Page 29 of Point of Mercy

She only had to face Turner again because of Adam. At the thought of her son, she caught her lip between her teeth. His disease wasn’t, at the moment, life threatening. But at any time his remission could be reversed and then…oh, God, and then… She shuddered though the interior of the car was warm.

Her own bone marrow didn’t match that of her son. And, of course, Dennis’s wouldn’t, either. That left Turner. For, if Adam should need a donor and was unable to donate enough good tissue to himself, Turner was the next logical choice.

He deserved to know.

She pushed a little harder on the throttle, and her car leapt forward, exceeding the limit. She couldn’t seem to get to Turner fast enough. She’d been in Gold Creek long enough to know that he wasn’t married, that no woman openly lived with him, but she wasn’t sure that he wasn’t in love with someone and that whoever the woman was, she wouldn’t want Heather showing up on Turner’s doorstep with the news that not only was he a father, but that the boy needed him.

She tasted blood and forced herself to relax, removing her teeth from her lip and easing up on the throttle. The ranch was just ahead. She spotted the turnoff to a long dirt-and-gravel lane that wound through a thicket of trees. The ranch house was probably beyond. She turned into the lane. The tire of the Mercedes hit a pothole and shuddered, and Heather sent up a prayer that when she faced Turner again, she wouldn’t break down.

* * *

The temperature inthe barn hovered around a hundred degrees. Dust filled the air that was acrid with the smells of manure and oil from the broken-down tractor. Yellow jackets buzzed near the filthy windows and swallows flew in and out the open door. The light from the lowering sun seeped through the cracks in the old siding and faded in the recesses of the interior. A headache thundered behind Turner’s eyes. He needed a shower and a drink and then maybe a woman. Not necessarily in that order. He’d be lucky if he got the shower.

Sweat ran down the back of his neck and over his bare back as every one of his muscles strained while he pitted his will and strength against that of the stallion.

Gargoyle wasn’t going to win this round, Turner decided as he held the roan’s bent foreleg tightly between his thighs and carefully, so as to avoid being nipped in the rear, tapped the nails of the horseshoe back into Gargoyle’s hoof. The roan snorted, shifting his weight against the man and looking for a way to take a piece out of Turner’s hide.

“Relax,” Turner muttered around a mouthful of nails. His muscles ached, but he didn’t give in. For his efforts, he was flicked in the face with the coarse hairs of the horse’s tail. “Cut it out!”

Tap, tap, tap.He drove the nails into the hoof. The horse was nervous. Lather greased his coat and his ears were flat with hatred for the man intent on taming his wild spirit. “You’ll live. Believe me,” Turner told the roan as he drove the last nail into place.

“Turner?”

The feminine voice, so familiar in his distant memory, caught his attention. He looked up and saw her silhouetted in the open door, her figure dark in contrast to the fading sunlight, her skirt moving slightly in a tiny ghost of a breeze. The hairs on the back of Turner’s neck lifted one by one. It couldn’t be…

“Turner Brooks?” she repeated, stepping into the shadows of the barn, closer now so that he could see her face, the same damned face that he’d tried so hard to forget.

Gargoyle shifted, his head swinging around. And Turner, thighs still clamped over the horse’s foreleg, sidestepped the nip. He spat the nails into his hand, all the while never letting his gaze wander from the doorway. “Well, well, well,” he heard himself saying. “If it isn’t Mrs. Leonetti?” She winced a little at that, and he wondered where was the satisfaction he should have felt in wounding her. Letting the roan’s leg drop, he vaulted easily over the railing of the stall. She was still a few feet away, but he noticed her eyes widen a bit, and the quick intake of her breath, as if she were frightened. “You know, I never thought I’d see you again.”

“I…um… I know.” She licked her lips—from nerves or in an effort to play coy, he couldn’t guess. His gut tightened, warning him that she was trouble. Always had been. Always would be. Her blond hair, the color of winter wheat,stirred in the breeze, and in the half light of the barn her eyes were as dark as the stone cold hue of an arctic sky. Fitting. “You haven’t returned my calls,” she accused, though her words weren’t harsh.

“Nothin’ to say.”

“And my letter?”

One edge of his lip lifted sardonically. God, she was beautiful—frigidly so. The layer of sophistication she’d so carefully wrapped around her made her seem ice-cold and untouchable—like a marble statue. She’d changed over the years, and not for the better. “You sent me something? Must’ve got lost,” he drawled, and they both knew it was a lie.

“You should’ve read it.”

“Why?” He folded his arms over his chest, waiting with measured patience.

Her mouth moved, but she didn’t speak.

“Look, lady,” Turner said irritably as he remembered using that very word as an endearment in the past. She froze for a second and he mentally kicked himself. “Is there something you want? If so, just spit it out and then leave me the hell alone.”

“I just… I… Oh, drat!” She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, and for the first time he noticed the lines of strain near her mouth. Maybe being married to Mr. Big Bucks wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. “I had to see you again.”

His body turned rigid. Every sweat-soaked muscle grew taut with suspicion. She was playing with him. A bored housewife looking for a quick thrill. “So now you’ve seen me,” he said, with as much malice as he could muster.May as well have a little fun with her. She deserved it. “Now what?”

“I, um, thought we could talk.”

He sauntered closer to her, aware that he smelled of sweat and horse and dirt. He hadn’t shaved in three days, and his faded jeans, threatening to bust through in the knees and butt, were streaked with grime. A pretty sight he made, he thought as he stopped only inches from her and stared down into her cobalt-blue eyes. In his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of a sleek, silver Mercedes—a rich woman’s car.

“Talk?” He lifted a dubious eyebrow and smiled inwardly when her pulse, visible in her throat, leapt. So she was either scared or nervous. Good. “I’m not in the mood to talk. There’s only one thing I’ve ever wanted to do with you,” he said cruelly, keeping his voice low while sliding one long finger along the V of her neckline. “And you know what that is. So, let’s either get down to it or you can get the hell out of my life.”

Shuddering, as if from revulsion, she drew in a long breath and focused her eyes directly on his. “Don’t try to scare me, Turner. It won’t work.”

So she did still have some gumption. She tossed her thick blond hair away from her face and didn’t flinch, not even when his finger slipped beneath the clear button and the blouse opened a slit. He told himself she could never arouse him again, but the pad of his fingertip pressing against the taut skin over her sternum caused a reaction elsewhere in his body, and when he noticed that her expensive white blouse was dirty where he’d touched the lapel, his groin tightened. He always had liked a challenge and she seemed intent on giving him one.

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