“You can pet her,” said Susie Grace. “She likes it when you scratch her under her chin-like this.”

Not wanting to disappoint the child, Mary did…then, when nothing terrible seemed about to happen, ran her hand along the hard round jaw…then daringly over the neck…then the shoulder. Shivering inside with fear and wonder and excitement. She thought again of velvet, except this was warmer and damper than velvet, and underneath the velvet was a whole lot of muscle. Mountains of muscle.

Another velvety muzzle bumped against her arm, demanding a share of the attention, and Mary said, “Oh-” and laughed as she transferred her stroking to the newcomer. This one was a lovely mottled gray, like dappled shade on snow. It had a darker gray muzzle, and the softest darkest eyes she’d ever seen. “What’s this one’s name?”

“That’s Angel.” Susie Grace’s eyes were on her scarred hands as they methodically stroked Tootsie’s neck. “She’s my mommy’s horse. Her name used to be Dancer when she was a barrel racer, but now it’s Angel, because my mom is an angel, too.” There was a pause, and then she looked up at Mary and said, “She’s real gentle. You can ride her if you want to.”

Mary’s heart dropped into her shoes.

After that, what could she do?

Which was how it happened that the next morning, a bright sunny Sunday in May, Mary found herself where she’d have been content never in her whole entire life to be-in a saddle on the back of a horse. A horse named Angel.

Chapter 15

Roan had about decided he believed in miracles. He’d never been so inclined before, but lately there’d been too many things happening in his life that couldn’t be explained any other way.

Take last night. Coming home past midnight and not finding Boyd snoring away on the sofa had been a bit of a shock, before he’d remembered there was no reason for his father-in-law to stay over when there was another adult in the house to look after Susie Grace. Which was another kind of shock entirely. But that wasn’t anything compared to the jolt he got when he went in to kiss his daughter good night and found a big ugly orange tomcat curled up next to her, purring like a buzz saw.

Then…pausing beside his bedroom door, hand on the doorknob, heart pounding like a teenage boy’s, thinking of the lush and lovely body tucked between his sheets and aching with wanting to be in there with her. Wanting to kiss her awake and stroke her to shuddering arousal, make love to her until they were both laughing and crying like a couple of kids and too exhausted to move a muscle…then fall asleep with her softness still cuddled against him, her heartbeat tapping against his arm and her body’s sweet perfume in every breath he took.

He wasn’t sure if that qualified as a miracle or not, but he knew there’d been a time not so long ago when he’d have bet his life he’d never know those feelings again.

Then this morning…waking up to the familiar Sunday-morning smells-bacon and coffee and maple syrup-walking into the kitchen to find Boyd and Mary both there, Boyd trying to show Mary how to flip hotcakes and Susie Grace watching them and laughing so hard she had milk coming out of her nose.

But the capper, the biggest miracle of all, had to be this one before his eyes this very minute, shimmering like a mirage in the hot May sun-Miss Mary on the back of a horse.

And not looking too unhappy about it, either, now she was over her initial fear. Fear? No-he’d seen fear before, but this was sheer terror. Terror Roan had thought was going to send her running for the house like a scalded cat before he’d even got the horses saddled. He didn’t suppose he ever would know what had given Mary the courage to get up on that horse. He’d have gladly given her an out rather than look at the fear in those eyes, but she’d refused to fold. And right now he had to say she looked awfully damn good, up there on Erin’s dapple-gray mare, ambling through the wildflowers alongside Susie Grace on Tootsie. Looked as if she might have been born to ride all along, and just hadn’t known it.

“Seems like she’s doing okay,” he said to Boyd, his voice gruff with the sheer joy it gave him just to have her here in his world…his place.

Boyd snorted. “Told her little bit’d have her up horseback in no time.” He shifted in his saddle. “Don’t you worry about that gal. She’s gonna be just fine.”

Something…an unformed thought, a question, an unfocused awareness…shivered through Roan’s insides. Something in the old man’s voice that made Roan look over at him with narrowed eyes. But Boyd’s gaze was fixed on the two riders up ahead, and his jaw was set in a way that made Roan think of immoveable things, like rocks and mountains.

He shook off the vague uneasiness as he pulled up at the top of the saddleback ridge-from long habit; he was too distracted to appreciate the view this particular day. He had enough on his mind right now without worrying what might be troubling his father-in-law.

“Hard not to worry,” he said as Boyd reined Foxy in alongside him. “Still haven’t found whoever it was tried to shoot her yesterday. Then there’s the little matter of how I’m gonna keep her from going to prison for the rest of her life.”

“You’ll get him,” Boyd growled. “She ain’t gonna go to prison.”

Again Roan looked over at him with those questions he couldn’t quite pin down floating in his mind. But the old man was leaning on his saddlehorn, squinting at the blue mountains off in the distance.

Something stirred across the back of Roan’s neck. His Spirit Messenger again? It had been awhile since he’d felt that particular touch, and he was about half amused and half annoyed with himself for entertaining such superstitious nonsense.

He wondered what it was trying to tell him this time.

He didn’t have much time to wonder, though, because right then he heard a shout, and at the same time Boyd rose up in his stirrups and said, “Oh hell.”

Roan looked where he was looking and saw Susie Grace had gotten impatient, as usual, and taken off across the meadow at full gallop. Right behind her was Mary on the dapple-gray mare, bouncing up and down and holding on for dear life.

“Kid needs a good paddlin’,” Boyd said as he nudged his horse forward.

Loping along beside him, Roan was too busy watching Mary to answer that, though at the moment he pretty much agreed with the sentiment. His heart felt as though it had lodged in his throat, and this time it wasn’t his daughter he was scared breathless for. “Why the hell is she taking off after her like that? What’s she trying to do, race?”

Boyd snorted. “Probably wasn’t her idea. That horse always did like to run.”

“Once a barrel racer, always a barrel racer,” Roan muttered.

“Better go after her, boy. Need to be a better rider than that little gal to stay on a cuttin’ horse if it takes a notion to change direction.”

Roan had already kicked Springer into full gallop.

For Mary the world had become a bouncing, quivering blur that rushed past her at the speed of a runaway train. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, though her mouth was wide open. She could feel air rushing into her lungs but couldn’t seem to push it back out again. Insects smacked against her face, tears welled up in her eyes and were torn away by the wind. Hard leather spanked her backside and bruised her in even more sensitive places, and all she could do was grip the saddlehorn and hang on, too paralyzed with fear even to pray.

The wild ride ended abruptly, in a slow-motion, nightmarish sort of way. There was an extra hard jolt, and Mary felt herself flying through quiet space…turning gracefully, silently, like a windmill, head over heels. Then she slithered along warm, slick horsehide to land in tall, tickly grass with a thump that jarred her teeth and turned the world blank for a second or two.

She was staring up at the pale-blue sky, brain still on lock-down, when she felt something bump gently against the top of her head. Hot moist breath smelling strongly of masticated hay gusted through her hair. She tilted her head, rolled her eyes back and found herself gazing up at the mottled gray underbelly of a whale. A whale with legs. She whimpered feebly, certain she was about to be trampled to death.

Especially when she felt the ground beneath her shake.

Instead, she heard a voice, deep and growly and hoarse, calling her name. She heard heavy, huffing breaths, the slap of reins and creak of saddle leather, thumping footsteps, and then a pale Stetson blotted out the sky.

“Roan?” she croaked, and heard a sharp exhalation and a whispered, “Thank God…”

“Wha’happened?” Was that her voice, so thin and frail? She couldn’t seem to get enough air behind it.

“Shh,” he said gently, “don’t talk. Lie still.” He took off his hat and laid it on the grass, then bent over her and looked into her eyes.

She gazed back at him, sure she’d never seen a face so beautiful, even with the mouth hard and tight and eyes narrowed and burning like fire. No, ice. Fire and ice-that’s what he is. Ice on the outside, fire on the inside.

“I guess I fell off, huh?” she said, answering her own question since he didn’t seem inclined to.

The thumbprints in his cheeks deepened, though it would have been a stretch to call the curve of his lips a smile. His hand gently smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “Yeah, you did-wasn’t your fault, though.”

“I’ll say it wasn’t!” She struggled to sit up, but Roan’s hands kept her from it. “The…stupid horse just…took off. Why’d she do that? I didn’t tell her to.”

“Your horse took off because Susie Grace’s horse did. Herd instinct.” He was frowning as his hands roved quickly over her body…her arms, her legs. “All horses like to race-that one in particular. You hurt anywhere?”

“Everywhere,” she groaned, but it was a lie; nothing hurt now that he was touching her. Nothing had ever felt so good as those hard, gentle hands.

“Good-pain’s good. Means it’s not likely your neck’s broken.” He paused to tilt his head toward the dapple-gray mare, now placidly chomping a mouthful of grass a few feet away. “She used to be a barrel racer.”

“Susie Grace mentioned that.” Mary had lived in rodeo country long enough to know what barrel racing was. She’d just never realized what that meant. “How does something that big, moving that fast, stop so suddenly?”

Roan’s frown relaxed, and his chuckle sounded warm, relieved. “That’s a quarter horse for you.” He sat back on his heels, one hand draped across his knee, and his eyes caressed her with a light that was like sunshine to growing things.

And like those growing things, she felt herself-not physically, but inside, her whole being-yearning toward him, being pulled to him, nourished by him.

What happens to growing things when the sun goes away?

She glared at his hand, angry with herself for wanting it not to be so far away. For wanting it touching her again.

“Nothing seems to be broken,” Roan said, smiling at her finally. “Guess you can get up now.”

“Thanks,” Mary muttered, lifting an arm to pillow her head, “but I’d just as soon stay right here.” The thought of getting back on that horse made her stomach turn over.

As if he’d read her mind, he brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers and said softly, “You’re gonna have to do it sometime, Miss Mary.”

She closed her eyes and stubbornly shook her head. The feel of his fingers on her cheek made her whole face ache. And her heart. How did I do this? How did I let this happen?

The ground under her had begun to shake again. She lifted her head and saw Susie Grace galloping toward them up the gentle slope, her blue cowboy hat bouncing against her back. Boyd was there, too, she saw now, sitting on his spotted Appaloosa horse a little way off, leaning on his saddlehorn, watching.

“Mary! Mary-are you all right?” Susie Grace yelled as she reined Tootsie to a jolting, jarring halt. “What happened? I didn’t see you. Did you fall off?”

“Stay right where you are, Missy.” Roan had risen to his feet, ominous as a thunderhead. He caught the red-gold mare’s bridle, patted her sweat-soaked neck and soothed her as she snorted and tossed her head. “What did you think you were doing? Haven’t Grampa and I both talked to you about running off like that?” His voice was as stern as Mary had ever heard it.

“I’m sorry,” Susie Grace hunched her shoulders, looking small and contrite.

Roan didn’t soften an inch. “Sorry’s too late. Mary’s lucky she didn’t break her neck. What would you do if she had, Susan? Tell me that. Sorry isn’t gonna fix a broken neck.”