The Girl with the Golden Spurs

“Why, Daddy?” she’d asked.

“Oh, no reason. Just because he’s an ill-natured cuss if ever there was one.”

“So, you’re Lizzy Kemble,” the handsome, ill-natured cuss drawled lazily in that pure-Texas accent of his, bringing her thoughts back to the present.

When he edged his mount closer to hers, she instinctively backed hers up. Again he smiled and let his hot, sinful eyes devour the length of her body, taking liberties she’d never given any man—and certainly didn’t want to give the insolent likes of him.

He stared until she was practically frothing with fury. Then he shot her another bold smile that made her skin really heat.

“You blush real easy, don’t you, little girl? I like that.”

“Well, I don’t like it, and I don’t like anything about you, either,” she snapped.

“You barely know me.”

“I know enough.”

“Then why don’t you run, Little Red Riding Hood?”

“Go away. Just go away!” she said. “Before somebody sees you here.”

“You’ve seen me. Aren’t you somebody?”

Before she could stop herself, “I don’t count for much around here.”

He laughed at that, and some of the strain and anger left his dark face. He was handsome—too handsome for his good and for hers, too, she suddenly realized. This was bad. She wasn’t as immune to his charm as she needed to be.

“I know that feeling…not counting for much,” he said, his voice low and beguilingly gentle now as he urged his big horse to sidle closer to hers. He tipped his hat back, so that she could see his beautiful, long-lashed eyes better. “It’s an awful feeling, isn’t it?”

“I’ve got to go,” she said, studying the silky length of his lashes rather too fixedly.

“You’re not scared of me, now are you, little girl?”

“No! Of course not!”

“Then stay. Relax. I’m not the big bad wolf. I’m just your neighbor. Maybe it’s time we got better acquainted.”

She was about to say no, but Blackie charged through the brush, yapping his fool terrier head off at a rabbit that was running for his life. Panicked at the shrill barks, Pájaro reared slightly.

When the rabbit and dog sprinted toward the gelding like a pair of bullets, Lizzy screamed, and Pájaro started bucking for all he was worth.

“Keep your head, girl, and quit your screaming,” Cole yelled, moving swiftly toward her.

Lizzy hollered again and again.

“Hush,” Cole ordered, trying to grab her reins.

“Get away!” she yelled, slapping at his hands with them.

Then Blackie rushed under Pájaro’s hooves again, and the gelding tossed his head wildly and reared. Cole grabbed the reins just as Pájaro bolted. The reins flew out of his hands, and Lizzy clutched the saddle horn and the gelding’s mane and held on.

Born to fly, Pájaro’s hooves pounded the earth as if ten demon terriers were chasing him straight to hell instead of one small dog. Lizzy was equally spooked. No way could she stop screaming now.

Pájaro dashed straight through thorny brush—through mesquite, huisache and granjeño, racing for the middle of the herd. Lizzy clung desperately, fighting to hang on. If she fell, she could be trampled. Behind her, she heard Cole shouting instructions, but the cattle were bawling so loudly, she couldn’t make out what he was saying.

Ahead she saw a low branch, so she bent low over Pájaro’s back. When he raced beneath it, thorns knocked off her hat and shredded the back of her blouse. Pájaro shot through a bunch of cattle, scattering them in all directions. Then he veered away from the herd back into the brush, racing at a full gallop for maybe five minutes.

Her heart was thudding in terror, but still she held on. If anything the monster sped up. The man on the horse behind them seemed to be catching up, which made Pájaro even wilder to outrun them.

Tightening her grip on the saddle horn and the coarse hair of Pájaro’s mane, somehow she endured the wild, thundering chase. Suddenly Cole and his horse were racing right beside her.

“Let go!” a hard voice yelled. “I’ve got you.”

Let go? Was he crazy?

Even when she felt Cole’s powerful arm around her waist, her knees gripped Pájaro’s flanks and she held on to the saddle horn for dear life. But her strength was nothing compared to Cole’s, who yanked her off with seeming ease.

Her hands were ripped off the saddle horn, and for a fleeting horrible second she was airborne between the two flying horses. Pájaro veered to the left, and Cole pulled her in front of him on his horse.

“I’ve got you,” Cole repeated over and over against her ear.

Panic tightened her stomach even as Cole pressed her tightly against his body as he reined in his mount.

“There. You’re okay. You’re safe,” he muttered between harsh, rasping breaths as the thudding hooves slowed. “You’re okay.”

“I want down. I don’t care if I have to walk all the way home, I don’t want to ever ride a horse again.”

“That’s understandable,” Cole said soothingly.

“This is all your fault! You shouldn’t have chased me!”

“Then I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said in that same calming tone.

Her daddy would never have been so reasonable. When she fell off a horse, he always hollered or used a stern voice to order her back on.

Cole dismounted and helped her down. Still, terrified, her heart continued to race as he circled her waist with his hands and lowered her from the horse. When he continued to hold her, she was so upset, she lacked the sense to push him away.

Her choked breaths erupted in burning gasps. Her knees were so wobbly she could barely stand, and her eyes burned with unshed tears. She was scared and too mortified for words.

“I—I probably look a mess.”

“There now,” he said. When he drew her close, she forgot her fear of him and clung. He was breathing hard and fast, just like she was. But he was holding her gently, caressing her and letting her cling.

“If you want to know, that scared the hell out of me, too,” he said.

“I’m not scared.”

“Then maybe you wouldn’t mind loosening your hands just a little. Your fingernails are slicing little hunks out of my back.”

“Oh… Of course…”

“You’re so much braver than me,” he whispered reassuringly. “If anything would have happened to you…”

A callused fingertip caressed her muddy cheek as he pulled a twig out of her dusty curls.

Never before had she been babied when she was afraid, and even though she knew she should push him away, she couldn’t let go of him even when she stopped shaking. It was simply too pleasant to be soothed and comforted by someone so strong and solid…and nice.

She didn’t care what Daddy had said about him. Cole Knight had saved her life, and he was so nice he wouldn’t make her ever get on a horse again if she didn’t want to. He had a gentle voice, and he smelled real good, of leather and spice and his own clean male sweat. He didn’t seem to mind that she was so dirty.

Cole was a full head taller than she was, and the skin above the top buttons of his white shirt was way darker than hers, and his hand that slid against the bare skin of her spine where her blouse was ripped into shreds was way rougher than hers. He was old, much too old for her, probably at least twenty-two. Old, and too experienced with girls. Worst of all, her daddy hated him. Still, he was…nice.

Finally they both got their breath. She glanced up at him, thinking he’d release her. But he didn’t, and somehow that was unbearably exciting.

She tilted her head a little to better study the mystery of Cole Knight, not that she could see much more than the sensual line of his mouth and his hard jawline. Still, he had a nice, kissable mouth. The mere thought of her lips against his caused a violent shiver to dart through her stomach.

How could she be attracted to him?

She wasn’t. It was just that she’d nearly died. Cole had saved her. Maybe it was only natural to feel some temporary affectionate bond with a man who saved your life even if he was your natural born enemy.

Cole bent his head and stared down at her lips with the same scary, burning intensity she remembered from the thicket, only now, her heart skittered faster.

The wind was warm on her face, but his stillness and watchful silence as he held her caused butterflies to dance in her stomach. Her heart was beating so fast it felt like it might burst. She’d never come close to such a wild dark thrill as Cole Knight, never dreamed of it even.

Until this moment, in his arms, she’d been a child. Even before he lowered his face to hers, she lifted her lips and parted them, half-hoping he would be as bad as people said and steal a kiss from her.

Instead his mouth grazed her cheek so softly she could barely feel his breath. Still his gentle kiss left her aching. Without thinking, she wistfully traced a fingertip across her mouth. His eyes watched her, and maybe they dared her. Before she even knew what she was doing, her fingertip left her lips and traced the shape of his.

His mouth was hard and warm. Just touching him there had her body thrumming and sent heat through her like a lush wild wave. Her other hand inched up his wide chest and flexed around his neck. Then with an unfathomable yearning that bordered on pain, she pushed her innocent body into his, until her breasts were flat against his hard chest.

“Oh, God.” He groaned, sucking her fingertip inside his lips for a moment before his black head dipped closer to hers. “You smell sweeter than the sweetest rose.”

She stood on her tiptoes, hoping, aching for more.

It was worth nearly getting killed on a horse—well worth it—to be here like this with him.

The moment went on and on, endlessly. Just when he might have kissed her, a horse with Lizzy’s daddy on its back thundered out of the brush. When a swarm of her relatives followed, shouting and cursing, Cole pushed her away from him.

Caesar pulled his stallion up in front of her, his face purple as dust whirled around them.

“Lizzy, what in the hell are you doing?” Caesar’s horse thrashed closer. “Get away from that devil, girl!”

Uncle B.B.’ s handsome face was as stern as her father’s. Even Aunt Nanette and her sons, Bobby Joe and Sam, who were Lizzy’s age, looked grim and unforgiving.

Lizzy lifted her chin and stepped in front of Cole to shield him from her family. Not that Cole was the type to cower behind a woman even for a second. He seized Lizzy’s hand firmly in his and swung her along beside him.

Oh, how she liked his doing that. Standing beside him gave her a new confidence, and she squared her shoulders. To her surprise, her voice was quiet and level, a woman’s voice. “Daddy…he saved my…”

Her father’s bushy, amber eyebrows snapped together as he stared at her fingers knotted in Cole’s. His lips thinned as he hunched forward in his saddle.

Lizzy recognized the signs his temper was on the rise and, removing her hand from Cole’s, nervously rubbed her bare arms, which were sunburned and bloody with scratches. Tatters of her blouse fluttered against her exposed rib cage.

“Daddy, he didn’t hurt me. He didn’t tear my blouse. Mother—he saved my life.”

As if mortified by Lizzy’s conduct, Joanne looked away.

Caesar’s blazing eyes remained fixed on Cole. “You, boy! Yes, Knight, I’m talking to you! You get the hell off my land!”

“You stole this land, Kemble. You and yours. You drove my brother away! But you can’t bully me.”

“You stay away from my daughter!”

Cole smiled lazily. “Well, I’d say that’s more her choice than yours, wouldn’t you?”

Cole’s gaze softened as he regarded her, and Lizzy felt herself melting like hard chocolate on a hot stove.

“Of all the impudent—” To his men Caesar roared, “Boys, throw this damn trespasser off my land!”

“My land!” Cole snapped.

When Kinky Hernandez, Daddy’s loyal foreman, along with half a dozen vaqueros, materialized out of the thicket, Cole’s expression darkened. His low voice was hoarse, almost a growl, as he reached out and squeezed Lizzy’s hand one last time. “Maybe you’re not calling all the shots anymore, old man.”

“He’s right, Daddy! Leave him alone! I’m all grown up! You can’t tell him or me what—”

“Get on your horse, boy—”

Cole whistled, and his big horse trotted up to him like a trick horse in a rodeo. Before he swung his long leg over his saddle, Cole glanced down at Lizzy with another hot look and a smile that cut off her breath and filled her with unbearable joy.

He tipped his hat to her. “See ya ’round, little girl,” he said in that gentle tone that mocked her father and made butterflies fly in her stomach.

“See ya,” she whispered, bringing her fingertips to her lips, unable to say more, not even goodbye.

Dismounting, her mother slipped up beside her. “If you’re smart, you’ll forget you ever met that no-good scoundrel,” she said. “No telling what he would have done to you if we hadn’t—”

He would have kissed me…maybe. The thought made Lizzy ache.

“He’s the son of thieves and ingrates—troublemakers and gamblers, the whole lot,” her father asserted. “I ran his no-good brother off a few years back when he threatened to sue me, and I’ll do the same to this one—if you don’t leave him the hell alone.” He drew in a savage breath at Lizzy’s dazed expression. “Take her back to the house, Joanne. Talk some sense into her.”

Lizzy barely heard them. She was too busy watching Cole ride away, too busy wondering if she’d ever see him again.

Even when her mother took her by the arm, she turned her head, still watching the spot where she’d glimpsed the last of his broad shoulders.

“Forget him, girl. He’s a Knight and you’re a Kemble. He doesn’t want you. He wants our land. And he’ll do anything—he’ll use you in any way—to get it. He wants the ranch—not you!”

Oh, if only, if only she’d listened.

BOOK ONE

Smart Cowboy Saying:

Letting a cat out of the bag is a lot easier than putting it back.

—Anonymous

One

Eleven years later

South Texas

The Golden Spurs Ranch

Pawing and snorting, hooves clattering on concrete, Domino exploded out of the barn as if a dozen of Satan’s meanest horse flies had flown up straight from hell and stung him on his powerful rump.

“Whoa, boy! What’s lit into you?”

It was late April. The last of the wildflowers sweetened the warm air that smelled of grass, cattle and horse.

Caesar Kemble leaned back in the saddle and pulled in on the leather reins. “You’re mighty anxious for our morning ride, aren’t you, fella? More anxious maybe than me. Which is saying one helluva lot.”

A few yards away in front of the blazing sea of wildflowers that surrounded the vast ranch house, dozens of spurs sparkled like golden Christmas ornaments in the branches of the thin-leafed, thorny mesquite tree.

Caesar scowled. “Damnation!”

To some, the tree was a pretty sight against the glow of the sky this time of year, but he hated that tree. Hell, he should have cut the damn thing down years ago. Trouble was, the Spur Tree had stood there for more than a hundred years and was part of the ranch’s tradition. Not that the spurs had anything to do with something as joyous as Christmas. They represented loss and pain and death and suffering—but courage, too. When a man or a woman left the ranch, their spurs were hung on the tree.

It had taken a lot from a lot of men to hold on to this ranch. His daddy’s spurs hung there. So did Jack’s, his oldest brother’s.

The tree was more than a tree. It had a strange power, more power than most churches. Many a time Caesar had watched a vaquero who was feeling low come and stand in the shade of the Spur Tree for a spell.

Caesar lowered his Stetson to avoid looking at the tree. He was king of these million acres that bordered the Gulf of Mexico on the east and spread out to the west, at least he told himself he was. And he ruled with more authority than many true kings governed their kingdoms or generals commanded their armies. From his birth, there had always been people trying to steal his empire from him.

Jack, his older brother, had been the golden boy, the heir apparent, Daddy’s favorite, until he’d broken his damn fool neck in a fall off a bronc in the dunes near the bay. Nobody had ever crossed Jack. Nobody had ever dared say maybe Jack should have had better sense than to ride off alone on an animal like that in the first place.

Coming to power after Jack’s death, Caesar had become a helluva lot more spoiled than Jack had ever been. He was used to being obeyed—instantly. Just like Jack, he hated being crossed. Maybe that was the reason that thorny tree stabbed such a big hole in him. His enemies weren’t just outsiders.

Children—you thought they were yours—until they committed the unforgivable crime of growing up and showing you different.

He’d had such grand plans for his children, especially Lizzy, his first, his favorite. She’d been born a mere hour before Mia. Oh, but how he’d reveled in that small victory.

Free-spirited, softhearted urchin that she was, Lizzy had attempted a defiant grin when she’d slung her spurs at the tree. Yes, the memory of her slim shaking fingers tossing those spurs before she’d left for New York was burned into his soul like a brand.

The crybaby in the family had dared to stand up to him. First by loving that no-good Cole. Then by leaving.

Nor would he soon forget the rainy afternoon of Mia’s memorial service three months ago when he’d hung his second daughter’s spurs on a branch beside Lizzy’s while Mia’s husband, Cole, yes, Cole, fifty vaqueros and five hundred mourners had watched. Joanne, who never cried, had sobbed beneath the Spur Tree, while Lizzy, who was ashamed of crying and too wary of Cole, had watched from the nursery window while she rocked Cole’s fretful, month-old baby daughter, Vanilla. After the plane crash that had left Mia dead and Cole so dazed he couldn’t remember people, not even his little daughter, Lizzy had come home for a while.

For the first time, she’d helped Caesar run things. She’d been surprisingly adept at dealing with the books and figures and computer work. Just when Caesar had begun to get used to having her around, she’d left again.

Yes, sir, the mere sight of that tree was enough to make his temple throb for hours. Ignoring the pain in his head, he jammed his own spurs against Domino’s flank and yelled, “Giddyup, boy!”

Horse and rider flew until the Spur Tree was well behind them.

Both daughters had fallen for the same ruthless, vengeful man. Now they were gone for good—one dead and one simply foolish, irresponsible and ungrateful. And he still had Cole to put up with.

Lizzy had damn near gutted him alive by leaving Texas. As if his little girl, who could barely sit a horse, could make it in the cold cruel world without him pulling strings.

I’m all grown up now, Daddy. I’m twenty-three. I’ve got a college degree. It’s time I left home.

You’re a big grown-up crybaby, that’s what you are.

He’d said that because she hated the fact that she had a soft heart and wept more than most girls her age. Then he’d gone for the guilt button.

You can’t leave your daddy now that you’re old enough to be of some use to him around here for a change—after all the trouble you’ve put him to raising you—

Lizzy, who’d been more trouble than most kids, had kissed him on the cheek as he’d turned away from her and said a tear-choked goodbye. I know I’m a crybaby. I know I was trouble, but I have to grow up sometime. And, Daddy, you were trouble for me, too.

If only she’d been born a boy. Maybe everything would have been different. Why couldn’t she have been more like Sam, his nephew? Hell, for that matter, why couldn’t Hawk and Walker have been more like Sam? Sam had loved the ranch so much he’d moved in with Caesar when he was ten and still lived on the ranch, although no longer in the main house.

His sons, Hawk and Walker, were a worthless pair for sure. He’d never been as close to them as he had to Lizzy. Neither of them gave a damn that he’d built an empire for them. Although they were as different as night and day, if he advised or corrected one of them, they stuck together. After Caesar’s recent quarrel with Walker over the artist he’d chosen to do the murals depicting ranch life for the new Golden Spurs museum, Walker had stormed out in a huff. Hawk had followed suit. Who knew where they were keeping themselves these days. And even the board had sided against Caesar, as well, and the painter had stayed.

Now Caesar had his sons’ responsibilities to see about in addition to his own. They’d been in charge of organizing the grand opening of the museum and the celebration of the ranch’s 140th anniversary, which were scheduled during Thanksgiving week.

The whole thing was ridiculous. Because of various crises the ranch had faced recently, the board had trumped up the museum and celebration to restore faith in the ranch’s name. There would be tours, lectures, a big party and a horse and cattle auction during the week-long festivities. Caesar had thought the celebration was ill-timed to say the least, especially since it would be during a holiday, but he’d been outvoted by the family and the board.

If Hawk could just walk off, maybe Caesar could, too. Maybe it was time he did what the damn bunch wanted and turned the ranch over to the smart-ass suits in San Antonio. Let them come down and run the ranch and this ridiculous celebration they’d dreamed up.

But if he did, the ranch would go to hell in a handbasket. Sam, for all his talent, didn’t look at the big picture. The board would diversify into more profitable business ventures than cattle. They wanted the Golden Spurs name on cattle equipment, hunting vehicles, leather goods and guns. They were interested in farming and government subsidies and environmental research, but not a single one of them was a real rancher.

“Times are changing faster than you are, Dad,” Walker had yelled at him before he’d left.

The board—and even Sam—had made him furious when they’d told him the same thing.

But, hell, had any of them been named rancher of the decade?

Caesar had a cell phone clipped to his wide belt and a phone number in his breast pocket. The girl that went with the phone number was an exotic dancer in Houston. Last Saturday night he’d watched her perform a wanton cowgirl routine on stage with a real live horse.

She was nineteen—younger than his kids and nephews, but old enough, well worth the hour-long plane ride from the ranch. She had implants, big hair, fake eyelashes, but there was nothing fake about those legs of hers that went forever or the megawatt smile she’d flashed him or the promises she’d made with her big blue eyes and soft hands when she’d gotten off her horse and had done that lap dance wearing a silver, sequined cowboy hat and not much else.

He thought about Joanne and the cold, loveless years of their marriage. Maybe it was time he hung his own spurs on the tree and kicked his heels up, too. It had been a while since he’d had any fun with a woman.

He pulled Cherry’s number out of his pocket and memorized it. Then he put it back and grabbed his cell phone. His body heated as he leaned forward and nudged Domino with his spurs.

The gelding’s walk was a wonderful kind of tap dance. Domino was the best horse Caesar had ever had, a real genius.

It was only nine in the morning, and already the temperature had to be in the high eighties. But that wasn’t why Caesar felt as hot as a billy goat in a pepper patch.

Should he call her? He stared up at the deep azure sky unmarked by clouds and felt beads of perspiration pop out on his forehead. It would get way hotter, and so would he.