A Bravo's Honour. Christine RimmerЧитать онлайн книгу.
Mercy doctoring the Bravo Ridge livestock was a safe and sane way to start putting the feud behind them.
Safe. Sane.
What Luke wanted when he looked at her was not safe. And not sane. Not in the least.
He wanted to touch her. To stroke a hand down her shiny black hair, to press his palm against her soft cheek. To taste that ripe, red mouth of hers. And more…
A whole lot more.
What was the matter with him to even consider messing with Javier Cabrera’s daughter?
He wasn’t considering it, he told himself firmly.
Uh-uh. No way.
He took a step closer to her.
Available in June 2010
from Mills & Boon® Special Moments™
The Tycoon’s Perfect Match by Christine Wenger & Their Second-Chance Child by Karen Sandler
A Marriage-Minded Man by Karen Templeton & From Friend to Father by Tracy Wolff
An Imperfect Match by Kimberly Van Meter & Next Comes Love by Helen Brenna
A Bravo’s Honour by Christine Rimmer
Lone Star Daddy by Stella Bagwell
Claiming the Rancher’s Heart by Cindy Kirk
To Save a Family by Anna DeStefano
Christine Rimmer came to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she’d been everything from an actress to a salesclerk to a waitress. Now that she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly, she insists she never had a problem keeping a job – she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Christine is grateful not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day’s work is through: a man she loves, who loves her right back, and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day. She lives with her family in Oklahoma. Visit Christine at www.christinerimmer.com.
A Bravo’s Honour
BY
Christine Rimmer
For Betty Lowe,
dear friend and devoted reader.
In loving memory…
Chapter One
“Luke! Wake up, man! We got trouble!”
Luke Bravo shot to a sitting position from a sound sleep. He raked his fingers back through his hair and squinted at the bedside clock—2:10 a.m.
And someone was pounding on his sitting-room door. “Luke! Wake up!” Luke thought he recognized the voice: Paco, one of the stable hands. He sounded seriously freaked.
Stark naked, Luke jumped from the bed. Grabbing his hat off the back of a chair as he flew by, he raced through the sitting area. Lollie, the spotted hound he’d raised from a pup, had beaten him to the door. She paced in front of it, whining and sniffing the crack between the door and the floor.
“Back, girl. Sit,” he commanded. With a final worried whine, the dog moved out of the way. Luke yanked the door wide. “Paco. What the hell?”
About then, the housekeeper, Zita, came flying around the corner from the servants’ rooms, muttering in Spanish, clutching the sides of a flimsy red robe. She let out a shocked little squeak when she got a load of Luke standing there in the altogether.
He put his hat over his privates. “It’s all right, Zita.” He aimed a narrow-eyed glare at Paco. “Is there a fire?”
Paco slapped a hand over his mouth to quell a snort of laughter at the housekeeper’s embarrassment, and mutely shook his head.
“No fire?” Luke asked again, just to be sure. When the stable hand’s head went back and forth a second time, Luke told Zita gently, “I’m on this. Don’t worry. Go on back to bed.”
Face noticeably flaming, even in the dim light provided by the hallway wall sconces, Zita whirled and ran back the way she had come. A choking laugh escaped the stable hand.
Luke leveled a scowl on him. “If not a fire, then what?”
Paco’s grin vanished. His smooth dark face grew somber. “It’s Candyman. He cut his ear on something. There’s blood everywhere. He’s gone loco. We can’t settle him down.”
Though stallions were rarely even-tempered, Candyman, Bravo Ridge’s prize stud, was a true gentleman. A black-footed gray from foundation Quarter Horse lines, he produced top-quality horses for show, ranch work and everyday riding. As a rule, you could count on him to be easygoing and calm.
If he was out of control, he must be hurt bad.
“On my way.” He shoved the door shut, put on his hat and grabbed for his clothes. Once he had his Wranglers and boots on, he told Lollie again to stay, as he slipped out the door. He took off, racing down the back stairs and out one of the service entrances into the hot August night. Halfway across the back gardens, he caught up with Paco.
By the time they reached the dirt driveway that circled the main house and grounds, Luke could hear Candyman’s screams. He ran faster, Paco close on his heels, across the driveway and around the stables to the prize stallion’s paddock.
As they approached the paddock fence, Luke saw that someone had got a rope on him—but hadn’t been able to hold it. The rope trailed loose along the stallion’s neck. Candyman bucked and snorted. Gray mane flying, he shook his proud head, stomping the ground, sending clods of dirt and grass everywhere. Blood, black by the light of the nearly-full moon, ran down his powerful neck. His eyes shone wide and wild—one filmed with blood from that raggedy, sliced-up ear.
Half-blind and scared to death. Even once he got the animal settled a little, the doctoring required would be beyond Luke’s rudimentary veterinary skills. On the other side of the far fence, the stallion’s mares whickered and restlessly paced, frightened to see the big gray so far out of control.
“Call Doc Brewer.” Luke barked the order over his shoulder at the stable hand. “Tell him to get the hell out here. Now.” He climbed the six-foot metal fence surrounding the paddock. As he jumped to the ground within, he gave a low whistle.
The stallion stood still, then, and scented the air.
“Whoa, boy. Easy now…”
The horse made a questioning sound.
“That’s right, it’s me. Easy there. Easy…”
Candyman snorted and shook his silver mane. But he didn’t rear again. He waited, withers twitching, snorting again softly, as Luke cautiously approached.
“Yeah, boy. Good boy…” He held out his hand, palm flat. Candyman gave it a sniff and then allowed him to grasp the dangling, bloody rope.
Luke patted the powerful neck and laid his cheek against it, feeling the tacky wetness of clotting blood. “Come on, now. Let’s get you in your stall…”
The horse went where Luke led him, though reluctantly, switching his tail and making low, unhappy noises. Twice, he jerked the lead to show Luke he wasn’t the least bit happy about the situation. Each time the horse resisted, Luke would stop and speak softly to him. He would stroke the stallion’s fine forehead and blow in his nostrils.
In