Pale Rider

Chapter One

"Aw, nuts," Dillon McBride muttered when he spotted the snow-covered sedan parked behind the house. He’d been out delivering calves all night. He was exhausted, fro- zen and wet, and the last thing he wanted was to have to cope with-company. Well, at least now he knew why his cousin Jake hadn’t shown up to help him this morning.

Shooting the car an irritated glance, Dillon rode his palo- mino gelding, Sunny, straight up to the back steps, dis- mounted and flexed his aching right hand. Damn thing al- ways gave him trouble in the winter. It was March now, though, so the cold weather couldn’t last much longer. He hoped. He tipped his Stetson back on his head, then pulled the newborn calf draped behind the saddle horn into his arms. The animal didn’t even try to struggle.

Hang on, little fella, Dillon murmured. You’ll be warm in no time.

The aromas of coffee and freshly baked cinnamon rolls made his stomach growl when he stepped into the mud- room and stomped the snow from his boots. Ignoring the circle of surprised faces gathered around the kitchen table, he strode to the fireplace, went down on one knee and laid the calf on the hearth.

I need some old towels, Grace, he said to his sister. Hurry.

Damn. The little critter was so cold and still, there wasn’t a second to lose. Stripping off his soggy gloves, Dillon rubbed the calf’s flanks and legs as briskly as his stiff An- gers would allow. He heard chair legs scrape the tile floor, and more than one set of footsteps. Then a sultry feminine voice he didn’t recognize spoke from somewhere over his left shoulder.

Is there anything I can do to help?

Maintaining his rhythm, Dillon looked up and dam near swallowed his tongue. Pretty wouldn’t begin to describe the woman leaning over him. Beautiful didn’t come much closer. No, for this woman, you needed a whole phrase. Drop-dead gorgeous might do.

The weird thing was, he’d seen her somewhere before, but he knew he’d never met her; a man would have to be legally blind to forget meeting this woman. While Dillon had more than his share of physical defects, bad eyesight wasn’t one of them.

Her thick, tawny hair curled around her shoulders, fram- ing a face with dainty, well-formed features and a peaches- and-cream complexion. Her eyes were a rich, deep blue, and they widened ever so slightly when they met his.

His mouth dried out. A shudder snaked down his spine. Lord, it felt like she was looking into the murky depths of his soul.

Her eyebrows drew together, creating a delicate frown that expressed the same confusion, the same odd sense of recognition he was feeling. She cleared her throat and, with what appeared to be an effort, directed her attention toward the calf.

It’s just a baby, she said. Do you have to be so rough?

Her low, husky voice set up such lusty vibrations along his nerve endings, it took a second or two for her words to sink in. When they did, Dillon wrenched his head back around, looked at his small patient and felt his heart take a nosedive. The calf’s eyes were closed; its breathing was labored. If it got any weaker…

Where the hell are those towels, Grace? he shouted.

Here, Dillon, his sister shouted back. Catch! I’ll mix some formula.

He reached up and snagged the towels out of the air with his right hand. The quiet, appalled gasp from behind him sent an embarrassed wave of heat up the back of his neck. Why he was disappointed with the woman’s reaction to his missing thumb, he couldn’t say. After nineteen years of receiving similar reactions from strangers—especially women—he should be used to it. She’d probably pass out when she got a good look at the left side of his face.

Well, tough, he thought, rubbing the calf with even more vigor. He didn’t know or care who she was, and he had more important things to worry about than offending her sensibilities. If she didn’t like looking at him, she could damn well go somewhere else.

The calf’s breathing sounded better now. Dillon flipped him over to dry the other side. The woman knelt beside him, picked up a towel and gently wiped the calf’s head.

Is it a boy or a girl? she asked.

A bull.

Where is his mother?

Dead.

A rumble of laughter came from the table. Intentionally keeping his left cheek turned away from her, Dillon looked over and spotted Jake drinking coffee with Dillon’s brother Marsh, who lived in Los Angeles, and two other guys he’d never seen before.

What the heck was Marsh doing in Wyoming at this time’ of the year? And why was Jake sitting there jawing like he had all day, when they had cows dropping calves in snow- drifts, for God’s sake? Marsh wasn’t much of a cattleman, but it wasn’t like Jake to ignore a distressed calf.

Hey, Jake, Dillon called. This is one of Samson’s get. How about finding a box and some blankets for him? And a hot water bottle while you’re at it?

Jake said something Dillon couldn’t quite catch and left the kitchen. Grace carried a pop bottle with a rubber nipple attached across the room and handed it to Dillon. I’ll get the hot-water bottle, she said. Jake’ll never find it.

Dillon shrugged out of his heavy coat and lifted the calf onto his lap. The animal had finally warmed up enough to struggle a little. Holding his left hand on the back of its neck, Dillon clamped the first and second fingers of his right hand around the bottle of formula.

Easy there, bud, he said. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.

He brushed the tip of the nipple over the calf’s mouth, but the dumb critter twisted his head away.

Come on, boy. I know this ain’t your mama, but you need some nutrition. Open up.

The calf wasn’t having any of it. He let out a pathetic bawl and strained away every time Dillon brought the bottle back to his mouth.

I can hold the bottle for you, the woman said softly.

Dillon glanced up at her and felt his heart clench. Damn, but she was a gorgeous thing. Especially with that girlish, eager expression in her eyes, as if she really wanted to help. It wasn’t her fault he had a mutilated hand and a nightmare face. Was she Marsh’s latest Hollywood honey? Or did she belong to one of those other guys? Aw, what did he care, anyway? Regular women found him repulsive enough. A woman like her…

Irritated, he shook his head and answered more gruffly than he’d intended. Better not. You’ll get dirty.

I don’t mind, she said.

Eyeing her elegant powder blue slacks and sweater, he shook his head again. This little guy doesn’t know how to suck or swallow. When I get this stuff into his mouth, he’s gonna cough and choke and sneeze all over the place. Grace can help me.

The woman pursed her lips, lifted her chin and, to Dil- lon’s surprise, snatched the bottle out of his hand. He glared at her for a moment, then shrugged and grabbed the calf’s muzzle, applying pressure to the sides of its mouth. When the calf bawled in protest, the woman popped the nipple into his mouth.

As predicted, the animal gagged and spewed formula every which way, his eyes rolling with fright. Dillon stroked the underside of its neck, hoping it would get the idea and swallow. The woman grasped the little varmint’s muzzle the way Dillon had earlier and poked the nipple back into his mouth.

Come on, baby, she cooed. Take the bottle, sweet- heart. It’s so good for you. Oh, be a good boy. Do it for me, sugar. That’s right. Do it for Blair.

Her voice was lighter and softer now, as if she were talking to a human infant instead of a Hereford. Even so, there was a smoky, husky undertone to it that commanded attention. The calf’s eyes focused on her face, and he stopped fighting. She petted his head, coaxing and smiling, practically seducing the little critter.

Dillon found himself feeling seduced, as well. The backs of his ears tingled, as if she were stroking them instead of the calf’s. The temperature in the room shot up at least twenty degrees. If she didn’t stop soon, he wouldn’t be able to let the calf get off his lap without embarrassing himself something fierce. The stupid critter was staring at her like a lovesick fool, drooling formula out the sides of his mouth.

Dillon didn’t blame him. If she ever turned that sultry voice and those big blue eyes on him that way, he’d prob- ably roll over on his back like a dog begging to have his belly scratched. Forcing his gaze back to the job at hand, Dillon massaged the calf’s throat. Come on, fella. You’ll like this stuff.

The calf rolled his eyes at the sound of Dillon’s voice, then went back to staring at the woman and drooling. Dillon sighed with impatience. Raise the bottle a little, he ordered. And hold on tight. Once he figures it out, he’ll suck like a vacuum cleaner.

When she complied, he tipped the animal’s chin up, forc- ing the liquid to the back of its throat. The calf gagged again and tried to thrash his head, but Dillon restrained him until he swallowed in self-defense. It didn’t take long after that for the calf to understand what he needed to do.

Oh, he’s so hungry, the woman said, laughing with delight. And he’s so cute. Does he have a name yet?

Dillon shook his head. We don’t name cattle.

Then who is Samson? she asked, giving him a puz- zled frown. From what you said to Jake, I thought he was a bull.

He is, but we usually keep them around a long time. But you don’t make pets out of animals that’ll wind up on a dinner table someday.

A stricken expression crossed her face. She glanced at the calf, then looked at Dillon, as if he’d just announced he was a serial killer. Is that what’s going to happen to him?

Unless we decide to use him for breeding, which isn’t likely. Far as I know, that’s about all Herefords are good for.

Frowning, she gazed at the calf for a long moment, reached down, scratched his ears and fluffed the little white whorls of hair on his head. It twirled around her fingers. Then she gave her head a decisive shake and looked at Dillon. I’ll buy him from you. And I’ll call him…Curly.

While Dillon admired her sense of compassion, he couldn’t repress a snort of laughter. Right. Where you plannin’ to keep Curly? In your backyard? Next to the pool?

I’ll think of something.

Lady, get serious. He’s a cute little guy right now, but he’s gonna weigh over a ton when he’s full-grown.

Before she could reply, Jake returned with a big box and a couple of old blankets under his arm. Grace followed close behind him. Jake squatted on one heel and spread the blankets out. Dillon lifted the calf into the makeshift bed, tucked him in with the hot-water bottle and stood. The woman patted the calf’s head one last time, then accepted Jake’s offered hand and scrambled to her feet.

Hey, Dillon, Marsh called from the table. Come on over here and meet these guys.

Dillon turned his head to answer, heard another soft gasp from the woman and knew she’d finally seen the left side of his face. Unable to stop himself, he looked straight at her, challenging her to say something. She didn’t, of course. Nobody with any manners ever knew what to say to a guy who looked like Dr. Frankenstein had used him for sewing practice. But hey, who needed words when silent revulsion said it all?

Nuts. He wished he’d taken the calf to the barn. Wished his stomach didn’t tie itself in knots every time this hap- pened. Wished like hell he could have his old face back so he didn’t shock folks speechless.

Ignoring the formula and calf slobber on his hands, he leaned down, grabbed his coat and put it back on. Grace touched his arm. Knowing he couldn’t stand the sympathy he’d see in her eyes, Dillon patted her fingers and headed for the doorway without looking at her.

Jake folded his arms across his chest and stepped into Dillon’s path. Stay and talk for a minute, he said quietly. Marsh has a proposition you need to hear. It’s important.

Dillon considered shoving his cousin out of the way, but the hard expression in Jake’s eyes told him it would cost him plenty. You handle it. I’ve got work to do.

Grace came up beside him and put her hand on his arm again. Dillon, please. It really is important, and we need you to be in on the decision.

Though he might get a certain amount of satisfaction from going one-on-one with Jake, Dillon had never been able to refuse his baby sister much of anything. Especially after the accident. Dammit, what could be important enough to put that pleading look in her eyes? Well, the worst was already over. From here on out, everyone would pretend he looked perfectly normal.

All right, he said, sighing with resignation. Let me wash my hands and grab some coffee.

I’ll get it for you, she said.

By the time he’d washed up and taken a chair between Grace and Jake at the table, Dillon had his emotions back under control. Okay, Marsh, make it quick. Sunny’s prob- ably freezing to death by now.

I put him in the barn for you when I went out to find the box, Jake said.

Marsh chuckled and shook his head. Gee, it’s nice to see you again, too, bro.

Dillon shrugged in response. I haven’t got time for chit- chat. In case you didn’t notice, it’s calving season.

All right, all right. Let me introduce you to these folks, and I think you’ll have an idea of what’s going on. This is Patrick Quillen, Marsh said, gesturing toward the man on his left. Quillen was short and bald, and he had bushy gray eyebrows that stuck out like butterfly wings over his pale blue eyes.

He’s a movie director, Marsh added: Next to him is Ian Finch. He’s a producer at our production company. Finch appeared to be about as tall as Marsh, who stood six- foot-two in his bare feet. He wore his black, shiny hair slicked back in a scruffy ponytail. And this, gentlemen, Marsh said, gesturing across the table, is my irascible big brother, Dillon.

Dillon shot Marsh a dirty look, then nodded at both men. Nice meetin’ you fellas.

You’ve already met Blair, haven’t you? Marsh asked; inclining his head toward the woman sitting on his right.

Not formally. With a tentative smile, she offered her hand to Dillon. Hello, Mr. McBride. I’m Blair DuMaine.

Dillon gulped. Blair DuMaine. Of course. No wonder she’d seemed familiar to him. He’d watched a couple of her movies and had seen her picture splattered all over the tabloids at the grocery store for the past five years. Good Lord, the woman’s whole family was Hollywood royalty. And he’d be damned if he’d stick his mangled paw out there for her to shake.

Using his left hand, he tipped his hat to her. Thanks for helpin’ with the calf, ma’am.

It was my pleasure, Mr. McBride.

Marsh winked at her. We’ve got five Mr. McBrides in the family. Seven if you count Grace’s boys. You’d better call him Dillon, or you’ll confuse all of us, honey.

Honey, huh? Well, that figured, Dillon thought. Marsh was a good-lookin’ son of a gun, and he’d always oozed plenty of charm for the ladies. Shifting impatiently on his chair, Dillon told himself their relationship was none of his business. All he wanted was to get the heck out of here, away from these strangers and their curious eyes.

Get on with it, Marsh, he said. What’s this propo- sition Jake wants me to hear?

Marsh’s dark eyes glowed with enthusiasm. Remember that screenplay I told you about at Christmas? The one based on Great-grandma Elizabeth’s romance with Riley McBride?

Yeah, Dillon said, though his memory of the conver- sation was vague at best. He tended to tune out a lot of Marsh’s Hollywood talk. So?

Ian Finch leaned forward and braced his elbows on the table. Blair and I have bought Marsh’s screenplay. Blair will play Elizabeth and Keith Stanton has agreed to play Riley. We’re going to film it early this summer.

And they want to do it here, Jake added.

Dillon’s heart sank and his stomach clenched. Aw, nuts. He could hardly stand to have three strangers staring at his face. The thought of a whole production company hanging around made him want to head for the high country. In Sunshine Gap? he asked, referring to the little town eight miles away.

No, on the Flying M, Marsh said. Since this is where it all happened, don’t you think it’s a great idea to film it here?

No. It’s a lousy idea, Dillon replied. "This is a workin’ ranch, Marsh. The last thing we need is a bunch of city folks wanderin’ all over the place."

We’ll pay for the use of your property. You’ll all make a lot of money from this, Blair said, leaning forward with such an earnest expression, Dillon almost forgot about her shocked gasps when she’d seen his hand and face. Almost, but not quite.

We won’t even be here that long, Marsh added. We’ll probably be done in ten weeks. Twelve weeks tops. Besides helping the ranch, making the movie here will bring in more jobs and money than Sunshine Gap’s seen since the last oil boom.

Dillon shook his head. We don’t need it. Sure, it’ll pump some bucks into the county for a while, but it’ll bring a lot of problems, too.

Such as? Marsh demanded.

Too many people who won’t go home when it’s over. Haven’t you heard about all the movie stars buy in’ land around Jackson and up in Montana? They call it Hollywood North, for God’s sake. And now they’re spreadin’ out all over the place, and they’re killin’ the ranches. I don’t want to see that happen here.

I’m afraid I don’t understand, Blair said. You have an awful lot of empty space in Wyoming. How can a few people buying land harm anyone?

If they’d live like the rest of us, it wouldn’t, Dillon said. But they don’t. They throw their money around, so the land prices skyrocket and everybody’s taxes go up. They won’t let anybody, hunt or fish on their property. They bring in their drugs, and they want all the same conve- niences they had in California. The next thing you know, you’ve got a bunch of stores and restaurants poppin’ up, the local folks can’t even afford to patronize.

Oh, come on, Dillon, Marsh said. You don’t know if any of that will happen. Besides, a dose of progress wouldn’t hurt Sunshine Gap or the other little burgs around here one bit.

Dillon snorted in disgust. You call espresso bars prog- ress? You can have it, Marsh. Sunshine Gap’s just fine the way it is, and so is the ranch. I don’t want any part of this.

With that, he pushed back his chair, retrieved his coat and hat from the counter and headed outside. Halfway to the barn, he stopped walking and took three deep breaths. The cold March air cleared his head, but it didn’t do a thing to ease the tightness in his chest.

The Flying M sat at the foot of the Carter Mountains, on the west side of the Big Horn Basin. From this vantage point, Dillon could see Sunshine Gap, the Greybull River and everything to the east, stretching out to a horizon that went on forever. Due to a long, hard winter, it all looked pretty bleak right now. But by the time the movie company showed up it would be a paradise.

The sun would warm the land, melting the snow, feeding the streams and irrigation ditches and turning the grass and hay a luscious shade of green. The cattle would grow fat and sleek. The people would come out of their homes to work and play through the long summer days. Flower gar- dens would bloom all over town, and there’d be packs of healthy, tanned kids tearing around on bikes and taking horses out for lazy rides along the back roads.

Maybe it was hokey and old-fashioned and backward, but so what? Dillon loved it. It was home, and safe, and he didn’t want any of it to change. It would, though. If those movie people came in, a lot of it would. And there wasn’t a blessed thing he could do to stop it.

Oh, Jake, Grace and Marsh had done him the courtesy of consulting him, but when it came to the Flying M, he only had one vote out of seven.

Jake’s brother Zack, the town marshal, might vote against the idea because he wouldn’t want all those people coming into Sunshine Gap any more than Dillon did. But Jake and Grace were obviously in favor of the idea. Jake’s youngest brother, Cal, owned a bar and restaurant in town, and he sure wouldn’t turn away that much potential business. And since Jake’s sister, Alexandra, had always wanted to be an actress, Dillon couldn’t see her voting against letting the production company come in.

Shoot, Alex would probably wind up playing a part in the movie. Then she’d probably quit her steady job and head for L.A. and drag Tasha along with her, and… Curs- ing under his breath, Dillon rolled his tired shoulders in a backward circle.

This must be how the Indians had felt as they helplessly watched the whites invade their hunting grounds with their covered wagons and railroads and guns, Dillon thought, turning back toward the barn. When he stepped inside, Sunny raised his head and blew out a snort of welcome. Leaning one hip against the stall door, Dillon scratched the white blaze on the horse’s forehead.

How’re ya doin’, big guy? he asked. Ready to go look for more calves?

Sunny butted his nose against Dillon’s breast pocket in search of a treat. Chuckling, Dillon stroked the gelding’s neck. Sorry, pal. I was in such a hurry to get out of the house, I forgot to bring you anything.

Giving him a disgruntled sniff, Sunny lowered his head to the pan of oats Jake had left for him. Dillon sighed and turned away, then glanced back over his shoulder. Blair DuMaine’s