Handful of Sky by Tory Cates Page A

acted if I’d wanted something as much as you wanted that horse.”
    Shallie controlled herself enough to interject, “It wasn’t the way you thought.”
    “It’s all right,” Hunt soothed, and somehow with her tears rolling down his strong chest, it was all right.
    “Hey,” he said as her sobs subsided, “I’ve got a bronc- riding class to teach. Come on and watch. When it’s over I’ll arrange to get you and your rig back home.”
    Shallie nodded, grateful to have someone else take over and arrange things for a change. The feeling was luxurious and she clung to Hunt’s chest enjoying it to the fullest. The security of that moment was shattered, though, when Hunt, as if observing to no one in particular, said, “You did get what you wanted, though, didn’t you? I mean, Pegasus is yours.”
    Shallie looked up and read everything she needed to know about the implications of his statement in his eyes—that she had come to his apartment with a calculated plan to barter her body for the blue roan. He peered at her with a wary, hooded skepticism. A dozen protests rang through her mind, but they all would have served only to reinforce his innuendo. Though not spoken, they still flashed through her eyes, making the gold flecks buried in their brown depths glint with anger.
    “You arrogant son of a—”
    Hunt silenced her insulting words by stealing the breath she needed to pronounce them with the crush ofhis lips. Shallie felt her footing slip away from under her. It was replaced by the iron supports of Hunt’s arms folding around her. His lips did not question or hesitate; they demanded and took what they wanted. Shallie was defenseless against their authority. His tongue claimed her mouth, plundering its soft, hidden recesses. An army of sensations laid siege to her emotions, conquering them and quelling any resistance she might have put up.
    Hunt was a masterful invader. The taste of many sweet past victories was on his lips, along with the knowledge that he would know how to savor the present one. Though far less experienced, Shallie was still aware that the battle had not been entirely one-sided, when she heard Hunt’s breath broken into gasping bursts. His hands drew her face, her lips, more fully to his own as if he were driven by a deep hungering need of them.
    At the sound of the exaggerated shuffling of feet, Shallie pulled away abruptly. The deaf cowboy stood behind them. His freckles were lost in the reddened face he directed toward the ground, where he was digging nervous circles in the dirt with his boot toe.
    Hunt turned to him and cut the air with a few choppy signals.
    The boy answered, barely looking up from under the brim of his outsized hat.
    “Petey.” Hunt pronounced the boy’s name while simultaneously signing. “This is Shallie Larkin. Shallie,this is Petey Andrews, my prize helper and all-around compañero .”
    As Hunt translated the words he had spoken, Shallie managed to quell her ire enough to smile at the boy in response to Hunt’s introduction.
    “Petey tells me the natives are getting restless. Come watch if you like, or sit in the house and talk with Trish. Either way you won’t be leaving until the school’s done. I’ll need every hand I’ve got for it.”
    “Well, pardon me for the inconvenience, Mister McIver,” Shallie exploded. “But if it weren’t for your manipulations I’d be happily on my way back to Mountain View at this moment.”
    “Don’t forget,” Hunt said, clearly more entertained than offended by her outburst, “that if it weren’t for my ‘manipulations’ you’d be far from doing anything ‘happily’ right now. You’d still be in the clutches of that piece of slime you used to call a hired hand.”
    Before she could launch another volley of protests, Hunt was gone.
    The thought of spending time with Trish was odious enough to force Shallie into opting for the other alternative Hunt had presented. So, she followed him outside and took a