Her Last Chance

“Here. Let me help you with those,” he said gruffly, coming to her side.

She half turned, a protest on her smiling lips, when he reached over and snagged the suitcases from her.

A tingle of awareness immediately buzzed through his nerve endings and over his hand. Chase grimaced, and grasped the leather handles a little tighter, dismissing the sensation. Residual effect from last week, when that blasted Peggy Sue caught his hand against the manger, he told himself.

“Thank you,” Mallory said politely, stepping aside, then following him up the wide grass walkway.

Silently, he forged straight ahead. The heels of his boots made a hollow sound on each of the four steps. He jerked opened the front door and, with an elbow, propped it open.

Appearing not to notice his bad humor, Mallory stopped inside the great room, her sandals pivoting on the wide knotty-pine floorboards. “Oh, my…” She glanced up at the exposed redwood beams, then down to the fieldstone fireplace. “This is so cozy.”

Chase sent her a scathing look. “Yeah, just like your typical little hunting lodge, I suppose.”

The comment was apparently not lost on his guest.

“Narwhalians see no value in hunting for pleasure,” she replied evenly. “We are known the world over for exquisite animals, for fine horses and stables. But legend has it that our small island became invincible when a peasant, at great risk, freed a starving unicorn from its cruel master, giving the animal back his wild heart. Because of his kindness, the peasant came to know years of comfort and good health. His children, chaste and pure of heart, befriended the unicorn and came to know prosperity. For generations, people have honored his gesture. I honor it, too.”

Chase stared at her, wondering if she was putting him on. She didn’t retract a word. Not one. She simply met his gaze.

“Legends…I see,” he said uncomfortably, but not seeing at all. “Ah…well, beggin’ your pardon, ma’am. My misunderstandin’ about Narwhal and all.”

Determined to change the subject, Chase moved ahead of her and into the room. He kicked down a corner of the black-and-russet Navajo rug. The room was scattered with them. Leather furnishings, a sofa and several chairs, were arranged in front of the fireplace.

Mallory trailed a hand over the rustic willow and reed high back chairs and matching table. “Your local artisans do incredible work,” she murmured.

Chase brushed off the comment. “I got it from the local discount store. If you look, you’ll probably find a gold foil Made in China sticker.”

Mallory lifted her eyes, her gaze narrowing. “You do have a lovely home, Chase, no matter how you put it together.”

Her grace and tact made him feel like a heel. It wasn’t hard to explain why he felt so prickly around her, but he had to put a stop to the defensive reactions and the sharp dismissals. Since Sharon—and particularly Skylar—he’d been edgy, and short with people who didn’t deserve it. “Thanks,” he said finally. “The old ranch house, the one I grew up in, burned to the ground about ten years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. That must have been dreadful.”

He lifted a shoulder. “We’re strong. A little like the phoenix rising from the ashes.”

Mallory brightened, her features animated, her eyes dancing with recognition. “I know that story,” she said, “and I love it.”

In spite of himself, he grinned, setting the suitcases down. “You know a lot of them. Legends about Narwhal, the Phoenix…”

“I’ve always been fascinated with legends and lore. I’ve found there’s a bit of truth in many of them. Particularly for those who believe.”

The sincerity of her gaze intrigued him. “And you believe?”

The corners of her lips lifted. “My country is steeped in legends. Stories are handed down from generation to generation, and it has been that way for hundreds of years. I believe the storytellers were the wisest, and they have knowledge to share, if we choose to listen.”

Chase stared at her, fully aware she had not answered his question. “Well…as for our little phoenix…we were able to rebuild the house the way we wanted.” He gestured to the huge picture windows and the vista of foothills beyond. “Before, that view was hidden by a coat closet, a washroom and a two-car garage.”

She smiled, inclining her head. “Ah, that was also the way of our forefathers. Function, not beauty.”

Beauty. With Mallory the word took on new meaning. Chase shifted, trying not to stare into the baby-blue depths of her eyes, trying not to acknowledge the sexy, come-hither waves of her hair.

“The Chevalles have a home on the ocean like that,” she continued. “At night, the fog rolls in, and it’s cold and drafty and miserable. I hate staying there. I like warm, cozy things around me.”

The craziest feeling shot through Chase’s arms, as if they were incredibly empty. He imagined wrapping his arms around the woman standing next to him, giving her that warm, cozy feeling. Sharing it. In that same instant, it occurred to him that they’d be good together. Very, very good together. He hastily reached down and snatched up the suitcases, before any more goofy thoughts made Swiss cheese of his sanity. He hadn’t been with a woman for more than two years, and the end of that relationship had been filled with misgivings and regret. He wasn’t going that way ever again. “The guest room is nothing fancy,” he said, leading the way to the stairs, “but—”

“Don’t.” She laid a hand on his arm, stopping him. “You keep saying that. ‘It’s nothing fancy.’ I didn’t come out here to be entertained, or to be impressed by you or your home. I came because I knew there was something special to be found. I’m not intending to stay, Chase. More than anything, I want to get home, to my father.”

The room Chase offered her was charming and rustic. Mallory carefully eased her suitcase onto the brilliant hues of a ruby-and-rust quilt. It covered the four-poster bed, the bed frame made of weathered lodgepole pine. She turned to place her cosmetic bag beside the oil lamp on the old-fashioned highboy, then paused to straighten the crocheted doily beneath it.

Chase still stood in the doorway. “If there’s anything else you need…” he trailed off. “Towels, soap…”

She shook her head and turned back to the suitcase.

“Extra blankets are in the hall closet.”

“Thank you.” She snapped the latch on her suitcase and threw open the lid. Her nightgown was on top, and she pulled it out, tossing the silk negligee onto the pillow. The spaghetti straps clung to the quilted shams, but the ivory silk slithered down the side of the bed, as if she’d issued an invitation.

Mallory was so anxious to dig out her boots that she never gave it a second thought—until she saw Chase staring at it. The gown was out of place and she knew it.

“I should have brought flannel, yes?”

He blinked, as if disturbed from his reverie.

“It’s cold out here at night, I suppose,” she said.

“Cold?” He looked confused. “No, not necessarily. Not in June.”

“Well, the way you were looking…at my nightwear…” she continued, lifting an innocent shoulder.

Chase cleared his throat and pulled himself off the door frame. “This is cowboy country, Mallory. We don’t see many of them things hanging on the line out here.”

Pursing her lips, she frowned. “The line? I don’t understand.”

“The clothesline. Outside, drying on the clothesline,” he explained. “We do wash and wear. Denim or dress shirts, it doesn’t matter. It all goes in the laundry and out on the line.”

“I see. Then I shall remember not to make that mistake,” she said lightly, smiling at him. “Perhaps I could hang my things in your shower instead? I wouldn’t want to offend anyone.”

“Yeah. Okay, I guess.” Inside, Chase winced. “How about if I go fix us a bite to eat, and then we start looking at stock? You want to go home, and I don’t want to keep you any longer than necessary.” He glanced back at her open suitcase, where scraps of silk and satin seemed to bubble out over the top. “I keep you too long, and you may go cluttering up my bath with all those skimpy little…” Feeling like a fool, he let the sentence drift, fully aware he was too embarrassed to say the word panties in front of some highfalutin socialite.

Mallory pulled out a stack of knit tops, balancing them on the palm of her hand. “Don’t worry. I always travel light. I can’t possibly smother you in lingerie.”

Chase swallowed. Hard. His lips clamped together, and he tipped his head, backing from the door.

Mallory watched him leave, and the oddest awareness coursed through her, curling down into her middle and beyond.

It was disturbing to know that the man’s bedroom would be only two doors down, and that they’d share the same bath. While she didn’t expect the degree of privacy she had grown up with in Narwhal, the intimacy, the nearness of the ranch house disturbed her.

No. Chase Wells disturbed her. He had from the moment her gaze fell on him.

There was no logical explanation for her feelings. None. She’d dealt with men every day of her life, but she’d never let herself get too close to any of them. Her father had raised her after her mother had died of pneumonia at an early age, and she’d grown up around the men he’d surrounded himself with. Her background in history and international law often put her in challenging situations with businessmen who contracted with her father’s shipping company. Yet none of them fascinated—or provoked feelings in her—like this brief encounter with Chase Wells had.

Chase Wells was the proverbial man’s man, with shoulders as wide as wood and a stance that was daring, and devil-may-care. He had the most reckless, engaging smile, and dark, brooding eyes. His gray gaze could be as seductive as smoke or as striking as silver.

It was foolish, she knew, to even consider such things. She needed to guard her innocence, particularly until this issue with her father was settled. With his health deteriorating, he often reminded her that he expected her to run his vast shipping empire. Until then he wanted her, his only daughter, to experience freedom. Yet every day she was gone from him, she missed him terribly.

Her father, Hewitt Chevalle, was an honorable man. He chided her to be capable, not spoiled, intelligent, not dull, a peacemaker of the world, not an adversary to it. When she was strong-willed, he took full credit; when she was insufferable, he took her to task.

Yes, Chase Wells would sell her the horse she wanted for her father and then send her on her way. Her family’s estate, situated on the meadow where the legend claimed the unicorn once frolicked in Narwhal, was a hallowed place, with a maze of freshwater springs and flower-laden glens. Mallory was convinced that if she could bring one of the gifted animals back to its origins, her father, as caretaker, would experience relief from his debilitating disease—and she would be freed from the responsibility of running the gargantuan shipping fleet. If her father experienced respite for even a short period of time, it would be a blessing.

Chase Wells, without even knowing it, could have the solution to her problem. He may have affected her, in some strange and obtuse way that she didn’t understand, but she would rise above it. She had to rise above it.

She would smile at him, gently, and win him over. It was very easy, really. All she had to do was put her mind to it. She had no other choice—because time, and her father’s health—were slipping away.

Chase fed her tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, and it was delicious, all of it.

“I suppose Bob told you none of the stock he’s showing is for sale,” he warned, rising from the table to clear away their emptied soup bowls. “Julep’s TeaRose is garnering so much attention right now, we’d be crazy to sell her. As for the other two—Ruger’s Opal and Ruger’s Delight—they both have offers pending.”

Mallory picked up their paper napkins and wadded them together, inordinately conscious of the way Chase moved. “I’m not necessarily interested in show stock,” she said carefully. “What garners interest in the world of show does not interest me.”

He waggled a brow at her, as if he didn’t believe a word she said.

“I’m more interested in stock for personal reasons,” she explained. “As I said, I’d like to get my father something special. The idea of bringing him home an animal with mustang blood fascinates me.”

A dagger of emotion thrust at Chase’s heart, then twisted painfully. Skylar had loved Peggy Sue’s wild beauty, she had related to the mare with childlike trust. “I suppose your father has dozens of Thoroughbreds.”

Her laugh was tinged with embarrassment. “His stock is dwindling,” she confided. “I keep confiscating them for the children’s summer camps. But he never refuses me.”

“So you’re spoiled.”

“Of course. Aren’t only children supposed to be?” Reminders of Skylar—the way she wheedled to get what she wanted, the lilt of her voice, the tilt of her eyes—torpedoed through his mind. “I don’t know,” he said stiffly, “I’ve got a working ranch here—I don’t dawdle around, indulging kids.”

She sighed. “You should. It’s a delightful pastime. And I don’t regret it. Not one bit. Of course, I’ll admit my father’s estate lends itself to my purposes,” she said. “It’s c’alle dunois denoire et Legina de Latoix.”

“Excuse me?”

“In your language it would translate to Valley of the Lost Legends. There are thousands of acres. Meadows as far as the eye can see, pools of fresh springwaters. And it’s protected by mountains on all sides.”

“Sounds like Wyoming, ma’am.”

“Not quite. To the west, beyond the tallest of those mountains, is the Atlantic Ocean.”

“You got me there.” Chase felt himself smile as he imagined putting one of his Morgans out to pasture, in a place that Mallory Chevalle described as if it were this side of heaven. “I imagine we’ll find you something to take back to your valley. My hands are out mending fence, but Lewt’s saddling up a couple of three-year-olds for you to look at. We can head down to the corral any time you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now,” she said, standing. He reached for the dirty napkins she still had wadded in her hand, but she moved them out of his grasp, avoiding contact with him. “I’m perfectly capable of putting trash in the receptacle. Thank you for lunch,” she added, picking up his water glass and hers.

“Bob said I could put you to work,” Chase commented, “but I don’t think he meant it. In the same sentence, he warned me to treat you well.”

Mallory grinned. “He did? He’s such a nice guy. I took a liking to him right away.”

Envy inexplicably welled in Chase. “Yeah. Bob’s a guy you can count on.”

“If I could choose a big brother, I would choose him,” she declared. “That’s how I think of him. Like a big, wonderful friend.”

Big brother? Wonderful friend? Apparently there had been nothing between them, and Bob was a lady’s man, for sure.

Relief rumbled through his chest. He didn’t know why. It shouldn’t even matter, not after Sharon. “Come on,” he said, giving the table a hit-or-miss job with the dishcloth, “let me show you some good Morgan stock.”

Mallory smiled eagerly over at him. “I can’t wait.”

It was a killer smile, and it crimped something in the region of Chase’s heart.

They left the dishes in the sink, and headed out for the corral. Lewt, the oldest, the goofiest, of his hired hands, had saddled a bay filly he’d dubbed Jellybean. Well into his seventies, Lewt spent his time puttering around the horses. Another mount, a chestnut gelding named Lucifer, was tethered to the hitching post.

“Lewt, meet our guest…” Chase stalled, reluctant to introduce her as Mallory Chevalle, heiress of Chevalle Shipping. “She’s interested in some good bloodlines.”

“Ma’am.” Lewt tipped his hat.

Mallory shook his gnarled, arthritic hand. “Hello. You must be happy, Lewt, to spend your days out here, with horses like these.”

Lewt’s eyes crinkled. “I am, ma’am. And I got me a nice piece of horseflesh here, if you will.” He affectionately slapped Jellybean’s neck.

“Ruger’s Rose of Sharon,” Chase explained, “otherwise known as Jellybean.”

“Jellybean?”

Lewt reached over to move her forelock aside. Mallory leaned closer, her gaze riveted on Jellybean’s forehead. Instead of a star, the mare had three small spots, all connected, and reminiscent of jelly beans.

“She’s beautiful,” Mallory said, her shoulders sagging as she allowed the horse to nuzzle her hand.

From the corner of his eye, Chase watched Mallory carefully.

Mallory had inherited the hands of an aristocrat, he allowed. Either that or the Chevalle wealth had shaped them. Her knuckles were slim, the bones of her wrist, delicate. Long, tapered fingers moved in harmony, making each move effortless, engaging.

As Lewt moved aside, Chase watched in fascination while she ran her hands over Jellybean’s head, her neck and down her withers, all the while crooning to her. Soft, lulling endearments that came from the back of her throat, her chest.

The woman was amazing. Maybe she really did know something about horses.

Mallory confidently leaned from the waist and slid her hand down Jellybean’s leg, pausing at her fetlock, then lifting her hoof to examine it.

Jellybean obliged, but Chase was more intent on the way Mallory’s tiny white top pulled from the back of her jeans. It fit her like a second skin, curving at the arch of her lower back, dipping into the depression that accommodated her spine. As she bent, the sleeves pulled against her arms, straining the seams in fine lines across her shoulders. Stretched thin, the knit revealed the two thin straps of her bra and the hook closure in the middle of her back. The suggestion of her intimate apparel made Chase shift uncomfortably. In his mind’s eye, he saw that silky thing draped across the bed. He thought about her offhand comment, about smothering him in lingerie.

Damn, it’d be a helluva way to go.

Mallory dropped the horse’s hoof, and in the back of Chase’s mind, it sounded like a punctuation mark exploding in the soft dirt.

“Hard, firm, well muscled,” Mallory breathlessly approved.

Chase blanched, quickly rearranging his features before Mallory lifted her innocent face to his. “All that, and more,” he muttered under his breath. “Here. Let me take her out for you,” he said, reaching for the reins. “See what you think.”

The fact was he needed to keep his hands, his thoughts, busy. The woman riled him in ways he couldn’t fathom. Sliding the toe of his boot into the stirrup, Chase threw his leg over the saddle, grateful for the ease of movement, the stretch of his jeans. Jellybean nervously sidestepped; Lewt and Mallory both backed away.

He nudged the filly into a wide canter around the arena, taking the edge off her high-strung temperament. He put her through her paces, figure eights, reining her in from a trot to a walk.

Mallory and Lewt had moved outside the corral, and their arms hung over the top rail. Periodically, Chase saw Mallory incline her head nearer Lewt’s in conversation. He wondered, vaguely, what she said.

He pulled up before them, and arched a brow at her.

“She throws her head a little at every command, doesn’t she?” Mallory replied to his unasked question.

Chase stared at her, definitely deflated.

“Yup,” Lewt agreed mildly, propping the sole of his boot on the bottom rail as he spat into the dirt, “reckon she does. Never really noticed it until Mallory here pointed it out.”

Chase felt like the value of his stock had plummeted. Jellybean was the perfect horse for Mallory. He smiled through gritted teeth. “Let’s take a look at Lucifer,” he suggested.

But Lucifer, Mallory decided, had a slight inclination to wring his tail. Barely noticeable, of course. But it was apparent to her discerning eyes. To Chase’s consternation, Lewt agreed.

While Lewt led both animals back to the barns, Chase brought out Topaz. The filly worked beautifully, her agility to turn corners and stop on a dime her finest feature. When Mallory asked to ride her, Chase puffed up a little, figuring he’d made a match. An hour later he was planning a farewell breakfast, content he’d soon be sending the woman back to Narwhal, where she belonged. When she clambered down from the saddle, she offered Chase the reins and declared Topaz was remarkable, truly remarkable, but a little delicate in the withers. Especially for her father.

“Delicate in the withers?” he’d repeated dumbly, as visions of his buttermilk pancakes took flight.

“Perhaps a sturdier horse,” Mallory remarked idly, scratching Topaz behind the ears, then stroking her forehead.

His answer to that was Stretch, three years old, sixteen hands and still growing.

Too big, she declared.

Spinner, a five-year-old mare.

Calf-hocked, she announced.

Derby, a five-year-old stallion.

Bench-kneed, she decreed.

Exasperated, Chase scowled down at the impossibly beautiful woman. She was the pickiest lady he’d ever met in his whole life. His stock was nationally acclaimed, for crying out loud. The imperfections she was tossing out were slight, barely a notch short of perfect.

Chase snagged a deep breath, determined to sell Mallory a pony, or die trying. “You know, I’ve got this stunning black mare—”

Mallory threw up her hands in protest. “Oh! No. Absolutely not. I had a black gelding once, and that horse was the trial of my life. Dark as the devil he was. I vowed I’d never have another in the stable.”

He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “You know, ma’am, I can’t quite get a handle on what you’re looking for.”

“Oh, I’ll know it when I see it,” she said, her voice rising with conviction.

“You sure you didn’t get this Bar C stock mixed up with something else you saw out in California?” he said doubtfully.

“Certainly not.”

“But there’s been nothing that’s interested you at all today,” he complained, wearily glancing to the west, to the setting sun.

“I just haven’t found it yet. I’m looking for something special,” she reiterated. “Something unusual and spunky. It can be less than perfect, but the overall qualities have to be so unique that they make this horse an unforgettable animal. A different kind of horse. Something not of this world.”

Chase didn’t hear the last sentence. He was thinking of Peggy Sue, the pariah who had head-butted him against the wall this morning. Now, there was an unforgettable animal for you. The four-year-old was more than unique, she was a minefield of imperfections—and he’d be switched if he’d show Mallory that contrary little mare.

His reputation would go to hell in a handbasket. He’d be a laughingstock from one end of the country to the other. No matter what, he had to keep her away from Peggy Sue. “We’ll find you something special, Mallory. I guarantee it.”

Chapter Three

With her hands in six inches of dishwater, Mallory stared dismally out the kitchen window, at the bloodred sunset, and wondered if the animal Bob Llewelyn described to her—the one with “mustang” blood running through its veins—honestly did exist. She couldn’t come right out and ask, for fear her questions would arouse suspicion. Had Bob been toying with her? Had he sent her on what Americans called ‘a wild-goose chase’?

It had been three grueling days, and Chase had shown her more than two dozen Morgans. Not one of those animals was the one she wanted to see. She’d hinted that she might purchase three docile animals for the camp—but that was just to keep Chase pacified.

As for buying a horse for her father—or returning it to her father’s estate—she was running out of excuses. And Chase was running out of patience.

Of course, her stay wasn’t all bad, she acknowledged, running the tip of her finger around the rim of Chase’s coffee cup and reminding herself how his sensuous mouth had pressed against the rim only an hour earlier.