A Tradition of Pride by Janet Dailey Read Free Book Online Page A

My decision stands," Rans stated with unrelenting hardness.
    A finely drawn brow arched upward. "It will stand only until my father hears about it," Lara declared haughtily. "And once the rest of the workers discover, that the Alexander family does not support you in this, you will have difficulty finding anyone to do the plowing. We have always taken great pride in the loyalty of the people who work for us."
    "I wouldn't be too sure about your father, if I were you, Mrs. Cochran." A self-satisfied glint appeared in his narrowed eyes. "I have already discussed the matter briefly with him and he left the final decision to me."
    "That's a lie!" she gasped in sudden, trembling outrage. "My father would never condone this! He would not betray Cato in the way you are suggesting!"
    One corner of his mouth, quirked sardonically. "It's not betrayal," Rans harshly mocked her description. "The man will receive an ample pension to keep him comfortably for the rest of his life."
    "Is that all?" Lara asked sarcastically. "Don't you want to throw in a gold watch, too?" A muscle twitched along his, jaw as his lips thinned into a straight line. "Have you told Cato of your decision, or do you intend to let the grapevine inform him that he's out of a job because he's too old?"
    "I haven't had the opportunity," he replied coldly.
    "Oh, you've been busy I'm sure," she responded caustically. "Too busy to do the dirty work. Let Cato think my father is to blame. What does it matter to you?"
    "I have been busy. Some fool forgot to latch one of the bull-pen gates and two of our prize bulls got into a fight; I'm still not certain we aren't going to lose one of them. Plus one of the cows died giving birth to a calf, and I've spent the last three nights trying to keep the calf alive. Since the decision was mine, I chose not to delegate the responsibility of informing Cato to anyone else. When I do talk to him, I will make it clear that the decision was mine."
    The bay pranced nervously behind Lara, who was now trembling with the fierceness of her anger. "I am going to fight you on this, Rans MacQuade. I don't accept that your decision is the final one. You will regret it if you try to carry it out. No one who works here is going to approve of what you're doing. Believe me, I won't be fighting you alone."
    "You are a spoiled little brat who has got her way too often. You can rant and rave and throw all the temper tantrums you want, but if you ever try to usurp my authority with the workers, you will find that you have tackled more than you can handle!" The fire glittering in his eyes warned that it was not an idle threat.
    "I doubt that," Lara jeered.
    "Do you?" A thick eyebrow arched arrogantly. "Pick up the tractor keys and hand them to me."
    It was undeniably an order. Mutinously Lara stood her ground, her red gold head thrown back in open defiance, daring him to try to make her, Martin Alexander's daughter; obey.
    "I said pick up the keys," he snapped.
    With the swiftness of a striking cobra, his fingers wrapped around her wrist, jerking her forward. The bay reared, pulling the reins free from the same hand he held. Lara's reaction was instinctive. The riding whip arced toward that arrogant face.
    The whip didn't reach its target, checked in mid-swing by another set of iron fingers seizing her other wrist. Brown eyes glinted with mockery at her futile attempt. Rigidly Lara stood in front of him, moving her wrists only slightly to test the firmness of his hold while she silently smoldered with rage.
    "Let me go!" she hissed.
    A hard smile curved the strong line of his mouth, his grip tightening. "So you can use that riding crop? Not a chance." Harsh, mocking laughter sounded in his throat. "If anyone uses it, I will…on your backside. Something your father should have done years ago."
    Lara tossed her head back, green eyes glinting with confident challenge. "You wouldn't dare," she jeered.
    Again a dark eyebrow flicked upward. The pressure of his grip