"Don't let him send me away." Her
young voice was muffled against the
saddle blanket hugged against her chest.
"Please, Jefferson, don't let him. I'll die
in that school. I know I will."
His eyebrows lowered and he
gently pried her fingers from the soft
blue-gray plaid. "Don't say that."
Bereft of the blanket that he'd
tossed over the stall door, she crossed
her arms protectively across her chest.
"If you'd just talk to him. I don't need
some school to teach me how to be a girl
—"
His eyes flickered over her short,
dark brown hair and down her sweatstained
shirt to her torn jeans. Her rough
'n tumble appearance couldn't hide the
developing curves. She wasn't the little
seven-year-old anymore who'd been his
constant shadow. Who'd followed his
every step, asking a million questions, or
just chattering away in her sweet littlegirl
voice.
She was fourteen now. And rapidly
developing into a hellion that easily
rivaled any one of his brothers. The
problem was, she wasn't a boy. And
something needed to be done. His father
was at his wit's end. "It's not up to me,"
he said softly.
"But he'd listen to you—"
"It's not up to me," he repeated
gently. Inflexibly.
Hot tears flooded her eyes and she
turned away. "If I was a boy, he
wouldn't send me away."
He cursed softly, but didn't
disagree. He wouldn't lie to her. He
couldn't change the situation. Hell, he
had to catch a flight to Turkey first thing
in the morning, and his mind was
humming with the hoard of details
involved. This brief stopover hadn't
been in his plans at all.
He studied the young female. A
sister. Yet not his sister. His cousin. Yet
not. But family, nevertheless. "That
boarding school might not be so bad, you
know," he murmured, reaching past her
hunched form for the bridle she'd thrown
to the concrete floor a few minutes
earlier in a fit of temper. "You'll meet
kids your own age. Make some new
friends."
"Tris's my own age," she replied,
exaggerating only slightly. "And I have
all the friends I need." She swiped her
sleeve beneath her nose. "Matthew and
Daniel—"
He sighed. "Girls. You'll meet
girls your age."
The snort she gave was decidedly
unfeminine. As was the explicit word
she spat in opinion of his words. He
raised one eyebrow. "That's one of the
reasons you're going."
She swore again, and whirled
around like a dervish, kicking her dusty
boot against a wooden post. The metal
bucket hanging from a nail in the post
rocked loose and clattered to the floor,
narrowly missing the dog who'd been
sleeping in the corner near the tack
room. The dog shot to his feet, barking
furiously.
Frustrated...angry...but most of all
scared, she kicked the fallen bucket and
it crashed against the stone wall
opposite them, toppling a pitchfork onto
its side where it missed crowning the
dog by mere inches. Yelping, the dog
skittered for shelter. Every curse word
she'd ever heard poured from her. And
being raised among five boys, she knew
more than a few.
Long arms wrapped around her
waist, and Jefferson lifted her right off
her feet. Twisting, she pushed at him. "I
won't go," she gritted.
She was held firmly, high against
his hard chest. His breath was warm
against her ear as he whispered softly.
Soothing. Calming her in the same way
he'd often done whenever she'd
awakened from a bad dream when she
was little. She wasn't so little now,
though, and the wide chest pressed
against her cheek set off all sorts of new
feelings.
"You'll go."
Her head reared back, ready for
another round. But his dark blue eyes
met hers steadily and the words died.
Her head collapsed against his chest and
she sobbed brokenly.
In the end she went.
