The Rogue Read Online Free

to the pond.
    The summer went from bad to worse as far as Diana was concerned. More and more of her activities were curtailed. In previous summers every minute of the day was filled with things to do. Now she was fighting boredom.
    Kicking a rock out of her path, Diana shoved her hands into the rear pockets of her Levi’s® and glanced impatiently around the ranch yard. Surely there was something to do. She breathed out a disgusted sigh. There was always Guy.
    Diana changed her direction and walked to the fourplex. The door to the last unit was open. Not bothering to knock on the screen door, she walked in and paused at the sight of Holt Mallory standing at the kitchen sink shirtless, halted in the act of wiping his face dry with a towel.
    “It’s polite to knock before entering someone’s home.” He finished wiping his face and hands.
    “I’m looking for Guy. Where is he?” Resentment glittered darkly in her blue eyes.
    “Somewhere outside.”
    As he turned to hang up the towel, Diana’s eyes widened curiously. A network of scars lined the tannedflesh of his back. “How did you get those marks on your back?” she demanded.
    There was an instant’s hesitation before Holt reached for his shirt. “I don’t remember.”
    “Somebody beat you. You wouldn’t forget a thing like that,” Diana accused.
    He looked at her for a long, hard moment. “You can forget anything if you try.” His attention became absorbed in buttoning his shirt. “You said you were looking for Guy; he’s outside.”
    Diana eyed him with curious speculation, but knew he would tell her no more. Finally she turned and left, going in search of Guy. But she didn’t let the matter drop. She revived it at lunch with the Major.
    “Did you know Holt Mallory had scars all over his back? It looks like somebody used a whip on him.” She offered it into the conversation with seemingly idle interest.
    The Major’s look was swift and piercing. “Really?” His response was deliberately bland. “Pass the salt.”
    “How did he get them?” Diana set the salt and pepper near his plate.
    “Did you ask Holt?”
    “Yes.”
    “What did he tell you?”
    “He said he couldn’t remember. Of course, it’s a lie.” She dismissed the answer with an infinitesimal shrug of her shoulders. “How did he get them, Major? Was he in prison before he came here?”
    “I don’t believe they whip people in prison anymore, Diana,” he replied in an indulgently dry tone.
    “Maybe not anymore, but . . . how did he get them?”
    “I really can’t tell you, Diana.” He said it as if he didn’t know, yet Diana suspected that he did. He simply wasn’t going to tell her. He had always told her everything. There had never been any secrets between them. It hurt, but it didn’t stop her from fantasizing about how Holt had acquired the scars, even if she didn’t bring the subject up again.
    With summer’s end came the fall round-up. It was one of Diana’s favorite times. Riding for long hours, miles from the ranch yard, sleeping beside a campfire under a canopy of stars, it was adventurous and exciting out in the wilds. There was always so much to see, mule deer grazing, an occasional glimpse of a desert bighorn, or a fleeing band of wild horses skylined on the crest of a hill.
    By the golden light of dawn, Diana retightened the cinch of her saddle, a bedroll tied neatly behind the cantle. Everywhere there was movement, others quietly and efficiently preparing for the start of the annual event. All the faces were familiar. Year round, the ranch usually employed an average of eighteen men on a regular basis, but extras were hired during round-ups or haying time. They were generally locals. It was rare for the Major to hire strangers for part-time help.
    Over the seat of her saddle, Diana saw Holt Mallory approaching with an air of being in command of the operation. What had begun as instant dislike on his arrival at the ranch had magnified over the last few