High Country Spring Read online

  High Country Spring

  They’ve always been best enemies, but fate has its own plans for their hearts.

  * * *

  Felipe Ortega has never met a man he didn’t like. But when it comes to his best friend’s little sister, he can’t stand her. And she’s definitely not a man. But when she stows away on a dangerous hunt, they find themselves trapped together in the mountains… alone.

  * * *

  Francisca Moreno is desperate to escape her mother’s attempts to lace her into the corset of propriety. Except her attempt at a grand adventure lands her square in the path of a man who’s only ever thought of her as a pest. A man who gets under her skin like no one else.

  * * *

  One starry night they crash into a passionate encounter. As their repressed desires break free—and danger draws closer—they’ll discover how much they’ll risk for the one person they were never meant to love.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Genevieve Turner

  ISBN: 978-0-9906298-6-3

  Digital Version 1.0

  Cover photographs © Hot Damn Stock | hotdamnstock.com and Creative Travel Projects | shutterstock.com

  All rights reserved.

  Chapter One

  Spring, 1903

  San Jacinto Mountains, California

  Felipe Ortega moved slowly toward the arena, crouching low in the concealing chaparral.

  This was what happened when he woke late—he had to skulk through the brush like a thief. Or a reprobate, considering what he planned to do when he reached the sycamore.

  Not that he was hiding to watch Franny bathe or anything like that. He was only making sure she was safe.

  If only she’d woken a little later today…

  He shrugged deeper into his jacket, the early-morning chill sinking kitten-sharp teeth into the tips of his ears. Dew glittered on the tips of the buckwheat spines, that same dew soaking his pants hem, raising gooseflesh on his legs. It was going to be a cold, lonely vigil, with only his dog, Dally, for company.

  Not that the girl he was keeping vigil over would ever know of his efforts. And if she did, she’d not thank him for it.

  She never did care.

  He ought not to slip into such martyr-like thoughts—no one had asked him to do this. But the gray fog and damply glittering brush made a perfect frame for self-pity. He hadn’t even had a cup of coffee to warm his belly. There’d been no time.

  Franny woke up early to school her horses, so he was forced to wake up even earlier to watch without her knowing. Her family might not care that her blue roan brute would throw her while she had no one nearby to help—but Felipe certainly did.

  He just didn’t want her to know that he cared.

  Only two more feet, and he’d make it to the tree. Almost there. He crept onward, forcing himself to be slow and quiet, Dally trotting by his side.

  He kept one ear pitched toward the arena, listening for any sound of distress. The horse’s breathing was loud in the stillness, his hooves landing solidly as he trotted along. And her low murmurs as she encouraged and praised the stallion.

  Finally, he reached the tree. He settled into his usual hiding spot. Thank God she hadn’t caught him. With the brush concealing him and Dally, he was safe from discovery. He peeped through the leaves, the chamise branches veiling her and the horse in green and white. Clear enough to see if she was in trouble, though.

  Franny had the stallion doing figure eights, the horse’s heavy body lithely bending at her directions. The stallion’s hindquarters gathered and released, gathered and released as he moved forward, clearly holding an immense amount of energy—and frustration—in check. She sat easy and still, all of her calmly urging. She wasn’t a small girl, but she looked small sitting on that broad back. If that horse tossed her, she’d have a ways to fall. Might even break something, like when she’d broken her wrist with the last horse she’d trained.

  Or the stallion could take it into his head to trample her.

  Felipe swallowed down a swell of bile. That wouldn’t happen this morning. He was here. He’d keep her safe. Although she’d never know about it.

  When he watched her throughout the rest of the day, she knew—and she hated it. He didn’t let her go off half-cocked into whatever dangerous scheme came into her head, like her father and brother did—and it made her mad. And he got angry right back.

  If she would simply stay in the house where she belonged, he wouldn’t have to get angry at her.

  She’d be safe.

  The stallion gave a little hop. Not a true buck, but definitely a sign that he was unhappy. His hooves floated high above the ground, frustration churning in his motions.

  Felipe tensed. If she fell, he was ready.

  Please God, don’t let that stallion throw her.

  She kept urging the stallion forward, hands quiet on the reins, heels gently pressed to his sides. All of her attention fully on the horse. The stallion did as she asked, but the tension in his hindquarters said he wasn’t eager to.

  If only she’d gotten it into her head to train another mare or gelding. Felipe hadn’t worried so much when she’d done that before, since they were less dangerous than a stallion. But she’d seen that flashy blue roan stallion and begged her father to purchase it, dreaming of training the beast as a cow horse and setting herself up as a horse breeder. Felipe had done his best to talk her out of it, but that had just set her heart harder on it. Stubborn girl.

  Spoiled girl. Because instead of telling her how dangerous the entire notion was, her father went and bought the horse.

  She turned the stallion toward the fence, giving Felipe his first full view of her. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and her collar was unbuttoned enough for him to catch a glimpse of her chemise, lacy and pale.

  A warm itch set up beneath his skin. For all that she wore a man’s shirt and split skirt most of the day, she never showed an inch of improper skin.

  Not that Felipe hadn’t imagined accidentally glimpsing some of that skin.

  He wouldn’t have to imagine after this. Her forearms were lean, the muscles working beneath her golden skin as she guided the horse. And her throat… it was the throat of a goddess, meant to be caught in lines of cool, pale marble.

  But there was nothing cool or pale about her skin itself. Or about the sensations the sight of it evoked in him.

  Stop it. He was only here to make sure she was safe. Not to lust after her.

  A yip sounded from the brush. A dog, but not Dally.

  Trixie.

  His limbs tightened, but there was nowhere to run.

  Franny had brought her dog, and like any spaniel worth the name, she was tearing through the brush, looking for game to flush.

  Please don’t let that dog find me.

  Trixie wouldn’t do anything worse than lick his face if she did catch him—but Franny might forbid him from watching.

  Who would keep her safe then?

  A flock of bushtits burst from the brush not ten feet from him. Trixie was coming his way.

  Another yip, closer this time. Dally’s ears pricked up, but he stayed still. He wouldn’t give Felipe away.

  Felipe ought to leave before Trixie sniffed him out. Because she would. She was as determined, as exuberant, as her mistress.

  But Franny was still on that stallion.

  He went as rigid as the tree at his back. What to do?

  The stallion bucked in earnest this time, shying at the noise from the dog.

  No, he couldn’t leave. Someone had to be ready to save Franny from herself.

  Franny pulled the horse to a halt, but he continued to shift beneath her, ready to bolt if given an excuse.

  “Easy there,” she said. Such a sweet voice for such a stubborn girl. Her head tilted thoughtfully. “You’re going to have to get used to dogs, you know.”

  Felipe went cold. The stallion was already agitated—if she tried to get him close to a dog, he’d explode.

  She’d be caught in that explosion of limbs and hooves and animal rage.

  Take him back to the barn, Franny. Be done for the day.

  Dally got to his feet, sensing Felipe’s tension. Felipe slid a hand deep into the fur of his neck, needing something to anchor him to that spot, to keep him still in the midst of his alarm.

  If she did call her dog over, Felipe wouldn’t hold back then. No matter how angry she might be.

  She held that thoughtful pose as she continued to stare at the stallion’s head.

  Don’t be foolish. Please, don’t be foolish.

  Finally, she released a deep sigh and patted at the stallion’s neck. “I suppose that can wait for later. You’ve been patient enough today.”

  Felipe sagged against the trunk of the tree. He let loose a slow breath, trying to let go of some of his shakiness.

  She’s safe. Everything’s all right.

  Now he only had to watch her throughout the rest of the day to make sure she stayed that way.

  As he did every day.

  Spring roundup was always the busiest time of year on any ranch. Being foreman of the Rancho Moreno meant that Felipe was buried under tasks from sunup to sundown, ensuring that things ran smoothly, that every necessary task was done. The success of the rancho rested on F
elipe’s shoulders—second only to Señor Moreno’s shoulders, that was.

  While busy, a roundup was usually a happy occasion, with calves being born and a rancher seeing his herd grow right before his eyes. A man could imagine a prosperous fall with all those calves coming in the spring.

  But this year was different.

  Red nose had come through the herd, sickening many of the calves and killing the weakest of them. Killing too many of them.

  And then there was the mountain lion…

  “Found another carcass this morning,” Juan Moreno said.

  He and Felipe were propped side by side on the corral fence, watching as Franny and the hands doctored some calves. Juan was the only son of the Moreno family, the same age as Felipe—twenty-nine—and Felipe’s oldest friend.

  “That’s two this week,” Felipe mused, his focus mostly on Franny. She was on foot, while everyone else was mounted up—and would be the one hurt if something went wrong, like a cow trampling her or a horse bolting or any other thousand disasters he could think of. Why she had to volunteer to do the doctoring, he didn’t know.

  “We can’t afford to lose any more calves,” Juan said. “Not with this sickness taking so many.”

  Felipe knew it—probably better than Juan did, seeing as how Felipe was the overseer and Juan spent most of the year running the stockyards in the valley.

  When Felipe had come to Rancho Moreno at the age of fifteen, a grieving orphan, he’d been grateful for the food in his belly and the roof over his head. But Juan was the heir, Juan would get everything, and the place was to be kept running for the day when Juan decided to step in and take it.

  Felipe couldn’t resent Juan for that. After all, the man was his closest friend. His brother, really.

  Juan was content enough with the situation, and Felipe supposed he was as well. He’d be forever indebted to the Morenos for taking him in, and working as their foreman was part of discharging that debt.

  “Are you going after the lion?” he asked Juan.

  “I’ll head out tomorrow morning with the dogs. It leaves you shorthanded, but stopping that lion has to be done.” Juan’s words might be tuned for reluctance, but his tone was eager. He was a born hunter.

  “Better you than me,” Felipe said, settling himself more comfortably on the fence. Franny kept on with her work, never once looking his way.

  Juan clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to go.”

  Felipe would never admit it openly—not to a community of ranchers—but he hated hunting lions. He’d hunted them a few times, out of absolute necessity, but it never had sat well with him, bringing down such beautifully terrible creatures.

  Juan knew, because Felipe couldn’t hide much from him.

  Franny’s laugh rang out, her head tipping back with the force of her amusement. Jacinto, one of the older cowboys, looked to be telling her some kind of joke, but Felipe couldn’t make out what he was saying. Whatever it was, Franny was enjoying it.

  She ought to be concentrating on what she was doing. It took only half a second of inattention for something to go wrong.

  Felipe opened his mouth to tell her just that, since no one else seemed to care. But the Señor appeared, coming toward the corral, his steps stiffer and slower than they’d once been. Age was catching the man, slowly but surely.

  Felipe shut his jaw on his reprimand. Franny was the apple of Ramon Moreno’s eye, so Felipe tempered his urge to snap at her when the Señor was near.

  “Juan,” Señor Moreno boomed. “What are you doing? Your sister is in the corral, working, and you are hanging on the fence.”

  Juan’s mouth dipped sourly. “Felipe and I were discussing things. You want me in the corral, then?”

  “No, I want you to be directing things. You ensure the work is done correctly.” The Señor’s expression was all stern paternal instruction. Juan was meant to learn a lesson from this.

  Felipe felt the circle of father and son draw in on itself, shutting him out.

  For all that he’d lived with this family for fourteen years, he was only a hired hand in the end. He might eat at their table come supper time, but he slept with the other hands when night fell.

  Or he had, until he’d been made overseer at twenty-one and moved into the little foreman’s cottage.

  Felipe dropped his head, took half a step back from the two, a reluctant witness. Because when the Señor said, “You must direct things,” he meant, “You tell Felipe and he’ll tell the hands.”

  That was always the way of it. Half in the Morenos’ sphere, half in the hired Indian hands’ sphere, not truly part of either. Stuck in between. Taken in by the family, but kept on the edges. Taking orders from the man who fed and clothed him.

  If Juan took over his father’s role on the rancho, as the Señor had been agitating for recently, he’d be the one giving orders to Felipe.

  Felipe couldn’t take orders from Juan. Not when they’d been friends for so long. Judging by the hard set of Juan’s jaw, he didn’t want to give those orders.

  “Go ahead,” Señor Moreno urged his son. “Take charge here.”

  Felipe took another step away, but couldn’t escape completely.

  “There’s no need.” Juan glanced at Felipe, exasperation and pleading written on his face. “Everything’s in hand.”

  The exasperation was for his father, but the pleading—Felipe knew what that meant. Juan wanted Felipe’s help. Wanted Felipe to jump in and smooth things over, assure the Señor that Juan was correct, that there was no need for Juan to give orders.

  After all, that was what Felipe was famous for. Helping anyone in need.

  But he couldn’t help here. In his heart of hearts, he didn’t want to. Juan could deal with his own father.

  Perhaps that wasn’t entirely fair, but Felipe didn’t feel as fair these days as he used to. Perhaps his good nature was hitting the end of its reserves.

  Felipe only gave Juan a shrug, one that said his hands were tied.

  “All right.” Juan’s words were heavy with resignation. “I’ll take charge.”

  “Good,” his father said. “Someday all this will be yours. You need to take charge of it sooner rather than later.”

  Juan turned his attention to the corral, his shoulders tight.

  Franny finally decided to notice them then, waving to her father. He returned the wave with equal pleasure.

  “Franny,” Juan barked. “Get back to work.”

  The Señor’s mouth turned down. Juan yelling at his favorite daughter likely wasn’t included in his notion of taking charge.

  Perhaps Franny would get mad at Juan’s high-handedness and leave. It had happened before. When she was younger and more hotheaded.

  But she only stuck her tongue out at her brother and got back to work.

  “See?” Juan said. “All well in hand.” He flicked an uncomfortable glance at Felipe.

  Felipe held his breath. If the Señor pushed again, demanded Juan issue some orders, prove his leadership… if it came at Felipe’s expense…

  Juan kept his gaze hard on the corral, ignoring his father.

  The Señor studied his son, waiting.

  Felipe watched them both, wondering what they’d do, tension snaring all of them together in its web.

  Finally, the Señor sighed. And left.

  Felipe let his lungs release. And went back to watching the work. Franny appeared safe enough for the moment, so he took stock of his dogs, who were keeping the herd settled. They didn’t need any direction from him—they knew almost as well as the men what to do.

  Those cattle dogs were his pride and joy, famous for how well trained they were. His father had passed his knowledge of training the dogs to Felipe, a small bit of his father that Felipe could carry forever.

  Those dogs and that rotting house, his inheritance from the man who’d sired him…

  “You don’t need any direction from me,” Juan muttered. “None of them do.”

  That wasn’t entirely true. The men did work well together, needing little overt direction. But one had to know who to put on what task, when to nudge and when to back away—it was a delicate thing, managing men.

  Add Franny into the mix, and things became a thousand times more difficult.