Rafe the Maverick Read online

  Rafe, the Maverick is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  2017 Loveswept Ebook Edition

  Copyright © 1986 by Kay Hooper

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Originally published in paperback in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, in 1986.

  Ebook ISBN 9781101969342

  Cover design: Diane Luger

  Cover photograph: solominviktor/Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Dedication

  By Kay Hooper

  About the Author

  Preface

  It was said that the Delaneys were descended from Irish kings and were still kissing cousins to half of Europe’s royalty. Being more than an ocean away, Europe’s royalty could scarcely confirm this.

  Luckily for the Delaneys.

  Old Shamus Delaney was wont to speak reminiscently of various cattle reivers, cutthroats, and smugglers in his family, but only when good Irish whiskey could pry such truths out of him. Sober, he held to it tooth and nail that the Delaneys were an aristocratic family—and woe to any man who dared dispute him.

  They were a handsome family: tall and strong of body, quick and keen of mind. Nearly all of them had dark hair, but their eyes varied from Kelly-green to sky-blue, and it seemed at least one person of every generation boasted black eyes that could flash with Delaney temper or smile with Delaney charm.

  None could deny that charm. And none could deny that the Delaneys carved their empire with their own hands and wits. Royalty they may not have been, but if Arizona had been a country, the Delaneys would have been kings.

  Whatever his bloodlines, Shamus Delaney sired strong sons, who in turn passed along the traits suitable to building an empire. Land was held in the teeth of opposition, and more was acquired until the empire spread over five states. Various businesses were tried; some abandoned and some maintained. Whenever there was a call to battle, the Delaney men took up arms and went to war.

  Many never came home.

  In the first generations, an Apache maiden caught a roving Delaney eye, and so the blood of another proud race enriched Delaney stock. Sometime before the turn of this century a Delaney daughter fell in love with a Spanish don who really could claim a royal heritage. She was widowed young, but her daughter married a Delaney cousin, so there was royal blood of a sort to boast of.

  They were a canny lot, and clan loyalty was strong enough to weather the occasional dissensions that could tear other great families apart. The tides in their fortune rose and fell, but the Delaney luck never entirely deserted them. They built a true dynasty in their adopted land, and took for their symbol the shamrock.

  They were a healthy family, a lucky family, but not invulnerable. War and sickness and accidents took their toll, reducing their number inexorably. Finally there was only a single Delaney son controlling the vast empire his ancestors had built. He, too, answered the call to battle in a world war, and when it was over, he answered another call—this one from the land of his ancestors. He was proud to find the Delaney name still known and respected, and fierce in his newfound love for the land of his family’s earliest roots.

  But his own roots were deeply set in the soil of Arizona, and at last he came home. He brought with him a bride, a true Irish colleen with merry black eyes and a soft, gentle touch. And he promised her and himself that the Delaney family would grow again.

  While his country adjusted to a life without war, and prosperity grew, Patrick Delaney and his wife, Erin, set about building their family. They had three sons: Burke, York, and Rafe.

  As the boys grew, so did the empire. Patrick was a canny businessman, expanding what his ancestors had built until the Delaney family employed thousands. Ventures into mining and high finance proved lucrative, and the old homestead, Killara, expanded dramatically.

  By the time twenty-one-year-old Burke was in college, the Delaney interests were vast and complex. Burke was preparing to assume some of the burden of the family business, while nineteen-year-old York was graduating from high school, and seventeen-year-old Rafe was spending every spare moment on a horse, any horse, at the old Shamrock Ranch.

  Then tragedy struck. On their way to Ireland for a long-overdue vacation, Patrick and Erin Delaney were killed in a plane crash, leaving three sons to mourn them.

  Leaving three sons…and a dynasty.

  Chapter 1

  “Dammit, Tom! Grab his head!” Rafe Delaney picked himself up from the dirt for the third time and scowled through the kicked-up dust of the corral at the plunging, squealing black stallion they’d named Diablo…for a reason.

  Tom Graham managed to tie the stallion to the post in the center of the corral, swiftly moving his lanky frame when Diablo lashed out viciously with both forelegs. Limping a bit from an earlier kick, Tom crossed the corral to stand beside his boss. “Let ’im settle down some,” he suggested. “And us too. Been a long time since we’ve had to saddle-break a real wild one.”

  Brushing off his jeans, Rafe agreed with a nod. It had been a long time. Training horses to accept riders was accomplished by much calmer and gentler methods these days. Unless a renegade like Diablo came along. For weeks now he’d thrown Rafe at least twice a day. When he couldn’t dislodge his rider any other way, he simply threw himself over backward—a dangerous and deadly habit in a horse.

  Rafe was near the point of admitting defeat, something he’d never done before. Only the Thoroughbred’s worth as a stud had convinced Rafe to buy the horse that no one had been able to handle in six years of trying. But if Diablo couldn’t be handled, he was certainly too dangerous to breed. Heaven only knew what insane traits he’d pass on to offspring.

  “May I try?”

  Rafe swung around to see a kid sitting on the top rail of the fence. If she stood five feet tall, he thought fleetingly, it would only be because of the heels on her English-style, knee-high boots. Jeans molded her slender legs and hips, and a white cotton blouse showed tanned forearms and throat. Her long blond hair was caught in ponytails beneath each ear, and her face was shadowed by a billed cap. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but he couldn’t be sure what it was.

  “I don’t know who you are, kid,” Rafe said impatiently, “but I don’t make it a habit to watch cheerful suicides! If you’re looking for someone—”

  “I am.” She dropped lightly to the ground inside the corral and approached him, looking even smaller than he’d imagined her to be. She halted before him and met his stare, her own violet eyes amused but slightly wary. “I’m looking for you, Mr. Delaney. I’m Maggie O’Riley—and if the thirty-day trial works out, I’m your new trainer.”

  Rafe heard Tom choke in astonishment, but his own attention was entirely focused on the woman standing before him. And, at twenty-six years of age, she was a woman. He remembered all the information in her letter of application. And all the glowing recommendations regarding her
ability with horses. And he remembered…“You looked much bigger on that hunter at Madison Square Garden, Miss O’Riley.”

  She smiled just a little. “He wasn’t as big as he looked,” she said. “Made me look bigger.”

  “You’re still too damn small,” he said with the frankness that had gotten him into trouble more than once.

  It got him into trouble again.

  Slender shoulders squared and violet eyes glared into his with no softness at all. “I’d heard that Shamrock was an open-minded, progressive ranch, Mr. Delaney. I hadn’t expected to be condemned for lack of inches. Just for the record, I’ve handled horses all my life, from training ring to show ring, and I’ve never yet been thrown twice by the same horse. Not, I may add, because I didn’t get back on.” She glanced pointedly at the dust on Rafe’s jeans.

  “Now, look…” he began in the modified lion’s roar that would have warned anyone who knew him to hide until the storm passed.

  “No, you look!” she snapped, staring up at him fiercely. “I was promised thirty days trial, and that’s what I’ll get. I won’t be refused before getting a chance to prove myself. And I’ll start,” she finished with a nod toward Diablo, “with that horse.”

  “The hell you will! The best horsemen in the Southwest have tried that horse for six years—and you think you can break him? You couldn’t hold his head up, and he’d toss you like a rag doll on the first jump!”

  “Are you a betting man, Mr. Delaney?” she asked icily.

  He glared at her.

  She glanced up at the blazing midday sun, ignoring his silence. “I’ll ride that horse by sunset—or I’ll leave, and you can find yourself a nice, big trainer for your horses.”

  “You’re on,” he said instantly.

  Maggie O’Riley nodded calmly. “Fine. Do you mind getting the saddle off him, please?”

  “Why?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Because I won’t handle a horse someone else has saddled. And I’ll need a dandy brush and some water.”

  Rafe’s black brows rose, but he merely gestured toward the nearest of the many long barns. “Tackroom’s to the left of the hall. Help yourself.”

  By the time Maggie returned with the brush and a pail of water, Rafe and his foreman had managed to get Diablo unsaddled, though not without a good deal of sweating and swearing. The big horse stood tied to the post in the center of the corral, lathered and enraged. As Maggie leaned over the top rail to set the pail inside, then climbed easily over the fence, Diablo was furiously trying to tear his hitching post out of the ground.

  “He’s all yours,” Rafe told her sardonically.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Diablo—and he earned it.”

  She glanced at Rafe coolly, then picked up the pail and headed for the big horse. As she drew closer to the animal, it seemed to Rafe she looked smaller and smaller. The contrast between more than half a ton of devil-horse and a hundred pounds or so of woman was ridiculous, and Rafe began to have second thoughts.

  “Tom, get ready in case he charges,” he said quickly. “That damn horse’ll kill her.” Both he and the older man braced themselves to race forward and save the tiny woman from certain mauling, if not death.

  However…

  She set the pail down out of reach of the stallion, then approached him slowly and steadily. Diablo screamed and lashed out with his forelegs, but she never hesitated. Halting just a couple of feet from him, she stood motionless. The stallion began to quiet, his white-rimmed eyes still wildly suspicious and his ears flicking nervously, and the two tensely waiting men caught the woman’s faint, wordless crooning. They exchanged puzzled glances, then turned their attention back to the center of the corral.

  Maggie remained exactly where she was for nearly half an hour, her patience incredible. She stepped closer to the horse only when he was finally still, then walked steadily to his head. Diablo made a clearly halfhearted attempt to bite her, which she evaded easily. Using the dandy brush, she began gently stroking the horse’s wet neck and shoulders, still crooning wordlessly.

  She brushed him from neck to rump before getting the pail and allowing the horse a few mouthfuls of water. The ritual was repeated twice more, by which time Diablo was standing perfectly quiet, his eyes no longer white-rimmed. Then she untied the stallion and led him at a calm walk around the corral while he cooled and the sweat dried on his gleaming body.

  The two silently watching men were more relaxed now, though both were nonetheless ready for instant action. They were all too aware that any stallion could be one of the most dangerous, unpredictable animals on earth. Especially this one.

  But as they waited throughout the long, hot afternoon, it became clear that Diablo—for whatever inscrutable equine reason—had decided to bend his proud neck to a mistress rather than a master. Before the men’s astonished eyes the stallion even nudged her affectionately as she was strapping the hated saddle on his back.

  And when the sun was still a good hour above the horizon, Maggie swung lightly into the saddle and loped the big horse sedately around the corral. Diablo pinned his ears back each time he passed the men, but was otherwise a model of calm obedience.

  “Boss,” Tom said slowly, “didn’t you hire her to handle those new gaited horses you bought?”

  Too much a horseman to feel jealousy at Maggie’s skill, Rafe was watching her with admiration. “Yeah,” he said. “I saw her ride hunters and gaited horses in New York, and when I asked around for a trainer, she was recommended. She’s a top money-winner on the East Coast, and she’s ridden for every major stable you could name. According to her letter, she’d decided to leave the circuit and take a permanent job as trainer.” Rafe grinned suddenly at his foreman. “And I think we got a bargain, Tom.”

  Tom grinned in response, his faded blue eyes twinkling. “You’ll have to eat crow, boss.”

  “Don’t I know it! Well, she proved me wrong. If she can handle that hellion, she can handle any other horse we’ve got. She’s earned the right to gloat.”

  But Maggie didn’t gloat. Dismounting from Diablo, she merely said, “I’d like to stable him myself.”

  “This way,” Rafe said. Tom swung the gate open, and Rafe led the way to Diablo’s stable. He watched silently as she unsaddled and groomed the stallion. She still looked incredibly small and delicate next to the big horse, but Rafe didn’t have to be hit over the head to absorb a lesson: She was bigger than she looked.

  “Miss O’Riley,” he said formally as soon as Diablo was contentedly munching hay in his stable, “if you still want to work for a hotheaded Irishman, the job’s yours—and never mind the trial period.”

  She faced him solemnly, making him realize her tempers were as quickly over as his own. “I’m Irish, too, Mr. Delaney, and somewhere back among my ancestors, the name O’Riley meant ‘warlike.’ I can take it if you can.”

  They shook hands gravely, then both began to laugh.

  “I’m Maggie,” she said.

  “And I’m Rafe. No formality around here. Happy to have you aboard, Maggie.”

  “Happy to be here. I think,” she added cautiously.

  Rafe winced. “My big mouth. But you have to admit you looked like a kid sitting on that fence.” When she rolled her eyes, he said, “And you’ve heard that before, I take it.”

  “Constantly.” Maggie had weighed up her employer by now, taking her own impressions and comparing them to what she’d heard about Rafe Delaney and Shamrock Ranch. As they walked toward the ranch house she listened with only half an ear as he briskly described the layout of the place. She knew the layout of Shamrock because she’d done thorough research before applying for the position.

  She’d also done research on Rafe Delaney. He was, quite literally, one third of a dynasty. It was said by some that the Delaney brothers didn’t own all of Arizona simply because a reprobate ancestor had lost part of it in a crooked poker game shortly before the Civil War. That reprobate’s smarter—and luckier
—ancestors had trundled their covered wagons across virgin America, fighting indians all the way, only to fall in love with land a far cry from the Old Country.

  And now, the twentieth-century descendants of all that vital blood comprised one of the last true dynasties. There were only three Delaneys now, Maggie knew. At thirty-six Burke was the oldest; he controlled the finances for the family. York, thirty-four, handled the oil and mining properties. And Rafe, thirty-two, managed Shamrock Ranch, which was known throughout the country for producing magnificent Thoroughbreds, Arabians, and Quarter horses.

  All three brothers were unmarried.

  Maggie glanced covertly at her new boss as they walked companionably up the wide lane to the ranch house. She’d never seen the other two Delaney brothers, but Rafe certainly showed evidence of his rakish heritage. Irish, Mexican, and Indian—heaven knew what tribes!—blood had produced in this brother a curious wild gypsy appearance. His black hair was thick and a bit shaggy, a stubborn lock falling over his forehead. Winged brows flew above eyes of gleaming ebony, eyes that had a laughing devil in them.

  His nose had been broken at some point since it was now faintly crooked, and his smile…his smile, Maggie thought wryly, could melt an iceberg. He had the high cheekbones and the bronze skin of his triple heritage, and the broad-shouldered, whipcord-lean frame of an active man who used every muscle in his work. And beautiful hands, long-fingered, strong, graceful. The kind of hands, she mused, that could handle a newborn foal with gentleness, a powerful stallion with firmness, and a woman with tenderness.

  Instantly she pushed the last thought out of her mind.

  As to personality, Maggie had heard some and deduced some. By reputation, he was a true horseman with endless patience for the animals he handled and the people in his employ. From all reports Rafe “took care” of his people as the Delaneys had always taken care of their own.

  There was clearly enough Irish blood left in him to produce a respectable tot of blarney. He had the deep, lilting voice of a born charmer, and if he hadn’t broken a few hearts in the last fifteen years or so, Maggie didn’t know her own sex. Her meeting with him had revealed a temper that was quickly over, but as dangerous as a thunderhead for the duration. She’d heard it said that Rafe could laugh off any insult to himself, but would instantly go to the mat—literally—over any slight to his brothers.