Free Gerrity'S Bride by Carolyn Davidson Page A

on your claims,” he told her, reaching for her hand as he reminded her of her boast. “I’ll get you outfitted, and then we’ll see just how well you can ride some good Arizona horseflesh.”
    * * *
    “Whose is it?” she asked as she smoothed the soft leather garment with the palm of her hand. Dark against the pristine white of the coverlet on her bed, the riding skirt was spread for her approval. Made of tanned leather, sewn with careful stitches, it was certainly not Maria’s. Slim at the waistline and flaring into a full, separated skirt, it was obviously some woman’s prized possession. Her hand brushed once more at the creamy texture of the leather as Emmaline admired the garment.
    Matthew Gerrity’s jaw clenched, tightening for a moment as he watched her slender fingers. “It belonged to my mother,” he said finally, his voice clipped, as if he found the words difficult to speak.
    Emmaline’s eyes widened as she stood erect, clutching the skirt to her breast. “Oh...well, maybe I shouldn’t...”
    He shrugged, lifting one shoulder, as if it were but a minor detail, this protest on her part. “It’s too fine a garment to go to waste,” he said soberly. “I don’t think she’d care if you wore it.”
    As if a veil had lifted, his mouth twisted into a smile when Emmaline nodded, accepting the gift he offered.
    “Thank you,” she said gently. “I’ll be very careful with it.”
    His smile widened into a grin, quick and unexpected, taking her by surprise. Another side of this man, she realized, one she hadn’t expected. A warmer, softer element that had caught her unprepared.
    Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the grin vanished and the taciturn rancher once more stood before her. “Get ready,” he said gruffly. “I’ll get someone to saddle up a couple of horses.”
    She nodded, lifting the soft leather to brush it against the curve of her cheek, watching Matt as he turned away to leave her room. Deep within her body, a coiling heat radiated, bringing about a tingling awareness of him. Of high cheekbones and dark hair, a strong jaw with deep slashes defining his cheeks, wide shoulders and hard, heavy muscles beneath the cotton shirt he wore.
    The door shut behind him quietly, and she closed her eyes, intent on recapturing the purely masculine look of him to ponder for a moment. The width of his shoulders, the strength of those wide-palmed hands that had lifted her so casually, taking her weight as if it were nothing. Her heart pounded more rapidly while she remembered the moments on the porch, when he’d held her and kissed her with harsh intent. Yet his kiss had not repulsed her or caused her to fight his embrace.
    It was a puzzle, she decided, her eyes blinking open. And nothing in her sheltered past had prepared her to interpret the feelings that ran rampant within her. To give her his mother’s riding skirt... She shook her head unbelievingly, inhaling the fine scent of the leather.
    And this was the same man who was intent on riding roughshod over any objections she might have to offer against his manipulating her life. Biting her lip against the thought, she shook her head. “I don’t begin to understand you, Matthew Gerrity,” she murmured.
    Even as she uttered his name, she heard the telltale sound of his boots in the corridor outside her door.
    “Ten minutes, Emmaline,” he called impatiently through the closed panel.
    “Bossy,” she grumbled as the footsteps moved on, and then she sighed as she crossed to the heavy wardrobe to find a shirtwaist that would be suitable for her ride.
    * * *
    The mount he placed her on was small, a compact cow pony with muscular haunches and leashed power that surged between her knees. The saddle was strange, high in back and equipped with a knob in front, cradling her in its depths. She held the reins as Matt directed, both across her palm, guiding the horse with the pressure of the narrow leather strips across his neck.
    “Not exactly what