As he looked her up and down, taking in her scratched, dirt-smeared face and hands, his sardonic smile faded. “Are you all right, Tess?”
“I’m fine. How’s the horse?”
“Just spooked. We need to put some salve on those scratches. Come on, I’ll take you back to the house. You can tell me what happened on the way.”
He leaned down from the saddle and offered a hand. Tess took it and let him swing her up behind the saddle. The bulls watched but made no more aggressive moves as Brock turned the big sorrel back toward the gate.
To keep from sliding off, Tess had to grip Brock’s waist. He was rock solid beneath the denim shirt he wore. The aromas of man sweat and sagebrush teased her senses, stirring tugs and tingles in forbidden places. Not good. She cleared her throat.
“You wanted me to tell you what happened. The horse spooked at a rattler. By the time I came to my senses, the snake was gone and so was the horse. The bulls kept moving toward me—maybe just curious, but I couldn’t be sure.”
“So you decided to serenade them. Good thinking.” He chuckled. Tess could feel the vibrations through her fingertips.
“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.”