Diana Hall - Branded Hearts

Kit yanked her misshapen hat from the outstretched hands of a bug-eyed cowpoke. She stuffed her hair back into the crumpled crown, curbing her desire to rub her pulsating backside. Her legs trembled and her joints ached, but now was not the time to show weakness.

Inside, rampant emotions screamed at her to back down and run away. She set her features into a mask of calm, buried the fear and confronted the scowling face of Garret Blaine. “Where do you want us to livery our horses?”

The rancher’s green stare ripped into her with the fury of a dust devil. Just above his left eyebrow, a starburst scar whitened. A warning of his anger. He pushed up his shirtsleeves. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull—”

“My brother and I want the jobs we earned.” Kit way-laid the rancher’s argument. Two years of searching had worn her patience thin and callused her determination. There would be no backing down. The ranch was perfect for their needs. Quiet. Out of the way. With a sizable head of prime livestock.

“You and I both know I’d never hire a woman.” He spit out her gender like an insult. “Ride out.”

Garret Blaine didn’t have the foggiest idea of who he was dealing with. There would be no retreat. She looped a rope through the exhausted black’s halter.

“What the hell are you doing?” Garret’s deep baritone voice reverberated against the barn wall and echoed in the shocked silence of the ranch. A three-legged dog hopped toward her, his teeth bared.

“Getting my pay.”

The old dog growled at her. Kit growled right back, baring her teeth and wrinkling her nose. The dog cocked his head to the side, raised one tan eyebrow, then the other, and tried another growl. Kit answered, her growl deeper and a shade more menacing. The dog backed off.

Her brother edged closer. She pretended not to see his signal for retreat.

“Do you really think I’m going to let you steal my horse?” Garret widened his stance, his lip curled into a one-sided smile. He crossed his arms across his broad chest, just under where his shirt fell open. The timbre of his full voice deepened. “We hang horse thieves.”

His threat rolled off her like water down oilcloth. All her emotions froze into a thick icicle of stubbornness. Narrowing her eyes, she dripped sticky-sweet sarcasm. “You promised us a job if one of us rode the black. Now you’re welching on the deal. I’m taking the stallion as payment.”

Cade cracked a wide grin. “The black did get ridden. And it’d be cheating to back out of a deal.” The younger, less intense Blaine snickered as he faced his brother.

“Shut up, Cade.” Garret’s tone shifted from furious to logical. “There’s no place to keep her.”

His objections made her sound more like a flea-riddled cur than a person. Keep her! The gall of that man. In Boston, a snap of her fingers and men would line up to escort her to the opera or symphony.

But Garret was far removed from those eastern gentlemen. Not a spare ounce of fat on his body. Lines etched the corners of his eyes, created from hours of riding into the hot western sun. Rugged muscles bulged along his upper arms, built from wrestling steers and creating his homestead. His gaze penetrated her, sapping her strength with its intensity. Garret Blaine was a desert. Bleak, formidable, relentless.

Her brother remained silent, but Cade gave her a wicked grin. Amusement twinkled in the cowboy’s eyes. “There’s the tack room in the barn.”

Kit pressed her point. “A job or the horse, it’s your call.” It was an empty ultimatum. One word from Garret, and she and Hawk would be facing down a half-dozen guns. Her challenge lay in the code of the West, where a man proved his worth by the strength of his word.

Flecks of green serpentine sparked in the ranch owner’s eyes. “You want a job? You got a job. For as long as you can stand it.”

“Whoo-ee!” Cade slapped his hat against his leg and danced a little two-step, creating dusty whirlwinds to coat his jeans. “The little lady got the best of Garret Blaine.”

Nervous laughter snared the cowhands as they gave the boss a sidelong glance. Garret’s sudden acceptance of the situation threw Kit off kilter. A man didn’t survive the harshness of the West by giving in. No, Garret Blaine didn’t strike Kit as a person who would concede defeat easily, but then, neither would she.

“You can livery in there.” Garret directed her toward the long, peaked stable.

A trickle of warning snaked down her spine and settled in the small of her back. The glacial tone in her new employer’s voice did not bode well. She could almost smell the man’s intense disgust with her and her brother.

Unhooking the lead, she freed the black. The horse nuzzled her hand and gave her a sympathetic look before trotting to the far corner of the corral. Kit squared her shoulders and followed the shadow of the tall cowboy.

Garret slid the hinged door to the right. New wood and fresh straw perfumed the barn. Horses whinnied and a challenging neigh came from the stalls as Hawk led his buckskin and her Appaloosa mare down the narrow aisle. Half of the twenty stalls were filled with horses and mustangs.

In the last one, a fine-boned mare paced, her belly distended from pregnancy. A tight collar of sheepskin circled her throat to keep the fidgeting horse from cribbing. Catching the scent of the strange horses, the mare kicked at her stall and neighed.

Kit heard the agitation in the mare’s call. High-strung and nervous, not a good combination. When it came time for her to drop her foal, that mare was bound for trouble. “Best build yourself a stanchion for this one.” She pointed toward the pregnant mare.

“Leave the mare to me,” Garret barked. He pointed to the empty stalls. “Bed your horses here.”

Kit led her mare into the narrow space and unsaddled her mount. Too stubborn to take good advice, she thought. Let him learn the hard way.

Heaving her saddle onto the wooden shelf, she grabbed a handful of straw and gave her horse a rubdown. The time gave her the opportunity to study the sulking ranch owner.

He folded his arms, constructing a thick wall of sinew and muscle across his chest. The top button of his faded cotton shirt was missing, exposing a sleek V of tanned skin. Worn jeans strained at the seams near his thighs. Blunt-tipped cowboy boots completed his attire. Typical cowhand. But Garret Blaine didn’t strike her as typical.

The past had made her wary of men, except for her brother. Panic knotted her stomach when a man ventured too near. Only Hawk knew the tremendous effort it took for her to face down the rancher. But now, since she knew he would honor his promise, her stomach relaxed, and she didn’t have to concentrate on governing her alarm.

Grabbing her saddlebags, she asked, “Where do we bed down?”

Garret steered her to a small room. The leather-hinged door swung open. Squaring her shoulders, she entered.

She sneezed. She sneezed again. Dust tickled her nose. An overpowering smell of horses and oiled leather clogged the air. One curtainless window allowed light into the narrow room. It was hardly larger than one of the saddles, and saddles and tack blocked most of the free space. A cot with a straw mattress lined the far corner.

Fur brushed her leg. The ranch dog rushed past and jumped on the bed, nesting the few blankets before lying down. Obviously staking out his territory.

Not the Revere House in Boston, but at least it would keep out the snow and be warmer than the cold ground. The door would have to stay open for any kind of air circulation, but she wasn’t worried. Her brother possessed the light sleep of a hunter and the long months on the trail had taught her the same. The dog would have to go.