Winds of Destiny

By Victoria Thompson

Tates of Texas (#3)
Bestselling author Victoria Thompson creates her most enthralling novel yet...in the continuing saga of the Tates, a family as proud and bold as the sprawling Texas frontier that is their magnificent heritage!
Branded by the Past
Born into a dynasty of power and wealth, Becky Tate’s wild part-Comanche blood has branded her as an outcast. Love? Not even a dream…until a rugged stranger awakens her to the magic and mystery of passion…
Swept into Destiny
A hard man hiding a hard past, Texas Ranger Clint Masterson rides into cattle country to bring peace to a divided land; only to face a raging battle inside himself when he dares to desire the beautiful half-breed, Becky…
But more dangerous than the perilous frontier or their growing passion is a shocking secret threatens to tear them apart—or join them forever!

• Language: English
• Publisher: NYLA
• Release date: Mar 1, 1994
• ISBN: 9781617509001

Victoria Thompson

Victoria Thompson is an education technology consultant, a keynote speaker and an award winning educator. She began her journey teaching fifth and sixth grade math and science in Summerville, SC. After completing her master’s degree in curriculum and instruction, she moved to the Seattle, WA, area, where her career has pivoted to focusing on digital transformation, STEM integration in schools, technology in instruction and using technology to bridge equity gaps in education. She works with school districts across the world to address topics such as technology equity and capacity-building with professional development, and has presented at conferences such as ISTE, FETC, TCEA, IDEAcon, Impact Education, CUE and DigCitSummit on topics such as using technology to create inclusive math classrooms, the intersectionality of literacy and STEM, equity in instructional coaching, culturally responsive STEM education and equity in educational technology. In 2023 she was named one of the Top 10 Most Visionary Leaders in Education by CIOLook Magazine. Additionally, she was named one of the Top 30 K–12 IT Influencers in 2021 by EdTech Magazine and one of ISTE’s Top 20 to Watch in 2023. She lives in Winter Garden, FL, with her wife, Kourtney, and their dog, Ren.

Book preview

Winds of Destiny

A Tates of Texas Romance

Victoria Thompson

Copyright © 1994, Victoria Thompson

To my editor Beth Lieberman,

with thanks for all her help

Chapter One

Squaw!

Becky Tate winced at the taunt from the cowboys clustered in front of the saloon across the street, but she didn’t deign to glance at them. Damn! She was usually so careful when she was in town, planning her route so she wouldn’t encounter any of these groups of young men, so she wouldn’t have to hear their jeers. Today she’d been thinking about other things.

Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo, one of them was calling, flapping his hand over his lips in an exaggerated imitation of an Indian war cry.

You can visit my teepee anytime, Miss Becky! another called, inspiring a burst of raucous laughter from his companions.

For once Becky blessed her dusky complexion. At least her flush would be less noticeable, and maybe they wouldn’t see it at all. Maybe her bonnet would shield her face, too. In any case, Becky refused to give them the slightest indication that she’d even heard them, much less that they had disturbed her in any way. Calling on the one-fourth of her blood that was Indian to keep her stoic, she set her face, gritting her teeth, and walked on, not even quickening her step lest they think she was running away.

Of course, it was her Indian blood that had given them the excuse to treat her the way they would never treat a purely white girl in the first place. For reasons she had never understood, her heritage made her less than respectable, fair game for men who seemed to expect her to be a wanton.

Their gibes followed her, but she refused to acknowledge them, refused to even hear them, although each word seared her soul like a red-hot iron.

Squaw. What a hideous word. But Becky was not what they called her. She was as white as they were, or at least she’d been raised to be so, and she was the most respectable girl she knew. She’d never even seen a true Comanche until she’d been half grown. She’d seen her father, of course, but he wasn’t a real Comanche. He was only half Indian, and he, too, had been raised white. If anyone ever called him a breed, or whether he minded if they had, he’d never let on, at least not to Becky.

She was past the saloon now, and almost to the store, her grandfather’s store. MacDougal’s Mercantile was the largest and finest building in town, comparable only to the MacDougals’ house, which in turn was a veritable showplace. Becky’s fine leather shoes made determined clicking noises on the wooden sidewalk as she strode purposefully toward the sanctuary the store offered. No one would dare call her a squaw in her grandfather’s hearing. Or her father’s, either.

Sometimes she wondered if either of them knew what people called her. Probably not, and Becky could never bring herself to tell them. It would only hurt them and wouldn’t solve anything. What could they do, after all? Nothing would change the fact that her mother had married a breed and so Becky was part Indian. Nothing at all, she thought bitterly.

As if she had summoned him, Hunter Tate stepped out of the store at that moment. Instantly, Becky felt the same strange mix of emotions she always felt at the sight of her father. Adoration for him mingled with a festering resentment that he’d cursed her with his mixed blood.

Why had her mother chosen him above all other men? Why hadn’t she considered her children, the burden they would carry throughout their lives?

But as she came closer to him, she had to admit she could easily understand her mother’s choice. Still lean and handsome even though he was over forty, he stood tall and strong as an oak tree. But more than that, he was the kindest, gentlest man she knew. Now he was waiting for her, a worried frown creasing his brown face.

What were those cowboys saying to you? he demanded when she reached him.

Becky felt the flush burning in her cheeks again and prayed he wouldn’t notice. Nothing, Papa.

He didn’t believe her. Was it about the fence?

The fence. Of course. The miles of barbed wire her father had strung around his ranch, thereby putting himself at odds with every one of his neighbors. She’d never been able to lie to him, but he’d offered her the perfect escape. They’re just mad like everybody else, she said.

They’ve got no right to bother you for what I’ve done, he informed her. I’ll give those boys a piece of my mind —

No! Becky said too quickly, grabbing his arm to stop him. I mean, no use starting trouble. They were just talking, she amended when he scowled. Mama sent me to get you and Sean. It’s time to go home.

He glared down the street at where the cowboys still lounged in the shade of the saloon awning, but Becky squeezed his arm. Please, Papa, she murmured, hoping her terror didn’t sound in her voice. If he went down there and found out what they’d really been saying…

All right, he said finally. Come on in and say good-bye to your grandfather before we go.

Becky stepped eagerly into the store, more than glad to escape from the cowboys’ sight. Immediately, she was assailed by the delicious aromas of the things her grandfather sold — new leather and pickles and cinnamon and peppermint and new cloth.

Look, here, Sean, her grandfather said to her little brother who was sitting on the front counter, I do believe it’s the prettiest girl in the county.

Becky had to smile even though it felt stiff on her face. Grandpa MacDougal was one of the few men who could look at her without seeing a squaw. He was the second kindest man she knew, even if he wasn’t really her grandfather.

Aw, that’s just Becky, Sean complained innocently, as if he believed his grandfather had tricked him. Then he grinned wickedly at his sister, letting her know he wasn’t innocent at all.

If you aren’t nice to me, Grandpa Mac won’t give you a peppermint stick to eat on the way home, will you, Grandpa? Becky teased.

Not at all, Grandpa Mac assured him. You’ve got to learn to be nice to girls, because someday you’ll want them to be nice to you.

Sean’s expression showed his utter contempt for such an idea. At the age of ten, he couldn’t even imagine wanting any contact at all with the female of the species. I don’t have to be nice to Becky. She’s just my sister, he reasoned.

Sean MacDougal Tate, Grandpa Mac scolded. I’m ashamed of you!

Sean’s smug smile evaporated. The one thing he couldn’t bear was the disapproval of the man for whom he’d been named. I’m sorry, he said, his clear blue eyes wide with abject sincerity.

Don’t tell me, tell your sister, Grandpa Mac said, refusing to soften.

I’m sorry, Beck, he said, although the sincerity in those blue eyes wasn’t quite as abject when he looked at Becky. He only wanted his grandfather’s approval. He’d be tormenting Becky again before their wagon had left the town.

And how Becky envied those blue eyes, the eyes he’d inherited from their mother along with her pale skin and fine golden hair. No one would ever take Sean for a breed, not with his fair coloring. Becky’s eyes were blue, too, but dark like the color of a bluejay, and her hair was black as midnight.

Squaw.

How about it, Little Bluebird? her father was saying, calling her by his pet name. Are you going to forgive him so he can have his peppermint stick?

She’s not little, Sean protested. C’mon, Beck! I’m sorry. Please?

He tilted his cherubic face in mute appeal. He looked like an angel, a blond angel, and Becky wanted to hate him for looking so perfectly white. But while she envied him his golden curls — Becky’s hair wouldn’t curl no matter what she did to it — he was still her baby brother and she’d loved him ever since that day when she was eight and her father had first placed the tiny, squalling infant in her arms.

But still she wasn’t above a little revenge. All right, squirt, I’ll forgive you if you give me a kiss, she said, grinning as she swooped in to claim her prize.

No! Sean squealed in mock terror, throwing his arms up to protect himself from her assault. Becky had no trouble at all wrestling him into submission and planting a big wet smack right on his grubby cheek.

Both men were roaring with laughter as Sean howled in outrage and rubbed frantically at his cheek.

Now you can have your candy, she informed him.

I should get two after that, the boy complained, but his grandfather handed him only one stick.

Don’t drop it in the dirt now, he cautioned the child.

Becky studied Grandpa MacDougal’s familiar face, trying to imagine what he must have looked like almost thirty-five years ago when he’d rescued her grandmother, Rebekah Tate, from the Comanches. She’d been one of the first white settlers taken captive by the Indians, and during the seven years they’d held her, she’d borne a half-breed child, a boy who had grown up to be Becky’s father. Most men would have scorned a woman with a half-breed bastard, but Sean MacDougal hadn’t scorned Rebekah. He’d loved her and he’d married her and he’d raised her son as his own. No wonder Hunter Tate had named his own son for Sean MacDougal.

Would Becky ever find a man like that, a man who’d see her as something besides a squaw?

Come on now, son, Hunter was saying. Your mother is waiting for us.

Can I stay and help Grandpa in the store some more? little Sean asked. I can sleep at their house tonight, and you can get me tomorrow when you come in for church.

Hunter glanced at Grandpa Mac, who shrugged and said, It’s fine with me, and Rebekah Tate always loves having her grandson visit.

Becky had always thought it strange the way Grandpa Mac always called Grandma Mac Rebekah Tate. That wasn’t even her name anymore since she’d married him, and it always made Becky jump because that was her name, too, her real name, and the one her mother called Becky by when she was angry.

But no one was angry now except Becky, who had just realized she would have to go back out into the street where those cowboys were probably still loafing outside the saloon. They wouldn’t say anything in front of her father. Breed or no breed, he carried a gun just like every other man in Texas did, so no one who valued his life would insult her in front of him. Still, she would know what they were thinking.

Don’t let Sean go out by himself, her father was saying to Grandpa Mac. Some of the boys were taunting Becky about the fence just now.

Are you all right, Becky? Grandpa asked, instantly concerned. His gentle brown eyes were troubled as he laid one big hand protectively on her shoulder.

Of course I’m all right, she assured him with what she hoped was a scornful laugh. It was just talk.

I told you that fence would be trouble, Grandpa reminded her father for what must have been the thousandth time.

The trouble will come if anybody tries to cut it again, Hunter replied, his expression hardening with stubbornness.

Grandpa Mac’s expression hardened, too. I just hope the Rangers get here before that happens.

Rangers? Becky echoed in astonishment. Did you send for the Texas Rangers? Why didn’t you tell me?

I knew, Sean bragged, although Becky figured he was lying to torment her.

It’s nothing to worry about, her father said.

Nothing to worry about? You wouldn’t send for the Rangers unless you were worried!

It’s just a precaution, he explained. I’m trying to prevent trouble. I figure with the Rangers in the area, nobody will bother my fence.

They’ll bother it so long as they need to get to water, she reminded him, furious now, and they won’t care whether the Rangers are there or not!

It’s my land, and the law says I can fence it, her father insisted, as angry as she. I’ve got a right to protect my property.

Do you have a right to hurt other people? Becky demanded.

Now, now, Grandpa Mac soothed.

It’s all right, Sean assured him solemnly. They fight like this all the time.

They did, too. Becky couldn’t understand why her father was so unreasonable about the fence. Barbed wire is a curse on this land, she snapped. I wish I’d never laid eyes on the awful stuff!

I like it, Sean declared, but nobody paid him any mind.

It’s progress, Hunter Tate said, his face taut with fury. It’s about time a man can keep his cows on his own land and keep other people’s off.

Keep other people off, you mean, Becky corrected him testily. You’ve fenced off the road and the creeks and the —

That’s enough! Hunter’s voice was like a blade, but Becky wasn’t afraid of him. She knew arguing would be a waste of time, though. On this subject, he was immovable, so she bit back an angry retort. Let’s go, he said. Your mother is waiting.

Becky glared at him in silent fury, then turned to her grandfather and managed a smile. ’Bye, Grandpa. Take good care of my baby brother, she said, giving Sean one last shot.

I’m not a baby! he protested.

Be a good boy for your grandparents, Hunter cautioned, tousling the boy’s blond curls. We’ll see you tomorrow.

Hunter took Becky’s arm and led her back out onto the sidewalk. Instantly, she remembered the cowboys, but when she glanced warily down the street, she saw with relief that they had dispersed.

As she and her father walked down the street toward her grandparents’ house where her mother awaited them, Becky could sense her father’s annoyance with her. Well, he was wrong, and who was going to tell him if she didn’t?

Papa, just what do you think the Texas Rangers are going to do? she asked.

I hope, he said tightly, they’re going to keep people from killing each other.

Don’t you want to go into town with us? Becky’s mother asked.

A week had passed since Becky’s encounter with the rude cowboys, but the memory hadn’t faded yet. I think I’ll stay home and wash my hair instead.

Your grandmother will be disappointed, Sarah Tate scolded.

She’ll see me tomorrow in church, Becky pointed out. Besides, Sean’ll run her ragged. She won’t even notice I’m not there.

Sarah smiled, making her daughter aware of how beautiful she still was. Her hair was still as shiny as new gold, and except for the fine lines around her eyes, she might have passed for Becky’s sister. When Becky was a little girl, she used to dream about waking up one morning with fair skin and bright yellow hair, looking just like her mother.

But that dream had never come true. Now Becky dreaded walking down the street of Tatesville, a town that bore her very name.

Won’t you be lonely here all by yourself? The boys are all going to town, too, you know, Sarah asked.

Of course Becky knew their ranch hands would be going to town. She wouldn’t have dreamed of staying here without her family if she hadn’t known they’d be gone, too. I’ll enjoy the silence for a change.

As if to illustrate her point, her brother started shouting.

Oh, dear, Sarah murmured distractedly, hurrying outside to see to his complaint.

A little later, when everyone had gone, Becky did indeed enjoy the silence, a rare luxury in a house inhabited by a young boy on a ranch worked by a dozen rowdy cowhands. Making the most of her solitude, she gathered a couple of towels and a handful of soft soap, went to the kitchen and drew some hot water from the boiler to wash her hair. When she had removed her shirtwaist and hung it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs, she took down the length of her raven hair and brushed it free of tangles.

Her crowning glory, her mother called it. Becky called it a curse. She’d tried tying it up in rags and sleeping on the lumpy things all night. She’d tried crimping it with a curling iron, but even if she scorched them, the curls wouldn’t hold. No matter what she did, an hour later her hair would be perfectly straight again. Straight and black as an Indian squaw’s.

With a sigh, she laid aside her brush and proceeded with the laborious task of soaping and rinsing the waist-length mass. Years ago she’d tried vinegar to lighten the color, but the foul-smelling stuff had just made her hair shinier and blacker.

When she’d finished with the final rinse, she rubbed her hair vigorously with a towel and then went out onto the back porch where the warmth of the sunshine would help it to dry. There she proceeded to work the tangles out with a comb, using a towel as she went along to soak up the excess moisture.

It was a long, laborious process, and not for the first time Becky wondered why she didn’t just cut it all off. That would have upset her mother, of course, but Becky knew the real reason for leaving it long was her own pride. To cut her cursed hair would be an admission that she hated who she was. While she might indeed hate herself, she wasn’t yet ready to admit it to the world.

Hello, the house!

Becky started at the traditional greeting, jumping up from her chair. Her comb clattered onto the porch as she whirled around to see who had spoken.

What she saw stopped her as abruptly as if she’d run into a brick wall.

What on earth? she wondered in stunned surprise, then shook herself and looked again. It was just a man on a horse who’d probably ridden around to the back of the house when no one had answered his call in the front. She’d seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of men on horses in her lifetime.

But not one like this.

No, this one was different. Why, she couldn’t have said, but from the way her heart was thundering in her chest, she knew he was.

Hello, she managed, wishing she’d cleared her throat first. The word came out like a croak.

The man reached up and touched the brim of his hat, the barest concession to courtesy. Excuse me, ma’am. Didn’t mean to bother you. I’m looking for Hunter Tate.

His voice was gruff, almost rude, but Becky was too busy trying to figure out why hearing it made her chest feel so funny, like something inside was vibrating.

He’s not here. I mean, this is his ranch, but he’s in town and… She gave up, feeling her brain had turned to mush and unable to figure out why. Men simply didn’t affect her this way, at least not ordinary men. Why was this one so different?

Well, he did look different, for one thing. He was tall, maybe even taller than her father, who stood six feet, and the fact was obvious even though he was sitting on a horse. His chest and shoulders seemed to tower above the saddle, and his long, muscular legs looked as if they might almost touch the ground if he took them out of the stirrups.

But she thought perhaps it was his face that disturbed her most. He wasn’t particularly handsome, so that wasn’t it. No, he might actually have been considered ordinary looking except for his expression. Or rather, his lack of expression. His face seemed to be carved of stone.

He waited a moment, as if he thought she might have something more to add and didn’t want to interrupt her. Then he asked, Will he be back soon?

No, not until supper, Becky said without thinking. Oh, dear, should she have told him that? Would he guess that she was here all alone? And should she be frightened?

But no, she wasn’t frightened, just terribly ill at ease. If only her hair wasn’t hanging loose like a horse’s tail. She must look every bit a wild woman. Self-consciously, she tossed the length of it back over her shoulder.

He blinked, or at least Becky thought he did, but maybe she was mistaken. He seemed to be considering something, as if he were making a decision. Finally, he said, I’m Clint Masterson, with the Texas Rangers.

Suddenly, it all made sense, and Becky’s shoulders sagged with relief. Well, of course! She’d heard about the Rangers, about how they were different from other men. Grandma Mac had told her stories about them.

My father sent for you, she informed him, as if he didn’t know, and then she felt stupid. I mean, he told me he’d sent for you. He’s expecting you. He won’t be back until late, but you’re perfectly welcome, Mr. Masterson. More than welcome, if the flutter in Becky’s chest was any indication. You can put your horse in the barn. There’s some oats in there. And find yourself an empty bunk in the bunkhouse.

There, she’d done her duty. She’d offered him hospitality. Her mother would be proud of her. She’d thought of everything and… Oh, dear, not quite everything. The first rule of hospitality was to offer a visitor food. Normally, Becky would have sent him down to the cookhouse to be fed, but like everyone else, the cook was off for the day. Which meant it was up to Becky to feed him.

And when you’re settled, she added resolutely, nearly panicked at the very thought, come back here and I’ll fix you something to eat. What would it be like to sit down at the table with that stone face opposite her? What would she talk to him about, for heaven’s sake?

Don’t go to any trouble, he was saying, and somehow she got the impression he was reluctant, too.

Which was ridiculous. He was just being polite, as difficult as it was for her to imagine him caring about such a thing. It’s no trouble, she assured him with forced cheerfulness. I mean, you’re hungry, aren’t you?

Becky had never met a man who wasn’t just waiting for an invitation to chow down.

This one seemed a little less eager than most, however. He merely nodded, one quick jerk of his head, as if speaking another word might cause him physical pain. What on earth was wrong with him? And why was he looking at her like that, like he’d never seen a girl before? Did she really look that awful with her hair flying every which way?

Instinctively, she reached up to smooth back the hair the Texas breeze was lifting over her shoulder, and to her surprise she encountered not the fabric of her shirtwaist but bare skin. Dear heaven, she’d forgotten she wasn’t wearing her blouse!

Oh! she cried in mortification, snatching up her towel to cover her scantily clad bosom. Too humiliated to even glance at her visitor, Becky whirled and raced into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

Oh, no! she moaned, sinking back against it. Only then did she dare move the towel and look down. Well, at least she was wearing her chemise, although she hadn’t bothered with a corset today. But, she realized to her horror, the fabric of her chemise was so thin, she might as well have been naked from the waist up! Had her nipples been all pointy like this? No wonder he’d been staring! With another moan, she sank down to the floor, covering her face with both hands. How would she ever look the man in the eye again?

But when she thought about him, picturing him in her mind the way he’d looked outside just now and trying to guess what he must think of her, she straightened abruptly in surprise. Because he hadn’t been leering at her, not the way other men leered at her, not the way those cowboys had leered at her on the street last Saturday even though she’d been completely and very decently clothed then. And certainly not the way a man could be expected to leer at a woman who was only half dressed.

But he had been looking, of that she was sure. What she couldn’t figure out was what he had been feeling behind that perfectly expressionless face.

Clint Masterson watched the door slam behind the girl. Just as he’d figured, she hadn’t realized she didn’t have her shirt on. Clint had realized it, though, with every nerve in his body.

Only when the door had shut did he allow himself to breathe, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out on an uneven sigh. Dear God, what had he gotten himself into? The captain had told him he’d be facing fence-cutters and a whole lot of people ready to start killing each other over land and water rights. That was perfectly fine with Clint. He knew how to handle folks who wanted to kill each other. But nobody had said a thing about a beautiful young woman.

He glanced down and found his hands were clenched into fists. Slowly, deliberately, he relaxed them and gave the reins a tug, telling his horse to head back the way he’d come.

The big bay gelding obediently turned and started back to the front of the house. Clint should have been satisfied to wait there until somebody came in answer to his original call. Or else he should have gone off and made camp someplace for the night and come back tomorrow. But no, he’d had to go looking around, looking for trouble.

And he’d sure as hell found it.

How would he ever get that image out of his mind? All that shining black hair falling over those soft, round shoulders? And those breasts, straining against her chemise as if they wanted to get loose?

Clint had to swallow against a dryness in his mouth. He hadn’t had a woman in a very long time. That was probably it. Any woman would look good to him he told himself — except this one looked more than good. He thought of her face, so smooth and lovely. Her dark eyes, sparkling with surprise, then uncertainty, then embarrassment. And those lips, so full and pink. He could almost imagine how they would taste.

Almost. That was as close as he would ever come to finding out. Clint Masterson could never do more than dream about a woman like her. He’d damn well better remember that, too.

By the time Becky had made herself decent and pinned up her still-damp hair again and figured out she could heat up some leftover beans and biscuits for her visitor, her embarrassment had faded somewhat.

Certainly Mr. Masterson had seen a woman in her undergarments before. He wasn’t a boy, after all. She judged him to be in his mid-twenties at least, and he looked like a man of the world. Maybe he was even married, although for some reason Becky didn’t want to believe that. Anyway, Texas Rangers were usually unattached. Men with wives and families couldn’t travel around like Rangers had to. Why, Mr. Masterson and the other men who must surely be coming with him would probably have to be here for months until everything was settled again. It was bound to take him that long just to change her father’s mind about his stupid fence. Heaven knew, she’d already spent quite a bit of time on the project herself without success.

As she set two places at the table, Becky tried to decide how she should act when he came back. Pretending nothing untoward had happened seemed like the best approach. He’d been doing that already by not acknowledging how shocked he must have been when he first saw her outside. If she didn’t say anything — and if he were the gentleman she thought he was, he wouldn’t say anything — then they could go on as if it had never happened.

So Becky felt better about facing him again. But she didn’t feel comfortable. Something about him still made her uneasy, and although she didn’t want to admit it, she thought it might be the fact that he was so much of a gentleman. Becky could just imagine the reactions she would have gotten from one of her father’s hands or one of the cowboys who’d jeered at her in town if they’d seen her the way Mr. Masterson had seen her today.

She knew the most effective way to handle those reactions was simply to ignore them. What she didn’t know how to handle was no reaction. Of course, she’d often prayed for no reaction from men, but now that she’d finally gotten it, well, she didn’t feel quite as good about it as she’d expected. In fact, she almost felt insulted! Practically every man she encountered seemed to want her — want her for illicit purposes, certainly, but want her nonetheless. Could Mr. Masterson really be so different? Or was it possible he was the one man who didn’t want her at all?

The thought made Becky sit down abruptly in one of the kitchen chairs. Of course, she was a breed. Maybe that was it. But then, that was also why other men thought she should be free with her favors. Why they said things to her they wouldn’t say to a respectable white girl. And why they looked at her as if she weren’t quite clean.

When Mr. Masterson had looked at her, she hadn’t felt dirty like she had the other times men had looked at her. She’d felt something, though. Something she’d never felt before.

And part of that something was a burning desire to have Ranger Clint Masterson feel it, too.

When Clint had put his horse up in the very well-equipped barn, he carried his meager belongings over to the bunkhouse. Like every other building on the ranch, this one was in excellent repair. Hunter Tate seemed a fine manager.

The inside of the bunkhouse was as neat as the outside, the men’s belongings stored under their beds or hanging in orderly rows on pegs along the walls. Even the pictures of scantily clad females torn from the pages of The Police Gazette were hung in straight rows. Someone ruled here with an iron hand. Clint found an empty bunk and began to unpack his gear.

When he’d settled in and was as presentable as soap and water and a razor could make him, he could no longer delay returning to the Tates’ kitchen. Glancing at the imposing stone house where Miss Tate and her family lived, Clint gave serious thought to simply staying put and waiting until the other residents returned home from town. Not seeing the girl again quite so soon was probably a good idea. In fact, if he had any sense at all, he’d figure out a way to never see her again. Why put himself through such torture when he knew good and well nothing could ever come of it? Besides, she was probably too embarrassed to face him anyway.

On the other hand, she might be waiting for him, having prepared a meal that he was too rude to eat. Would she come looking for him if he didn’t return? Making her do that would be really rude. There was no use in offending her, he told himself, certainly not for no good reason and especially not when he was so hungry his stomach was starting to gnaw on his backbone.

He’d give it a try, he finally decided. He might find out that she was hiding in the house, too mortified to show her face, in which case he’d somehow convince himself it was a blessing not to have to suffer the torment of her beauty again. Then he’d just dig out what was left of the beef jerky he’d carried along on his trip and make a meal of it. But if she was waiting for him… well, he guessed he’d just have to sit down and eat with her.

The thought held equal parts appeal and terror.

The kitchen was a separate building behind the main house, connected to it by a covered walkway. A summer kitchen, they called them in the South. Clint walked all the way to the rear, to the porch where the girl had been sitting earlier. She wasn’t sitting there now, but he could hear the clank of dishes inside. So she was making something for him to eat.

How long since he’d sat down at a table with a woman? Any woman, much less a pretty, young woman? He couldn’t remember if indeed he ever had. Opportunities like this didn’t present themselves to men like Clint Masterson very often. Which probably explained why his heart was pounding like a triphammer and why his nerves were jumping like they wanted to come right through his skin. How would he ever get through this without making a complete jackass out of himself?

Common sense told him to run, as far and as fast as he could. Spending time with Hunter Tate’s daughter was the very last thing he was being paid to do, and he could think of nothing else that could cause him more heartache in the end.

But he could also think of nothing he wanted to do more at that very moment.

Absently, he smoothed his shirt one last time and made sure the tail was tucked in, then

Reviews for Winds of Destiny

[Constance Nance · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Her words for melanated people were offensive and this book should not be on SCRIBD!