Cowboy Pi. Jean Barrett

She could see he was trying to understand. “What just happened? Because I’ve got to tell you, I thought you were as interested as I was in getting—”

      “Intimate?”

      “Well, yeah.”

      “You’re a cowboy, Roark. You may be a PI, but at heart and in soul you’re a cowboy.”

      “What’s wrong with cowboys?”

      “I don’t get involved with them. Ever.”

      “Why? Why do you have this resistance to everything connected with ranching? And don’t tell me it’s because of the sour relationship you had with your grandfather. I don’t buy it. There’s a better explanation than that.”

      “I’m sorry, but it’s the only explanation I have.” She got to her feet, needing to get away, needing to escape from her treacherous susceptibility to him. “I’m going back to my room. I think we should both try to get some sleep with what’s left of the night.”

      And that wouldn’t be easy, Samantha realized. Not with her emotions threatening to betray her every time she came within touching distance of Roark Hawke.

      CONCEALED IN THE SHADOWS, he stood on the slope above the ranch house and watched the light go out in her window.

      He had missed an easy opportunity tonight. If the PI hadn’t rushed to her rescue…

      Hawke was a frustration all right. Always there, guarding her. A definite problem. Never mind, there would be other opportunities. He would wait for them, and he would get to her in the end. But he had to be careful. No one must guess. An accident would be best. If he could arrange an accident…

      Whatever it took. Because she had to be eliminated before the end of the drive. Everything depended on that.

      Chapter Four

      There was a mist in the valley where they gathered in the chill dawn.

      “It’ll burn off when the sun clears the horizon,” Roark said, studying the sky. “We should have clear weather for our first day.”

      Samantha, standing beside him, nodded. She knew he was no more interested in the weather at this moment than she was. He was merely trying to keep her distracted. She silently blessed him for that, and for making no mention of what had happened between them last night…or, what had almost happened.

      Roark’s effort, however, was a wasted one. Nothing could divert her attention from the longhorns milling restlessly behind the barbed wire barricade that kept them in the valley. Close up like this, they weren’t a sight that encouraged her with their long legs, mottled hides in a variety of colors and patterns, and wicked-looking horns. They seemed to be watching her as unhappily as she eyed them.

      “They sense they’re about to be moved out,” Roark explained. “Cattle are resistant to leaving their home range.”

      She didn’t blame them. Given a choice, she would have remained here herself.

      “They’ll settle down after an hour or two on the trail.”

      Samantha seriously doubted that she would accept the situation in a similar fashion. She was certain of it when their horse wrangler rode toward them where they waited. The bony-faced Dick Brewster was leading the two mounts he had cut out of his remuda for their use. One of them was a big, handsome roan, the other a dainty mare. Both were already saddled.

      Dick wore his usual carefree grin when he reached them and dismounted. “This here is Dolly,” he introduced Samantha to the mare. “Don’t worry, Sam, she’s as gentle as she looks. She won’t give you any trouble.”

      “You ready?” Roark asked her quietly.

      The morning air had a sharp bite to it, but Samantha’s hands were perspiring. Nerves, of course. She wore a lady’s low-crowned Stetson tied under her chin. She’d left it hanging down over the single thick braid that swung from the back of her head. But now, catching the brim in her hand, she pulled the hat forward and settled it firmly in place at a jaunty angle. A gesture of determination. She hoped.

      “Ready,” she said.

      “Want a boost up?”

      Shaking her head, Samantha placed her foot in the stirrup, gripped the saddle horn, and swung her leg up and over the mare’s back. To her relief, Dolly accepted her presence without an objection. She prayed that all those detestable lessons of her childhood wouldn’t desert her as she gathered the reins loosely in her hand and tried to act as if she knew what she was doing.

      “Looking good,” Roark congratulated her.

      She watched him mount his own horse with an ease she could never duplicate. Whatever the accident of his urban birth, his rangy body had been designed by nature for the saddle. And no matter how she felt about cowboys, it was a sight she couldn’t help admiring.

      The others had joined them by then, their quarter horses moving in close so that the riders could receive their orders from the trail boss.

      “Here’s the plan,” Shep Thomas instructed them in his somber manner. “Ramona is going on ahead with the chuck wagon. Come midmorning, she’ll be set up and waiting for us with coffee and goodies. But don’t count on coffee stops after this. We won’t have the time for them. It’s just that, this being the first day and all, I figure we’ll be more than ready for a morning break.”

      “Ramona know the route?” Cappy Davis asked, his jaws working on a chaw of tobacco.

      “I’ve given her a map. She’ll find the way. Dick,” the trail boss continued, turning to the horse wrangler, “you’ll be out front, of course, with the remuda. I’ll ride point. Cappy, you take left flank, and, Alex, you handle right flank. Roark and Samantha will ride drag.”

      The young Alex McKenzie, mindful of Samantha’s comfort, expressed his concern. “But that leaves Sam swallowing the dust.”