Six White Horses (14 page)

"I figured that your pride would rear its ugly head again," Morgan drawled. "And you can be unconsciously stubborn."

"If I am, you are the one who's given me cause to be that way," retaliated Patty.

"Don't try to change the subject."

"I wasn't! And stop ordering me around like a child. I'm not a child!" She almost stamped her foot in an infantile tantrum. To disguise the movement, she turned away, hot tears building in the back of her eyes. "If this is the way it's going to be, I wish I'd never come," she muttered bitterly.

"Where would you have gone? Back to New Mexico and Lije?" Morgan scoffed. "Were you hoping to do a little reconnaissance to see if he was as happy with his wife as he appeared?"

Pivoting sharply back, she swung her hand in a swift arc and connected with his cheek, the night's growth of dark beard scraping the palm of her hand. Morgan caught her wrist in its downward movement to prevent her from slapping again.

There was an ominous narrowing of his eyes. "What's the matter? Did I get too near the truth?"

"You couldn't have been farther from it!" Her voice trembled violently. "I don't care whether you believe me or not, but Lije Masters means nothing to me! I wish him all the happiness in the world—in his marriage and his new family!"

"Those are brave words. Too bad there isn't any ring of truth in them," he mocked.

"You couldn't see the truth if it spat
in your eye! The only thing you can think about is making my life miserable. Why must you pick on me so?" Patty asked with an angry, despairing sigh.

"Somebody has to shake some sense into you."

"Does it have to be you?" It was a strange question, but one that was spoken before she had a chance to think about it.

There was a faintly inquiring tilt to his head, a lightning change from stern anger to curious amusement. "Are you tired of fighting me, Patty?"

"Yes," was
the clipped admission.

"I never thought the day would come when I'd hear you say that," Morgan replied, a vaguely satisfied expression in his strong face.

"Well, you have, and you needn't be so triumphant about it," she muttered.

"Was I? I'm sorry." A warm smile was offered in accompaniment of his apology.

Her heart thudded against her rib cage as she felt his virile charm working its spell on her. A desire to be held within the strong circle of his arms rushed unchecked through her veins. The reaction of her senses to his smile struck her as being slightly mad. Briskly she averted her gaze from the captivating gleam in his eyes.

"May we go to the house now?" she requested tight-lipped.

"First I want to get one thing straight. Hear me out," Morgan inserted at her accusing glance. "I didn't know until a few minutes ago that my mother intended you and your grandfather to stay at the home. If I had, I would have mentioned it earlier, and not had her spring it on you unexpectedly. But since she has made these plans, I hope you'll accept them."

The low conciliatory tone coaxed a surrendering nod from Patty as she submitted to his quietly spoken request. "I will," she agreed.

And the undeclared truce began.

During the following five days, not one harsh word was exchanged between the two of them. Patty acknowledged that they didn't see each other that often, mainly at mealtimes or at the stables, and then generally in the company of others. Morgan still teased her, called her Skinny, but there were no disguised insults in his remarks.

As for his parents, Patty decided she could become quite fond of them. His mother, vivacious and warm, made her feel she was a member of the family. When Patty wasn't at the barns helping her grandfather take care of the horses, she was at the house helping Molly Kincaid prepare meals and clear away the dishes of the last one.

Lucas Kincaid was a big, vital man, embracing life and those he loved with an invisible bear hug. A great storyteller, he livened the dinner table with his tales, invariably spun with his droll Western humor. In appearance, he and Morgan were similar, but each personality was distinctly drawn. They were independent individuals, caring deeply for each other but not intimidated by each other's shadow.

Their home was a vision of simplicity and charm, rustic in its furnishings with casual early American furniture adding to the Western atmosphere. But Patty's discerning eye hadn't missed the implied wealth that lurked unpretentiously in the corners, the intricate bronze sculptures of Frederic Remington and his paintings depicting the lusty frontier life, and other works of art and prints by equally famous Western artists scattered about the house. But it was a place that was lived in with love and happiness, an atmosphere that could not be bought with any amount of money. It was a gift from the hearts of its occupants.

Burying her head deeper in her pillow, Patty tried to block out whatever sound it was that had awakened her. Then, it came again—a whinnying neigh from the stables. Easily she distinguished the caller, one of her own white horses, Landmark. Lifting her head from the pillow, she glanced at the luminous dial of the clock on the bedside table. Nearly midnight, the hands revealed.

This was about the time her grandfather made his nightly check on the horses. He never turned in until late, declaring now that he was old, he didn't need as much sleep. Patty waited, trying to decide if the whinny had been one of welcome or a call for help. Her grandfather could be at the stables or he might have already checked on them and left. She waited, all thought of sleep gone.

After several minutes of continued silence, Patty threw back the covers and slipped out of bed, padding in her bare feet to the window. From this angle with the branches of the large oak in the way, she couldn't tell if there was a light on in the stables. She walked to the door of her downstairs bedroom and listened for the sounds of anyone stirring in the house. There was only the ticking of the large grandfather clock.

Retrieving the light cotton robe from the end of her bed, Patty slipped her arms into it to cover the bareness exposed by her shortie pajamas. With quiet movements she tiptoed from the room. Moonlight streamed in through the windows, making artificial light unnecessary as she hurried quietly to the less obstructed view from the living-room window.

The stable was dark. There were no lights shining in its small windows. With the house quiet, her grandfather must have looked in on the horses already and retired for the night. Another whinny came from the stable, muffled this time because there were no windows open as there had been in Patty's bedroom. Still, she was certain she had detected a plaintive note in the sound.

She hesitated uncertainly near the window, unable to decide whether to check on the horses herself or get her grandfather. Finally she decided on the last. Chances were he was not yet asleep and if there was a problem, she would have to seek him out anyway. Under someone's guidance, she could care for any horse's injury, but she didn't have the experience to diagnose a problem.

The closed stairwell to the upper floor was dark, the moonlight unable to peer around the corners to pierce the gloom. Her fingers touched the light switch and hesitated. Her grandfather's bedroom was the second door on the right at the top of the stairs. Patty had no wish to accidentally waken the rest of the household with what might be no more than a false alarm.

With a hand on the banister, she climbed the stairs, a board creaking occasionally as it took her weight. Her hand searched the darkness at the top of the stairs for the side wall. Several hesitant steps later, the firmness of the solid wall was touched by her fingertips. Trading them along the wall, Patty encountered the first door, tiptoed by it and paused beside the second door.

Silence and the even sound of someone breathing greeted her as she opened the door and quietly closed it behind her. Just inside the room, she hesitated, unwilling to waken her grandfather if he was truly asleep. The limbs of another large oak blocked the flow of moonlight, admitting only enough light for her to discern the shadowy human form in the bed.

With unconscious stealth, she edged closer to the bed until she was bending over it. When the dark figure stirred her mouth opened to call out softly to him. Only a startled gasp of surprise came out as her wrist was seized and she was pulled onto the bed. The rest of her cry was smothered by the large hand that covered her mouth. Wide brown eyes gazed horror-struck into the glinting blue eyes of Morgan Kincaid only inches above her.

"I wonder what my mother would think if she found you creeping into my bedroom in the middle of the night," he laughed softly, his warm breath dancing over her skin.

The shock receded as his mocking words provoked a spurt of anger. Not only his hand but his body weight was pushing her into the mattress. She managed to push his hand away, at least as far as the side of her neck.

"What are you doing in grandpa's room?" she demanded in an accusing whisper.

"I don't think mother would buy a case of mistaken rooms," Morgan taunted, "since this has been my bedroom almost since the day I was born."

The hand she raised to push him off encountered the searing bareness of his chest, muscles rippling beneath her touch, igniting all sorts of fiery sensations that left her slightly breathless.

"This isn't grandpa's room?" Her voice sounded very weak even to her own ears, "But—but this is the second room on the right," she added lamely.

"The second room, yes." A half smile curved the inflexibly male mouth, "but the third door. You forgot about the linen closet."

A tiny oh slipped from her parted lips. She moistened them nervously and saw his gaze center on her mouth. A pulse hammered in her temples as his lazy half-closed look slid back to hold her gaze. There was a disturbing discovery that never in her whole existence had she been so sensually aware of a man as she was at this moment, with the smoothness of the sheets beneath her and the heat of his body burning through the material of her thin pajamas and robe.

The tousled jet black hair invited her to run her fingers through its thickness. The tanned bareness of his chest and shoulders was beneath her hand to explore. Morgan had kissed her before, but always she had struggled either physically or mentally. Now Patty found herself wondering what it would be like to give herself up to the burning mastery of caresses, to glory in the fiery responses she had involuntarily felt before.

In the past, only with Lije had Patty tried to imagine what it would be like if he made love to her. Hot color swept her cheeks as she realized that it was Morgan who filled her imagination now. Not only filled it, but dominated it with his virility.

Shifting beneath his pressing weight, she pushed the flat of her palm against his shoulder in an effort to free herself from his enervating nearness.

There was a sharp intake of breath and a quick "Careful!" as Morgan winced. Until that second, Patty had forgotten all about his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she offered swiftly and breathlessly.

The fleeting glimpse of pain was gone. The fire in his gaze ran over her face. His voice took on a low, seductive quality.

"Do you think you can manage a gentle resistance?"

"Morgan—"

Whatever else Patty had intended to say was lost as his mouth tantalized the corners of her sensitive, trembling lips, playing with them until they ached for the light teasing to stop. Instinctively her hand slid up his chest to curl around the back of his neck, the fingers edging into his black, waving hair. When her hand tightened around his neck, his tormenting kisses hardened into possession.

Sanity was abandoned in the chaotic whirl of her emotions. Parting her lips, Morgan explored her mouth, sending fresh waves of desire exploding in her veins. The intimate caress of his hands was awakening her to a stage of sensuality she hadn't dreamed of reaching. She could only gasp at the wonder of it when he pushed the collar of her robe away to bury his head in the hollow of her throat.

"Your heart is racing,"
Morgan muttered huskily as he dropped kisses around her ear, nibbling at the lobe.

"So—so is yours," Patty whispered, surprised and frightened at the way her arms were clinging to his strong, naked back. Self-consciously she lowered them to a less urgent position near his waist, only to make another discovery. "You—you don't have any clothes on." Her cheeks flamed as she realized how thin the sheet was that separated them.

"You have very few on yourself," he reminded her with a throaty chuckle. "I've compromised you, you know that? My parents would insist that I do the honorable thing and marry you."

"But you don't love me," she protested as he continued to let his mouth roam free around her cheek and ear.

"You don't love me." An invisible shrug accompanied his reply.

Yes, I do, Patty answered silently, qualifying it quickly in her mind that she thought she loved him. At this moment, she seemed dependent on his touch in order to keep her heart beating.

"Your parents don't know I'm here," was the response she gave out loud.

"And if they found us making love, what would you do?" He was nuzzling her neck again.

"I'd…I'd be too ashamed to face them."

She felt the tensing of his muscles as he held himself motionless for an instant. Then he raised his head to study her face
in the dim light.