Palomino

10

Because she had done so for the past ten days, Samantha woke up at four thirty the next morning. She forced herself to lie in bed, pretending even to herself to be asleep, and finally, after an hour of lying with her eyes closed and her mind racing, she got out of bed. It was still dark outside and the stars were shining brightly, but she knew that in little over an hour, life on the ranch would begin. Christmas morning or no, the animals would begin stirring, there would be men in the corral tending to the horses, even though no one would be riding the hills.

On bare feet Samantha silently padded to the kitchen, plugged in the electric coffee maker Caroline used, and then sat waiting in the dark kitchen, letting her mind drift back to the night before. It had been a lovely Christmas party she had shared with the others. Like one gigantic family, all of them linked to each other, each one caring about the other, the children familiar with everyone who lived there, happy and shouting and running around the big beautifully decorated Christmas tree. Thinking about the children at the Christmas party the night before suddenly made her think of Charlie and Melinda's children. This was the first Christmas that she hadn't sent them gifts. She remembered her promise to Charlie with a pang, but she had been nowhere near a store. As Samantha sat in the empty kitchen she felt suddenly very lonely, and without warning, her thoughts shifted instantly and very painfully to John. What was his Christmas like this year? How did it feel to be married to a woman who was pregnant? Had they already done the nursery? The pain Samantha felt knife through her was almost beyond bearing, and as though by reflex action she felt herself reach for the phone. Without thinking, yet desperately wanting to reach out and hear a friendly voice, she dialed a familiar number and only a moment later she heard Charlie Peterson answer the phone. His mellifluous voice boomed into the receiver with a resounding rendition of “Jingle Bells.” He was halfway into the second verse before Sam could squeeze in her name.

“Who?… ‘O'er the fields we go…’”

“Shut up, Charlie! It's me, Sam!”

“Oh… hi, Sam… ‘Dashing all the wayyyy…’”

“Charlie!” She was laughing as she listened, between rounds of trying to outshout him, but despite the amusement of listening to him, there was another pang of loneliness and she felt terribly far away. She suddenly wished she were with them, and not three thousand miles away on a ranch. There was no choice but to wait for him to finish singing.

“Merry Christmas!”

“You mean you're through? You're not going to sing ‘Silent Night’?”

“I wasn't planning to, but if you're making a special request, Sam, I'm sure I could…”

“Charlie, please! I want to talk to Mellie and the boys. But first”-she almost gulped as she said it-“tell me how things are at the office.” She had forced herself not to call. Harvey had practically ordered her not to and she had obeyed. They had her number if they needed her, and her boss had thought it would do her good to forget about them as completely as she could. And actually she had done better than she had expected to. Until now. “How are my accounts doing? Have you lost them all yet?”

“Every one of them.” Charlie beamed into the phone with pride and lit a cigar, and then suddenly he frowned and looked at his watch. “What in hell are you doing up at this hour? It must be… what? Not even six o'clock in the morning out there! Where are you?” He suddenly wondered if she had abandoned the ranch and returned.

“I'm still here. I just couldn't sleep. I've been getting up at four thirty every morning, now I don't know what to do with myself. This feels like the middle of the afternoon.” Not quite, but she was certainly wide awake. “How are the kids?”

“Wonderful.” There was a moment's hesitation in his voice, and he hurried on to ask her how she was. “They riding you ragged out there, I hope?”

“Absolutely. Come on, Charlie, tell me what's happening back there.” Suddenly she wanted to know everything, from the office gossip to who was threatening to steal which account from another house.

“Nothing much, kiddo. New York hasn't changed much in the last two weeks. What about you?” He sounded serious for a moment and Sam smiled. “You happy out there, Sam? You all right?”

“I'm fine.” And then with a small sigh, “It was the right thing to do, much as I hate to admit it. I guess I needed something as radical as this. I haven't watched the six o'clock news all week.”

“That's something at least. If you're up at four thirty, you're probably asleep by six o'clock at night.”

“Not quite, but close.”

“And your friend… Caroline, and ail the horses? They're okay?” He sounded so much like a New Yorker that it made her laugh as she pictured him puffing on his cigar and staring into space wearing his pajamas and his bathrobe and maybe something the children had given him for Christmas, like a baseball cap or a mitt or a pair of red-and-yellow-striped socks.

“Everyone here is fine. Let me talk to Mellie.” She did, and Melinda didn't catch Charlie's signal. She almost instantly told Sam the news. She was pregnant. The baby was due in July, and she had just found out that week. For just a fraction of a second there was a strange silence and then suddenly Sam was full of effusive congratulations as in the distance Charlie closed his eyes and groaned.

“Why did you tell her?” He was whispering hoarsely at his wife as she attempted to continue to talk to Sam.

“Why not? She'll find out when she comes back anyway.” Melinda had put her hand over the phone, whispered back to him, then took her hand away and went on. “The kids? They all say they want another brother, but if it isn't a girl this time, I quit.” Charlie made impatient gestures, let her say a rapid good-bye, and recovered the phone.

“How come you didn't tell me, kiddo?” Sam tried to sound nonchalant, but as always when she heard that kind of news, especially lately, it touched something very old and sad and still sensitive near her very core. “Afraid I couldn't take it? I'm not mentally ill, you know, Charlie, I'm just divorced. That is not the same thing.”

“Who cares about that stuff anyway.” There was something sad and worried in his voice.

“You do.” Sam's voice was very soft. “And Mellie does. And I do. And you're my friends. She was right to tell me. Don't yell at her when you get off the phone.”

“Why not?” He grinned guiltily. “She needs to be kept in line.”

“Some way you have of keeping her in line, Peterson. It's a good thing you're the most overpaid art director in the business. You're going to need it for all those kids.”

“Yeah,” he growled contentedly, “ain't I just.” And then after a long moment, “Well, kid, be good to your horses, and call if you need us. And Sam”-there was a heavy pause-“we all think about you a lot, and we miss you. You know that, don't you, babe?” She nodded, unable to speak, her voice and her eyes instantly filled with tears.

“Yeah, I know.” It was all she could finally choke out. “And I miss you too. Merry Christmas!” And then, as she smiled through her tears and blew him a kiss, she hung up. She sat in the kitchen afterward for almost half an hour, her coffee cold in the cup, her eyes riveted to the table, her heart and her mind three thousand miles away in New York. And when she looked up again, she saw that outside the day was slowly breaking, the night had faded from deep blue to pale gray, and she stood up and slowly walked with her cup over to the sink. She stood very still and knew exactly what she wanted to do. With a determined step she walked down the hall, slipped quietly into her clothes, and bundled herself up in two warm sweaters and a jacket, put on the cowboy hat Caroline had lent her a few days before, and with a last look over her shoulder to make sure that no one was stirring, she walked quietly out of her room, down the hall, and out the front door, closing it softly behind her.

It took her only a few moments to reach the stables, and when she did, she stopped a few feet away from his stall. There was no sound stirring within, and she wondered if he was still sleeping, the giant shining ebony animal she suddenly knew that she wanted to ride. She gently opened the half door and stepped inside, running a hand smoothly down his neck and his flanks and speaking so gently that she almost cooed. He was awake, but he wasn't restless. Black Beauty looked as though he had been waiting for her to come; he gazed meaningfully at her from behind the bristling black lashes, and Samantha smiled at him as she quietly let herself out of the stall, went to get his saddle and bridle, and returned to prepare him for their ride. There had been no one in the stable to see her when she got there, and there was still no one there now.

When she led him slowly out the main door a few minutes later into the early morning, there was no one in the vast yard outside. She walked Black Beauty to a nearby block and quickly climbed it. After hoisting herself into the saddle with ease and pulling the reins taut, she moved away toward the now familiar hills. She knew exactly where she wanted to ride him, she had seen a trail through some woods a few days before and now she knew that this was where she wanted to go. At first she cantered gently toward her destination, and then after a while, sensing the huge beast straining to go faster, she let him lope from a canter into a gallop as he made his way toward the rising sun. It was one of the most exquisite feelings she could remember, and she held her knees to his flanks and pressed harder as effortlessly they cleared a series of low bushes and then a narrow stream. She remembered the first time she had jumped him but knew that this was different. She was taking no chances with Black Beauty this morning, but she wasn't angry either. She only wanted to become a part of Black Beauty's very body and soul. She felt like an ancient myth, or Indian legend, as she let him slow on the crest of a hill, and she watched the sun begin in earnest its climb into the sky. It was only then that she heard the hooves behind her, then that she knew she'd been followed, and then that she turned in surprise. But when she saw him riding the ivory and onyx pinto toward her, she wasn't really surprised to see Tate Jordan. It was as though he were also a part of the legend, as though he also belonged there, as though he too had fallen from the fiery golden morning sky.

He rode toward her in a straight line, with the pinto at a full gallop, making his way toward her with almost fierce determination, and then at the last moment he swerved to fall in right at her side. She eyed him carefully for an instant, not sure of what she'd see there, afraid that once again he'd be angry, that he'd spoil the moment, and that the friendship that had been conceived only the night before would already die. But what she saw instead in those deep green eyes that looked at her so fiercely was not anger this time, but something much gentler. He said nothing to her, he only watched her, and then nodded and led the pinto on. It was clear that he wanted her to follow him, and she did, with Black Beauty moving effortlessly down the trails that he sought out, over hills, and into little valleys, until at last they were on a part of the property she had never seen. There was a small lake there, and a little cabin, and as they came over the last hill and saw it Tate and the steaming pinto slowed. He turned then to smile at her in the early morning, and Samantha returned the smile as she watched him rein in his horse and dismount.

“Are we still on the ranch?”

“Yes.” He looked up at her. “Over past that clearing is where it ends.” The clearing was just behind the cabin.

Samantha nodded. “Whose is that?” She indicated the cabin, wondering if there was anyone there.

Tate didn't give her a direct answer. “I found it a long time ago. I come here now and then, not often, but when I want to be alone. It's all locked up, and no one knows I come out here.” It was a bid for secrecy and Samantha understood.

“Do you have the keys?”

“More or less.” The handsome leathered face broke into a grin. “There's a key on Bill King's ring that fits it. I helped myself to it once.”

“And made a copy?” Samantha looked shocked, but he nodded his head. Above all else Tate Jordan was an honest man. If Bill King had asked him, he would have told him. But Bill never had, and Tate figured he wouldn't care. Above all he didn't want to draw attention to the forgotten cabin. It meant a lot to him.

“I keep some coffee in there, if it hasn't gone stale. Want to get down for a bit and step inside?” He didn't tell her that he kept a bottle of whiskey there too. Nothing with which to commit excesses, but something to keep him warm and soothe his mind. He came here sometimes when he was worried, or if something was bothering him and he needed to be alone for a day. Many was the Sunday he had spent at this cabin, and he had his own ideas as to what kind of purpose it had once served. “Well, Miss Taylor?” Tate Jordan watched her for a long moment and she nodded.

“I'd like that.” The lure of coffee appealed to her, this morning it was unusually cold. He gave her a hand down and helped her tie up the handsome horse, and then he led the way toward the door of the cabin, extracted his copy of the key, opened the door, and stepped aside to let her in. Like the rest of the cowboys on the ranch, he was always gallant. It was like a last touch of the Old West, and she looked up and smiled at him as she walked slowly in.

There was a dry, musty smell in the cabin, but as she looked around her her eyes widened instantly in surprise. The large airy single room was decorated in pretty flowered chintzes, they were somewhat old-fashioned, but still very handsome and very appealing. There was a little couch, two thickly cushioned wicker chairs, and in a corner by the fire was a huge handsome leather chair that Samantha knew instantly was an antique. There was a small writing desk in a corner, there was a radio, a small record player, there were several shelves of books, a large friendly fireplace, and a number of funny objects that must have meant something to the person who owned the cabin: two large handsome trophies, a boar's head, a collection of old bottles, some funny old photographs in ornate old-fashioned frames. There was a thick bear rug spread out in front of the hearth and a delicate antique rocking chair with a needlepoint footstool standing nearby. It was like a haven in a fairy tale, hidden deep in the forest, the kind of place one would want to come to hide from the rest of the world. And then through an open doorway Sam saw a small pretty little blue room with a large handsome brass bed and a beautiful quilt, soft-blue walls, another impressive bear rug, and a little brass lamp with a small shade. The curtains were blue and white and very frilly, and there was a large handsome landscape of another part of the ranch hanging over the bed. It was a room where one would want to spend the rest of one's life.

“Tate, whose is this?” Samantha looked vaguely puzzled, and Tate only pointed to one of the trophies perched on a little shelf on the near wall.

“Take a look.”

She moved closer and her eyes widened as she looked at the trophy and then Tate and then back again. It bore the legend WIIXIAM B. KING 1934. The second one was Bill King's too, but dated 1939- And then Sam looked over her shoulder again at Tate, this time with fresh concern.

“Is this his cabin, Tate? Should we be here?”

“I don't know the answer to the first question, Sam. And to the second, probably not. But once I found this place, I could never stay away.” His voice was deep and smoky as his eyes reached out for Sam's.

She looked around silently and nodded again. “I can see why.”

As Tate moved quietly toward the kitchen she began to look at the old photographs, and although she thought there was something familiar about them, she was never really sure. And then, feeling almost embarrassed, she drifted into the bedroom, her eye caught by the large landscape over the bed. As she reached it and could easily read the signature, suddenly she stopped. The artist had signed her name in red in the lower right-hand corner. C. Lord. Sam turned around then and was about to flee the tiny bedroom, but the room was blocked by Tate's vast frame in the doorway. He was holding out a cup of steaming instant coffee and watching her face.

“It's theirs, isn't it?” Here was the answer to her question, the question she and Barbara had mused over so often, and laughed about, and giggled over. Finally, in this tiny cozy blue room with the patchwork quilt and the huge brass bed that almost filled the room, she knew. “Isn't it, Tate?” Suddenly Sam wanted confirmation, from him if no one else. He nodded slowly and handed her the bright yellow cup.

“I think so. It's a nice place, isn't it? Somehow, all put together it's just like them.”

“Does anyone else know?” She felt as though she had uncovered a holy secret and had a responsibility to both of them to know if it was secure.

“About them?” He shook his head. “At least no one's ever been sure. But they've been awfully careful. Neither of them ever gives it away. When he's with the men he talks about ‘Miss Caroline’ just like the rest of us, even calls her that most of the time to her face. He treats her with respect, but no particularly marked interest, and she does the same with him.”

“Why?” Samantha looked puzzled as she sipped her coffee and then set down the cup and sat on the edge of the bed. “Why didn't they just let people know years ago and get married if that was what they wanted?”

“Maybe they didn't want that.” Tate looked as though he understood it, and as she looked up at his weathered face, it was clear that Sam did not. “Bill King's a proud man. He wouldn't want it said that he married Miss Caro for her money, or for her ranch or her cattle.”

“So they have this?” Sam looked around her in fresh amazement. “A little cottage in the woods, and he tiptoes in and out of her house for the next twenty-five years.”

“Maybe it kept the romance fresh for them.” Tate Jordan was smiling as he sat down next to Samantha on the bed. “You know, there's something very special about what you see here.” He looked around himself with warmth and respect that were almost akin to awe. “You know what you see, Samantha?” He didn't wait for the answer but went on. “You see two people who love each other, whose lives blend perfectly, her paintings and his trophies, their old photographs and records and books, his comfortable old leather chair and her little rocking chair and her footstool by the fire. Just look at it, Sam.” Together they glanced out of the bedroom doorway. “Just look. You know what you see out there? You see love. That's what love is, those copper pots, and that old needlepoint cushion, and that funny old pig's head. That's two people you see out there, two people who've loved each other for a long time, and still do.”

“You think they still come here?” Sam was almost whispering and Tate laughed.

“I doubt it. Or if they do, not much anyway. I probably come here more than they do. Bill's arthritis has been bothering him a lot the last few years. I suspect”-he lowered his voice-“that they stay pretty close to the big house.” As he said it Samantha remembered the nightly opening and closing of doors. Yet even after all these years they met in hidden ways at midnight hours.

“I still don't understand why they keep it a secret.”

Tate looked at her for a long time and then shrugged. “Sometimes that's just the way it is.” And then he smiled at her. “This isn't New York, Samantha. A lot of old-fashioned values still apply.” It didn't make sense to her anyway. In that case they should have gotten married. Good Lord, it had gone on for twenty years after all.

“How did you find this place, Tate?” She stood up again and wandered back out to the living room and a few minutes later sat down in Caroline's comfortable old rocking chair.

“I just happened on it one day. They must have spent a lot of time here years back. It's got the same kind of feeling as a real home.”

“It is a real home.” Sam stared into the empty fireplace dreamily as she said it, thinking back to the elegant apartment she had left behind her in New York. It had none of the qualities she felt here, not anymore, none of the love, none of the warmth, none of the tender comfort, the solace that she felt just sitting in the old rocking chair.

“Feel like you could stay forever, don't you?” He smiled at her and let his huge frame down into the leather chair. “Want me to light a fire?”

She quickly shook her head. “I'd worry too much about it after we left.”

“I wouldn't leave it burning, silly.”

“I know that.” They exchanged another smile. “But I'd worry anyway. You know, maybe a stray spark or something… this is too special to mess with. I wouldn't want to do anything to jeopardize what they have here.” And then, looking at him more seriously, “I don't even feel like we should be here.”

“Why not?” The sharp chin jutted out just a little.

“It's not ours. It's theirs, and it's private and secret. They wouldn't want us to be here, or to know about them…”

“But we knew about them anyway, didn't we?” He asked the question gently and she nodded slowly.

“I always suspected. Barb-Aunt Caro's niece and I-we used to talk about it for hours, trying to guess, assuming and then not assuming. We were never really sure.”

“And once you grew up?”

She smiled in answer. “Then I sensed it. But still I always wondered.”

He nodded slowly. “So did I. I always thought I knew for certain. But I didn't really. Until I came here. This tells its own story.” He looked around again. “And what a nice story it tells.”

“Yeah.” Sam nodded agreement and began to rock slowly in the old chair. “It would be nice to love someone like that, wouldn't it? Enough to build something together, and to keep it together for twenty years.”

“How long did your marriage last, Sam?” It was the first personal question he had asked her, and she looked at him squarely and answered him quickly, seemingly without emotion. But she couldn't help wondering how he knew she'd ever been married.

“Seven years. Yours?”

“Five. My boy was just a little guy when his mom took off.”

“I'll bet you were glad when you got him back.” And then suddenly she blushed furiously, remembering the story and what an insensitive thing she had inadvertently said. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean-”

“Hush.” He waved a hand gently. “I know what you meant. And hell, I was glad. But I was damn sorry his mom died.”

“Did you love her even after she left you?” It was an outrageous question but suddenly it didn't matter. It was as though here, in this shrine of Bill and Caro's, they could say anything and ask anything they wanted, as long as it mattered, as long as it wasn't designed to hurt.

Tate Jordan nodded his head slowly. “Yes, I loved her. In some ways I still do, and she's been dead near fifteen years. It's a funny thing. You don't always remember the way things got in the end. What about you, Sam, you too? You remember your husband when you first loved him, or remember what a son of a bitch he was at the end?”

Sam laughed softly at his honesty and nodded her head as she rocked. “God, isn't that the truth. Why? I keep asking myself. Why do I remember him when we went to college, when we got engaged, on out honeymoon, on our first Christmas? How come my first thought of him isn't with his socks and my guts hanging out of his suitcase when he walked out the door?” They both smiled at the image she'd created, and Tate shook his head and then turned to her again, his eyes filled with questions.

“Was that how it was, then? He walked out on you, Sam?”

“Yes,” she answered bluntly.

“For someone else?” She nodded, but she didn't look pained this time. She was just admitting to a simple truth. “That's how it was with my old lady too.” Sam noticed as she listened that now Tate sounded more like the other cowboys. Maybe here he could relax. He no longer had to impress her, and there was no one else around. “Tears your heart out, doesn't it? I was twenty-five years old, and I thought I'd die.”

“So did I.” Sam looked at him intently. “So did I. In fact,” she sighed softly, “I guess everyone in my office did too. That's why I'm here. To get over it. To get away.”

“How long has it been?”

“Since last August.”

“That's long enough.” He looked matter-of-fact and she bridled.

“Is it? For what? To forget him? To not give a damn anymore? Well, you're wrong on that one, buddy, try again.”

“Do you think about him all the time?”

“No.” She answered him honestly. “But too much.”

“You divorced yet?”

She nodded. “Yes, and he's already remarried, and they're having a baby in March.” Might as well tell him everything at one sitting. And in an odd way it felt good to get it all out of the way, all the painful truths, the true confessions. It was wonderful to get it over with. But she found now that he was watching her intently.

“I'll bet that hurts a lot.”

“What?” For a moment she didn't follow what he was saying.

“About the baby. Did you want children?”

She hesitated for only an instant, and then nodded as she suddenly left the rocking chair. “As a matter of fact, yes, Mr. Jordan. But I'm sterile. So my husband got what he wanted-somewhere else…” As she stood at the window, looking out at the lake, she didn't hear him coming, and then suddenly he was standing behind her, with his arms around her waist.

“It doesn't matter, Sam… and you're not sterile. Sterile is someone who can't love, who can't give anything, who is locked up and closed up and sold out. That's all that matters and that's not you, Sam. That's just not you.” He turned her around slowly to face him and there were tears in her eyes. She didn't want him to see them, but she couldn't resist the magnetic pull of his hands as he had turned her slowly by the waist. He gently kissed both her eyes, and then pressed his mouth down on hers for so hard and so long that at last she had to fight for breath.

“Tate… don't… no…” She was fighting, but weakly, and he only pulled her closer to him again. She could smell the scent of saddle soap and tobacco on him and feel the rough wool of his shirt beneath her cheek as she turned away and rested her face against his chest.

“Why not?” He put a finger under her chin and made her look up at him again. “Sam?” She said nothing, and he kissed her again. His voice was gentle in her ear when he spoke to her, and she could feel her heart pounding against her chest. “Sam, I want you, more than I've ever wanted any woman before.”

She spoke softly, but with feeling, as her eyes gazed into his. “That isn't enough.”

He nodded slowly. “I understand.” And then after a long moment, “But I don't offer anything more than that anymore.”

Now it was her turn. She smiled gently and asked the same question. “Why not?”

“Because-” He hesitated and then chuckled softly in the pretty little cabin. “Because I really am sterile. I don't have all of that left to give.”

“How do you know? Have you tried lately?”

“Not in eighteen years.” His answer was quick and honest.

“And you think it's too late to love anyone again?” He didn't answer and Sam looked around, her eyes pausing at the trophies and then coming back to him. “Don't you think he loves her, Tate?” He nodded. “So do I. He can't be any braver than you are, and he's one hell of a man.” And then as she looked at Tate, “So are you.”

“Does that mean…” He spoke softly, his lips playing with hers and her heart wreaking havoc between her ribs, wondering what she was doing kissing this stranger, this cowboy, and trying to justify to him why he should fall in love. She wanted to ask herself what in hell she thought she was doing, but there wasn't time. “Does that mean,” he went on, “that if I told you I loved you, that we'd be making love right now?” He looked amused, and with a small smile she shook her head. “I didn't think it did. So what are you trying to convince me of, and why?”

“I'm trying to convince you that it's not too late to fall in love again. Look at them, when they started out, they were older than we are now. They had to be.”

“Yeah…”But he didn't sound convinced. And then he turned his eyes back to her with a pensive expression. “What difference does it make to you if I ever fall in love again?”

“I'd like to know that it's possible.”

“Why? Are you doing research for science?”

“No,” she whispered. “For myself.”

“So that's it.” He ran a hand gently down her pale blond mane, fighting with the pins that held it firmly in the knot at the nape of her neck, and then suddenly he unleashed it and it all came tumbling down her back. “My God, your hair is lovely, Sam… palomino…” He said it ever so softly. “Little palomino… how beautiful you are…” The sun glinted in the window and danced among the gold threads in her hair.

“We should go back now.” She said it gently but firmly.

“Should we?”

“We should.”

“Why?” His lips were kissing her chin and her jawbone and her neck. She wasn't objecting, but she was also not going to let him go any farther than that. “Why should we go back now, Sam? Oh, God, you're so lovely…” She could feel a shiver run through him, and she pulled away slowly with a small shake of her head.

“No, Tate.”

“Why not?” For a moment there was fire in his eyes, and she was almost afraid.

“Because it's not right.”

“For chrissake, I'm a man, you're a woman… we're not children here. What do you want?” He raised his voice in lustful irritation. “The perfect romance, a wedding ring on your finger before you go to bed?”

“What do you want, cowboy? Just a quick roll in the hay?” The force of her words hit him like a bullet, and he looked stunned as slowly he shook his head.

“I'm sorry.” He spoke coldly and then moved to the sink to wash their cups. But when he had finished, she was still standing there, watching him, and she spoke up.

“I'm not sorry. I like you. In fact”-she reached out and put a hand on his arm-“I like you a hell of a lot. But I don't want to get hurt next time.”

“You can't have the kind of guarantees you want, Sam. Not from anyone. And not from me. The only guarantees you'll ever get are lies.” There was some truth in that and she knew it, but it wasn't just the promises she wanted but something real.

“You know what I want?” She looked around at the cabin as she asked the question. “I want this. I want this kind of meshing and blending and loving after more than twenty years.”

“You think they were so sure of that in the beginning? You think they knew then what they do now? Hell no. She owned the ranch and he was a ranch hand. That was all they knew.”

“You think so?” Samantha's eyes exploded sparks at him. “You know what else I'll bet they knew then?”

“What?”

“I'll bet they knew they were in love. And until I find that, until a man loves me and I love him, then I'm not coming out to play again.”

He opened the door and locked it behind them. “Come on.” But she had seen as she walked past him that he wasn't angry. He had understood all that she had told him, and she found herself wondering what he would do now, and what she would do herself. For a moment, just a moment, she had wanted to abandon all restraint and caution, but she had decided not to. Not because she didn't want him, but because she wanted him so much. Tate Jordan was one hell of a man.

“Can we come back here?” She eyed him squarely as he cupped his hands and offered her a leg up to the huge Thoroughbred horse.

“Do you really want to?”

She nodded slowly, and he smiled at her and said nothing. She took the leg up and flew into her saddle. A moment later she had the reins in her hands, her heels in the horse's flanks, and she was flying beside Tate Jordan into the wind.