soft-spoken Dal Kincaid he had seen a short while ago was gone. And he had caused the change. Now, she was defensive and hurting. Whatever trust he had briefly established with her was destroyed. “It’s better than the alternative, doctor.”

She wanted to scream. She wanted to sob. Oh, God! Jack, again. The man whom she had loved at one time and who had learned to love money more than her or their marriage. He had known how to manipulate her emotions until she had felt herself shredded by his razor-blade tactics. Dal knew she had to get hold of herself. She had to think clearly. Fairly. Lifting her head, she looked over at Jim Tremain.

“It’s stuffy in here. I want to go outside.”

“All right. Let’s go.”

The April sun was weak but welcome on her face as they crossed the muddy yard between the horse and cow barns. Dal led Jim to a pipe-fenced paddock and placed both elbows on the pipe. The breeze was inconstant, occasionally lifting strands of her hair across her jacketed shoulders. For no identifiable reason, Dal felt an island of momentary peace when Jim Tremain hitched up his foot onto the lowest pipe of the fence. Their elbows almost touched.

“I love coming out here,” she confided softly. The paddock contained four brood mares and their newborn foals.

Jim glanced at her. “The babies?”

She nodded, a tremulous smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “The babies,” she agreed. “When Rafe took over the operation of the Triple K eight years ago, he replaced the quarter horses with Arabians. They’re smaller, but they have more endurance and are as tough as the mustangs that cross our land.”

“They’re like you, then, doctor.”

Dal turned, perplexed by the intimate tone of his voice. She trembled beneath the smile that reached his clear brown eyes. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re as beautiful as they are and you have an inner core of endurance that will see you through.”

She laughed, but it was a hollow sound filled with pain. “Oh? And just where did you gain such insight, Mr. Tremain?”

His smile broadened as he held her confused gaze. “My mother. She was a full-blooded Navaho. She was the one who taught me to listen to my heart and not my head. Call it a sixth sense. I just feel that when the going gets rough, you’re there with commensurate strength to survive and become stronger because of the experience.”

Warmth flowed through Dal, dissolving the icy cold fist in the pit of her stomach. She stood beneath Jim’s gentle inspection, lost in the smoldering gold of his eyes, seeing much and unable to decipher all that he said with them. Dal felt breathless and tore her gaze from his, staring at the brood mares instead.

“Right now, Jim,” she said in a whisper, “I’m at the end of my rope emotionally. I won’t bore you with the travesty of my marriage to Jack Gordon. The past two years of hell have worn me down. I once thought I had a backbone of steel like the rest of the Kincaids, but I don’t. Not anymore. I’m raw. I can’t take too much emotionally or I’ll crack and I know it.”

She removed her elbows from the pipe and stood, hands buried deep in the pockets of her jacket as she looked up at him. The brim of his hat shaded his eyes and hid his reaction to her admission. “That’s why I’m here at the family ranch, Jim. I’m trying to patch myself together so I can go back out in the world and live again.”

Jim raised his hand, taking a strand of hair from her cheek and easing it behind her delicate ear. His voice was thick with emotion when he finally spoke. “If I told you I’d take care of you through this problem we’ve got with Gordon, would you believe me?”

Chapter Two

Hot scalding tears pricked the backs of Dal’s eyes as she stood looking up at Jim. His image blurred and she turned away, walking a few paces, her back to him.

Jim stared at her back, noting the way her shoulders were tensed and drawn up. He had watched her vulnerable eyes darken with a torture known only to herself and had seen her full, generous mouth draw into a line of anguish. What had happened in her marriage to tear her apart like this? Swallowing hard, he waited, his senses cautioning him that if he were to approach her too soon or try in some way to comfort her, she would turn on him. Trust, his senses screamed at him; she trusts no one. No man. He searched his memory for facts regarding Jack Gordon: he was an entrepreneur in the business of birds, capturing rare or colorful species from jungles around the world and selling them to zoos or private patrons. In those six years of marriage, had Gordon used Dal to sharpen his own education and utilized her knowledge to enhance his lucrative, international business?

Dal struggled to force down the lid on the caldrons of emotion that Jim Tremain had torn lose with his one touch. He had shaken her to the core. He wanted to use her just as Jack had at the end of their once happy marriage. Jim was even more dangerous because he knew how to read her and get what he wanted. Jack’s methods were always obvious once he had allowed material goods and stature become the center of importance to him. Jim knew that a simple gesture, such as placing a strand of hair behind her ear, would catch her off guard and place her in a more vulnerable position. Anger warred with a heart that said: he did it out of care, not because he wanted to use you. Pressing her fingers to her temples, Dal shut her eyes tightly for a moment, willing all her anger, frustration and pain back into a tightly lidded place in her heart.

She turned, her shoulders sagging as she stared at Jim. As much as she tried, Dal could not find one shred of selfishness in his face. If anything, she was screamingly aware of the tender light that burned in his golden eyes, the laugh lines at their corners and the way his mouth was pursed. Oh God, no! she cried inwardly. She had learned to take a secondary role to Jack’s aims. But she had no defense against a man who showed her kindness. It’s all a sham, her mind screamed. He wants something from you, just like Jack did. Only he’s going to take it from you a different way. Jack wanted your knowledge. Jim wants the same thing.

Dal had not realized that two paths of tears had streaked down her cheeks as she stood staring at him. It was only when she saw his eyes darken and his mouth part in protest that she became aware of why he was reacting. Quickly wiping the telltale signs away, Dal lifted her head, her azure eyes darkened with confusion.

“No, I wouldn’t believe that you or anyone could protect me from Jack. Not now. Not ever,” she forced out in a low, quavering tone.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

Dal looked blindly toward the paddock, unable to hold his understanding gaze. Jim was dangerous to her and she wanted to run. Run and hide. “I told you, I’m in no shape to help anyone. Not even myself.”

Jim moved closer, but not close enough to frighten her into fleeing. She reminded him vividly of a hunted deer standing tautly before him, an almost imperceptible quiver surrounding her. “My mother always told me tears were healing. I see nothing wrong with them.”

She snapped her head to the left, glaring at him. “Part of your half-breed heritage, no doubt.”

Jim’s mouth thinned as he studied her in that glacial moment. Half-breed. The word made his mouth go bitter with the taste of his past. He struggled with his anger toward her and then surmounted it. She had hurled the insult at him to get him to stop pressuring her. He drew the cowboy hat down a little lower on his brow, forcing a one-cornered smile. “My half-breed status has gotten me out of more trouble than in,” he countered mildly.

“How? By pushing papers in an office for the government!”

Jim leaned languidly against the pipe railing, studying the foals, who were now frolicking around their mothers after their recent meal. “My boss complains I’m not there enough to push those papers around. Usually, I’m in the field with my people.” His gaze moved to her. “I’d rather have the sky for a ceiling and a good horse under me instead of sitting at a desk. How about you? Which do you prefer?”

Dal frowned and licked her lips in a nervous gesture. He was cunning. He had diffused her attack and managed to steer the entire matter into an innocuous but important investigation of her as a person. “I’m sure you have a file on me in your office, Mr. Tremain. There’s little I care to add to that.”

“We’re not the FBI, doctor. The file I have on you is about your educational background, not your personal life.” He scowled. “But if you don’t allow me to enlist your help on this project, the FBI will come in. I don’t think you or your family will want that. It’s my opinion that because I and my people know the mountains and habitats, we stand a much better chance of netting the poachers than the FBI will.”

Dal clamped her lips together, refusing to be drawn into his soft banter. She liked his voice. It reminded her of a cat’s roughened tongue licking her hand, and sent delicious prickles of pleasure through her. She tried to squash all those feelings. “I’ll let my brother Rafe decide what’s going to happen, Mr. Tremain. It’s his ranch. I’m only a guest here.”

“All right,” he said slowly. “It will be necessary to talk to him, anyway. He’s as much a part of this plan as you are.”

“Rafe will be back tomorrow morning. He had business in Denver.”

“Maybe you can tell me where there might be a motel around here?”

Dal gave him a brief glance. He looked more like a wrangler than a government official. Cowboys had their own code and could be trusted. Jack was a civilian. An outsider. But Jim Tremain wasn’t. “There isn’t a motel within sixty miles of our ranch.”

“I see….”

Guilt twinged in her and Dal was unable to maintain that barrier of anger toward him. She could see his mind working beyond those lion-like eyes, and she watched as he rested his long, tapered fingers on his slender hips. She could discern the Indian blood in him by the sharp planed features of his face and his sun-darkened flesh. Another shaft of guilt struck her: she had called him a half-breed. God, what was wrong with her? She never threw prejudiced comments like that at anyone.

“There’s no sense in you driving all the way back to Denver just to come here again tomorrow morning,” she heard herself say. “I’ll get Millie to fix up one of the spare bedrooms and you can stay here tonight.”

Jim’s eyes glimmered with some undefined emotion as he met and held her nervous gaze. “That’s more than kind of you, doctor. Thank you.” So, he thought, there was ground for them to work on after all; he hadn’t totally destroyed the possibility of their combining their expertise on the poaching problem.

Shoving her hands in the pockets of her jacket, Dal stared down at the muddy earth. “It’s nothing,” she muttered, walking past him. “Let me tell Millie you’ll be staying.”

He watched her walk between the barns and knit his black brows. She was scared of him. As a man? Or as a government emissary? The Kincaids had a sterling reputation of having worked closely with conservation officials in the past on a number of wildlife projects. As Jim ambled around the paddocks, eyeing the horseflesh in each, he narrowed down Dal’s reaction to her distrust of him as a man. That cut down the chances of her agreeing to help him.

Sunlight bathed the valley as the clouds parted, slats shining across the lush land of the Triple K. Jim watched as a group of wranglers coaxed a herd of about a hundred Herefords out of a paddock, heading them in the direction of some upper pasture. He inhaled the crisp spring air, glad to be out of the office and in the field again. And then a rueful smile split his harsh features. Would “guard dog” Millie allow him to stay at the ranch overnight?

* * *

“What do you mean he’s stayin’, Dal?” Millie lifted her head, her chin jutting out stubbornly.

Dal walked farther into the spacious kitchen that was Millie’s territory. The red-tiled floor gleamed from a recent waxing, giving the cedar walls even more warmth. She poured herself a glass of water and leaned against the counter. Millie resumed folding the bread dough on the table, flour spotting her plump arms.

“He wants to talk to Rafe about poachers. I didn’t have the heart to make him drive sixty miles to a motel and then come all the way back tomorrow morning.”

“You know Rafe doesn’t like strangers about,” Millie chided gruffly.

“I know….”

Millie straightened, put the dough into a bread pan and then transferred it to the countertop. “Still,” she muttered, moving back to the table to begin folding another batch of dough, “he doesn’t seem all that bad.”

Dal raised an eyebrow at the housekeeper. Millie was mountain born and bred. She had an uncanny knack of summing up people on first sight. “What do you mean?”

“He might be with the government, but he’s got some horse sense in him. Can see it in those whiskey-colored eyes of his. That man’s always thinking. I nearly took his head off at the door earlier and he was like a duck, letting my snaps and snarls roll off his back like water. Didn’t let it ruffle him one way or another. He’s a man of patience, I can tell you that.” And then Millie looked up at her. “The exact opposite of that sidewinder of an ex-husband of yours!”

“What would I do without you around, Millie?” Dal asked with a grin.

“Humph! You might’ve listened to me when you first dragged Gordon home here to the ranch with you. Your parents didn’t like him. Rafe hated him on sight. Even your sister Cathy couldn’t stand him.”

Dal lost her smile and drank the rest of the water. “Nobody liked him,” she agreed quietly. “Except me.”

“Humph! What did you know? With you being in love for the first time in your life and Gordon being ten years your senior, he manipulated you just like a hand puppet.” Millie’s stern features softened momentarily. “But that’s all right, lamb. You did love him up until the time he let all that worldwide fame go to his addled brain. The important thing is you’re out from under his clutches. I told you then he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and I was right. We all make mistakes. The important thing is not doing the same thing over again!”

Dal’s laugh was strained as she placed the glass in the sink. “No chance of that, Millie. Men and marriage are two things that have been written off my life list.”

Millie shot her a know-it-all glance. “Maybe right now, lamb, but you’re a woman who needs a partner. You were made for marriage. Your sister Cathy isn’t, but you are. You work better in a team harness than as a single.”

Dal laughed and went over, hugging the housekeeper. “Oh, Millie…”

Regaining her stern look, Millie pinched Dal’s cheek, leaving a bit of flour on it. “Just listen to us, lamb. That’s all I ask. Your parents are right in wanting you to stay here to recuperate. So what if you miss a year of teaching at the university? You’re hurt bad by this divorce. Just don’t shut us out.”

Dal nodded, feeling her heart wrench in her chest as she walked slowly around the airy kitchen. “I have been, haven’t I?”

Millie nodded. “You need to talk to someone about all this. Ever since you came home, you’ve kept to yourself. All you do is meet that eagle every morning and go for long horseback rides. Rafe’s worried about you….”

Dal turned, her face contorted. “My God, Rafe’s got enough on his shoulders, Millie. He just lost his wife and baby a year ago. He doesn’t need me crying the blues to him. I didn’t lose someone I loved, Millie. Jack killed my love for him. Rafe lost the two most important people in his life. How can I go to him?”

“Sometimes, lamb, healing takes place between two hurt animals. You’ve seen how cats or dogs will lick each other’s wounds to speed their recovery. Maybe you need to do the same thing. Think about it.”

Running her fingers through her thick hair, Dal left the kitchen. Millie was right: she did need to confide in someone. But whom? Her parents, God bless them, were more than willing to help her. But they had a marriage that seemed to have been made in heaven—not like the one she had had. How could they understand that Jack’s love for her had been replaced with something he considered more important? He had beat her down emotionally until she had almost lost her sense of selfhood. There was Rafe, but he was barely surviving on a daily basis between shouldering the massive responsibilities of the ranch and his own internalized grief he refused to release over the loss of his family. She wouldn’t put her burdens on Rafe. She loved him too much to do that. Rafe was the oldest and always felt responsible for her and Cathy. For once, she was going to handle her problems by herself.

There was Cathy, Dal mused, standing at the picture window, staring out at the brilliant sunlight that bathed the green valley before her. Cathy was a mining engineer, a trouble-shooting expert for gem mines around the world. They had never been close as sisters growing up, each going to Rafe instead. Rubbing her temple, Dal admitted to herself that they were both pretty volatile and temperamental, whereas Rafe was an island of continuity, trust and steadfastness. Just like Jim Tremain.

A softened smile touched her lips as she mulled over her insight into Jim. She liked him. Or at least a part of her did. Her silly, blind heart. Her mind, on the other hand, distrusted him completely because he was a man who was able to infiltrate her defenses and reach out and touch her. Her blue eyes grew clouded with worry. What if Rafe decided that she should work with Jim? The brittle, damaged part of her cried out in sheer alarm over that possibility. How could she explain to Rafe that Jim Tremain knew how to get to her? And how could she explain how dangerous that was to her open wounds that hadn’t yet begun to heal? Would Rafe understand? Sometimes he was blindly insensitive to the subtle emotions.

Dal was pulled from her reverie as she noticed a dark shape growing larger and larger in the sky. It was Nar! What was he doing back there? She looked at her watch: it was almost noon. Concerned, she pulled on her sheepskin jacket and ran out the back door. Mud sloshed around her cowboy boots as she heard Nar’s shrilling cry overhead. The golden eagle swooped down and past her, ruffling her hair from the closeness of his pass as he glided out toward the last of the horse paddocks.

Dal went into an old garage that had a large oak block in the center of its quiet confines. Picking up the protective leather gauntlet, she slipped it over her left hand and arm and walked quickly out beyond the barn. She heard Nar shrilling, and as she rounded the end of the barn she almost collided with Jim Tremain.

“Oh!”

Jim reached out, gripping her arm as she stumbled. “Sorry.”

Regaining her balance, Dal kept her eye on the golden eagle that was circling lazily above them. Her heart was pounding and it wasn’t from the seventy-five-hundred-foot elevation, either. She was wildly aware of the strength of Jim’s hand upon her arm; her senses were screamingly alive as she rested momentarily against his hard, unyielding male body. There was nothing about him that spoke of soft office life. As her right hand rested on his chest, Dal felt the smooth interplay of muscles move beneath his shirt.

“Thanks,” she said breathlessly, pulling from his grip.

“Is that the same eagle I saw you with earlier?”

Dal nodded. “Yes. Nar never comes this late in the day. I wonder if something’s wrong?”

Jim watched her as she made a series of high-pitched whistling sounds. The golden eagle, which was at least two thousand feet above them, suddenly stooped. Jim’s breath caught in his throat as the raptor’s wings folded against its body for the dive toward earth, legs outstretched and murderous-looking black talons opened. The power of the eagle was awesome as it fell like a hurtling rocket fired from the sky. Jim held up his hands to warn Dal, but it was too late.

The golden eagle broke his stoop at the last possible second, the backwash from his wings powerful as he hung suspended for a split second before coming to rest on Dal. She held her arm high above her, her knees deeply flexed and legs spread far apart as she took the shock of the eagle’s full weight.

Jim looked on in a mixture of terror for her and admiration at the spectacle before him. At that moment, he saw Dal’s face light up with such joy that he found his own heart pounding in his chest. Her blue eyes were filled with the fire of life as the eagle mantled, flapping his seven-foot wingspread, hackles raised on its head, and gave a fierce call from his blue-black beak. Jim stood transfixed, privy to something that few people would ever see. Nar folded his massive wings, his feathered legs and yellow feet in sharp contrast to the tanned kidskin glove he gripped, his amber eyes large and intelligent looking.

Dal laughed softly and raised her right hand, gently stroking his feathered breast.

“Poor day hunting, is that it?” she teased the bird. “His crop is empty,” she called to Jim. “That’s why he’s here.”

Nar lifted his majestic head, staring imperiously at Jim. Dal turned. “He doesn’t know you, so don’t come any closer,” she warned quietly.

“No need to worry,” he assured her, observing the raptor. “He’s got to be heavy.”

Dal nodded. “All thirteen pounds of him. He’s three feet in length. As you can tell, he’s fully matured because he has no white feathers under his wings here. He’s still a baby at seven years old.”

“He’s a big baby,” Jim said with a grin.

“A spoiled one. He must have been too upset after meeting you on the crest of that hill to continue hunting.”

“He wasn’t the only one,” Jim drawled, meeting her smile. My God, he thought, she was simply breathtaking. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled like dark sapphires. Jim had the urge to reach out and simply cradle her face between his hands and worship those smiling lips with his mouth. Right now, she was a child, as was he. His gaze traveled to the eagle. It was wildlife that brought Dal out of her cloak of distrust for him. He absorbed every nuance of her in those precious moments.

Jim eyed the eagle’s grasp on her arm now; Nar was barely gripping it. “When he’s upset he grips hard?”

“Yes. Remind me when he decides to leave to show you the scars I have on this arm.”

“God, he’s magnificent.”

Dal met his gaze. “Yes, he is. And he’s free.”

“And yet you’ve trained him to sit on your arm.”

She shivered beneath the husky excitement in his voice. Suddenly she was sharing one of the few joys of her life with Jim, and she wanted to. The look of excitement in his eyes told her everything. He was just as elated as she was with the majesty of Nar.

“I started feeding him when he was a baby. When he was old enough to begin to fly, I had to make a lure out of a rabbit skin with raw meat attached to it and teach him how to catch food.” She laughed. “I’d swing the lure and he’d sit on my arm looking first at me and then at it. Finally, I’d throw him off my arm and swing the lure and he’d stoop, grabbing it in his talons. After that, I’d take him out to one of the meadows, cast him off into the air and he’d hunt his own rabbits or whatever.”

“And he still returns to you after being put back out in the wild?”

“When I got here six months ago, Nar somehow knew I was home again. Every morning he’ll be sitting on the block right after sunrise, waiting for me.” She gave Jim a shy look. “It’s our special time together. Nar flies to the meadow, circling me as I ride on horseback. Then I give him a few scraps of chicken or beef liver and then we play.”

“What do you mean ‘play’?” Jim had a tough time accepting that the raptor knew the meaning of the word play. There was nothing harmless about the bird.

Her smile widened. “Want to ride with me tomorrow morning at dawn and find out?”

Removing his hat, he scratched his head and thought about the invitation. “He won’t attack me? I’ve heard of other falcons and eagles being so protective of their masters that they’ll attack anyone who gets near them.”

“Nar won’t hurt you. He knows you’re a friend and not an enemy,” she assured him.

At that moment Nar turned, chirping softly at her, and then raised one wing, preening his molten-bronze feathers. Dal smiled and leaned forward, touching the bird’s breast with her cheek. “He’s such a pushover,” she confided, lifting her head.

Jim nodded, thinking that the eagle had one hell of a deal going for him. Not only was the bird on the receiving end of her affection, she trusted him. He knew that with a murderous beak like that, Nar had only to strike with savage swiftness to quite literally open up half of Dal’s face, if he chose. Jim wouldn’t want that fierce predator on his arm for any reason…and that left him worried for her sake. Falcons or eagles that had been kept in captivity for years were known to turn moody unexpectedly and strike their owner, inflicting no small degree of damage. Dal’s flesh was too soft, too lovely to mar with a scar made by Nar.

“Some pushover,” he growled.

“Follow me. I’m going to take him to his block and feed him some beef liver. On some days when food is scarce, he’ll make his presence known here at the ranch in no uncertain terms. Millie’s chased him away from the henhouse more than once,” she added with a laugh. “And Rafe has been ready to strangle him on a number of occasions for frightening the foals as he glides across the paddocks to the garage where his block is.”

Jim followed her into the gloom of the garage. As if on some silent cue, Nar stepped like a gentleman from her arm to the large, round wooden block that stood five feet off the concrete floor. Dal rubbed her arm. “God, he’s heavy.”

“I thought he was going to knock you over when he went into that stoop.”

“He has, a number of times,” she said with a chuckle, going to the refrigerator. “You figure a thirteen-pound eagle stooping at thirty miles an hour and calculate the force with which he comes in for a landing! Then, when he wraps his claws around your forearm…” She pulled out a package of beef liver, unwrapped it and threw the meat toward Nar. The eagle’s right leg shot out, his talons catching the food midair. Then he mantled, flapping his wings. The feathers on his head rose and he shrilled in warning.

Dal reached over, taking Jim’s arm. “Come on. Feeding time means leaving him alone. If he thinks you’re going to try and take that food away, he’ll fly at us.”

Not needing any more coaxing, Jim slid his hand beneath Dal’s elbow and led her back out into the sunlight. They stood there, watching the eagle for a minute or two. Jim smiled to himself; Dal was standing less than six inches from him and wasn’t displaying any of her previous nervousness. He thanked Nar for that.

“Isn’t it dangerous raising a bird like that?”

She pulled the glove off her left arm and held out her hand to him. Innumerable white and even recent pinkish scars marred her artistic-looking fingers. Turning her palm over, Dal pointed to a long deep scar that ran the length of her hand. Her voice held a rueful note. “When Nar was six months old he decided to make a meal of Millie’s cat, Goodyear. You’ll see him around here, I’m sure. He’s a long-haired white and yellow cat who stole Millie’s heart. Consequently, she overfeeds him, and so we started calling him the Goodyear blimp because he resembled one. I was out with the foals when Nar flew from his aerie on the cliffs about ten miles north of here. It was the middle of the day, so I was surprised to see him. I heard his call first. And then I saw Goodyear crossing the hen yard.”

Jim matched her grin. “So of course, Nar thought Goodyear was an ideal meal on wheels.”

“Exactly! The only thing that saved the blimp was the fact that at that age Nar wasn’t expert at stooping and catching his quarry. He managed to skim the ground and caught Goodyear’s tail between his claws.” Dal hooted with laughter as she recalled the event. “Imagine Millie coming out of the house screaming at the top of her lungs and waving a broom, and the blimp squalling for all of his nine lives, and Nar shrieking because the cat wouldn’t stay still.”

“So who got to whom first?” Jim asked, enjoying her warmth and camaraderie.

“Thankfully, I did. One thing I learned about predators long ago is that you never take their quarry away from them. I tried to get Nar to let go of Goodyear, who was still squalling, and I was begging Millie not to hit the eagle all at the same time. I put my arm out and I didn’t even have a glove on, so I knew I was in trouble. Nar wasn’t going to let go, so I reached down and tapped him smartly across the legs. His right leg came up like lightning and he struck at me. Goodyear escaped and I sat hunched in front of Nar with the palm of my hand sliced down to the muscle.” She grimaced. “Needless to say, Rafe was ready to shoot Nar before he took me to the hospital for stitches and a tetanus shot.”

Jim picked up her hand, gently cradling it between his own. He ran his thumb lightly down the length of the puckered scar. “Did you stop to think he might have struck at you with his beak and blinded you or scarred your face for life…?”

A tingle of unexpected fire leaped to life as he caressed her hand. Dal’s mouth grew dry, and she lifted her head and stared up into his dark gold eyes. Eyes of a hawk, her mind whispered. Yes, he was like a hawk, she thought weakly, tendrils of pleasure leaping like hot fire licking through her nerve endings as he met and held her gaze. His fingers were long and warm against the dampness of her own and she felt the callused roughness of his hands. Working hands. Not soft like an office worker’s. She blinked once, ensnared within the web of his amber gaze, an ache centering in her breast. Dal sensed his caring, his genuine concern toward her. It was no game. No, the low tremor in his voice that impacted her so headily was completely sincere.

“I…hadn’t thought of that,” she stammered, withdrawing her hand from his. Dal felt the heat of her blush and cringed inwardly. At thirty she shouldn’t be blushing. Just another Kincaid trait, she thought, embarrassed as she saw the beginning of a smile on Jim’s mouth.

“Well,” he growled softly, “from now on, if you don’t think of it, I will. You’re too beautiful to have your skin marred by that eagle if he takes a fit of temper again.”

She felt as if she were in a pool of golden light that surrounded them in that mesmerizing moment. All sounds ceased to exist except his low voice and the many unspoken messages conveyed by his predatorlike gaze. It was so long since a man had honestly cared what happened to her. “Well,” she heard herself say in a faraway voice, “Nar isn’t temperamental. Some birds are moody, but he isn’t. You just can’t take the food that he’s earned away from him, that’s all.”

“Dal?” Millie’s voice carried across the yard. Dal gave Jim a quick look, as if relieved that their intimacy had been broken by the interruption.

“Coming, Millie.” She managed a slight smile of apology. “Come on, lunch is ready.”

“Good,” Jim murmured, “I’m starved.”

Casting him a suspicious look, Dal tried to read between the lines of his statement. Yes, she had seen hunger burning in the depths of his eyes, and it was all aimed at her. She was trembling and that shocked her. Even her knees were weak as she walked toward the ranch house with him. How could that be? Jim had simply touched her palm. What was going on within her? she wondered. When Jack touched her, her skin crawled and she shrank deep within herself to blot out his advance. But Jim’s touch…

Dal tried to analyze the chemistry that existed between them, scared to death.

* * *

After lunch Dal excused herself and went into the study to lie down on the couch. She hadn’t slept well the previous night, as usual, and she catnapped daily to catch up on the sleep lost during the night. She pulled the orange, blue and green afghan that Millie had knit across her shoulders and drifted off quickly. The study was her one refuge while Jim Tremain was there. Usually, she would take a nap in the living room where the fire crackled and popped with friendly sounds, lulling her to sleep. Now she closed her eyes, wondering what he might think if he knew she slept on the couch every night instead of in a bedroom. What did she care what he thought? Grousing at her inability to make many decisions in her life yet, Dal let it all go, sleep claiming her almost immediately.

Millie woke her near three, stroking her hair in a gentle motion. “Time to get up, lamb.”

Dal groaned, stretching and yawning. “Three already?”

“Already,” Millie agreed, looking down at her. “What time did you finally get to sleep last night?”

“Around four in the morning,” she admitted, her voice thick with sleep as she sat up.

“More nightmares?”

“Didn’t you hear me?”

“My room’s in the back. You know I don’t hear a thing.”

Dal rubbed her face tiredly. “Rafe usually does.”

Millie nodded, her eyes mirroring her unspoken worry. “Why don’t you try and sleep in your own room tonight?”

Her heart suddenly began pounding in her breast and Dal felt herself going all shaky inside. “No…I can’t, Millie. Not yet.”

“But Mr. Tremain is here. He’s a stranger to the house. What if he finds you sleeping out on the couch?”

She shrugged tiredly. “He’ll have the guest bedroom next to your room, Millie. I doubt he’ll hear a thing if I do wake up. Besides, I’ll work late tonight for Rafe, here in the study. By the time I get my bed made up in the living room, Jim…I mean Mr. Tremain, will have already gone to sleep.”

“Whatever you say, lamb. Speaking of Mr. Tremain, he’s been outdoors most of the time snooping around.”

Dal looked up, smiling. “Snooping?” she teased. Millie distrusted everyone in general unless they had been born on the Triple K.

“Poking and prodding. You know. Charlie, the farrier, came in to tell me he was out in the stud barn looking over Rafe’s stock.”

Rising, then folding the afghan and hanging it neatly on the back of the leather couch, Dal asked, “Is that where he is now?”

“Guess so,” Millie groused. “That man’s got the curiosity of a cat.”

“Probably nine lives, too,” Dal said, chuckling. She put her arm around Millie and walked out of the study with her.

“You gonna go find him?”

“Sure. Matter of fact, the day’s so nice, I think we’ll take a ride. Rafe wanted me to check that new barbed wire fence the hands put up in the southern pasture. Mr. Tremain looks like he might put a leg over a good horse, so let’s not disappoint him.”

“Humph! Ask me, that man was born to the saddle.”

Dal felt lighter, happier. Happy? When had she last felt like this? The feeling was so foreign to her that it sobered her sharply. She divided her attention between the housekeeper and her unexpected revelation. “We’ll be back around seven at the latest.”

“Just in time for supper.”

Dal grabbed her dark brown felt cowboy hat and dropped it on her head. The late April day was turning mild, with the temperature probably somewhere in the high forties, she figured. She was used to below-zero conditions of winter, and forty felt like summer. She decided to leave her sheepskin coat behind, since the long sleeves of her shirt would be warm enough. Then she headed toward the Arabian stallion barn.

Jim looked up as many of the horses whickered simultaneously in greeting. There was Dal, at the entrance to the airy barn, walking toward him. He saw that she looked rested, the shadows gone from beneath her blue eyes. Did she realize how graceful she was? He had a tough time disguising the inner hunger he felt for her as she drew abreast of him.

“I see you’ve made friends with our three studs,” Dal said with a smile as she opened the box stall of a white stallion, led him out to the center of the aisle and placed him in the cross ties. “You ready for a ride with me?”

Jim followed and picked up the tack box from the tack room, handing her a currycomb and taking a brush for himself.

He began brushing down the stallion. “Sure.”

She grinned at him, then went to the tack room to find the appropriate saddle. “Trusting soul, aren’t you? You don’t even ask where we’re going or what we’ll be doing.”

He took the blanket and saddle from her and tacked up the Arab, which pawed restlessly in the ties. Jim’s amber eyes were dark and thoughtful as he looked across at Dal. “I’m trusting of some people,” he countered.

“And how do you know you can trust me?” Dal taunted softly.

“Your mouth.”

She laughed outright, curious as to how he saw her. “My mouth?”

“Or maybe it’s your large deerlike eyes. Vulnerable mouth and trusting eyes,” he murmured, finishing his task by bridling the horse.

Dal gave him a grim look. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

He handed the reins of the horse to her but she shook her head. “He’s yours to ride. His name is Flight.”

Jim smiled. “Fast, eh?”

“You’ll see,” she promised, walking down to another stall.

Within minutes Dal had her favorite gray gelding saddled and they were off at a brisk trot toward the southern pasture. Flight pranced sideways, blowing and snorting beneath the capable hand of Jim Tremain. From time to time Dal would drop back slightly and watch him handle the spirited stallion. Millie was right; Jim knew how to ride with the best of them. His thighs were long and powerful against the stallion’s barrel, and he rose and fell with each stride of the horse, as if they were one. He was beautiful, Dal decided. The man and the stallion; one and the same with so much spirit fused with pride and maleness.

“You and Flight suit each other admirably,” she complimented dryly, riding at his side.

Jim’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. “I hope your brother approves of me riding one of his prize stallions.”

“Rafe knows I’d never let anyone ride Flight who didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Is my wrangler side that obvious?”

She grinned. “You’ve got bowed legs like the rest of us. What do you think?”

His laughter was deep and clear and it freed Dal in a breathless sort of way. When he smiled, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened, and the smile lines around his mouth became grooves that eased the hardness of his features.

“I thought you were going to blame my Navaho blood,” he teased.

Dal became more serious, her curiosity overcoming her natural distrust of him. Flight was a volatile animal at best, and yet beneath Jim’s firm but sensitive hand the stallion had never once tossed his head or fought the bit. Her gaze rested on Jim’s hands, and she recalled him sensitively caressing the flesh of her palm. Her heart beat a little faster as she savored that branding moment earlier.

“I owe you an apology, Jim.”

“Oh?”

“I called you a half-breed. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

His eyes were filled with amusement. “I didn’t take what you said seriously, so don’t apologize. You were a little out of sorts, that’s all.”

Dal cast him a spurious look. “I haven’t figured out whether you’re a mind reader or not,” she muttered.

“Why?”

“Because you know me too well.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Everything. Men are insensitive.”

His mouth curved into a teasing smile. “Is that like ‘all women are catty’?”

She laughed at his generalization. “Touché. Well, I guess I can throw all my labels out the window with you and start all over.”

He gave her a heated look. “I think you’d better,” he said huskily.

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