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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.