Fay Robinson - Coming Home To You

“Aaaawww!”

Now she was decorated and about to be mauled. Leaves hung from her skirt and stockings, the needle-like points stabbing her with every movement.

The dog almost had her. In desperation, she made a flying leap for the limb of a nearby pine tree, losing her shoes on the way up. She wrapped her legs around the branch and dangled precariously from its underside while the dog jumped and snapped, twice catching her clothing and nearly jerking her back to the ground.

Using all her strength, she hauled herself upright. After a few calming breaths, she took inventory: only minor scrapes on her arms and legs from the tree’s scaly bark, but her clothes were ruined. Her skirt and blouse, a lovely bone color that morning, were streaked with the red dust that always seemed to hang in the air. The torn lining of her jacket drooped below the hem, resembling paper after it’s been put through a shredder. She felt her hair. Even the clip that kept the unruly tendrils out of her face was gone.

But she wasn’t seriously hurt. And as long as she didn’t fall off the limb, the beast below couldn’t do further damage.

“Bad dog!” she yelled down, then groaned as it went for her new shoes.

EVEN BEFORE HE SAW the animal, Bret knew Sallie had treed something dangerous in the yard. The dog had a unique voice for each type of prey. A series of short yips meant she was chasing a rat or a chipmunk. A yodel was for something larger, like a rabbit or one of the bobcats that lived in the swampy area at the far end of the pasture, near the creek.

Sallie only barked in answer to the late-night calls of dogs on neighboring farms. Growls she reserved for Willie and Aubrey, the men who helped him with his horse-breeding business.

This wasn’t a rat or even a bobcat. The way Sallie was carrying on, it had to be bigger. And meaner.

With only a rope halter to control the stallion, Bret raced from the barn to the house. The powerful bay moved under him like an extension of his body, reacting instinctively to the pressure of his legs and his booted heels against its sides.

His concern for Sallie turned to annoyance when he saw the unfamiliar car. Not a bear in the yard, as he’d thought. A human. A trespasser.

He slowed the horse to a gentle lope. Sallie had stopped her wailing and stood at the base of the big pine tree near the drive. She had something in her mouth, angrily shaking it from side to side. At first Bret didn’t see the driver of the car. Then he spotted two shapely legs hanging from the tree.

“Stop that!” a feminine voice yelled as a stick came sailing down, clearly intended for Sallie, but missing her by at least three feet. “Leave those alone!” Another stick and a barrage of pinecones showered the ground.

Bret nudged the horse closer to get a better view of Sallie’s catch. It was female all right; she straddled the lowest branch. Her skirt was hiked to the middle of her thighs, showing holes and runs in her stockings.

She’d twisted off another small branch and was getting ready to pitch it at Sallie when she noticed him.

“Oh, thank God, you’ve come! That ugly thing almost got me.”

He gave her the hardest most unfriendly look he could muster, but it wasn’t easy. She was the prettiest thing Sallie had ever treed. She definitely had the best set of legs.

“Ma’am, you’re trespassing. The Keep Out sign on the gate is plain enough for any idiot to read.”

The woman raised her eyebrows in a gesture that made him feel as if he was the one who’d done something wrong, then amusement lit her green eyes. “An idiot? Really?”

Bret took off his baseball cap. Sweat beaded his brow and he wiped it away with the back of a gloved hand. He slapped the cap against his leg, not so much to dislodge the dust that covered the brim, but to give himself time to ease his irritation. It didn’t work.

The gate and the fences leading to the house were plastered with warnings. No way could she have missed them.

“This is private property. You’ll have to leave,” he said, putting the cap back on.

“Just like that? You’re not going to ask me why I’m here?”

He already had a good idea. She wasn’t local; her clothes and jewelry were too fancy. She wasn’t a client, because he only worked with a select number, all personally known to him. That meant she was probably a reporter. A couple of the more determined ones had tracked him down over the years. He’d thrown them out, just as he was about to throw this one out.

“Ma’am, I’m not interested in why you’re here, only in seeing you leave. Now please climb down and get in your car.”

“Okay, but you’ll have to help me. I’m stuck.”

The muscles in his face tightened even more. “What do you mean you’re stuck?”

“Stuck as in…can’t move. The lining of my skirt is caught on something back here and I can’t pull it loose.”

She twisted and tugged at her skirt, trying to free it, but the movement only made it ride higher on her thighs.

Bret shifted with uneasiness as a long expanse of leg became visible and he caught a glimpse of ivory lace. “Lean forward,” he snapped. He nudged the horse up to the branch where he could investigate the problem. Damn fool woman. She had no business climbing trees if she couldn’t get down.

He took off his gloves and hurriedly tried to work the fabric loose, but her sweet scent filled his head and made it hard to concentrate. He had the disturbing sensation that he knew her from somewhere. Those big green eyes. That slightly crooked mouth….

Glancing up, he found her watching him. She tucked a strand of long hair behind her ear, hair that was chestnut-colored and looked as soft as the coat of a newborn foal.

“Are you really throwing me off your property?” she asked.

He yanked harder at the tangle of threads. The sooner she was on her way, the better. Strangers, even pretty ones, could be trouble.

“I guess so,” she answered for him. “And here I thought Southerners were famous for their hospitality.”

He reached in the pocket of his jeans for his knife. When he had cut away that part of the trapped material, she eased forward on the limb and pulled her skirt free.

“Climb down,” he told her.

“I will, but—” she pointed at Sallie “—can you get rid of that first, please?”

“Sallie, go to the house.” The dog ran to the porch and curled up in front of the screen door.

Bret slid from his horse, scooped up the woman’s shoes and remounted. “Here.” He thrust them at her. They were covered in dog slobber and puckered with holes.

She held them up and sighed. “Great. The next time I need to strain vegetables, I’ll know what to use.” She steadied herself on the branch with one hand and used her other to slip on a shoe, making a sound of disgust. “They’re wet.”

“Climb down,” Bret ordered again.

“You know,” she said, easing into the other shoe, a pained expression on her face, “you didn’t even ask if your dog bit me. I felt her mouth on my ankle, and I think I should go in the house and put antiseptic on it.”

“She didn’t bite you.”

“I believe she did.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“How can you say that when you haven’t looked?”

“Lady, the dog didn’t bite you. Stop stalling and get down.”

“I’m not stalling.”

“If Sallie had bitten you, we wouldn’t be arguing about it. She’d still be hanging on.”

The woman shuddered. “You’re kidding. Does she often hang on to people?”

“Always.”

“You mean she clamps down and won’t turn you loose?” When he nodded, she asked, “Did you train her to do that?”

“Of course not. She just does it. Now, I’m tired of telling you. Get in your car.”