Nash Rivers Was Sexy As Hell. Why Would He Even Bother To Look Twice At A Woman Like Her? Letter to Reader Title Page PEGGY MORELAND Dedication Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Copyright

Nash Rivers Was Sexy As Hell. Why Would He Even Bother To Look Twice At A Woman Like Her?

Still, the images played through Samantha’s mind at night. Images of Nash. Only Nash. He was with her in bed, his arms wrapped tightly around her, his body pressed close to hers. He would kiss her, whisper sweet seductive words in her ear. She’d touch him, kiss him, glory in the feel of him. Locked safely in the web of her dream, she could love him.

Then she would wake up and find herself alone, with nothing but a yearning growing stronger every day.

So what was the point of torturing herself by dreaming about him?

“Because that’s all I have,” she whispered sadly against her pillow. “And probably all I’ll ever have.”

She closed her eyes, waiting for him to come to her in the hazy cloud of a dream.

Dear Reader,

August predictably brings long steamy days...and hot sensuous nights. And this month Silhouette Desire spotlights the kind of pure passion that can erupt only in that sizzling summer climate.

Get ready to fall head over heels for August’s MAN OF THE MONTH, a sexy rancher who opens his home (and his heart?) to a lost beauty desperately hoping to recover her memory in A Montana Man by Jackie Merritt. Bestselling author Cait London continues her hugely popular miniseries THE TALLCHIEFS with Rafe Ralladin: Man of Secrets. Rafe is an irresistible takeover tycoon with a plan to acquire a Thallchief lady. Barbara McMahon brings readers the second story in her IDENTICAL TWINS! duo—in The Older Man an exuberant young woman is swept up by her love and desire for a tremendously gorgeous, much older man.

Plus, talented Susan Crosby unfolds a story of seduction, revenge and scandal in the continuation of THE LONE WOLVES with His Seductive Revenge. And TEXAS BRIDES are back with The Restless Virgin by Peggy Moreland, the story of an innocent Western lady tired of waiting around for marriage—so she lassos herself one unsuspecting cowboy! And you’ve never seen a hero like The Consummate Cowboy, by Sara Orwig. He’s all man, all-around ornery and all-out tempted...by his ex-wife’s sister!

I know you’ll enjoy reading all six of this sultry month’s brand-new Silhouette Desire novels by some of the most beloved and sexy authors of romance.

Regards,

Melissa Senate

Senior Editor

Silhouette Books

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Peggy Moreland

The Restless Virgin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PEGGY MORELAND

published her first book with Silhouette in 1989, and continues to delight readers with stories set in her home state of Texas. Winner of the National Readers’ Choice Award, a nominee for the Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award, and a finalist for the prestigious RITA Award, Peggy has appeared on the USA Today and Waldenbooks bestseller lists. When not writing, she enjoys spending time at the farm riding her quarter horse, Lo-Jump, and competing in local barrel-racing competitions. She, her husband and their three children make their home in Round Rock, Texas.

Sisters aren’t always created by blood; sometimes they

are formed by the heart. To my sister of the heart,

Becky Kennedy, and to Skeeter...the closest thing to a

“lap” horse that I’ve ever known.

Prologue

Double-Cross Heart Ranch

1988

Sam backed her horse trailer up to the dark barn, using her brake lights for illumination, then climbed wearily from the cab of her truck. Groaning, she pressed her hands to her lower back and stretched out the kinks placed there by the seven-hour drive from Oklahoma. With nothing but her horse and a radio for company, the trip had been long and lonely.

But Sam was used to going it alone. When her driver’s license had arrived in the mail shortly after her sixteenth birthday, designating her a legal driver, her father had handed her the keys to a truck along with the news bulletin that he wouldn’t be hauling her butt—or her horse’s either for that matter—across the country anymore. If she wanted to try for a national barrel-racing title, he’d told her, she’d be doing it alone. He didn’t have the time.

No surprise there. Lucas McCloud rarely had time for his daughters.

But tonight, Sam thought wistfully, she could have used a little company on the long trip home. She had hoped that Mandy, her older sister, would make the trip to Oklahoma with her, but with the baby and all, Mandy no longer had the freedom to take off at a moment’s notice. And Merideth... Sam snorted at the idea of her younger sister tagging along. Merideth wouldn’t be caught dead at a rodeo. The thought of rubbing shoulders with cowboys, getting dust on her shoes, or possibly even breaking a nail was too horrifying for her.

Sam sighed and scuffed her way wearily to the rear of the truck where she unhooked the back doors and lowered the ramp. “Come on, Skeeter,” she called gently to the tall roan. “We’re home.” Slipping her fingers beneath his halter, she clipped the lead rope into place, then guided him down to solid ground.

Rather than turn on the barn’s overhead lights and disturb the other animals, Sam led her horse down the dark alley, relying on memory and moonlight to guide her way. At Skeeter’s stall, she opened the door, then braced a hip against it as she shifted to unhook his halter. With a loving pat on his rump, she urged him inside. “’Night, Skeeter,” she whispered. “See you in the morning.”

Just as she dropped the latch, locking the gate into place, a man stepped from the shadows in the next stall. A scream rose in Sam’s throat, but dissolved into a frustrated hiss of air when she recognized the man as Reed Wester, one of her father’s ranch hands. She pressed a hand over her thudding heart. “Reed, you nearly scared me to death,” she accused him.

He chuckled. “A little jumpy tonight, aren’t you, Sam?”

She heaved a breath, trying to slow her heart’s racing. She didn’t like Reed. He had a way of looking at her that made her skin crawl. “No, you just startled me.” She started to move around him, anxious to get to the house and away from him, but Reed stepped in front of her, blocking her path. Sam snapped up her head to frown at him.

“How’d you do in Guthrie?”

“I ran slack, so I won’t know the results until tomorrow, but I held the fastest time when I left.” Wearily, she pushed a stray wisp of hair away from her eyes. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m tired.”

“I’ll bet you’re a little stiff, too, considerin’ that long drive and all.” He stepped closer, putting a hand on her arm and running it from elbow to wrist. Goose bumps pebbled Sam’s skin while the nauseating smell of cheap whiskey and sweat swirled beneath her nose. “I could give you a rubdown,” he offered. “Ease the ache a little. What do ya say?”

Sam jerked free of his grasp, her nostrils pinched in anger. “No thanks,” she muttered, brushing past him.

A hand at her arm stopped her, and before she could react, Reed had spun her around and slammed her up against the barn wall, his hands cuffed around her wrists above her head.

“What’s the matter, Sam?” he sneered. “You think because you’re a McCloud you’re too good for the likes of me?”

Terror squeezed Sam’s chest at the hatred in his eyes and she tried to press her head farther back against the wall. “N-no,” she stammered, fighting hard to hide her fear. “I’m just tired, is all.”

He took a step nearer, pressing his body against hers, pinning her harder against the wall. “You won’t be for long,” he promised, his voice low and menacing. “Reed Wester knows how to make a woman forget most anything.”

“Let me go, Reed,” she pleaded as she squirmed, trying to break free.

“Ah, come on, Sammie girl. You know you want it. You’ve been twitchin’ that sassy little butt of yours in my face for months, just beggin’ for it.”

“No!” she cried, horrified that he’d think such a thing. “I haven’t. I swear. Just let me go, Reed, please.”

He buried his nose at her neck, his breath hot and rancid against her bare skin. “I’ve watched you ride that horse of yours bareback, watched you squeeze your thighs against his sides. The whole time I imagined it was me those thighs were wrapped around, and me you were pressing that hot crotch against.” His teeth grazed her skin. “And I know you were wishin’ the same damn thing.”

Before Sam could deny his claim, he moved his mouth up her throat, the hard stubble on his jaw scraping against her sensitive skin. The stench of whiskey and sweat grew stronger, making her head swim, her stomach chum. She swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat and forced herself to think. She knew she had to get away from him. But how? All the men who worked the Double-Cross would be asleep in the bunkhouse at this hour, but if she screamed loud enough...

“Let me go, Reed,” she warned as she continued to fight his grip on her hands. “Or I swear I’ll scream and have every wrangler on the Double-Cross swarming in here.”

He quickly shifted her wrists to one meaty hand, then clapped the other over her mouth. “Don’t even think about it,” he threatened in a low voice. He dropped his hand and Sam quickly sucked in air to scream, but before she could release it, his mouth slammed against hers.

Tears burned behind Sam’s closed lids while fear turned every muscle in her body to steel. She wouldn’t succumb to him, she told herself. She’d die first. Using every ounce of strength she possessed, she thrust herself hard against him, hoping to unbalance him, then lifted a boot, slamming it down hard on his instep.

He yelped in pain, but didn’t loosen his hold on her. “You bitch!” he snarled, ramming his body harder against hers to prevent her from trying the same tactic again. But Sam wasn’t through fighting yet. When he dipped his face toward her again, she sank her teeth into his cheek. With a howl, Reed reared back, staring at her in surprise. Then his eyes narrowed dangerously. He closed a hand over her breast and squeezed hard, smiling as her face contorted in pain.

“You shoulda told me you like it rough,” he growled, then stabbed his tongue between her parted lips and dug his fingers deeper into her breast.

Sam twisted her head back and forth against the rough barn wall, frantically trying to escape the suffocating pressure of his mouth, the pain his fingers inflicted on her tender flesh. But she was helpless against his greater strength.

A sob rose in her throat Please, God, please don’t let him do this to me, she cried silently.

The prayer had barely formed when he tore his mouth from hers. He stared at her, his eyes wild and dark, while a demonic smile twisted his lips. “I been waitin’ for this for a long time.” He placed a thick finger at the opening of her western blouse, then curled it until it lay in the valley between her breasts. Sam’s blood ran cold at the invasion, at the heat and roughness of his calloused finger on her bare flesh.

Chuckling, he muttered, “Let’s see what you’ve got,” then jerked the finger down. Buttons rained on the hard-packed dirt floor while Sam shrank against the wall, trying her best to melt into it.

Knowing that this might well be her last and only hope for rescue, she opened her mouth and let loose a scream that she prayed would reach the bunkhouse. Reed slapped a hand over her mouth, knocking her head hard against the wall, then yanked her away from it, twisting her arm behind her back. She managed to suck in one shocked breath before his hand closed over her mouth again.

“You’re gonna regret that,” he warned her. He shoved her kicking and fighting ahead of him into an empty stall and knocked her down on the scattered straw.

Instinctively, Sam rolled, but before she could escape, he pinned her to the stall floor. Her breath burned in her lungs as she bucked and kicked, trying to escape.

He quickly moved to straddle her. Fumbling for his belt buckle with his free hand, he ordered roughly, “Spread your legs.” When she didn’t respond, he closed a hand around her throat and squeezed. “I said spread ’em!”

Choking for air, Sam clawed at his fingers.

“What’s going on here!”

Reed twisted at the sound of the male voice, giving Sam a view of the open stall door. Gabe Peters, her father’s ranch foreman, stood in the opening, aiming a flashlight at the two of them.

Reed tightened his fingers on her neck. “Me and Sam was just havin’ us a little fun. Weren’t we, Sammie girl?” he prodded, daring her to disagree with him.

“No!” The single word scraped like a dull razor at her closed, raw throat. “Gabe, please,” she begged hoarsely while she continued to fight Reed’s hold on her, “help me!”

With a feral growl, Gabe tossed the flashlight aside and grabbed Reed by the back of the collar and hauled him to his feet. Footsteps pounded in the alleyway as more wranglers appeared on the scene. Turning, Gabe thrust Reed at the first man who appeared at the stall door. “See that he packs his gear. Then I want you to personally escort him off the Double-Cross.” Without questioning the order, four men quickly surrounded Reed and dragged him away. “And if your fists happen to connect with his face in the process,” Gabe yelled after them, “so much the better.”

Once the men were out of sight, Gabe dropped to a knee beside Sam, his voice growing gentle. “Honey, are you okay?”

Sam shrank away from his touch, clutching her torn blouse in white-knuckled hands. “I want to go home, Gabe,” she said, finally giving in to the tears. “I—I just want to go h-home.”

“Just give me a minute to call your daddy and let him know we’re—”

She grabbed at his hand, her eyes wild. “No! Please, Gabe. Don’t tell Daddy!”

The fact that she didn’t want her father to know about the attack didn’t surprise Gabe. Lucas McCloud wasn’t a man long on comfort. He shrugged out of his denim jacket. “Okay. Okay,” he said soothingly. “Settle down now. I’ll see you home safe.” He draped the jacket across Sam’s shoulders. As he started to rise, pulling her up along with him, the overhead lights popped on, their glare blinding after the moonlit darkness of a moment before.

“What the hell is going on in here?”

At the sound of Lucas’s angry voice, Gabe turned to look at Sam. The absolute terror in her eyes had him tightening his hold on her. Lucas’s temper was legendary, and the fact that his daughters caught the brunt end of it more often than not was common knowledge among the ranch hands. “It’s me. Gabe. And Sam,” he added, knowing there was no escape for her now.

There was a muffled curse, followed by the sound of determined footsteps, then Lucas appeared in the opening of the stall. Sam clutched tighter at the jacket and Gabe quickly stepped in front of her, offering her more concealment.

“What the hell is going on?” Lucas demanded again.

Heaving a sigh, Gabe explained. “I caught Reed in the barn with Sam and he was—” He paused, searching for a gentler way, for Sam’s benefit, to explain the incident. “Well, he was giving her a hard time. But everything’s under control now,” he assured Lucas. “The boys have taken Reed back to the bunkhouse to pack his gear, then they’re going to escort him off the Double-Cross.”

Lucas’s face reddened, veins throbbing to life at his temples and on his neck. His entire body trembled with barely suppressed rage as he tightened his hands into fists at his sides. “Who the hell gave you the authority to fire one of my wranglers? Reed Wester is the best damn horse trainer in the state, and you damn well know it.”

Gabe had always known Lucas’s heart was made of stone, but the idea of him coming to the defense of a lowlife like Reed Wester when his own daughter had almost been raped by the man galled Gabe to no end. “He came dang close to rapin’ her, Lucas. If I hadn’t heard her scream, I don’t—”

Lucas snapped his gaze to Sam, his look scathing. His face turned an even darker shade of red. “So, you’re the cause of all this. I should’ve known.” He took a threatening step closer. “What did you do to provoke him?”

Sam hadn’t thought anything could hurt as much as the punishment she’d received at Reed’s hands. Her father’s words proved her wrong. But she’d be damned if she’d let him see how much he’d hurt her. “Nothing,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Absolutely nothing.”

Lucas narrowed his eyes, sucking in air through his teeth. His mouth curled into a snarl of disgust while a muscle on his jaw flexed. “Get to the house,” he ordered.

“Now, Lucas—” Gabe began, ready to defend Sam.

Lucas wheeled on him. “Don’t you ‘now, Lucas’ me! It’ll be your head that rolls if we lose Reed over this.”

Gabe’s back stiffened at the threat, but the rising color on his boss’s face made him momentarily set aside his own anger. Ever since Lucas’s oldest daughter Mandy had announced that she was carrying Jesse Barrister’s baby, his boss’s temper—erratic at best—had taken on the volatility of a Texas twister, mowing down anything or anyone who happened to be in his path. And since Mandy’s return to the ranch with the baby, things had only gotten worse. Gabe himself had persuaded Lucas to see a doctor, but the stubborn old rancher ignored the doctor’s advice, refusing to change his diet or take the medication prescribed. “You need to calm down, Lucas,” Gabe warned. “Gettin’ upset like this ain’t gonna help your blood pressure none.”

Sweat glistened on Lucas’s face as he lifted a fist and shook it. “To hell with my blood pressure! I’ve got to find Reed and see if I can salvage this mess y’all’ve made. Where is he?”

“I told you,” Gabe replied patiently. “The boys took him to the bunkhouse and—”

Before Gabe could repeat his explanation, Lucas swayed, grabbing for the stall gate with one hand while clutching at his chest with the other. Gabe made a move to help, but Lucas waved him away. “Leave me be,” he growled, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Sweat poured down his face and he dipped his head into the crook of the arm braced against the stall door. As he tried to straighten, his knees buckled beneath him. Gabe lunged forward, but before he could reach him, Lucas crumpled to the floor, his fingers sliding down the gate’s metal rails, each hit a loud pinging thump in the silent barn.

“Daddy!” Sam screamed, running to drop down beside her father.

Gabe nudged Sam aside, flattening his hand over Lucas’s chest, feeling for a heartbeat. When he didn’t find one, he turned to her, his expression grave. ‘Call for an ambulance. I’ll stay here and work on him.”

Slowly, Sam pushed herself to her feet, her eyes riveted on her father’s slack face. As she ran for the phone in the lab room, the memory of her father’s words chased her.

So, you’re the cause of all this. I should have known. What did you do to provoke him?

Those would be the last words that Lucas McCloud would ever say to his daughter...yet the guilt heaped on Sam’s slender shoulders that night would last a lifetime.

One

Austin, Texas

1998

Sam frowned at the scribbled directions she held, trying her darndest to decipher her nephew’s scrawled handwriting. When she got back to the Double-Cross, she promised herself, she was going to make arrangements to have a separate phone line installed for her veterinary practice and invest in a good answering machine. And this time she meant it! Unraveling the messages taken by whoever happened to pick up the phone at the main house on the Double-Cross Heart Ranch was a royal pain in the butt.

She glanced up, peering through her truck’s bug-splattered windshield at empty pastures duck with overgrown weeds and cedar saplings. Snapped barbed wire coiled crazily along the fence line like a home perm gone bad, while sparrows splashed in a rusted water trough. Above the crumbling limestone pillars flanking the gate, a faded sign swung.

“Rivers Ranch,” she said aloud. Since the name matched that on the message her nephew Jaime had taken, she figured she must have the right place.

And if this is how Nash Rivers takes care of what’s his, she added mentally, it’s no wonder he’s got a sick horse.

But his abilities as a rancher weren’t her concern, Sam reminded herself. Only his livestock were. Still, having been raised on a ranch, the sight of so much neglect was a hard thing for her to abide.

Setting her jaw against her client’s poor management of his land, Sam turned onto the pitted road beneath the warped and faded sign and headed for the barn she could see in the distance.

An S-600 Mercedes sedan was parked at an odd angle to the barn, its silver-and-chrome body catching the sunlight and shooting it back, nearly blinding Sam. As she drew nearer, she saw a man pacing between the car and the barn. At the sound of her truck, he stopped and turned, watching her approach from behind a pair of dark sunglasses. Dressed in a gray pinstriped suit, he seemed at odds with the rustic setting around him...but well matched to the sleek, expensive car parked in front of him.

The dark scowl he wore sent a shiver down Sam’s spine. She quickly shoved back the dread of having to deal with him, and forced herself to focus instead on the animal that needed her care. Anxious to get to her patient, she parked and hopped down from the cab of her truck, pausing to grab her vet bag from the toolbox in back. “Nash Rivers?” she asked as she approached him.

He continued to scowl at her. “Yes?”

“I’m here to see about your horse.”

Nash slipped his sunglasses to the end of his nose and peered down at her. “You’re the vet?”

He wasn’t the first client shocked to discover that Dr. Sam McCloud was a woman, but his skeptical tone made Sam tense defensively. “Yeah. You got a problem with that?”

Problem? Nash took his gaze on a slow journey from the top of her sweat-stained gimme cap, over her faded T-shirt and ragged jeans, down to the scuffed toes of her manure-caked boots. Yeah, he had a problem, all right, but it wasn’t with her choice of profession. It was with her.

She dressed like a down-on-his-luck cowboy and carried a chip on her shoulder the size of a Texas armadillo. She was gruff, mannish and about as charming as a coiled rattler. If a man could get past all that, Nash supposed he might notice the long brown ponytail that poked through the back opening of her cap, and a pair of piercing brown eyes that screamed a silent warning: “One step closer, buster, and I’ll jerk your heart out of your chest with my bare hands.” And if the look wasn’t enough to scare a man off, Nash supposed a fellow might wonder about the figure concealed beneath that oversize T-shirt and baggy jeans.

But not Nash. He wasn’t interested in women. Especially one who took such pains to hide her femininity.

“Not as long as you can do your job,” he replied tersely, shoving the sunglasses back into place on his nose.

But not before Sam saw the disapproval in his gray eyes. She glared at his back as he turned to lead the way into the barn, tempted to climb right back in her truck and let him find another vet willing to make a call to his pathetic ranch. But she couldn’t. Not when an animal needed her care.

Damping down her anger, she followed him, glancing right and left, taking in the empty stalls, the smell of mildew and wood rot that hung in the air. Though the floor of the alley was raked clean, everything else about the place screamed neglect.

Sam was so absorbed in the squalor of the barn’s interior, she nearly plowed into Nash’s backside when he stopped before a stall. Catching herself just short of physical contact, she took a hasty step backward and pulled her cap farther down on her forehead, shadowing her heat-reddened cheeks. Nervously wetting her lips, she avoided Nash’s gaze and turned toward the stall and the horse inside it. A bay, about fifteen hands high, peered back at her.

The horse did something for Sam that a man rarely could—he made her smile. “Hey there, boy,” she whispered, stretching out a slow hand in greeting. “What’s wrong with you, buddy?” A velvet nuzzle nudged at her hand and Sam’s smile broadened.

“Nothing that a twenty-gauge shotgun wouldn’t solve.”

Sam whipped her head around at the sarcastic comment, her brow furrowed. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Nash pulled off his sunglasses and polished them on the lapel of his suit. “I want him put down.”

The vet bag slipped from Sam’s fingers and fell to the floor, shooting up a puff of dust. “Put down?” she echoed. “But why? What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing.” He slid the glasses into the inside pocket of his jacket, then rolled his wrist, glancing at his watch, his expression one of impatience. “How long will this take? I’ve got to get back to my office.”

Sam stared at him in disbelief, not at all sure she had heard him correctly. “Are you asking me to put down a healthy horse?”

He gave his sleeve a sharp snap, then lifted his hand to smooth it over hair as black as midnight. “That’s the idea. Now, again, how long will this take?”

Sam felt the blood drain from her face, then rise again as anger pulsed through her body. She stooped and snatched her bag from the floor. “A lifetime,” she muttered, straightening. “Specifically, his!” she added with a jerk of her head in the horse’s direction. She spun and headed for her truck.

The nerve of the man! she fumed silently. Calling her all the way out here for a job like this. Sam McCloud never put down an animal unless there was nothing medically left to offer, and only then if she felt she was saving the animal from more suffering. Grumbling under her breath about fools and murderers, Sam had almost made it to the barn door when a hand closed over her arm, jerking her back around.

Nash Rivers stood in front of her, his eyes narrowed dangerously. A sense of déjà vu swept over Sam as she remembered another time, another man who’d stopped her in just such a way. Fighting back the memory and the fear, she thrust out her chin. “Get your hands off me.”

Nash dropped his hold on her and took an impatient breath. “Look, I don’t want to argue with you. I just want this taken care of as quickly as possible. I’ve already wasted several hours waiting for you to respond to my call. I don’t relish having to wait any longer while I try to find another vet willing to come all the way out here.”

“That’s too damn bad.”

Again Sam turned toward her truck.

Again Nash grabbed her arm.

Sam wheeled, her eyes shooting fire.

The look was warning enough. Nash dropped his hand. “Listen, lady,” he began, struggling for patience, “I want the horse put down. And I’m willing to pay whatever you ask. Just do it quickly, okay? So both of us can get back to work.”

“My work is saving horses,” Sam snapped. “Not killing them.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “That horse you’re so determined to save nearly killed my daughter. And I’ll be damned if I’ll give him a chance to try again. Now are you going to put him down, or do I have to call another vet to handle this for me?”

Before Sam could answer, a whirlwind of white-blond hair, clawing fingers and kicking feet came out of nowhere and attacked her. “You can’t kill my horse. I won’t let you!” the child screamed as she beat at Sam’s stomach and arms.

“Hey! Hold on there a minute.” Sam struggled frantically to get a grip on the little girl. Finally managing to close her hands on the child’s upper arms, she dropped to her knees in front of her, holding her in place. Though dried blood marked an ugly cut from hairline to eyebrow on the girl’s forehead, the injury didn’t seem to have affected her strength any. Her body remained rigid as she glared at Sam, her lips pressed tightly together, her cheeks red, her eyes puffy from crying.

In spite of her attack on Sam, the child’s concern for her horse placed her a notch or two above Nash Rivers in Sam’s estimation. “I’m not going to kill your horse, sweetheart, I promise.”

The girl continued to glare stubbornly at Sam. “What’s your name?” Sam asked, hoping to put the girl at ease.

“Colby.”

“Mine’s Sam.”

In spite of her resentment, the child sputtered a laugh. “Sam? That’s a boy’s name.”

“And a girl’s. Short for Samantha. What’s your horse’s name?”

The smile melted from Colby’s face. “Whiskey, and I’m not letting you kill him.”

“I’m not going to hurt him. But your daddy tells me that he hurt you.”

“He didn’t mean to!” Colby cried, her voice rising in panic. “We were just out riding and something spooked him and he shied. It wasn’t his fault! Whiskey would never hurt me.” She made two quick swipes across her chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

From behind Sam came a disbelieving snort, then Nash was dropping down beside them, pulling his daughter from Sam’s grasp and onto his knee. “So how do you explain the bruise on your back and the cut on your head?”

Colby tipped her face up to her father’s, her blue eyes brimming. “But, Daddy, I told you that wasn’t Whiskey’s fault. I fell! He didn’t throw me.”

Nash stood, placing his daughter firmly back on her feet. “The results are the same,” he said, unmoved by her tears. “Now go on back to the house and let Nina tend to your scrapes.”

Colby planted her fists on her hips. “No! And you can’t make me!” She darted away before Nash could stop her and ran down the alleyway to Whiskey’s stall. Hitching a boot onto the bottom rail, she quickly scaled the gate and dropped down on the other side.

“Damn!” Nash muttered under his breath. “Now look what you’ve done,” he said, turning his anger on Sam. “If you’d put the horse down like I asked you, we could have avoided this emotional scene.”

Though Sam disagreed—and was tempted to get while the getting was good—something kept her in place. Maybe it was because she saw in Colby a bit of herself at the child’s age. Maybe it was because she’d also gone up against her own father—and lost more battles than she cared to remember. Or maybe it was simply because she was afraid that if she left, Nash would find another vet to do his dirty work for him. Whatever the reason, Sam dug in her boot heels. “You’ll break her heart if you dispose of her horse.”

Nash raked his fingers through his hair, turning the neatly combed style into dark spikes as he looked down the alleyway in the direction Colby had disappeared. “Yeah, but I’d rather break her heart than see her hurt by that beast.”

Sam lifted a shoulder. “Accidents happen. She could injure herself just as easily stepping off a curb as she could riding her horse.”

He turned to frown at her. “Thanks for the comforting words,” he replied dryly.

“I’m not trying to offer comfort. I’m stating facts. I’ve been riding horses since I was old enough to walk, and I can tell you right now I’ve hurt myself a lot more often walking than I ever have riding.”

“Doesn’t say much for your coordination, does it?”

Sam refused to let the barb penetrate. “She needs to have that cut on her head cleaned.”

Nash snorted. “I tried. She won’t let me touch her.”

“That’s certainly understandable.”

Nash snapped his head around, his eyes like flint as they scraped against Sam. She shrugged, refusing to let him intimidate her. “She’s more worried about her horse’s welfare than her own. As long as she feels she has to protect him from you, she isn’t going to let you near him or her.”

“So what do you suggest I do? Wait for her to collapse before I seek medical attention for her?”

In spite of his sarcasm, Sam saw the worry in the deep lines plowed between his brows, the concern for his daughter in his tightly compressed lips, in the depths of his gray eyes. That he loved Colby was obvious, that he was overreacting to an accident even more so.

But Sam figured if that cut on the kid’s head was going to get tended to, it would be up to her. She heaved a resigned sigh. “Stay here and I’ll see what I can do.” She strode down the alleyway and stopped in front of Whiskey’s stall. Propping her foot on the lowest rung, she draped her arms along the top of the gate. Colby stood inside the stall at the horse’s head, stroking Whiskey’s nose.

“Go away,” she grumbled. “Whiskey and me don’t need you.”

“I think you do,” Sam replied softly. When Colby whipped her head around to glare at her, Sam added, “I’ve already told you that your horse is safe with me. I would never put down a healthy animal.”

The battle waged within was obvious on the child’s face as she struggled to decide whether or not she should trust Sam. She narrowed an eye. “Swear?”

Sam quickly swiped a finger across her heart, just as Colby had done earlier. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“I thought you might need my services.”

Colby wrinkled her nose. “For what?”

“Well, Whiskey doesn’t need any doctoring, but you sure do.”

Colby touched a small finger to the cut on her forehead, frowning. “Daddy wanted to take me to the hospital.”

Sam stretched her neck over the gate, pretending to study the cut. “Doesn’t look that bad to me. A little cleaning, some antibiotic ointment, a bandage and you ought to be just fine.”

Colby peered at Sam suspiciously. “I thought vets just doctored animals.”

“Normally they do. But I’ve doctored some humans, too. In fact, one of my most frequent patients is my nephew, Jaime. He’s always getting bummed up in one way or another.”

Colby took a step closer. “This isn’t a trick, is it, so you can drug me, then kill my horse?”

Sam had to fight back a laugh at the extent of the child’s wild imagination, but she solemnly held up her hand, thumb tucked into palm. “On my honor.”

Colby scuffed the rest of the way to the gate. “Okay, but Daddy has to go, too, or no deal. I don’t trust him for a minute.”

This time Sam couldn’t stop the laugh. She didn’t trust Nash Rivers either. She swung the gate wide and Colby stepped through.

“This isn’t going to hurt, is it?” Colby asked, peering up at Sam, her fear obvious.

Sam closed the gate, her smile softening. “It’ll sting a little, but that’s all. I promise.”

“What’s going on?” Nash asked impatiently as he joined them.

Colby eased closer to Sam’s side, slipping her hand into Sam’s. The trust in the gesture touched Sam’s soul, but it was the stubborn thrust of Colby’s chin when she looked up at her father that rubbed a raw spot on Sam’s heart, reminding her of times when she’d stood up against her own father in just such a manner.

“Sam’s going to doctor my cuts and you have to go with us.”

Nash quickly shifted his gaze to Sam, his surprise obvious. “She is?” At Sam’s nod, he let out a sigh, one more of relief than frustration this time. “There’s a first-aid kit at the house. If you’ll come with me.”

Unlike the barn, the house Nash led them to was in good repair. Built of native limestone, the structure looked as if it had stood a century or more and could probably weather another one or two. A covered porch extended across the front of the house and down one side. Wisteria climbed the posts and twined around the railings, its branches dripping with fragrant pink blooms. Behind the veil of leaves, Sam could see two wooden rockers swaying in the afternoon breeze.

She tried to picture Nash sitting there in the evening, slowly rocking, maybe even whittling, while watching the sun set. But the image just wouldn’t form. It was easier to imagine him in a boardroom, his feet propped on his desk, phone tucked between shoulder and ear, while a flock of secretaries darted about at his bidding. With a shake of her head, she climbed the steps after him and followed him into the house.

The country-style kitchen they entered reminded Sam a bit of the one in her own family’s home, though the McClouds’ was more spacious and had more modern conveniences. Still, it was warm and inviting, with a round oak table scarred from years of use. Sam stooped to pick Colby up and set her on the counter by a chipped porcelain sink while Nash dug through cabinets, looking for the first-aid kit.

Tearing off a strip of paper towel, Sam wet it, then dabbed at the cut, cleaning away the dried blood and dirt. To her relief, she saw that the wound was only superficial, as she’d first thought. “This isn’t very deep,” she assured Colby with a pat on her knee. “You won’t feel much of a sting at all.”

Dubiously, Colby watched as Sam opened the first-aid kit Nash had laid out and selected the items she’d need. Nash eased closer to her side, watching, too. Uncomfortably aware of his presence and wishing Colby hadn’t insisted on her father being there, Sam gave Nash’s shoulder an impatient bump. “Give me some room,” she grumbled.

Obediently, Nash stepped back while Sam poured hydrogen peroxide on a cotton ball, but he closed the distance right back up when Sam touched the cotton to Colby’s forehead. When Colby cried out, shrinking away, Nash grabbed Sam’s hand. “You’re hurting her,” he growled.

Sam froze as his fingers closed painfully over hers, her breath locked up in her lungs. Images pushed at her from the past, ugly and debilitating. Breathe, she ordered herself sternly, as the familiar panic set in. In, out. In, out. Just breathe, for God’s sake!

Colby giggled, unaware of Sam’s level of distress. “She didn’t hurt me, Daddy. It was just cold.”

Nash slowly loosened his grip on Sam. “Oh,” he mumbled in embarrassment. “Sorry.”

Sam’s breath came out in a rush of air. She dropped the cotton ball, then flexed her fingers for a moment as if to rid them of the feel of him. Firming her lips to hide their trembling, she picked up the tube of ointment and squirted a dime-sized dollop onto the tip of her finger. She leaned closer, combing Colby’s hair out of the way, and gently traced the wound.

“The cut’s a little deeper at her hairline, so I’m going to put on a butterfly bandage to close it in order to prevent scarring.”

“Scarring?” Before Sam could stop him, Nash had wedged himself between her and Colby, his face going pale as he examined the wound.

His reaction confirmed Sam’s earlier opinion that Nash Rivers was an overprotective father who was overreacting to a simple accident.

“Nothing to worry about,” she assured him. “In a couple of weeks, you won’t even know it was there.” She waited until he moved out of her way, then she carefully stretched the bandage over the skin, closing the wound. “There!” She stepped back, briskly dusting her hands together. “All done.” She grinned at Colby. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

Colby smiled back shyly. “Not bad at all. You’ve got soft hands.”

Stunned, Sam opened her palms and looked down at them. Soft? Her hands went places Colby wouldn’t even want to think about and were as rough as cobs due to the number of washings they received each day.

“I think she means gentle,” Nash offered.

Sam whipped her head around to find him watching her. Quickly, she stuffed her hands in her pockets and took another step back, her face flaming as she turned her gaze on Colby. “Speaking of hands, you need to wash yours. We don’t want you spreading any germs if you happen to touch your bandage.”

“My hands aren’t dirty,” Colby argued. “I just—”

Nash caught her under the arms and. set her on the floor, interrupting her. “Wash them anyway. Doctor’s orders. And stop by Nina’s room and apologize for your behavior. You almost gave her a heart attack.”

“Oh, Daddy,” Colby whined, “Nina’s a worrywart. You know that.”

“She worries because she loves you. Now scoot,” he ordered firmly, giving her a light swat on the behind to get her moving.

Dragging her feet, Colby obeyed.

And Sam wished she could call her back, for now she was alone with Nash. Fishing for something to say to fill the silence, she asked, “How long’s Colby been riding?”

“Since she was three. She’s always been nuts about horses. After we moved to Austin, I found a stable where she could continue her lessons, but it’s a forty-five-minute drive from here, so we had to quit after a few months.”

“We?” Sam asked, cocking her head to look at him. “You took lessons, too?”

His eyebrows shot up at the question. “Me? Hell, no! But somebody had to drive her there.”

In other words, Colby’s lessons didn’t fit into Nash’s busy schedule, Sam concluded. “Would you mind if I saddled Whiskey and rode him around for a bit?”

His frown returned. “For what purpose?”

“Just to form an opinion. Then I’d like to see Colby ride him, to see how she handles him.”

Nash narrowed his eyes and stabbed a finger in the direction of Sam’s chest. “You can ride him all you want, but Colby stays on the ground. I won’t have my daughter on that horse’s back again.” He tightened his jaw as he turned to stare down the hallway Colby had disappeared into. The image of her lying on the ground, blood spurting from the wound on her head, formed in his mind and he had to swallow back the fear that rose with it. “She’s my baby,” he murmured, “and all I’ve got left. I can’t take a chance on losing her, too.”

Grateful that Nash had stayed behind at the house to make phone calls, Sam took the saddle Colby had offered her and tossed it onto the horse’s back. She settled it over the pad before dipping her knees to reach underneath for the girt. “Did you pick out this saddle yourself, Colby?”

Perched on top of the stall gate, watching, Colby shook her head. “No. Daddy bought it for me for my birthday.”

And money was obviously no object, judging by the quality of the leather and the tooled name of the saddle maker. “How old are you?”

“Six. My birthday was May first.”

“Really?” Sam tightened the cinch, then threaded the strap back through, making a loop, and tugged it into place. “Mine’s the tenth.”

“Did you have a party? I didn’t get to have one this year. Daddy said he didn’t have time to fool with it. But he said next year we’ll have a bi-i-ig blowout. Course I don’t know who I’ll invite. We’ll be gone by then.”

Sam angled her head, hearing the disappointment in the girl’s voice. “You’re moving?”

Dejected, Colby dropped her elbow to her knee and her chin onto her palm. “Into a condo, just as soon as Daddy gets the deal on the ranch. He’s turning it into a subdivision. You know, houses and shops and stuff. The works. I think he calls it a planned community.” She flapped a hand, scrunching her nose. “Or something like that.”

“So your daddy doesn’t ranch?”

Colby sighed, obviously disappointed. “No. He’s a developer. He buys land, divides it all up, builds streets and stuff then sells it to builders.”

Which explained to Sam the neglect she’d seen upon first entering the ranch. Nash Rivers wouldn’t spend time or money on fences and cultivation if he was planning to subdivide the property for development.

She frowned, remembering the rusted sign that she’d driven under proclaiming the place Rivers Ranch. At one time, someone named Rivers had ranched the land. If not Nash, then who? “Have y’all lived here long?” she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“About a year. We lived in San Antonio when I was little, but when my grandpa died, we moved here.”

His father’s ranch, then, not Nash’s. Probably an inheritance, Sam decided.

“Before we lived in San Antonio, we lived in Dallas,” Colby added. “Daddy didn’t like Dallas after my mother died. He said it held too many memories, so we moved to San Antonio.”

That the child could speak so matter-of-factly about her mother’s death surprised Sam. She’d lost her own mother when she was barely two, and though she didn’t remember her, she never thought of her without feeling a swell of tears.

“How old were you when your mother died?” she asked softly.

“About eight hours. She was a diabetic. She wasn’t supposed to have any babies, but Daddy said she wanted me so bad that she was willing to give up her own life just so that I could be born. That’s pretty cool, isn’t it?”

The tale was heartbreaking, and made even more so by the emotionless way in which Colby told it. Sam had to ease her breath out before she could answer. “Yeah, that’s pretty cool.”

“Daddy says I look like her, but I’ve got her picture in my room on my nightstand and I don’t think we look anything alike. Except for the color of our hair, maybe. She was blond like me, but her hair was straight and pretty and mine’s all kinky and curly.” Wrinkling her nose, Colby wadded a fistful of hair in her hand then let it drop in disgust. “Daddy says it would probably look better if I’d put a comb through it sometimes, but, heck, it just gets tangled up all over again.”

Sam bit back a grin as she bent over to lift Whiskey’s front hoof to clean it out. Did the kid ever run out of breath?

“Anyways,” Colby went on, with a dismissing wave of her hand, “Daddy loved my mother a lot and sometimes I can tell he still misses her. Are you married?”

The question came out of nowhere and caught Sam off guard. “W-well, no,” she stammered as she dropped Whiskey’s hoof and moved to pick up his rear one.

“How come?”

Sam felt heat creep up her neck. She bent her head over her work, digging the hoof pick under a clump of dirt and stone. “I don’t know. Too busy doctoring horses, I guess.”

Colby grinned, showing off the gap where her front tooth should have been. “Maybe you could marry my daddy. He’s always telling me I need a mother.”

Whiskey’s hoof slipped from Sam’s grasp. Mother? She hauled in a steadying breath and moved to the opposite side of the horse, out of sight of Colby. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. Your daddy would probably like to do his own choosing.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t care. He usually lets me have pretty much what I want, anyway.”

And Sam didn’t doubt that for a minute. Biting back a smile, she replied, “That may be true, but your daddy needs to do the choosing, just the same.” Before Colby got any more ideas in that pretty little head of hers, Sam quickly exchanged Whiskey’s halter for a bridle. “Where do you warm him up?” she asked, hoping to put an end to the discussion.

Colby hopped down from the gate. “There’s an arena out back. Well, not an arena, really. My grandpa used it to work cattle, but it’s big and I’ve got barrels set up for practicing, so I call it an arena.”

Sam chuckled, pausing to ruffle the girl’s hair. The child talked a mile a minute, giving her life history when a simple answer would suffice. “Okay, then. Let’s head for the arena and we’ll see what Whiskey can do.”

Once outside, Sam used an old feed bucket as a step to mount the horse, while Colby climbed onto the fence. There was no way Sam’s long legs would bend enough to fit into Colby’s stirrups, so she simply let her feet dangle at the horse’s sides.

Whiskey danced a bit at the unaccustomed weight, then settled down to a walk. Making smooching noises at the horse, Sam eased him into a trot, circled the arena a few times, then ordered him to lope. The horse responded easily to each change of command. Pleased, Sam reined him to a fast stop, then made him back up a few steps.

She grinned over at Colby. “Nice horse.”

Colby beamed. “Thanks. Are you going to run the barrels?”

Though she hadn’t run a barrel pattern in years, the temptation was too much for Sam. “Do you mind?”

“Heck, no! Whiskey’s fast, though, so you better be ready to turn and burn!”

Sam laughed at the barrel-racing term as she guided the horse into position. Drawing a bead on the first barrel, Sam blanked everything else out. Beneath her, she felt the anticipation build in Whiskey. That he was a competitor was obvious in the quiver of muscle, the increased tension on the reins, the tossing of his head. Already seeing herself running the pattern, Sam squeezed her legs against the horse’s sides. He bolted forward and she had to keep a tight rein to keep him from getting away from her.

Wind ripped her cap off her head just before they reached the first barrel and sent it spinning behind them. Preparing for the turn, Sam shifted her weight, while sliding her hand down the rein and squeezing her right leg against the horse’s side.

Whiskey responded immediately, rating himself for the turn and digging into the freshly plowed earth with his rear hooves. He came out of the first turn and raced for the second. Subconsciously, Sam noted the smooth lead change, the bunching of finely honed muscles and the burst of power as he wrapped the second and headed for the third.

Grinning from the sheer pleasure of it all, she turned the last barrel and gave Whiskey his head as he raced for home. Bracing a hand against the saddle horn, she reined him to a dust-churning stop, then tossed back her head and laughed.

“Wow, Sam! You’re good!” Colby called out.

“Whiskey’s a good horse,” Sam replied, turning him toward the fence where Colby waited.

“He ought to be. I paid enough for him.”

Sam’s smile slowly wilted as she realized that Nash had joined his daughter at the fence. He stood with one foot propped on the lowest rail, his arms braced along the top one. He’d removed his jacket and tie while at the house and rolled his shirtsleeves halfway up his forearms, revealing tanned skin and a smattering of dark hair. The wind played with his razor-cut hairstyle, blowing a tuft of it across his forehead. The result was a combination of mouthwatering maleness and little-boy charm.

Maybe you could marry my daddy. He’s always telling me I need a mother.

Remembering Colby’s words, Sam swallowed hard as she met Nash’s gaze.

“You’ve obviously ridden barrels before,” he commented.

Gray eyes watched her, measuring her while he waited for a response. Self-consciously, Sam tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “I started when I was about Colby’s age and quit when—well, when I went away to college.”

“So what do you think of Whiskey?”

Uncomfortable meeting his gaze, Sam ducked her head and leaned forward to scratch the horse’s ears. “He’s a good horse. Well-trained, even-tempered, but a competitor. The bit might be part of the problem. He seems to fight it a little. A combination might suit him better.” She lifted her head. “But before I can offer an opinion on whether he’s well matched with Colby, I’ll need to see her ride.”

Colby twisted around on the fence, her hands pressed together prayerfully at her chest. “Can I, Daddy? Please? I promise I won’t fall off this time.”

Nash eyed her, scowling. “I’ve already told you, Colby. I don’t want you on that horse.”

“But Sam rode him and he didn’t act up. I promise I’ll be careful and besides, you’re right here if anything should happen. Please, Daddy? Pretty please?”

How anyone could deny those brimming baby blues, that angelic face, Sam didn’t know. The child was obviously a charmer, and knew all the right buttons to push to get what she wanted from her father. But Nash stood firm.

“I said no, Colby.”

Tears that had brimmed, now spilled over. “But, Daddy,” she cried. “We made a deal. You said if I agreed to move to Austin and leave all my friends in San Antonio, that I could have my very own horse. And now you won’t even let me ride him.”

Sam watched Nash’s shoulders sag in defeat. It seemed a little guilt heaped on his shoulders accomplished what Colby’s sugarcoated pleas couldn’t.

“Oh, all right,” he said grudgingly. “But no running.” He wagged a finger beneath her nose. “You break a slow lope and you’re on the ground, understand?”

Colby’s tears disappeared as quickly as they’d formed. “Yes, sir!” She scrambled down from the fence while Sam slid from Whiskey’s back.

Cupping her hands, Sam bent over to boost Colby up. After giving the horse a fond pat on the rump, Sam stepped back out of the way. “Let her rip, cowgirl.”

Laughing, Colby guided the horse to the starting position again. Sam folded her arms beneath her breasts and watched. She could feel Nash’s gaze on her back and tried her best to ignore him. “Remember, Colby,” she called. “Easy fingers. Use your legs. And don’t let him get ahead of you.”

With a salute, Colby fixed her attention on the first barrel. Her expression turned intense as she prepared for the run. Sam felt her own heart thrumming against her ribs and she discreetly crossed two fingers against her forearm, out of Nash’s view. “Just stay in the saddle, Colby,” she whispered under her breath. “And I’ll take care of the rest.”

Sam watched Colby ride, making mental notes of the girl’s movements as she guided the horse through the pattern. She’s leaning forward too much on the barrels, Sam thought. She needs to lean back and tuck her bottom more. And, whoa, that pocket! Way too wide. She needs to tuck his nose more and shape him on the turns.

Colby rounded the last barrel and headed home, her white-blond hair flying out behind her. A smile split her face, revealing that missing front tooth. Sam found her own smile growing. “That was good, Colby. Really good.” She caught Whiskey’s reins and reached up to give the child a pat on the knee. “You’re a natural. No doubt about it.”

Colby lifted her head, her eyes shining brightly. “Did you hear that, Daddy? Sam says I’m a natural!”

“Yeah, I heard her.”

The voice came from directly behind her and Sam’s shoulders tensed as Nash moved up beside her. She smoothed a hand along the horse’s neck, trying her best to level her breathing. “The two are well matched,” she offered hesitantly. “An adjustment or two in tack will help, but Colby needs more instruction.”

Nash stuffed his hands into pockets and rocked back on his heels, his relief obvious. “Well, that pretty much solves it then, doesn’t it?”

Sam stole a glance at him. “What do you mean?”

He lifted a shoulder. “I’ve already told you that the only classes I could find for her are forty-five minutes away and I can’t commit to that much time away from work.”

“But, Daddy—”

Sam placed a hand on Colby’s knee to quiet her. “What if someone came here to teach her?” she asked. “Would you agree to lessons then?”

Nash frowned at Sam. “And how am I supposed to find someone willing to come all the way out here to teach her when I can’t even find a place within driving distance to take her?”

Sam glanced up at Colby, shooting her a wink as she squeezed the child’s knee in encouragement. “I might know someone who’d be willing to make the drive.” She turned her gaze on Nash. “If I can arrange it, would you give Whiskey and Colby another chance?”

Sam could tell that he wanted to say no, but she also knew that she’d trapped him, and he was as aware of that fact as she was. How could he refuse now, when she was practically serving up a teacher for his daughter on a silver platter?

“And who is going to want to take the time to drive out here for a private lesson with one student?” he asked dryly.

Sam met his gaze squarely. “I am.”

Two

"You are going to give barrel-racing lessons?”

Sam hunched her shoulders defensively. “I’m qualified,” she muttered and started around her sister.

Mandy flattened a hand against Sam’s chest, stopping her, then leveled a finger at Sam’s boots. Grumbling, Sam backed up a couple of steps, hooked a heel in the bootjack by the back door and levered off first one boot then the other.

Satisfied, Mandy stepped aside and went back to the sink where she was peeling potatoes for their dinner. “Yes, you’re qualified, but you also have a veterinary practice that keeps you running from one end of the county to the other. How on earth will you ever find time?”

Sam padded across the kitchen to the refrigerator. “I’ll make time. If I don’t, her daddy’ll have her horse put down.”

Mandy whirled, her eyes wide. “He wouldn’t!”

“That’s what he said.” Sam one-hipped the door closed and carried the jug of milk to the counter. “The horse threw her. Or so he says. Colby insists she just fell off.” Grabbing a glass, Sam filled it with milk, then reached for a brownie from the pan cooling on a rack.

Mandy slapped her hand away. “You’ll ruin your dinner.”

Sam had to smile. Though they were only separated by a year in age, at times Mandy acted more like a mother to Sam than a big sister, and even more so since Mandy had married. “Don’t worry. I promise I’ll clean my plate.” She snatched a brownie before Mandy could stop her and took a healthy bite, ignoring Mandy’s disapproving frown. “Anyway,” she continued around a mouthful of the gooey chocolate, “I have two months to prove to him that his daughter can handle the horse, or else the horse goes.”

“Who is this guy? Simon Legree?”

Though Sam was tempted to agree with her sister’s assessment of Nash Rivers, she had to be honest. “No, just an overprotective father. His name’s Nash Rivers. Ever heard of him?”

Mandy paused in her peeling as she stared out the window, running the name through her mind. She lifted a shoulder and went back to her peeling. “No, but then if he’s new to the area, I probably wouldn’t.”

Sam turned her back to the counter, leaned against it and took a sip of her milk. “They moved here about a year ago from San Antonio. Nash inherited his father’s ranch, but plans to divide up the land and sell it.”

Mandy nodded sympathetically. “That’s happening more and more often. People are having a hard time making a living at ranching.”

“Judging by the looks of the place, I’d say he didn’t even give it a try. It’s going to break the kid’s heart when she has to move.”

Mandy turned her head slowly to peer at Sam. “You sure seem to know a lot about these people.”

Sam snorted a laugh. “Thanks to Colby. The kid could talk the hair off a dog.” She shook her head, remembering. “She even suggested that I marry her daddy so that she could have a mother.”

Mandy chuckled, then sobered when Sam narrowed an eye at her. “Sony,” she murmured. “I just had this mental image of you changing diapers.”

“I can change diapers,” Sam replied indignantly. “I certainly changed enough of my nephew’s to prove that. But thankfully, Colby’s long out of the diaper stage.”

“How old is she?”

“Six, going on sixteen.”

Mandy chuckled, dropping the last potato into the pot. “Interesting assessment.”

Sam blew out a breath. “You wouldn’t believe this kid. She can carry on a conversation like an adult, yet throw a tantrum that would rival that of a two-year-old.”

“And you willingly volunteered to spend time with her?”

Sam frowned. “Yeah.” She turned, propping her forearms on the counter, and stared out the window, holding the glass between her hands. “She kind of reminds me a little bit of myself at that age. She’s a tomboy and crazy about her horse. You wouldn’t believe how she lit in to me when she heard her daddy order me to put him down.” Sam chuckled as the image built. “Took all my strength to hold her back. And she lost her mother before she even had a chance to get to know her, just like we did.” She stared a moment longer, than gave herself a firm shake. “Not that I intend to serve as a surrogate mother, mind you. I’m just going to help her improve her riding skills so her daddy will agree to let her keep her horse.”

Mandy watched Sam, her instincts going on red alert. “What about her dad? What’s he like?”

“Nash?” Sam snorted. “He’s a suit.”

At Mandy’s quizzical look, Sam pushed away from the counter to pace. “You know the type. Brooks Brothers suit, Italian silk tie, Rolex watch, Mercedes. And all business. I bet he even schedules trips to the rest room on his day planner.”

Mandy lifted a brow. She’d never known Sam to get this worked up over a man. “Is he handsome?”

“If you like pretty boys. Merideth would love him,” she added, using their younger sister’s taste in men as a reference point for Mandy.

“So he is handsome.”

An image formed in Sam’s mind of Nash standing at the fence, the wind lifting his carefully combed hair then dropping it carelessly down on his forehead. Sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing muscled forearms dusted with dark hair. Carved cheekbones, a stubborn jaw. Gray eyes leveled on her, eyes that seemed capable of stripping her down to her most vulnerable core.

A shiver chased along her spine.

“Yeah, I guess,” she replied vaguely, dumping the rest of her milk down the drain, her appetite suddenly gone. “I really didn’t pay that much attention.”

Three days later, Sam was in the barn at Rivers Ranch, saddling Whiskey in preparation for her first lesson with Colby, when she heard a car door slam in the yard. She lifted her head, turning slightly, and bit back an oath when Nash stepped inside the barn. Wearing a navy blazer and khaki pants, he looked as out of place as he had the first time she’d seen him.

“Where’s Colby?” he asked.

“In the house, changing clothes.”

He glanced at his watch, frowning. “So when do we start?”

“We?” Sam repeated, arching a brow his way as he strode down the alleyway toward her.

His frown deepened. “Yes, we. I intend to be present at every lesson.”

“Great,” Sam muttered under her breath. She stooped and caught the rear girt, buckling it into place.

He stopped and braced his hands on his hips. “We didn’t discuss the details of this arrangement, so I think we need to do so now. How much are you charging for these lessons?”

“Nothing. I’m doing this for Colby.”

His eyes widened then narrowed. “Colby isn’t a charity case. I paid her last teacher forty dollars an hour. I’ll pay you the same, plus an additional ten dollars for the trip out.”

“Keep your money. I don’t want it or need it. Like I said, I’m doing this for Colby.” She stooped and picked up Whiskey’s hoof. “Who’s your farrier?”

“Cletus Boggs. Now, about your fee—”

“Better call him. This rear shoe is loose. And tell Cletus to use shoes with rims for the front hooves. It’ll help give Whiskey more traction on the turns.”

“Fine. And I’m paying you, whether you like it or not.”

Sam dropped the hoof and picked up a currycomb, taking out her frustrations with Nash on the burrs matted in the horse’s tail. “Your money would be better spent on repairing Whiskey’s stall. There are some loose boards he could injure himself on. And you need a new load of shavings for the floor.”

“Is that an order or a suggestion?”

The challenge in his voice had Sam cocking her head to look at him. Seeing the hostility in his gray eyes, she tightened her fingers on the comb. “Take it however you want, but the horse deserves the best care you can give him.”

“Hi, Daddy!”

Sam and Nash both turned at the sound of Colby’s voice. Nash’s frown disappeared as Colby skipped down the alleyway toward them. “Hey, sunshine!” He held out his arms and she ran the last few steps and vaulted into them.

Planting a kiss on his cheek, she curled an arm around his neck and reared back to look at him. “Are you going to watch me ride?”

“Yep. Are you ready?”

Colby’s mouth puckered into a pout. “I’ve been ready for hours, but Sam made me go back to the house and put on jeans.”

Nash shot Sam a questioning glance. She lifted a shoulder as she dropped Whiskey’s tail, then tossed the currycomb back in the bucket. “She had on shorts. I was afraid the saddle would rub sores on her legs.”

Nash turned his gaze on his daughter. “Sam’s the boss. What she says goes.”

He couldn’t have said anything that would have surprised Sam more. From the moment he’d announced his intention of being present at the lessons, she’d prepared herself to have to fight him at every turn. Not trusting this unexpected display of support, she eyed him warily. “We’re burning daylight,” she mumbled. “Let’s get started.”

Nash swung Colby onto the saddle, then untied the reins and led the horse out into the arena. Sam followed, pulling her cap lower on her forehead to shade her eyes from the bright sunlight.

“Okay, Colby, let’s warm him up,” she instructed, anxious to get the lesson underway. “Circle the arena a couple of times at a walk, then have him trot. And I want to see you use your body to give him the change of command. Understand?”

Colby beamed at Sam as she took the reins from Nash. “Yes, ma’am.”

Sam positioned herself in the middle of the arena, placing herself as far from Nash as possible, while still being able to keep an eye on Colby. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him at the fence, shrugging out of his jacket. As he leaned to hook it on a fence post, the stretch of starched white cotton across his back revealed muscles that Sam would have preferred not to have noticed. But she did notice and, as hard as she tried, she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away. With his back still to her, he cocked a hip slightly, then lifted a hand and unbuttoned a cuff. He carefully folded the sleeve back two turns, then lifted the opposite hand and started on the other. As each turn revealed another three inches of bare skin, Sam’s mouth grew dryer and dryer until it was as parched as the ground beneath her feet.

Ignore him, she told herself, and turned away. Determined to do just that, she folded her arms beneath her breasts and focused on Colby. “Okay, move him up to a trot,” she called out.

Colby leaned forward, lifting the reins, and repeated the voice command. Sam nodded her approval, turning slowly in a tight circle as she monitored Colby’s movements around the arena...and nearly jumped out of her skin when she made a complete circle and Nash’s chest filled her field of vision, inches from her face and blocking her view of Colby. Unaware that he’d even moved, she cried, “What are you doing?”

He lowered his gaze to hers, one brow arched higher than the other, then glanced back over her head toward his daughter. “Watching.”

Sam huffed a breath and took a step back, stuffing her hands into her back pockets. “Watch somewhere else. You’re in my way.”

“It’s a big arena. I’d think there’s ample room for two adults to watch without any trouble.”

“Fine,” she snarled. “You can stay here. I’m moving.” She stalked off, headed for the far end of the arena...and could’ve sworn she heard Nash chuckle. The idea that he would laugh at her made her that much more angry. “Okay, Colby,” she said irritably, “lope.”

Whiskey responded immediately, charging forward. “Slow him down,” Sam yelled. “This is a lope, not a race.”

Colby dutifully obeyed, giving the reins a sharp tug, and Whiskey settled into a slow lope. Sam nodded her approval as she hitched a boot on a rail behind her. She tucked her fingers into her front pockets and settled her shoulders against the fence. Nash stood where she’d left him, his hands braced on his hips, his dress shirt a shocking white compared to the faded barn behind him. A little too white, Sam decided. A slow, devious smile chipped at one corner of her mouth.

“Take him to the middle, Colby,” she ordered, “and give me a fast stop.”

Dust churned as Colby swung Whiskey around, then rose into a cloud when the horse slid to a stop on his haunches inches from where Nash stood.

Choking on dust and fanning the air in front of his face, Nash sputtered, “Dam it, Colby! Didn’t you see me standing here?”

Colby’s chin quivered. “I was just doing what Sam told me to do. You did say that she was the boss.”

Nash turned to glare at Sam, and though she tried her best not to smile, she failed miserably. Serves him right, she told herself, for being so dam stubborn.

Brushing at the dust on his shirtfront, Nash shifted his gaze back to Colby. “Well, next time, look where you’re going.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

He heaved a deep breath, then lifted a hand to pat her knee. “That’s okay, sweetheart. I know you didn’t do it on purpose.”

Enjoying herself immensely, Sam shouted, “That was a good stop, Colby. Now let’s see some figure eights. Trot him once through the pattern so you can show him what you want him to do, then lope. Remember to keep his nose tucked to the center and use your legs to keep him shaped.”

Sam smothered a laugh as she watched Nash jump out of the way, then hustle to the side of the arena as Colby followed Sam’s directions.

After a series of seven or more figure eights, Sam instructed Colby to walk Whiskey a couple of laps to cool him off while she set up the barrels. Crossing to the third barrel she tipped it over and rolled it into place. The barrel was old and rusted from years of exposure. As she righted it, she caught a glimpse of Nash watching her, frowning... and another idea occurred to her. “How about you set the first one,” she called to him.

Still frowning, Nash gave the barrel closest to him a nudge with his shoe and sent it toppling over. Leaning over, he gave it a shove, rolling it into position, then caught the top rim and levered it upright. Opening his hands, he stared down at the rust and dirt that covered them. He twisted left and right, searching for something to wipe them on.

“What’s the matter, Nash?” Sam mocked. “Haven’t you ever gotten your hands dirty before?”

He turned to scowl at her, then plucked a white handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped furiously at his hands. Sam tossed back her head and laughed as she headed for the remaining barrel. Whistling happily, she turned it over, gave it a push with her boot and sent it rolling.

Nash watched her, his eyes narrowing. Damn woman! She was trying to make a fool of him, he was sure. “Well, two can play at this game,” he muttered under his breath. While Sam was still perched like a pelican, ready to give the barrel another shove, Nash stole up behind her, hooked a foot around the boot that was planted on the ground and gave a sharp tug. Sam yelped, beating wildly at the air in an attempt to regain her balance, but ended up facedown on the ground. She came up spitting dirt, her hands doubled into fists at her sides as she whirled to face Nash.

He smiled sweetly. “What’s the matter, Sam? Haven’t you ever gotten your hands dirty before?”

“You overgrown juvenile delinquent!” she muttered through clenched teeth.

“Me?” he asked innocently, touching the pad of a finger to his chest. “Isn’t that a little like the pot calling the kettle black?” He stepped closer and thumbed a speck of dirt from her face, then left his hand there to cup her cheek. His lips quirked in a teasing smile. “You know, you’re kind of cute when you’re mad.”

Sam felt the blood drain from her face as the pad of each finger, the swell of flesh at the base of his thumb burned into her cheek. Though she expected the familiar panic to set in, she was aware of nothing but the gentleness of his fingers, their underlying strength, and the clear gray eyes that smiled down at her. Heat burned through her and lit a fiery path all the way to her lower abdomen where it settled into a burning pool of fire. The sensation was a rare one for Sam and so unexpected she didn’t know what to do with it. Falling back on her anger, she hauled off and took a swing at him.

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