Page 12 of Point of Mercy

“Oh, no. He’s half in love with you.” From her bed, Jill sighed enviously.

Heather nearly dropped her brush. It clattered on the bureau. “You’re crazy,” she said, but felt a warm glow of contentment at Jill’s observation.

“No way.” Ripping a black headband from her hair, Jill offered Heather a conspiratorial smile before tossing the headband onto the bureau and rummaging under her bunk for a well-worn magazine. “I’ve seen it before.”

Turner? In love with her? Absolutely ridiculous! Still, the idea had merit. “He doesn’t like me any more than I like him.”

“That’s what I said. He’s half in love with you,” Jill replied, licking her fingers and flipping the page. In the mirror, Heather saw the wash of scarlet that was causing her cheeks to burn just as Sheryl walked into the room. Her lips were pressed into a hard line, and if she’d heard any of the conversation, she pretended she hadn’t.

However, Jill thought Heather cared about Turner. Heather glanced at Sheryl, but the girl was fiddling with her Walkman and fitting the earphones over her head. Heather fingered her brush and tried to convince herself that Turner wasn’t her type. Too cynical. Too hard. Too…threateningly male. His sensuality was always between them, always simmering just below the surface of their conversations, always charging the air. And yet she’d wanted him to kiss her when they were alone at the deer trail. She wouldn’t have stopped him.

The next few lessons were more difficult than ever.

Though she tried not to notice, Heather found herself staring at the way his jeans rode low on his hips, the magnetism of the huge buckle that fit tight against his flat abdomen,the insolent, nearly indecent curve of his lips and his eyes…. Lord, his eyes were damned near mesmerizing with their cynical sparkle. Worse yet, whenever she had a few moments alone and she began to sketch, it was Turner’s face she began to draw, Turner’s profile that filled the pages of her book.

Was she falling in love with a man who was only interested in the next rodeo? A cowboy who had seen too much of life already? He was a little bit mystery, and a lot rawhide and leather.

It was dusk again—that time of day she seemed destined to spend with Turner. A few stars dappled the sky and the wind, blowing low over the Siskiyou Mountains, tugged wayward locks of her hair free of her ponytail. Clouds had gathered at the base of the mountains and the air felt charged, as if a storm were brewing.

Turner was waiting for her in the corral, arms crossed over his chest, back propped against the weathered fence. His eyes were dark and serious, his expression hard as granite.

“You’re late.”

She felt the need to apologize, but shrugged and said, “Large dinner crowd.”

As she reached the corral, he opened the gate. Sundown stood in the far corner, no bridle over his head, no saddle slung across his broad back.

“Aren’t we going to ride?”

“You can—soon as you catch your horse.”

“Oh, no way…” She started to protest, knowing how stubborn the sorrel could be and how he hated to be saddled. Always before, Turner had seen that the gelding was ready to start the riding lesson.Tonight was obviously different. “What if he decides that—”

“Do it.” Turner yanked the bridle from a fence post and threw it at her.

She caught the jangling piece of tack by the bit and, stung by his attitude, said crisply, “Anything you say,boss.”

His lips flattened a little, but he didn’t reply. Arms over his chest, a piece of straw in one corner of his mouth, eyes narrowed, he glared at her.

“Are you angry with me?”

“Has nothin’ to do with you.”

“What doesn’t?”

His eyes flashed fire for a second, then he tamped down his anger and glanced pointedly at his watch. “I don’t have all night. Go on—get him.”

The task was an exercise in futility. Sundown had it in his thick skull that he wasn’t going to let Heather touch him. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the game of having Heather chase him around the corral. Nostrils flared, tail aloft, he pranced around the corral as if the evening wind had rejuvenated his spirit.

“Come on, you,” she said, clucking softly to the horse, but no matter how she approached him, he let her get just close enough to nearly touch his sleek hide, then he bolted, hoofs flying, as he sent a cloud of dust swirling in his wake. Heather was left standing in the middle of the corral, her hand outstretched, the bridle dangling from her fingers.

“Nice try,” Turner remarked on her third attempt.

“Look, I’m doing the best I can.”

“Not good enough.”

Damned cowboy! Who did he think he was? How in the world had she fancied herself in love with him? Humiliation burned bright in her cheeks, and she decided right then and there that she’d show Turner Brooks what she was made of. Even if it killed her. Gritting her teeth, she started after Sundown again, slowly clucking her tongue, her gaze hard with determination. He breezed by, nearly knocking her over.

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