The Tiger Lily by Shirlee Busbee Page A

subject of marriage to Carlos.
     
    Sabrina
had never thought too deeply about the man she would one day marry, but
marriage was something she had always accepted as inevitable. Until the night
of her seventeenth birthday. Or rather, until the weeks following it.
     
    Meeting
the sons of the neighboring ranchers, dancing with them at other fiestas,
dining at their homes with her father, she discovered with surprise that there
wasn't one she would want to marry. Not even dear Carlos, she conceded wryly.
     
    Since
the conversation with her father she had begun to look at the men of her
acquaintance with new eyes, particularly her cousin Carlos. And while she still
found him delightful to dance with, to laugh with, and to ride with, she was
becoming increasingly aware that she definitely did not want to marry him—or
any man she had met so far.
     
    As
if to give lie to that thought, a dark young face with jade-green eyes danced
before her, and with an exclamation of disgust, she tossed the mangled clover
stem away and rolled over onto her stomach. Brett Dangermond was certainly the
last man she'd ever think of marrying! And right behind him came Carlos, she
decided grimly.
     
    If
she had begun to look at Carlos with new eyes, she had also begun to be aware
of the fact that their relationship had undergone a delicate change during the
months following her birthday. He seemed to call more frequently at the Rancho
del Torres than he had in the past ... or was it just because she was now more
conscious of him? And hadn't his hand seemed to linger longer on hers than
necessary? And wasn't there a look in his dark eyes, a hungry, assessing look
that hadn't been present before? She couldn't tell for certain; she only knew
that the way his eyes seemed always to follow her had begun to disturb her
slightly and that she didn't take quite as much enjoyment from Carlos's presence
as she once had.
     
    Suddenly
annoyed and angry with her train of thoughts, she sprang lithely to her feet
and reached for her sombrero. Hurriedly twisting her red-gold hair up on top of
her head, she secured the fiery mass with an ivory comb she always carried with
her for just that reason, and jamming on the wide-brimmed sombrero, she
whistled for the palomino mare. Sirocco. Well trained by Sabrina, Sirocco
instantly trotted over to her mistress, whickering softly. Sabrina smiled, her
foul mood vanishing, and gently she caressed the silken muzzle that pushed
against her breasts.
     
    "What
a fool I am. Sirocco," she said absently, "to be brooding on such a
lovely morning." The mare tossed her golden head as if in agreement, and
Sabrina laughed.
     
    Looking
more like a slim youth than an heiress, she swung up lightly into the ornate
silver saddle the vaqueros had given her for her seventeenth birthday. Grasping
the silver inlaid bridle given at the same time, she leaned over and crooned
mischievously into Sirocco's twitching ear, "Shall we see if you live up
to your name? Will you run for me like the fiery wind you are named
after?" And ever so gently she touched the gleaming golden hide with her
spurs.
     
    Spiritedly
Sirocco reared up on her hind legs, and then very like her name, she plunged
from the green glade where they had been and raced like the wind across the
wide, marshy meadow that stretched in front of them. This was familiar ground
to them both, and recklessly Sabrina urged the mare on to an even faster pace,
reveling in the feeling of the mare's powerful strides and the humid air
rushing coolly across her face. A joyous sparkle in the amber-gold eyes, a
smile on the full mouth, Sabrina felt the last remnant of her earlier
dissatisfaction evaporate, and with a soft laugh she loosed her hands on the
reins, giving Sirocco free rein, willing to lose herself in the sheer pleasure
of this wild, mad dash.
     
    To
Brett and Ollie, just entering the meadow to the left of where Sirocco had
burst from the forest, the situation looked anything but