Gena Dalton - Midnight Faith

All he did was look around. Clint followed his gaze. The lighted arena made the patch of night that showed through the top half of the south door as black as the horse.

The glass wall to the customers’ lounge was a dark blank. This morning there were no owners sitting in front of the fireplace talking, getting drinks from the refrigerators, or swiveling in the leather easy chairs to watch the wide-screen TV and their horse being ridden at the same time. No one at all intruding into Clint’s own private world.

The black stared at the glass for so long that Clint realized he was looking at his own reflection. He probably thought it was another horse.

“You’re not gonna spook at your own shadow, are you now, Midnight?”

That was the last coherent thought he had. The colt dropped his head and gave a mighty pitch so fast Clint hadn’t even sensed him thinking about it. His hat flew off, the seat of his pants separated from the saddle, he grabbed for his balance, and from then on, everything he did was on instinct.

His legs clamped the colt’s sides and one hand tangled in the mane as his center of gravity shifted, but he still would have gone over and off if Midnight hadn’t raised his head right then and caught Clint along his neck. The steady, waiting world was long gone as fast as if it had never been, turned upside down and spun sideways.

All he knew was blurs of fence and dirt and the black’s long mane, whipping around. It caught him across the face once, twice, as the jarring landings shook him looser. Finally, by a superhuman effort, using the momentum of the next jump, he fought his way back into the saddle. His balance came back, too. Sort of.

Everything turned to motion and speed, into flying jumps and hard, punishing landings. All he could do was try to keep breath in his body while he tried even harder not to come loose again.

At last, after an eternity of uncertainty, he could feel the rhythm, he could anticipate the force, he could judge how much and which way to respond, and the thrill of staying on began to pound into his blood. He and Midnight traveled across the arena and back to the other side molded together into one plunging, rising, falling animal.

Eventually they stretched out into a run. The wind they created blew the colt’s mane back toward Clint and he glanced toward the glass wall to see the wild picture the black horse made as he flew around the arena.

He had this one now. But only this one ride. It’d be a long time before he’d expect the big black colt not to buck, at least a little.

Maybe he ought to ride him every morning instead of rotating through all the others. This was a horse after his own restless heart.

The truth was that this secret fun was the only reason he was glad to get up in the morning. Everything else seemed to be work. Duty. Responsibility. All his and only his.

They rounded the southwest corner and started down the straightaway.

Clint glimpsed somebody standing at the rail. His gut tensed. He looked again.

But he’d known who it was from that first, fast flash in the corner of his eye. That mass of black curly hair catching the arena lights was unmistakable. That and her bold stance.

He sat back and murmured to the colt.

“Whoa. Whoa, now, Midnight.”

Midnight didn’t whoa, but he did slow down.

By some miracle of Clint’s determination, or maybe because the colt was actually tiring at last, he rode him to a stop in front of her with a tolerable show of control.

Her straight look hadn’t changed a bit. He met it with one of his own.

“Caitlin O’Doyle.”

Her name came off his lips sounding like a challenge.

She challenged him right back, as always.

“It’s McMahan.”

Instead of ignoring her and riding on, as he should’ve done, he fell into fussing with her as naturally as breathing.

“I thought you might’ve changed it back by now.”

“No,” she said, and propped one booted foot on the bottom rail as she folded her long, graceful arms along the top one. “It’s still McMahan…just like yours. Clint.”

Her crisp northern accent might’ve softened a little, but nothing else about her had changed one whit. She still held herself as if she owned Texas for as far as she could see, and all the cattle in it. That high, straight-bridged nose of hers still gave her that haughty look and her tall, voluptuous shape still begged for a man’s hands.

Or maybe it was the other way around. Caitlin O’Doyle McMahan never begged. She never even bent.

If she had bent enough to go to Mexico with John, his brother would be alive today. And he, Clint, would still have one of his brothers, at least, by his side every day.

“Why don’t you get a life, Cait? You ought to be back in Chicago by now.”

Her big dark eyes flashed.

“I’d never presume to tell you to get a life, Clint.”

She glanced around the empty arena.

“But then, maybe that’s because you already have one. Riding colts alone in the middle of the night must be a thrill a minute.”

Hot fury sliced at his gut. Was it because she still attracted him so much, even when she was making fun of him? Even when he knew she hadn’t done right by John?

The black shifted beneath him and tried to drop his head, but Clint wouldn’t let him. He gave Cait a hard stare while the horse stepped to the left, then back to the right.

“You appear to be out alone in the middle of the night, yourself, Cait.”

“I got a late start from Tulsa.”

“They celebrate Christmas in Tulsa, too, last I heard.”

Her eyes, black as her hair, sparked with fire.

“Your mother invited me, Clint. This is her ranch. Bobbie Ann can invite anyone she wants for Christmas.”

“It’s my ranch, too.”

“And that is exactly the reason I’m interrupting your night ride,” she said, looking at his horse instead of him as the black danced sideways. “To ask you, the co-owner and general manager, where I should unload my horses.”

She stared at the colt for a minute, then met Clint’s gaze again. He clenched his jaw so hard he could hardly speak. One reason Cait had always irritated him so was that she had no end of nerve.

“Your horses,” he repeated flatly.

“Yes.”

“How many head?”

“Seven.”

What in the name of good sense was she doing dragging seven head of horses in here?

“I know you don’t want to miss any of the McMahan festivities,” he said sarcastically, “but it’s early yet. So why don’t we do it this way? You take a run on over to Roy’s and unload his horses and we’ll hold up on the eggnog until you get back. How’s that?”

“These aren’t Roy’s horses.”

He stared at her, trying to figure out what she was up to and steady the colt at the same time. All he needed now was to fool around and let the black throw him right in front of her.

“Then whose are they?”

“Mine.”

He stared at her some more. She was so full of life and so full of confidence. Not once did she smile or try to charm him into giving permission, as another woman might have done.

“Did Bobbie Ann invite you for Christmas or for the rest of your life?”

“Roy’s not going to let an assistant trainer keep any personal horses over there, much less seven head,” she said, so reasonably that he wanted to punch something. “You know that.”

His blood ran cold, then hot, with anger.

“Are you telling me that you just drove to Tulsa and bought seven head of horses that you’re fixing to keep here? On the Rocking M?”

He bit his tongue to hold back the rest of the words that leapt to it. He ought to go ahead and tell her to haul them on out of here, but he didn’t. Never had he ever known anyone, man or woman, who had this much sand.