Page 149 of Backlash

“So you keep saying.”

He was walking so fast, she had to half run to keep up with him. Her black denim skirt billowed, the soles of her boots crunched on the gravel. They crossed the yard and headed straight for the stables. Colton shouldered open the door and pulled Cassie into a darkened interior filled with the scent of horses and dust, oil and leather. Stallions snorted and rustled in stalls as they passed, but Colton didn’t stop until they came to an end stall.

She recognized Black Magic instantly. Denver’s prize quarter horse stallion was the most famous horse in the county—possibly the state. Magic’s glossy coat gleamed almost blue beneath the lights, and his only marking, a jagged white blaze, slashed crookedly down his nose.

“This is Black Magic,” Colton said grandly, dropping Cassie’s hand and eyeing the horse as if he didn’t much care for him.

“We’ve met before.” Cassie couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice.

“Well, take a good hard look at him, Cass. Because no one on the ranch has laid a hand on him since he got back.”

“So?”

“So how do you explain that a horse who was supposed to have been wandering around the ranch in the hills for the better part of a week is in such good shape? Shouldn’t he be filthy? It’s been raining and yet he hardly has any mud on his coat. And he’s obviously not starving. In fact,” Colton said, nodding to himself, “I’d say Magic here looks better now than when he was taken.”

“Which proves someone took him to use him as a sire,” she mocked, blowing a loose strand of hair from her eyes.

“Bingo!”

“But that doesn’t wash, Colton. Even if your theory were true—and I’m not saying it is—the thief couldn’t claim that your horse was the sire to any of his foals. They wouldn’t be any more valuable. So what would be the point?”

“Better offspring. And you’re wrong about the value.” Colton slid a knowing glance her way. “What’s the name of your father’s best stud?”

“Devil Dancer.”

“And is he a black horse?”

“Yes, but—”

“Just suppose that Devil Dancer’s foals turn out to be the best horses you’ve ever raised. Better than you expected. Better than both the sire and the dam. Not only would the foals be worth more, but Devil Dancer’s stud fees would go up.”

Cassie almost laughed out loud. The idea was too absurd. “You’re really reaching, McLean,” she challenged, shaking her head. “Why would anyone, especially Dad, go to all the trouble?” She saw his eyes darken, and she knew. The feud. Of course. Always the feud. “I thought I already told you that what happened in the past is over, Colt,” she said, unable to let the subject drop.

“Is it?” His gaze moved from the horse to her, insolently sliding from her crown to her toes. Suddenly the dimly lit barn seemed intimate and sultry, warmer than it had been.

“Of course.”

“Then why’re you here?” He leaned one of his hips against the stall door, waiting.

“Two reasons,” she said, feeling a ridiculous need for honesty. The musty room seemed to close in on her, and she shifted her eyes away from Colton. “First, and I’ll admit it, I wanted to gloat.”

From the corner of her eye she noticed that one of his dark brows was cocked in interest.

Her pulse leaped crazily. Coming here was a mistake, a serious mistake. She knew that now, but she was trapped, and in all honesty she didn’t know if she would run from him if she could. “Believe it or not, Colton, you bring out the worst in me. You came storming over to my house, ranting and raving, parking your backside in the middle of my kitchen, claiming that my father had done you dirt. And I wanted to see how you’d like it if the tables were turned.” She clenched her fingers around the top rail of Black Magic’s stall. Suddenly self-conscious, she thrust her hands into her skirt.

“And the other reason,” he prodded, his voice low.

“The other reason.” She licked her lips and plunged on. “It’s time everyone forgot there ever was a feud and buried the past.” She tilted her face up mutinously and met the questions in his eyes with the cool fury in hers.

“Tell that to your father.”

“My father had nothing to do—” she started before his hard brown hand caught her wrist.

“Drop it, Cass,” he suggested, gray eyes blazing.

“What’s gotten into you?”

He gritted his teeth. He wanted to tell her. Oh, God, how he wanted to tell her that she’d gotten to him again despite all those damned promises to himself. The scent of her hair, the challenge in her eyes, the thrust of her small chin all beckoned him in a primal way he detested. “I don’t want any more foul-ups, Cass,” he said, his teeth clenched, his fingers curling possessively over her small wrist.

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