Chapter 3

Slade flung the quilt away and cursed the dawn. His sleep had been stolen. He glared at the wall that separated them and thought of Lacey innocently curled beneath the blanket, completely unaware of how she unsettled him. He yanked on his clothes and tucked his tobacco pouch in his coat pocket.

Hoping to revive himself, he stepped out the door and inhaled a sharp lungful of the frigid air. As he approached the barn, his mind returned to the Lazy Heart's guest. With too much force he opened the door nearly snapping a hinge. The buildings were weatherworn and yet he was stomping around like a bull. Pulling in another deep breath, he tried to cool his blood.

He snatched up the branding iron he'd forged and formed and began filing down the rough edges. Because of the rasping sound, Slade didn't realize Dix was behind him until he felt warm breath on his neck. Slade turned around and handed Dix the iron and waited for his reaction.

"Yeah, this will do," Dix said. "Your new mark is so damn complicated even Banyon won't be able to figure out how to alter it."

"Let's hope," Slade grabbed his saddle and slung it over the sawhorse. He applied vigorous pressure as he oiled it. Unfortunately, it didn't do much to relieve his tension. Every time he thought about the bastards who stole his cattle and blotted the Dalton brand, he wanted to put his fist through Banyon's face.

"Looks like you're going to rub a hole in that thing," Dix said. "We'll bring the ranch back. You know I was working the railway stockyard when Banyon drove in three hundred head of longhorn. After raising them by hand, it was easy to recognize your father's superior stock. Imagine he earned a sizeable profit shipping them east." Dix chuckled. "Course, with no outlay, it's all profit. I suspect Banyon kept the rest for breeding. I told Grady about it when he came back for one of his rare visits. But you know how the ranch was always his last priority."

Dix contemplated the iron in the palm of his hand. He frowned. "I wished I could have stayed on to prevent the rustling."

It was a rare thing to see Dix contrite.

"Dora couldn't afford me any longer."

"Can't expect a man to work for nothing," Slade responded.

Slade didn't feel right broaching the subject with Dora, but he couldn't understand where the earnings he'd sent home had gone. Surely, it had been enough to pay the crew's wages. There was always the possibility that Grady had siphoned it off for one of his business ventures.

The barn door creaked, and they both turned to look. Lacey Jarrell looked brighter to Slade than the sun that haloed her. His breath caught in his throat, as it always did, when he saw her. She was so damn beautiful; it nearly hurt to look at her.

She'd been making herself scarce. Moping, he assumed. She'd only left her room to help Dora prepare meals. Judging by her attempts at cooking, Slade figured the kitchen was as alien a territory to her as Colorado.

"Grady's got himself a fine, fancy piece there," Dix commented.

Slade instantly felt his blood boil. His fingers curled into a fist. He doubted he could have controlled his temper if it had been someone other than Dix saying those words.

Dix lifted his hands in a placating gesture. "Whoa, Slade! I hadn't realized."

"Realized what?" Slade heard the resentment in his own voice.

"That for once in your life, you wish you were in Grady's shoes."

Slade, choosing to ignore Dix's comment, said, "Have the men round up what's left. I want them all branded in the next few days."

"You got it, Dalton." Dix gave Lacey an enthusiastic greeting as he approached her. He threw a knowing smile over his shoulder at Slade, as he strode out of the barn.

Slade threw the oilcloth in a can, swung the saddle on to his hip, and stepped out of the tack room. He planned a long ride around the perimeter of the south pasture to make sure everything was secure. He wasn't going to give the Banyons anymore opportunities. Truth was, there wasn't much left to steal except some four-legged buzzard bait.

Lacey had stopped at Ransom's stall. Even on tiptoes, her fingers barely grazed the beast's forelock. Slade still hadn't forgiven himself for making her cry on the day she'd arrived. Amazingly, her tears had actually penetrated the cold wall he'd erected around himself.

Thinking himself a prime fool, he stood in the middle of the barn, the saddle resting on his hip, staring at her. When she finally noticed him, it was all he could do to tip his hat in greeting. He couldn't remember the last time a woman made him nervous.

"Mr. Dalton," Lacey addressed him in a voice so indifferent, it made his insides knot up. She seemed to despise him, and if she didn't, then Grady would make sure she did.

Settling on the soles of her feet, one hand still resting on the stall door, she turned to face him. "I want him."

"You want him?" he repeated lamely.

"Yes. I want to ride him."

Slade looked from her to Ransom, a horse that had been gelded late in life and retained a stallion's high-strung temperament. "Well, as you know, Miss Jarrell..." He gave her a considering look. "...or perhaps you don't," he amended. "We can't always have what we want."

"I am not as spoiled as you imagine."

He balanced his saddle atop the adjacent stall's door. "If you say so," he said with little conviction.

Lacey gave him a syrupy smile, and from the pocket of what she apparently deemed a proper riding outfit, she pulled a pair of kidskin gloves. As she occupied herself with tugging them onto her slender fingers, he allowed his eyes to travel over the fitted black jacket and down the length of her velvet skirt. He swallowed hard before pulling his eyes from her sweet form.

"Ridden a lot, have you?"

"Well, no... Not exactly."

"Not exactly?" Slade threw her a questioning glance.

She paused a moment and gave a sharp jerk on the sleeve of her jacket. "If you must know, I've never actually been on a horse before, but every holiday my maid, Emmie, took me for a ride on a pony in the park."

Slade threw his head back with a laugh. "Ponies in the park...every holiday, and now, of course, you're prepared to hop on Ransom, here. Seventeen hands high and so excitable that a gnat is liable to send him over the paddock fence."

Lacey's bottom lip pouted stubbornly. "I just thought his black coat would go well with my outfit."

Slade removed his hat and raked his hair back. Placing it back on his head, he adjusted the brim low on his brow again. How could anyone be so damn adorable, he thought.

"Yeah, well," he cleared his throat, while simultaneously holding back a smile. "Why don't we just put you on ol' Irish, there." He pointed to a small chestnut mare in the nearby box stall. "And we'll try and overlook the clash of colors."

Lacey walked over to give the horse a soft pat on the forehead. "I suppose she'll do. She has the most beautiful eyelashes."

Moving to stand beside her, Slade pushed the forelock off the horse's face. "Imagine that, Irish. All this time you thought the stallions were after your perky little rump, and it was really those long lashes that had 'em going."

Blushing, Lacey peered up at him through her own long lashes. "'Tis a bit close in here. I'll wait outside while you get her ready."

"Hold on a minute, Miss Jarrell. If you're riding, then you'll have to ready your own mount." He snatched up a bucket of grooming tools, and plunked them down at her feet.

She placed her hands on her hips and stared down at the various brushes and picks. Intending to make his getaway, Slade retrieved his saddle and grabbed a bridle and slung it over his shoulder. He'd only made it halfway to the door when she spoke.

"Are you mad? I haven't a clue what to do with these things."

"Brush her coat. I'm sure you know how to use a brush. Comb her mane and tail. That little pick there is to clean out her hooves." He pointed to the sidesaddle resting on the wooden rack jutting from the wall. "You'll have to use that one. It's the only one made for a skirt. Unless, you plan to hike your skirt up to your waist. By the way, it goes on the horse's back." Slade was actually amazed to find his nasty tone did not provoke her to anger. Instead, she just stood there, blinking her big golden eyes at him. "And watch she doesn't step on you while you do it all," he added as he exited the barn.

He felt a bit guilty for leaving her alone, but that was easy to shake off, considering Irish was just a big ol' dog in a horse suit. Actually, he was rather hoping to teach the little baggage a lesson.

After an hour riding in circles in the near fields, his eyes straying frequently to the barn doors, Slade could no longer pretend that he wasn't worried. A vision of Lacey trying to hoist the heavy saddle was enough to send him back at a gallop.

* * * *

Lacey, attempting to fasten the girth-strap for what seemed the hundredth time, looked up at the sound of the barn door creaking open. Slade was heading straight for her. Then he stopped a mere pace away, staring at her as he had earlier. This morning, his presence had unsettled her to such a degree, she had actually blathered on about her outfit. As if she truly cared whether the horse matched her clothes or not. Lacey hated to admit it, but the only reason she wanted to ride Ransom was to impress him. To let him know she was up to the challenge of ranch life. Instead, she'd come off as a shallow half-wit. No doubt, he'd had a good, hearty laugh about her.

She looked helplessly to the hay bundle where she'd draped her jacket. She would have to sidle past him to get it. Pretending she was dressed in something other than her rather revealing black-velvet bodice with the insignificant cap-sleeves, she pointed at the saddle sitting at a tilt on the horse. "Stubborn girl. Every time I attempt to tighten the belt, she takes a deep breath. When she blows it out, of course, the thing is too loose."

Slade was staring at her as though he'd never seen a woman in this state of undress. But, surely, a man of his character spent a fair amount of time in saloons. "If you'd be kind enough to hand me my hat and jacket."

His eyes gave a quick glance in the direction she pointed and then returned immediately to her. Without looking, he plucked the items from the hay bundle. "I've men working here that might take that as an invitation," he said.

Her breath quickened as his gaze caressed her exposed skin. "I would have torn the seams," she said as she plucked the clothing from his hand. She donned the hat, leaving the ribbon strings untied, and quickly thrust her arms into the jacket sleeves. She took care to button the jacket to the top.

"Woman," he drawled, "I don't employ saints—far from it."

A hard lump formed in her throat. "Forgive me, but I have never in my life been this hot...this dusty...this bloody uncomfortable." Sweat dampened curls clung to her temple, and she pushed them aside knowing she must be smearing dirt on her face in the process. And it wasn't but a moment later that his rough thumb was attempting to rub away a mark she'd left on her cheek. In surprising reaction to the intimacy of his touch, her eyes glossed over with tears.

His thumb moved to catch the tears before they fell from her lashes. "Ah, Lacey..."

Hearing him say her name so tenderly made her knees weak. With the little resolve she could muster, Lacey pushed his hand away and moved back to Irish's side.

Standing beside her now, Slade lifted one of the braids she'd woven into the horse's mane, his mouth crooking into a quizzical half-smile. "Have to admit, I've never seen her look better."

After straightening the saddle, he gave a strong yank on the strap. Irish reacted by puffing her stomach out again. "C'mon, girl. You can't hold your breath forever." He grabbed the reins and led the horse outside. Lacey followed at his heels. When the animal did finally release its breath with a long, loud exhalation, he cinched her up tight. He gave the horse's neck a vigorous pat.

"Can I give you a boost?"

"No, thank you."

"Suit yourself," he said and stood back to watch.

She grabbed a handful of mane and the back of the saddle before putting a foot in the stirrup. Her first few attempts fell quite short.

"It wouldn't be any trouble to give you a leg up."

"I can do it myself," she said with complete exasperation as she looked over her shoulder at him.

Slade motioned toward the horse with a flourish of his hand. "Excuse me. Don't let me get in the way."

His patronizing tone was the impetus she needed. Scrunching down a bit to give herself some more spring action, she pulled hard on the saddle and hoisted herself up and clear over the horse, landing with a thump and a moan on the hay strewn ground.

She lifted her head and found Slade peering with interest over the saddle. "Well, Mr. Dalton, what are you looking at?"

"Just checking. Thought maybe you had a smaller horse parked over there, and you were just goin' over Irish, here, to get to it."

She flashed him a smile. "I suppose, I used just a little too much push that time."

"Your push was fine. It's the stopping at the saddle part that you had a little trouble with."

"Ouch," she said, easing herself to a sitting position. Slade circled the horse and dropped to a crouch beside her. She looked into eyes that were studying her carefully. She watched him tug off his leather glove. His bare fingers tilted her face toward the sun.

"It appears..." he concluded after turning her chin this way and that and staring intently into her eyes, "...that you haven't knocked yourself senseless. Not that you had much sense to begin with." One side of his mouth lifted into a crooked grin.

"Ever charming," she retorted as he pulled her to her feet.

"Yeah, well I try."

They both looked down at the fistful of mane she clutched in her other hand.

Lacey held the loose hair up to Irish's neck. "I don't suppose there's any way to reattach this," she said. A remark that set her to giggling. To her surprise, Slade laughed, too. A deep, infectious laugh that actually melted the coldness in his eyes. The thaw, though, proved temporary.

The man was certainly changeable. One moment he was harsh and, the next, almost gentle.

"You'll be tasting nothing but dirt if you don't have someone to teach you how to ride," he said. "I've already wasted a morning, and I can't spare more. Tait can show you."

"Right. Tait, I'm sure, would be far kind—ah—more patient working with a novice." After that utterance, he seemed even less pleased.

"I'll fetch him." He strode over to his horse and lifted himself smoothly into the saddle.

"Listen." He peered down at her, eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. "I don't want you to do anything until Tait gets here."

Playing to the image he obviously had of her, Lacey answered him in the softest, most frivolously female voice she could manage. "Absolutely, Mr. Dalton, sir."

She realized almost instantly she'd taken the wrong tack; he was not a man to treat lightly. She hastily turned her back to him, pretending to concentrate on the horse. A shiver chased up her spine as she heard his boots hit the dirt with a thud.

"Seems you're not taking me seriously." With one restraining hand on her wrist, Slade leaned over and snatched up her hat, which she'd lost while flying over the horse. Spinning her around, he placed it firmly on her head and fastened the bonnet strings below her chin. A tad too tightly, in her opinion.

The brims of their hats met as he leaned in low. "It's pretty damn hard to tell one piece of land from the next, so don't even think of wandering off on your own. Tait is going to keep an eye on you."

Slade circled around her and she assumed the lecture was over, but his hands took hold of her waist, hauling her against his long, hard frame. His hair slipped over her shoulder, his lips so close she could feel their feather-light movement against her ear.

"Don't get it into your head to defy me. Understand?"

All she could do was nod weakly in response.

* * * *

Oliver clambered onto the bed, and Lacey found herself rolling down the slope he'd created. The dog's fur tickled her face, and she squinted into the semi-darkness trying to reacquaint herself with the new surroundings. She was finding it hard to shake off the nagging loneliness. Unfortunately, she felt sure Grady's return would do nothing to fill this emptiness.

She opened her wardrobe and ran a hand over the soft fabric of her riding habit. A week of riding sidesaddle and she was more than ready to dispense with it. She wanted the control of riding astride. From the drawer, she took the neat pile of old clothes she'd acquired from the basement.

Tait's adolescent trousers fit easily over her slim hips. She twisted around, trying to get a good look at her rear end. The pants conformed to her contours a little snugly. She refused to let it bother her. The pants were just too comfortable. But it was Slade's shirt, worn soft as chamois from use that gave her pause. She had only herself to blame. She should have taken one of Grady's shirts instead; after all, Dora had specifically pointed them out.

Slipping her arms into the sleeves, she was unable to help herself. She took a whiff of the shirt, wanting to see if the essence of the man still lingered. Disappointed, she found that only a faint trace of soap clung to the fabric. She knotted the shirttail neatly at her waist and rolled up the sleeves. After plaiting her hair into a thick braid, she donned the floppy felt hat, tying the bonnet strings beneath her chin. The only vanity she allowed herself was a pair of small diamond earrings.

Lacey stepped into the kitchen, marveling at the gray morning light that bathed the room. She couldn't remember ever rising before the hour of ten when she lived with her father in London.

"Morning, Dora," she said as she took a handful of dough and began rolling it out. Lacey smiled to herself. She'd never expected to find pleasure in such a simple act.

Lacey held up her attempt at a biscuit and compared it to Dora's perfect, fluffy, white circles. Even though they'd used the same can to cut the dough, Lacey had managed to mangle hers lifting it off the cutting board. But she'd rolled this particular piece of dough out three times, and she was going to put it on the baking sheet, whether it looked perfect or not. Perhaps making the ideal biscuit was not such a simple act, after all.

"Haven't quite got it yet, have I?" she asked, cradling the ill-shaped biscuit on her palm.

With the back of her hand, Dora pushed a few wisps of hair out of her face and eyed Lacey's work. She held her lips in a rather tight smile, as though she were suppressing a laugh. "You're coming along just fine."

Lacey wasn't convinced of her sincerity. Certainly, she'd have a maid in Boston. So it wasn't important that she become skilled in all things domestic.

Lacey heard Slade's boots echo down the hallway. She found herself holding her breath.

Dora leaned in and whispered, "I'm worried about him. Most nights, he's up wandering the house. Used to be, he could sleep standing. Don't know what's got him so stirred up."

Lacey shrugged. She'd heard his pacing, too. And now he was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. His nicked chin seemed to show the effects of an unsteady hand, belying his sleepless night.

"Have Tait look after the herd. I'm going logging with Dix today." He gave Dora's shoulder a squeeze before kissing her on the cheek. "A new cook shed ought to make your life a little easier."

"This kitchen is a mite small, cooking for all those mouths," Dora said.

Favoring Dora with a sweet, crooked smile, he accepted the proffered mug of steaming coffee.

Lacey wished the smile had been for her. "The first batch of biscuits is nearly done."

He turned his attention to her now, his eyes resting on her face. His smile instantly altered to a sulk.

With coffee cup in hand, he stalked out, shutting the door with force.

She knew a way to lighten his mood. She'd let him know about Grady's change of plans, that he would be arriving a month sooner than expected.

Lacey arranged the fluffy, golden biscuits on a plate around a jar of honey, which she already knew to be Slade's favorite.

He was leaning against the porch railing, staring out toward the grazing pasture. When she set the plate atop the small wood table, his attention shifted to her. Nervously, Lacey wiped her fingers on her apron.

"'Tis obvious, you find me nothing but a nuisance, Mr. Dalton. So you'll be happy to know, this arrived today."

His eyes were watchful as she pulled the wrinkled letter from her apron pocket.

"Grady will be here shortly. It seems, you'll only have to put up with me for a few more months."

She startled as Slade snatched the letter from her, scowling as he scanned it.

"You crumpled it," he noted.

"Oh did I?" She tried to manage a smile, but couldn't. Not while looking into Slade Dalton's eyes.

Lacey plucked the letter out of his hand and made a show of flattening and folding it, before slipping it back into her pocket. She felt ashamed that she'd crumpled it. If it weren't for Grady Dalton, she'd have no home.

Without even touching the biscuits, Slade hopped the porch railing, his boots hitting the dirt with a thud. Lacey could see the tension in his broad shoulders as he headed toward the fields.

"Bloody well done," she muttered. "He's obviously feeling much better about me now."

He'd left his half-finished cup of coffee on the railing. She'd never seen him leave any of Dora's prized coffee in his cup before. She took a sip, idly wondering as she did, which side of the cup his lips had touched. She picked up the plate of biscuits and grimaced at the sight of a fly struggling to release itself from the amber-colored honey. She felt very much like that fly; stuck in a situation she had no way out of.

* * * *

Lacey yawned. Today's ride with Tait had been too tame. She had been unable to goad Irish into anything but a plodding gait.

She shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. For the entire morning, they'd been winding their way through fields and woods, crossing an occasional stream. Yet they'd never reached an end to the Dalton property.

With Tait lagging behind, nearly drowsing in his saddle, they finally entered the drive. They found themselves trailing Slade and Dix, who'd just arrived carting a wagonload of timber. Slade was shirtless. Splinters adhered to the sweat glistening on his bare chest.

Skipping off the front porch toward him was a young woman dressed in a pale blue gown with a flirty bustle.

Upon seeing her, Slade reined the horses to a halt.

Lacey couldn't help noticing how he quickly put on his shirt, making himself presentable. Lacey pulled her eyes away. She prodded Irish, encouraging her to move faster, with little results.

"Susan Ludlow is so sweet on him, it hurts my teeth," Tait commented as his horse pulled up alongside Lacey's.

Lacey cringed, thinking how terrible she must look in her borrowed clothes. Next to Susan Ludlow, she resembled a scarecrow.

Lacey chanced a glance in their direction as Irish plodded past. Slade launched himself off the wagon. He was coming toward her. She felt unreasonably glad, until he spoke.

"Where's your hat?" He took hold of the bridle and with little effort stopped Irish's painstakingly slow progress.

He glanced from her to Tait for a moment, his eyes narrowing with accusation. She flipped her hair behind her shoulder, her braid having unraveled during the long ride. She gave him a confused smile.

"'Tis obvious. I lost it."

He moved to the side of the horse, his chest pressing against her leg. He reached up to finger her hair. He plucked a dried leaf from it, followed by a twig-like branch. "You take another tumble from the horse?"

"No, actually, I forgot to duck when I should have."

"Tait." He looked to the side of her, his pale eyes flashing with anger. "You've got to do a damn sight better job watching her."

She gripped the reins tighter. "Really? I thought he was doing a fabulous job acting my nursemaid. Truth is, if we'd gone any slower, I'd have fallen asleep in the saddle."

"Damn right. You'd better be going slow. You just worry about keeping your fanny in that saddle and your neck in one piece."

What did he care about her fanny or any other part of her anatomy, she wondered, with Susan Ludlow to worry over?

She tried to turn her horse toward the stables before he could see her tears, but Irish, glad not to move, proved too stubborn to budge. "Please, Irish," she begged as the tears began streaming down her cheeks. What was it about this man that made her so bloody emotional?

"You're a little reckless, Lace." There was an odd catch in his voice. "I just don't want you gettin' hurt." He squeezed her knee with his hand. The warmth of it, the feeling it evoked, only made her cry harder.

She pulled her leg from beneath his hand and dismounted, making certain the horse separated them. Let him take Irish back to the stables, she thought, as she sniffled her way back to the house.

She wished he'd stayed and flirted with Susan Ludlow, rather than coming over just to criticize her. No she didn't, she admitted to herself. Seeing him with Susan Ludlow had sent her heart plummeting to her stomach.

And he was right. She was reckless. It had become second nature. It had started as a way of getting her father's attention. She'd felt so alone and unloved after her mother died. Her father, always too preoccupied with business, never had a moment to spare for her. And, no matter what she did, he chose to pretend that she was still his well-behaved daughter. Then, she'd finally gone too far, and done something even he couldn't ignore. She and her friends had snuck into the shady gaming hall, thinking it just another thrill, until the authorities raided it. If her father hadn't been friends with the constable, she might very well have found herself in the gaol.