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“I can’t say much for my voice,” she said. “I probably scared the poor things.”
“So, did you see a bull you liked out there?”
“Maybe.” Tess didn’t want to sound too eager.
“If you want to see any of them buck, I’ll have the boys set them up in the chutes.”
“You know I don’t want to make a hasty decision. But I wouldn’t mind seeing that big black one.”
He was silent for a moment, his gaze following the contrail of a military jet streaking across the sky. “The black one, eh? I had a feeling that son of a gun would catch your eye.”
“Is something wrong with him—besides the missing horn?”
“There’s nothing wrong with him. But if you were to take him, you’d have your hands full.” Brock opened the steel-railed pasture gate with the remote control in his pocket. It closed behind the horse as they rode through. “When they say a bucking bull is rank, it’s usually a compliment. But that black bastard—he’s RANK, in capital letters—smart, unpredictable, and full of the devil. Just when you think you’ve got everything under control, he’ll take you down—like stepping in quicksand when you don’t know it’s there.”
“Quicksand.” Tess rolled the word off her tongue, liking the sound of it and the way it fit the bull. “You like him, don’t you?”
Brock’s breath caught. Then the laughter exploded out of him, rumbling through his body. “Like him? You’re damn right I do. He reminds me of me at my worst. But believe me, you don’t want to choose that bull.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Tess said. “At least I want to see him buck, along with a couple of others. You can decide which ones to show me.”
“You’ve got it. I’ll alert the boys to get them ready for the chutes. It’ll take about thirty minutes to set up. Meanwhile we’ll get those scratches doctored and maybe have something cold to drink.” He spoke into the walkie-talkie he carried in a leather holster clipped to his belt. “There, it’s taken care of. Now let’s get you up to the house.”
Brock’s home was an imposing cube of glass, stone, and timber, with a broad, covered porch that offered a panorama of the ranch and the desert beyond. As far as Tess knew, he lived here alone with only a retired range cook to prepare meals and keep the house in order. If there was a woman in his life, Tess wasn’t aware of it, but Brock was a private person. Apart from the side he chose to show her, she knew very little about the man.
All the more reason not to trust him, she reminded herself as he helped her dismount and turned the horse over to a waiting stable hand, a good-looking young man with blond curls and hazel eyes.
Sharing the yard with the house were two guest cottages, a bunkhouse, barns, pens, and sheds, and a small arena equipped with bucking chutes. Somewhere beyond the pastures was an airstrip with a hangar where Brock stored the airplane he piloted himself.
Everything about the place was spare and simple, but constructed with the finest materials and workmanship money could buy. Knowing Brock, Tess wouldn’t have expected anything less.
Walking beside him, she could feel the soreness from the fall she’d taken. As she took the first of the broad steps to the porch, her knee buckled.
“Take it easy.” He caught her arm, saving her from a stumble. “You just got thrown from a horse. You’re lucky to be walking. Let’s get you to a chair.”
In a move to steady her, he laid a hand at the small of her back. Tess yelped as the contact shot pain up her spine.
“What the devil—?” He moved behind her. “You must’ve tangled with a prickly pear. You’ve got a nasty spine stuck right through your shirt. You’re bleeding. Come on in. We’ll have you patched up in no time.”
Inside, the house was sleek and immaculate, with tile floors and heavy wooden vigas supporting the ceiling. Plants in giant Talavera pots stood here and there. Massive leather furniture pieces were grouped on a thick alpaca rug. Touches of art enlivened the space—a genuine Charles Russell painting above the stone fireplace, a Frederic Remington bronze of stampeding buffalo on a sideboard.
“Impressive,” she murmured, forgetting her pain for the moment.
“Thanks. I draw the line at mounted animal heads,” he said. “Have a seat on the sofa.”
“You said I was bleeding.” She lowered herself carefully to the edge of the cushioned leather seat.
“You’re fine. But it might help to drink something before we get started. We’ve got cold Coronas, or if you need something stronger, there’s some good Kentucky bourbon in the cabinet.”
“A Coke would be nice if you’ve got some,” Tess said. “I wouldn’t mind a beer, but with my sister a recovering alcoholic, I’m doing my best to support her. That includes following her rules—with no cheating, even when I’m away from home.”
“Coke it is. Hang on. I’ll be right back.”
He returned a few moments later with two Coke cans and a large red cooler—some kind of medical kit. Opening the cooler, he took out a dispenser of antibacterial handwipes and handed one to her. Taking her cue from him, she cleansed her hands. The scrapes and cuts from the fall stung when the alcohol touched them. “We’ll put some salve on those after I get that spine out of your back.”
He popped one of the Coke cans and handed it to her. “Drink up. When you’re ready, lean over the arm of the sofa. Getting the barb out is going to sting pretty bad. Can you handle that?”
“You’d be surprised what I can handle.” Tess took a deep swig of Coke and put the can on the glass-topped coffee table. “As a kid, I was always getting stuck. My dad pulled the spines out with pliers. It hurt like hell, and he didn’t hold with girls crying.”
Brock would remember her late father, of course. Years ago, after Bert Champion had arranged to buy a desirable piece of land, Brock had bought it out from under him by offering the owner more money. The Champion family had needed that land for their cattle. They hated Brock to this day. Even in light of the new partnership, that hadn’t changed.
