Free The Texan by Joan Johnston Page B

gate that led from Creed to Blackthorne property.
    “You know what I mean.”
    “You mean, you’d rather not trust your life to one of those dastardly Blackthornes.”
    He surprised a laugh out of her. “You must admit your father’s a hard-hearted man.”
    “I’m not my father,” he said curtly.
    “You’re cut from the same mold,” she countered. “You crippled my brother.”
    In the blink of an eye he’d hit the brakes, grabbed her arms, and pulled her up nose to nose with him. “That’s the last time I want to hear those words out of your mouth. Is that understood?”
    She scowled at him and said, “Let go of me.”
    He shook her once and demanded, “Answer me! Is that understood?”
    She knew better than to taunt an enraged animal. But she couldn’t help herself. “You are what you are.” She stared at the vicious grip he had on her arms. “A man with a nasty temper that gets out of hand. You hurt my brother. And now you’re hurting me.”
    He let her go instantly and turned back to face the road, his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard she thought he might break it in two. Through tight jaws he said, “This isn’t going to work. I’ll arrange for someone to take you home when we get to the landing strip.”
    “Oh, no you don’t,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “One little temper tantrum isn’t going to scare me away.”
    “I can’t guarantee it won’t happen again.”
    “I work every day with cantankerous beasts who growl and bite, when I’m only trying to help. I think I can handle you.”
    “I’d like to see you handle me,” he said, eyeing her up and down.
    She ignored the double entendre, but she was pretty sure he wasn’t sizing her up as an adversary on the tae kwan do mat. She put a hand to her stomach, which was doing a strange flip-flop. “Don’t think I couldn’t take you down,” she said seriously. “I’ve trained in the martial arts.”
    He smirked. “That I’ve got to see.” He started the truck again. “But not right now.”
    Owen did a thorough flight check of the Cessna before he pronounced it ready to fly. He took Bay’s backpack from her again and put it in the forward baggage compartment.When he opened the door to the passenger compartment, two foldout steps appeared.
    “Pretty nifty,” Bay said as she entered the cabin, which had a recessed floor that allowed her to stand upright. She looked at the four facing seats, two on each side, and said, “I’d rather fly up front with you.”
    “Suit yourself,” he said, stooping as he headed for the front of the airplane.
    “It has nothing to do with wanting your company,” she assured him. “I just want to make sure you can fly this thing.”
    “What help could you be if I can’t?” he asked.
    “I did a paper in college on airplane hydraulic systems,” she said, surveying the cockpit.
    “You’re kidding, right?”
    She buckled herself in. “I had to take a lot of science classes to become a vet, so I tried to do papers on things that interested me.”
    Bay noted the Citation CJ1 was equipped with the best, most modern com/nav/ident avionics gear. The soft camel leather seats and burled wood trim were evidence of the luxury in which the Blackthornes indulged.
    Her family had once owned a secondhand helicopter they used for roundups, but they hadn’t been able to keep up the payments, so the bank had taken it back. Now they rented a helicopter when they needed one.
    “You wrote a paper on hydraulic systems?” Owen repeated dubiously, as he checked generators, flaps, thrust attenuators, and speed brakes.
    “What did you write about in college?” she asked.
    “As little as possible,” he replied.
    “What did you study? I mean, what was your major?”
    “Clay and I both studied government. Clay went on to Harvard Law. I went into law enforcement.”
    She rolled her eyes. “I can imagine what your father said when you did that.”
    “I don’t think he noticed,”