Salvation in the Rancher's Arms(16)

She shook her head. No doubt her state of mind tainted the truth. She sincerely doubted a man like Caleb Beckett could be considered a romantic hero in any way, shape or form. He had the edge of an outlaw rather than a shining knight.

Not that Rachel believed in shining knights. She had disabused herself of their existence a long time ago.

Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and marched into the livery.

She stopped inside the door, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light. The scent of hay, horses and manure mingled in the air around her, but she had spent too much time in her own barn to pay it much heed.

She found Mr. Beckett brushing long strokes down his horse’s back in one of the stalls. The horse, a beautiful paint, nipped playfully at the brim of his hat. He chuckled and spoke in low tones. She couldn’t make out the words, but the sound surprised her, drew her in. She stood silently for a moment and watched. He’d removed his sheepskin jacket and tossed it over the edge of the stall door. His broad back shifted with each stroke of the brush, mesmerizing her. There was a fluidity to his movements, and while one hand brushed in a rhythmic pattern, the other rested on the animal’s neck, petting it. The horse nickered in response to the sound of its owner’s voice.

The unguarded moment surprised her. She had expected to arrive to find him glaring down at her, arms crossed, impatience stamped into every ruggedly handsome feature while he counted the hours before he could toss them off the ranch. This hint of good humor threw her.

Then again, who wouldn’t be in good humor after the boon of winning a prime piece of land through no more effort than the turn of a card?

The muscles in her neck tightened.

“You gonna stand there all day?”

She jumped. “I...I...how did you know I was here?”

He peered over his shoulder. Whiskers shadowed his square jaw. The brim of his hat hid his eyes, and still she could feel the force of his gaze through every inch of her body. There was something about this man. Something beyond the rugged face and strong body. He had a presence, commanding and vibrant. No doubt she could have walked into a room blindfolded and known instantly if he occupied the same space. The awareness irritated her.

“I could sense you there.”

Rachel swallowed. A shivery tremor swept through her veins as his answer echoed her own thoughts.

She fought to get her voice out without trembling. “I wanted to talk to you. About last night.”

“Figured.” He rested an arm on the short stable wall and stared at her. Hot liquid poured through her veins from the strength of his full attention.

She gripped her hands in front of her and forced her spine straight, ignoring the strain on her muscles. He was not going to make this easy. “I guess I owe you some thanks for catching me when I—” She couldn’t say the word, couldn’t admit to the weakness.

“Fainted?”

She squinted into the dimness. Was he smiling? His mouth quickly resettled into an unreadable line and she wondered if it had just been a trick of the light.

“Yes, I suppose. Thank you.”

“Not necessary.”

“Well...either way.” She shifted on her feet. “I think we need to speak about the deed to my land. Am I to understand you now believe you own it?”

He didn’t answer right away. He made one last stroke down the paint’s neck and walked out the back, rounding the stalls and coming up behind her. She spun on her heel to face him, surprised to find him so close. Her body’s response to his nearness hit her square in the stomach and she took a quick step back.

There was a hard-bitten practicality about the man. It showed in the efficiency of his movements and the economy of words he used to convey an opinion. But his eyes held something different, something softer that gave him a sense of humanity. She wondered what his story was. Had he always been this way? Or, like her, had life hammered away until the person he became was far different than the one he had started out as? Perhaps she could talk reason with him, convince him to—

“No believing about it,” he said. “Your husband put the deed in to meet the raised stakes. I won the hand.”

So much for reason.

“A-And that’s legal?” Could she contest it? There had to be a law to prevent people from doing something as colossally idiotic as throwing away every last acre they owned on a stupid card game!

“Yes, ma’am. It’s legal.”

And, even if it wasn’t, by the time the circuit court judge made his way to town for her to plead her case, Mr. Beckett could have parceled off sections of land, sold them to the highest bidder and been long gone.

Her heart sank into her worn leather boots, taking her hopes with it. She stared at Mr. Beckett’s chest, absorbing what he told her. The tiny red checks on his shirt had faded until the color barely existed and one buttonhole was empty, the frayed remains of thread poking through the hole.