Charles’s treachery cut deep. They’d had their differences, but Steffie had never once believed he would purposely set out to hurt her or her family. She’d been wrong. Charles was both vindictive and unforgiving, and that was more painful than the things he’d said to her that last day they’d been together. That horrible day when he’d laughed at her.

She was shocked he still had the power to make her feel like this, but apparently his grip on her heart was as strong now as it had been three years earlier. The time she’d spent away from home, the time she’d given herself to heal, might never have existed. She was no less vulnerable to him now.

From the moment Steffie first met Charles, she’d been fascinated with him. Infatuated. In the beginning, she hoped he returned her feelings. She’d been attending the University of Portland, making the fifty-mile commute into the city every day. Her mother had died a few months earlier, so Steffie had decided against moving into a dorm, as she’d originally planned.

In her sorrow, she’d craved the comfort of familiar people and places. She was worried, too, about her father, who seemed to be walking around in a fog of grief.

Valerie was already living in Texas at that point, and although she’d come home often while their mother was ill, her work schedule had kept her from visiting much since.

Norah, who was in the university’s nursing program, used to drive to Portland with her. But Steffie would have made the hour’s drive twice a day by herself if she’d had to, simply so she could see Charles more often.

It mortified her now, looking back. Her excuses to see him had been embarrassingly transparent. She’d been so wide-eyed with adoration that she’d repeatedly made a fool of herself.

Her cheeks flamed as she recalled the times she’d followed him around like a lost puppy. The way she’d studied every word, every line, he’d written. The way she’d worshiped him from afar, until her love had burned fiercely within her, impossible to contain or control….

She didn’t want to remember, and as she so often had in the past, she blocked the memories from her mind rather than relive the humiliation she’d suffered because of him.

Her anger had cooled by the time she’d finished the ten-mile drive out of Orchard Valley to the family home. Once she arrived, the thought of going inside held no appeal. She needed to do something physically demanding to work off her frustration.

The stables were located behind the house. Valerie and Norah had never really taken to riding, but Steffie, who was the family daredevil, had loved it. The sense of freedom and power had been addictive to a young girl struggling to discover her own identity. Some of the happiest memories of her childhood were the times she’d gone horseback riding with her father.

She knew from Norah’s letters that he hadn’t ridden much lately and had left exercising the horses to the hired help.

The stable held six stalls, four of them empty, and a tack room at the rear. Both Fury and Princess raised their sleek heads when she entered the barn. Princess was the gentle mare her father had purchased and named for her several years earlier; Fury was her father’s gelding, large and black, notoriously temperamental. He pawed the ground vigorously as she approached.

“How’re you doing, big boy?” she asked, rubbing his soft muzzle. “I’m not ignoring you, Princess,” she told the mare across the aisle. “It’s just that I’m in the mood for a really hard workout.”

After allowing Fury to refamiliarize himself with her, Steffie collected saddle and bridle from the tack room. She slipped on Fury’s bridle, then opened the stall gate and led him out. The gelding seemed to be as eager to run as she was to ride, and he shifted his weight impatiently as she tightened the girth and adjusted the stirrups.

Leading him out of the stable, she’d set her foot in the stirrup, ready to mount, when she noticed a small red sports car racing down the driveway. It didn’t take her two seconds to recognize Charles.

Steffie had no intention of speaking to a man she considered a traitor. In fact, she didn’t want to ever see him again. She planned to talk to her sisters, then seek legal counsel. Charles would pay for what he’d done to her father, and she’d make sure he paid dearly. Even if he retained bitter feelings about her, that was no reason to take vengeance on her family.

Reaching for the saddle horn, she hoisted herself onto Fury’s back. She hadn’t used a Western saddle since she’d left home and needed a moment to get used to it again. Fury scampered in a side trot as Steffie changed her position, leaning slightly forward.

“It’s all right, boy,” she assured him in a calm, quiet voice that belied her eagerness to escape—and leave Charles behind.

She ignored his honk and although it was childish, she derived a certain amount of pleasure from turning her back on him. She nudged Fury’s sides and with her chin at a haughty angle, trotted away.

She’d only gone a short distance when she became aware that Charles was following her. Fury didn’t need any encouragement to increase his steady trot to a full gallop. Although she was an experienced horsewoman, Steffie wasn’t prepared for the sudden burst of speed. Fury raced as though fire was licking at his heels.

Holding on to the reins, Steffie adjusted as well as she could, bouncing and jolting uncomfortably, unable to adapt to Fury’s rhythm. She’d ridden in Italy, but not nearly as often as she would’ve liked and always with an English-style saddle. Not only was she out of practice, she didn’t have the strength to control a horse of Fury’s size and power—especially one who hadn’t been exercised lately. She should’ve thought of that, she groaned. Thank goodness he was familiar with the terrain. He galloped first along the dirt road, bordered on both sides by apple trees. He kicked up a cloud of dust in his wake, which made it impossible for Steffie to tell whether Charles had continued after her. She prayed he hadn’t.

Only when Fury took a sharp turn to the left, through a rough patch of ground, did Steffie see that Charles was indeed behind her. She tried to pull in the reins, to slow Fury down to a more comfortable trot, but the gelding had a mind of his own. She tried to talk to him but her hair flew about her face, the long ends slapping her cheeks, blinding her. Between her bouncing in the saddle and the hair flapping in her face, she couldn’t manage a single intelligible word.

By now she had a lot more than Charles to worry about. She was about to lose what little control she had of the horse. And on this rough ground, she feared for the animal’s safety, not to mention her own.

Steffie remembered the land well enough to realize they were headed for a bluff that overlooked the valley. It was at the farthest reach of her family’s property, and a place Steffie had often gone when she needed to be alone. She approved of Fury’s choice, if not his means of getting there.

Her one consolation was that it would be virtually impossible for Charles to follow her any farther. His vehicle would never make it over the rock-strewn landscape. With no other option, he’d be forced to turn back. Or wait. And if he chose to wait by the side of the dirt road, he’d be out of luck—she’d simply take another route home, connecting with the road at a different point.

Once they reached their destination, Fury slowed to a canter. Steffie pulled back on the reins, slid out of the saddle and commanded her trembling legs to keep her upright. She wiped the sweat from the gelding’s neck and rubbed him down with a handful of long dry grass, then led him to a nearby stream. She was loosely holding the reins, allowing him to drink the clear, cool water, when she saw a whirl of dust. Thinking at first that it might be a dust devil, she only glanced in that direction. Her heart sank all the way to her knees when she made out the form of a red sports car.

It wasn’t possible. The terrain was far too uneven and rocky. Charles must be insane to risk the undercarriage of his car by racing after her.

Squaring her shoulders, she turned to face him, refusing to give one quarter. Charles bounded out of the small car like a spring being released. She nearly flinched at the hard, angry set of his face.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded—as though he had a right to ask.

Steffie didn’t acknowledge him but resumed her rubdown of the horse.

“You might have been killed, you idiot! And you might have killed that horse, too.”

She was about to tell him she was no idiot, but she refused to become involved in a shouting match. And she did feel guilty about taking out a horse she couldn’t control—her father’s horse, yet. But Charles was a traitor, and worse. The next time she spoke to him, Steffie thought angrily, it would be through an attorney.

It looked for a moment as though he intended to grab her by the shoulders; in fact, what she heard him mutter sounded like a threat to “shake some sense” into her. He raised his hands, then briefly closed his eyes and spun away from her.

“You haven’t changed a bit, have you?” he cried, jerking one hand through his hair as he stalked toward his car.

Still Steffie remained silent, although she had to bite her tongue in an effort not to lash back at him. He’d purposely hurt her family, hurt her. There was nothing left to be said.

He yanked his car door open, and Steffie blinked at the unexpectedness of his withdrawal. She wasn’t sure what he’d planned to do, but this swift capitulation came as a surprise.

Not wanting him to assume she cared about his actions one way or the other, she tried to ignore him. She looped Fury’s reins around a low branch and walked away. Her legs were trembling so badly that she decided to climb onto a boulder. Perched there, she gazed out at the sweeping view of the valley below, jewel-like in its green lushness.

Charles’s footsteps behind her announced that he hadn’t left, after all.

“Read it!” he shouted, slapping the very newspaper she’d given him against her thigh. “This time finish the article.”

Steffie gasped, then pressed her lips together, tilting her head to avoid looking at him.

“Fine, be stubborn. That’s nothing new. But if you won’t read the article, I’ll do it for you.” He opened the paper.

Steffie wanted to blot out every word, but she wouldn’t resort to anything quite as juvenile as plugging her ears. She cringed inwardly as his strong voice read the opening paragraph. On hearing it a second time, she felt the piece sounded even more hostile to her father than she’d believed earlier. It was as though Charles had taken the very heart of David Bloomfield’s accomplishments and crushed it with falsehoods and accusations.

By the time he reached the spot where Steffie had stopped reading, where her father’s name was mentioned, the anger inside her had rekindled. She closed her eyes to the wave of pain that threatened to overwhelm her.

He read on, and she waited with foreboding for the attack she knew was coming. But it didn’t happen. As Charles continued, she suddenly realized how wrong she’d been. How terribly wrong. Her heart in her throat, she turned toward him. Charles went on, reading a direct quote from David Bloomfield in which he told of the changes he’d made over the years to aid migrant workers.