Page 27 of Point of Mercy

Chapter Five

The bronc leapt high, twisted in midair and kicked toward the sun, but Turner held on, his fingers twined in the bridle and mane of his furious mount. “That’s it, you bastard. Show me what you’ve got,” he gritted out. His hat flew off, skimming through the dry air to land in the center of the paddock. The roan, a nasty beast named Gargoyle, landed with a bone-jarring thud before he became airborne again, bucking and rearing, fighting to dislodge his unwanted rider.

Turner gritted his teeth and ignored the grime and dust of a day’s work. This ugly stallion was the best of the lot he was to train, a fiery-tempered quarter horse who didn’t give up, the kind of do-or-die animal that Turner had always found a challenge.

Hooves found earth again and the roan took off, running the length of the paddock, kicking up dust and nearly smashing Turner’s leg against the shaved poles of the fence.

Grinning wickedly, Turner clamped his thighs tighter, shifting his weight, letting the horse know who was boss.

Gargoyle careened to a stop, wheeled on back legs and took off again, running and bucking and tearing up the arid ground.

“I think that’s enough.” Turner reined in, and while the horse took a minute to shift gears, Turner hopped to the ground and wrapped the reins around the top pole of the fence. Man and beast were both sweating and breathing hard.

Turner retrieved his Stetson and slapped the dirty hat against his thigh. A cloud of dust swirled upward. “Tomorrow,” Turner promised.

The horse glowered at him, flattening his ears and shifting his rear end to get a clean shot at Turner’s shin.

Sidestepping quickly, Turner avoided the kick. “You lazy no-good son of a bitch,” Turner muttered, though he was amused by the stallion’s spirited antics. With a little work, this quarter horse would be one of the best he’d ever ridden—ugly or not. “You won’t win, y’know.” With an eye to the horse’s back legs, Turner loosened the cinch and slid the saddle from the roan’s back. “And I’m considering changing your name to Silk Purse. You know the story, don’t ya?”

Gargoyle swung his broad head around and tried to take a nip from Turner’s butt, but the reins restrained the stallion and he was left to stomp the hard earth in frustration.

“Serves you right.” Turner hoisted the saddle to the fence rail, then quickly unsnapped the bridle. Gargoyle didn’t need any more encouragement. He took off, bucking and kicking across the dusty paddock, snorting and galloping with as much speed as any stallion Turner had come across in a long while.

“Remember—tomorrow!” Turner called out as he vaulted the fence. The roan huffed, fire in his eyes, as if he were already anticipating the outcome of their next encounter. Turner laughed. “Yeah, well, I’m lookin’ forward to it, too.”

“Quite a show you put on.”

The voice was soft and feminine, and Turner glanced up sharply to find Nadine standing in the shadow of the barn. He’d forgotten this was her day to come and clean his place. “Didn’t know anyone was watchin’,” he drawled as she crossed the gravel lot, her red hair catching fire in the sunlight. She was a pretty woman with big green eyes, an easy smile, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of a straight little nose. Divorced, with two small children, Nadine made her way in the world alone.

“I thought you might need this.” She handed him a cold bottle of beer, right from the refrigerator. “And I didn’t want you tracking dirt on my floor.”

“And here I thought that floor was mine,” he replied, taking the bottle and twisting off the cap.

“Not until the wax is dry, it isn’t.” She reached into the pocket of her denim jacket and withdrew a stack of envelopes. “Mail call.” Slapping them into his callused palm, she motioned toward the stallion. “Not too handsome, is he?”

“He’ll do.” Turner couldn’t help baiting her a bit. “Don’t you know that the uglier they are, the better they look flyin’ out of the chutes?”

“He flies all right. I’ll give him that.” She squinted up at Turner, and for a minute he caught a glimpse of some emotion she usually hid. She’d been his housekeeper for four years, long before she was divorced from Sam Warne, but lately he’d gotten the feeling that she was interested in more than wiping the grime from his windows. “By the way, she called again,” Nadine added, and Turner’s gut turned to stone.

“Who?”

“As if you didn’t know. Heather, that’s who. Seems as if she’s trying pretty hard to reach you.”

Turner didn’t respond. No reason to. As far as he was concerned, Heather didn’t exist—hadn’t for a lot of years.

“And the Realtor for Thomas Fitzpatrick hasn’t let up. He phoned, too. Fitzpatrick wants this ranch back in a bad way.”

Turner’s glower increased. “I already told him—it isn’t for sale.”

“Thomas Fitzpatrick doesn’t give up easily.”

“He doesn’t have a choice.”

She lifted a shoulder. “Just thought you’d want to know.”

“Only good news. That’s all I want to hear about,” Turner said, his eyes narrowing.

“Well, you may be waiting a long time.”

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