Against the Rules Read online

  Of all the voices calling her every day, Rule’s sounded by far the most often. She ran up and down the stairs countless times every day to answer his demands. It wasn’t that he was a difficult patient, simply that he wanted her—and only her—to take care of him.

  She had bought an air-conditioner the day after bringing him home from the hospital, and he rested better when the room was a more comfortable temperature. The quiet hum of the motor also masked the noises that might have disturbed him otherwise. He slept a great deal, but when he was awake he wasn’t very patient if Cathryn didn’t come immediately.

  She couldn’t get angry with him, not when she could see for herself how pale he became if he tried to move very much at all. His leg still hurt him, and was beginning to itch under the cast, as well, and he couldn’t do anything to ease either condition. She wasn’t surprised that he was short-tempered; anyone would have been under the circumstances. For a man of his temperament, he was doing much better than she had expected.

  However, understanding didn’t stop her legs from aching after a hundred trips up the stairs. She wasn’t getting enough sleep, or enough to eat, and the only time she was sitting down was when she was either on a horse or feeding Rule. After only two days she was ready to drop in her tracks.

  That night she actually did fall asleep beside Rule. She could remember feeding him, and when he was finished she had set the plate back on the tray and leaned down for a moment to rest her head on his shoulder. The next thing she knew it was morning, and Rule was groaning from the cramp in his arm. He had held her all night long and spent the night propped up on his pillows, his right arm wrapped around her. He kissed her and smiled, but discomfort shadowed his face and she knew that he had slept badly, if at all.

  The entire morning was hectic, with one problem after another cropping up. She had just ridden into the stables, having returned to feed Rule his lunch, when a pickup truck rolled into the yard and a familiar figure emerged.

  “Mr. Vernon,” Cathryn called warmly, going up to greet her old friend. Another man got out of the vehicle and she glanced at him curiously before she recognized him. He was the man who had been with Paul Vernon the day she had met him in front of the drugstore, but she couldn’t recall his name.

  Paul Vernon solved that problem by indicating the man with a sweep of his big hand and saying, “You remember Ira Morris, don’t you? Met him a week or so back.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Cathryn, extending her hand to the man.

  He shook hands, but he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were sliding over the stables and barns, resting finally on the horses that were grazing peacefully in the pastures.

  “I’ve heard a lot about this place,” he said, “and none of it was bad. Good, solid, well-mannered horses, the best quarter horses to be found in the state. But you’re breeding for speed now, too, I hear. Branching out into Thoroughbreds, aren’t you? They doing well?”

  A few days before Cathryn wouldn’t have known if they were or not, but she had absorbed a lot of the business by necessity. “We sold a colt last year who’s been winning big in California this season.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” said Ira Morris. “Irish Venture, by Irish Gale, out of Wanderer. Word is out that the mare’s dropped another foal by Irish Gale; I’d like to get in ahead of the sale.”

  “None of the horses listed in the catalog will be sold until the day of the sale,” said Cathryn firmly.

  “All right, I can understand that,” he readily agreed. “Would it be all right if I saw the colt?”

  She shrugged and smiled. “I don’t mind, but the foal is a filly, not a colt. Her name is Little Irish, but Rule calls her Hooligan.”

  “She’s headstrong?” Paul Vernon asked.

  Cathryn’s smile grew broader and she lifted her hand to point out a dainty filly prancing around in the pasture. “Hooligan is just different,” she said. They watched the graceful movements in silence as the young horse danced lightly over the green grass. It was only when the filly came alongside another horse that you could get an idea of her size. Because she was so graceful, it wasn’t at first apparent that she was a tall, strong horse. Her sleek hide effectively masked the strength of her muscles; an observer first noticed her burnished beauty, the spirited arch of her neck and the delicacy with which she placed each hoof as she ran. Later, like a slow dawn, would come the realization that the filly had speed to burn, that those slender legs were as strong as steel.

  “She’s not for sale,” said Cathryn. “At least not this year. Rule wants to keep her.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to him.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Cathryn, stretching the truth a bit. She didn’t quite like Ira Morris. He seemed to be a cold, calculating man. “Rule had an accident earlier this week and he’s restricted to bed; he can’t be disturbed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Mr. Vernon said instantly. “What happened?”

  “His horse stumbled and went down with him, then rolled on Rule’s leg.”

  “Broken?”

  “I’m afraid so. He also has a concussion, and we have to keep him quiet.”

  “That’s a damned shame, with this sale coming up.”

  “Oh, he won’t miss the sale,” Cathryn assured him. “If I know Rule Jackson, he’ll be hobbling around before then. I just hope I’ll be able to keep him down for the rest of this week.”

  “Headstrong, ain’t he?” Mr. Vernon laughed.

  “As a mule,” agreed Cathryn fervently.

  Ira Morris shifted impatiently and she realized that he wasn’t interested in Rule’s health. He was interested only in the horses, and as far as she was concerned they had no horses to sell until the day of the sale. Rule would know instantly which horses he had listed in the catalog, but as the catalogs hadn’t arrived yet from the printers, Cathryn had no way of knowing without running to ask him, which she refused to do.

  Mr. Morris cast another look over the ranch. “Just one thing, Mrs. Ashe,” he said brusquely. “I came here to talk business, but now I’m not sure who I should be talking to. Who runs this outfit, you or Jackson?”

  Cathryn paused, considering that. “I own the ranch,” she finally said in a neutral tone. “But Mr. Jackson runs it for me, and he knows more about the horses than I do.”

  “So his decisions are final?”

  She was beginning to feel annoyed. “Just what are you asking, Mr. Morris? If you want to buy horses now, then my answer is, I’m sorry, but not until the sale. Or is there something else on your mind?”

  He smiled a hard, wintry smile, his cold eyes flashing at her. “What if I want to buy it all? Everything—horses, land, buildings.”

  That shook her. Pushing a wayward strand of hair away from her eyes, she looked around. Sell the Bar D? That old house was where she had been born. She knew every inch of this land, every rise and dip, every scent and sound of it. This was where she had first begun to love Rule, where she had come to know herself as a woman. It would be impossible to sell it.... She opened her mouth to tell him so, but then came the unbidden thought that if she didn’t own the Bar D she wouldn’t have to worry whether Rule wanted her land more than he wanted her. She would know for certain....

  If she wanted to know. A sharp pain went through her at the thought that the answer might be more painful than the question. Rule would never forgive her if she sold the ranch.

  To Mr. Morris, she gave a forced smile. “That’s a big ‘if,’” she said. “And it’s one that I haven’t considered before. I couldn’t make a snap decision on that.”

  “But you will think about it?” he pressed.

  “Oh, yes,” she assured him wryly. “I’ll think about it.” It would be hard for her to think about anything else. In a twisted way Mr. Morris had just reversed the roles for her and Rule. Which did she want more, the ranch or Rule Jackson? If she kept the ranch she might never know how he really felt about her; on the other hand, if she sold it she