The sun had started to come up, and a warm light was radiating through the barn

“Funny,” Clint said softly. “I could have sworn you wanted me to kiss you earlier.”

Samantha lifted her chin.

Back off, he told himself. But he couldn’t stop. She was like a newborn foal—skittish and standoffish, but something he was tempted to tame.

“You wanted to kiss me,” she corrected.

“You know,” he said, giving in to the urge to touch her, his fingers making contact with the side of her neck, “I think you’re right.”

He just meant to give her a little peck on the lips. But the moment he tasted her, the moment his lips made contact with her own, he was lost.

Dear Reader,

I’ve always been horse crazy. When I was a little girl I would beg my parents every year to buy me a horse for Christmas. I think they hoped my fascination with all things equine would eventually go away because they ignored my requests until I was thirteen years old. They probably grew tired of listening to my pleas because they eventually gave in.

Guess what? Thirty years later, I’m still just as nuts about my four-legged friends as I was when I was a child. So when someone suggested I write a romance novel about the animals I love I felt like a complete doofus. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

The result of that suggestion, The Wrangler, was a labor of love. It was truly a joy to write about the animals that mean so much to me. I can honestly say that the soft nicker of a horse has lifted my spirits more times than I can count. My own American quarter horse, Bippity Boppin’ Along (aka Bippy) has gotten me through some of the toughest times of my life.

I hope you enjoy The Wrangler. Whether you’re a horse lover or not, it’s my sincerest wish to always…always bring you tales that make you laugh and cry.

Pamela Britton

P.S. If you’re interested in reading more about me or my horses, please visit my Web site at www.pamelabritton.com.

The Wrangler
Pamela Britton

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

With over a million books in print, Pamela Britton likes to call herself the best-known author nobody’s ever heard of. Of course, that’s begun to change thanks to a certain licensing agreement with that little racing organization known as NASCAR. Nowadays it’s not unusual to hear her books being discussed by the likes of Jay Leno, Keith Olbermann or Stephen Colbert. Flip open a magazine and you might read about her, too, in Sports Illustrated, Entertainment Weekly or Southwest Airlines’ Spirit Magazine. Channel surf and you might see her on The Today Show, Nightline or World News.

But before the glitz and glamour of NASCAR, Pamela wrote books that were frequently voted the best of the best by the Detroit Free Press, Barnes & Noble (two years in a row) and RT Book Reviews magazine. She’s won numerous writing awards, including the National Readers’ Choice, and has been nominated for Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart.

When not following the race circuit, Pamela writes full-time from her ranch in northern California, where she lives with her husband, daughter and, at last count, twenty-one four-legged friends.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter One

He was six-foot-one of rock-hard muscle. Every last inch of him one hundred percent, prime-cut cowboy.

And he caused Samantha Davies to slam on the brakes.

Clinton McAlister, she thought, lifting her foot and slowly edging over to the side of the road. It had to be.

He pounded a metal post into the ground to her right, oblivious to her arrival at the Baer Mountain Ranch. She’d been told what he looked like by a couple of the local townspeople, right down to the distinctive brown and white feather tucked into the cowboy hat he wore. What she hadn’t expected, no, what no verbal description could ever convey, was the sheer size of him. The way his sleeveless white shirt clung to his sweat-stained body. How his muscular arms glistened beneath a noonday sun.

“My, my, my,” she murmured.

Okay. Get a grip.

She wasn’t here to ogle him. She had a business proposition for Mr. McAlister, and there was no time like the present.

She checked her rearview mirror. No one behind her. Not that she’d expected anyone this far from civilization. She was on a private gravel road, with nothing but acres and acres of Montana grassland stretching to the left and right. Straight ahead, the Big Belt Mountain range stood, snow covering the tops of them like icing on a cake. They seemed to be far off in the distance, but she knew the Baer family owned land right up into those mountains. The sheer scope of their property took her breath away.

Even from inside her road-weary car she could hear the clink-clink-clink of metal-on-metal. It must have masked the sound of her approach because the cowboy still hadn’t turned.

She shut off her car, thought for a second about honking, then nixed the idea. Better to greet him personally.

A stiff breeze all but slapped her in the face the instant she stepped out of the car’s warm interior. There was a thunderstorm off to her left. Though her vision wasn’t what it used to be, she’d been able to follow its progress as she’d driven. The wind was pressing Mr. McAlister’s buttoned-down shirt against his back, and tugging at her own short brown strands.

“Hello,” she called out.

He still didn’t hear her. The breeze had snatched her words away. That same wind almost caught Mr. McAlister’s hat. He reached for it quickly, and had to turn toward her, dipping his head into the wind to stop it from blowing away.

He caught sight of her.

“Hi,” she said, waving.

He didn’t answer. But that was okay. Sam was incapable of speech, anyway. His shirt was open in the front. And that chest…

Oh, my.

Six perfectly symmetrical muscles bulged, the upper portion covered by a light dusting of hair. But even more startling were his eyes. Luminous, they were. Blue. But so light in color, they almost seemed to glow. Those eyes narrowed in on her.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said.

His blond eyebrows drew together in what could only be called a frown. Obviously, he hadn’t been expecting company. Not surprising given they were at least thirty miles from Williams, Montana—and at least two miles from his home—if her navigation system was correct. She must have been a sight standing there in her fancy floral skirt, white blouse and sensible shoes.

She should have worn jeans.

“Can I help you?” he called out at last. She hadn’t gone blind just yet—not officially, at least—but she didn’t need eyes to know he was not happy to see her. Why? she wondered.

“Do you always treat your fence posts like that?” she asked, trying to coax a smile out of him. “Or was it something it said?”

He glanced at the dark green rod he’d been pounding into the ground. On either side of it strands of barbwire hung like Christmas tinsel, glinting in the sun.

“Someone ran into the old one,” he said, nodding toward an L-shaped post on the ground. “Needs to be replaced before our cattle get loose.”

He delivered the words in a monotone. No hint of emotion. Not even a tiny twinkle in his eyes.

“Does that happen often?” she asked with a grin of her own. “Cows making a run for the hills?”

He tipped his hat back, wiped his forehead with his arm while he scanned her blue rental car. He wore gloves, she noticed, the beige leather palms worn smooth like black patent leather.

“More often than you might think,” he said.

“Oh, yeah?” she asked. “Then it must be true.”

He stared at her. “What must be true?”

“That the grass is always greener on the other side.” She amped up the volume of her smile. “Or taller, as the case may be.”

“If you’ve lost your way,” he said after a long moment, “the main road is back the other direction.” He lifted the metal pole he’d been using to pound the post into the ground.

“Actually,” she persisted, making her way around the front of her car, “I’m here to see you.”

He straightened again.

“At least, I think I’m here to see you.” Her rubber soles crunched, eating up the rocks, with every step she took. “You are Clinton McAlister, aren’t you?”

But she knew he was and if she thought he’d appeared irritated before, it was nothing compared to the glance he shot her now. “Look, lady. Whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buying. So you can just turn that car right around. I’m not interested.”

“I’m not selling anything.”

His eyebrows lifted. “No?”

This was the man who’d graduated from University of California Davis magna cum laude, who had a degree in veterinary medicine? Who used words like ain’t and lady…like some kind of cartoon cowboy?

She’d been told what to expect. Sort of. Because what people had failed to tell her was how incredibly handsome he was. Sam was tall, well above average height, and so she wasn’t used to men who stood a full head taller than herself. And he was fit. She’d always been attracted to men with wide shoulders, but Clinton McAlister looked more like a member of a rowing team than a cowboy.

The storm in the distance let out a rumble, one that sounded close by. They both turned. Rain hung in streamers from the bottom of a nearby cloud, the top so bibulous it resembled some sort of gigantic tick. Samantha began to wonder if they shouldn’t seek cover.

“I’m here to talk to you about the Baer Mountain Mustangs,” she said, over the fading sound of thunder.

That got his attention. She could see his pupils flare with something, although what exactly that emotion was she couldn’t tell.

“Don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” he said, turning back to his task.

She rushed forward. “Mr. McAlister, wait,” she said. “I know you’re thinking I’ll just go away if you deny it, but I won’t. I’m not like the people who wrote books and articles on your horses. The ones you managed to send away without confirming that the Baer Mountain Mustangs live on your property. But I know they’re here—the herd of horses whose roots trace back to the Native Americans who settled this land. I’ve heard firsthand from one of your former wranglers.”

There was an embankment to the right of the road, one whose steep slope was camouflaged by thick grass. Unfortunately, with her narrowing field of vision, she neglected to calculate just how sharp an incline it was. She went careening toward him like a wind-driven beach ball, very nearly skidding into him. The only reason she didn’t was because he reached out and stopped her. Samantha gasped.

He was sweaty. His body was hard. He smelled like leather and sage.

And she was very, very attracted to him.

“Lady, get in your car and drive back to town. I don’t know nothing about Baer Mountain Mustangs and that storm’s coming fast. Road’ll be washed out if you don’t hurry.”

She finally caught her breath, stepped back from him. “Sorry,” she said, dusting off her lap—though she hadn’t gotten her skirt dirty. “About almost knocking you over, but I’m not going anywhere. Not until I see them.”

He was back to glaring at her again and Samantha couldn’t help staring at his eyes. They were the most remarkable color she’d ever seen and it was all she could do not to lean in and examine them closer. So blue. So light. So…pure.

“You’re wasting your time,” he said, turning away from her.

She was almost relieved that he’d broken eye contact. “Wasting my time how?” she asked. “In getting you to admit they exist?”

He picked up the metal tool again—he’d dropped it to stop her awkward descent—and she noticed then that it was a large pipe that was capped off at one end. He fit it over the top of the fence post and then, with a bunching of muscles, he lifted, shoving the pipe down hard.

Bam.

“Ouch,” she cried, plugging her ears. It was like being inside a bell.

Clinton McAlister didn’t appear to notice.

She moved away from him. Her peripheral vision might be fading fast, but a sudden darkening of the ground around them told her that the thunderstorm was almost on top of them—just as he’d predicted.

Bam.

“Mr. McAlister,” she said during a break in sound, “I know that, somehow, the Baer family has managed to hide the mustangs all these years.” She covered her ears again just in time to avoid the next bang. “And I know you’re the man in charge of the secret herd.”

He faced her. Sam let loose a sigh of relief. “Time for you to go,” was all he said. He pointed behind her.

Sam turned. The thunderstorm. It was close enough that she could smell rain in the air.

“If I were you, I’d get under cover fast,” he said, reaching in his pocket. He pulled out a metallic rod of some sort. Sam watched as he made quick work of attaching the loose wire to the metal post.

“Just how’d you get out here, anyway?” she asked.

The smile he gave her could only be called smug. He whistled.

Almost instantly she heard the sound of hooves, and if there was one thing she knew, it was horseflesh. The animal that cantered toward her was one of the most beautiful dappled grays she’d ever seen. Black mane and tail, black legs, and a pair of eyes nearly as luminous as his owner’s.

A Baer Mountain Mustang. She would bet her life on it.

The gelding—or was it a stallion?—came to a sliding stop practically right next to them, Clinton shooting her a glance—as if curious to see if she’d move out of the way. She didn’t. She’d been around the four-legged creatures long enough to know she had nothing to fear.

But she’d never seen anything like this one that was pawing the ground. He almost resembled an Andalusian, except he had the head of a cow pony, and those eyes…

“Is his name Trigger?” she asked as he tapped the ground with his right hoof.

“No, Buttercup.”

Buttercup. Right. Only in the movies did horses come to their master’s call. And even then they only did so because some poor sod was behind the cameras with a bucket of grain. Clinton had no such bucket. He calmly walked up to his mount, slipped the metal pipe he’d used to repair the fence into a leather sheath, then mounted up.

“Where are you going?”

Just then it started to rain, not tiny droplets of water, either, but fat globules that soaked her blouse almost instantly.

“That lightning cloud will be overhead before you know it. Best I get my horse under cover.” He tipped his hat at her. “Pleasure meeting you, ma’am.”

And then Clinton McAlister rode off, not into the sunset, but into the torrential downpour of a thunderstorm.

Chapter Two

When it rained in Montana, it rained, Clinton thought, keeping to a slow trot. Of course, he’d been born and raised in this country and so that came as no surprise.

But it might to the woman he’d left by the roadside. He found himself glancing back, the pool that had already gathered on the brim of his hat streaming in rivulets onto his shirt. Should have brought a jacket. But his soaked clothes didn’t prevent him from pulling back on the reins for an instant. His horse obediently halted. He turned his horse’s head just in time to hear her car door pop open. She disappeared from view.

At least one of them would stay dry.

I know about the mustangs.

Well, he thought, good for her. Knowing about the mustangs and being able to confirm their existence were two different things. Sure, there were those who’d come to the ranch in the hopes of seeing them. Amongst horse enthusiasts the Baer Mountain Mustangs were an urban legend. But the truth was, they weren’t truly wild. The Baer family had kept them contained—and more or less hidden—for nearly two hundred years. Still, word had leaked out. People begged to see them or to help protect them or to film them…. He’d lost count of how many had come before her. And no matter who they might be or how much money they might offer him, he refused to confirm the urban legend was true. That was all he needed: a bunch of horse enthusiasts knocking on his door.

“Come on,” he told Buttercup—yes, Buttercup—a private joke between him and his grandmother. “Let’s head back to the ranch before we get washed down a canyon.”

The gray gelding obediently moved into a canter, the gait as smooth as a carousel horse, or so his niece assured him. He never bothered to pull his horse’s mane short and it flicked his hand with each tug of the horse’s legs. It might be colder than the lair of a snake, but he loved riding in the rain. Thunder boomed overhead. Electricity charged the air and Clint found himself on the verge of a smile.

“Easy there,” he told his horse who flicked its head up in response to the steady rumble. “We’ll be back at the ranch in a minute.”

There was a small rise straight ahead, and beyond that, another one. But he paused at the top of the first hill, and despite telling himself not to, he headed back to the road. Through streamers of rain, he could see the fuzzy outline of taillights.

She was going toward the ranch.

“Crap,” he muttered. He watched for a second longer, waiting to see if she made a U-turn. She didn’t. After a minute or two, she disappeared over another hill.

Now what? Did he go back to the house? Sure as certain, she’d be there, bugging him, asking about his herd of horses. Blah, blah, blah….

He just about rode in the other direction.

Instead he spurred his horse into a faster canter. If he hurried, he’d beat her back.

The ranch was surrounded by rolling hills and as he came down a softly sloping incline, he could just make out her car’s headlights. It still rained, and by now, he was soaked to the bone, but it didn’t bother him. What bothered him was the woman who hadn’t taken “no” for an answer.

“Careful,” he told Buttercup as his horse’s front hooves lost purchase on the slick ground. They slid for a bit, leaving twin furrows in the soggy ground.

In the valley below, if one wanted to label it a valley because it was really more of a shallow bowl, sat the Baer Mountain Ranch. Two hundred years before, the main home had been nothing more than a one-room shack. Over the past hundred years, that’d changed. The home had morphed from a single room into a more conventional two-story ranch house. Nothing ostentatious—that wasn’t the Baer family way—but it was a good-sized property, surrounded by various outbuildings. A three-story, three-sided metal hay barn stood off in the distance. Another metal shed that stored various farm equipment sat alongside it. A larger wooden structure that was a two-story horse stable was left of the house. Behind the barn, near the back pasture they’d carved a pad for an arena that was ringed by two-inch pipes. Various corrals attached to the side of it accommodated still more horses as well as cattle. It was, to outsiders, a normal ranch. And for the most part, that’s exactly what it was. But the rest of it—the horses in the rugged mountains to the east—that was something he’d never talk about.

Not even to a good-looking, sweet-eyed interloper.

A horse out in pasture neighed as he approached the twelve-stall barn, Clint thinking absently that he and a few of the guys would need to buck some hay into the second-story loft pretty soon. Maybe he could get started on that task right now. That way, he could avoid the pretty little brunette pulling into the circular driveway. Point of fact, she’d arrived ahead of him, and, since he didn’t see her in her car, he assumed Gigi had let her in.

Terrific, he thought, hopping off and tugging the reins over his horse’s head right as another clap of thunder rang out. That meant he’d be forced to be nice to her. Although maybe not. Maybe she’d be gone by the time he untacked. Gigi could be a real pit bull if she didn’t like someone.

The rain came down harder, hitting the tin roof of the barn like a million shards of glass. He took his time even though he’d started to grow cold in his soaked-to-the-bone shirt. The double doors to the barn afforded him a partial view of the front of the house. Nobody drove away.

“Damn,” he muttered, unclipping his horse from the cross-ties when the cold became too much to bear. “Don’t get comfortable in there,” he told Buttercup as he let him loose in his stall. “I’ll be back out when this rain stops.”

She wasn’t gone.

He saw her car the instant he stepped out of the barn. To be honest, that kind of stunned him. They didn’t usually get many visitors in these parts, and when they did, Gigi usually sent them on their way damn quickly—especially if they were asking about the mustangs. For a second or two he hung back. The white window trim around the two-story home had turned gray from the rain. The yellow daisies Gigi loved and that she’d planted along the front porch were bowing their heads in protest. Clint stared at the front door as if expecting it to open at any moment. It didn’t.

“Double damn.” Guess he was stuck.

“Well, now,” a familiar voice cried the second he entered. He could smell brownies in the air, and that nearly brought him up short.

Gigi made brownies for treasured friends, for family and for important guests. None of which described their visitor. Then again, maybe Gigi had put them in the oven before the woman arrived.

“Clinton McAlister, what the devil’s taken you so long out in that barn?”

“Horse’s wet,” he said, refusing to glance left in the direction of the family room. “Waited until he was dry.”

He was certain his grandmother had her sitting on the floral-print couch beneath the front window. And he was certain they were both drinking tea, steam rising from a cup on the oak coffee table in front of them. He could smell the lemon from here. He hung his hat on a hook to the right. Water poured off the brim and landed on the hardwood floor.

“You better clean that up,” his grandmother said, obviously spying the puddle.

“I know, I know…” he muttered, his spurs hitting the wood and emitting a chink-chink-chink as he walked toward the kitchen—and he still didn’t shift his gaze in their guest’s direction. He didn’t want to. Peering into her attractive face affected him in a way that it probably shouldn’t do given that they’d been strangers up until an hour ago.

“Come meet Samantha Davies.”

“Already did,” he said.

“Clinton!” his grandmother cried.

He about skidded to a stop.

“You sit down and be nice,” Gigi ordered, and sure enough, she had her on the couch, one of his grandmother’s hands patting the seat cushion to the right of her. Their “guest” sat to her left.

And finally, reluctantly, he looked that woman in the eye. She was even prettier up close. Olive-colored skin. Brown hair that was short, but that flattered her high cheekbones and heart-shaped face. And eyes as green as springtime prairie grass.

“Gigi,” he said to his grandmother, using the name he’d been calling her since he was three because he’d been unable to pronounce the words “Grandma Eugenia”; it’d all come out sounding like Gigigigi…and the name had stuck. “I need to go upstairs and change.”

“Not before you shake hands,” she said.

Fine, he told his grandmother with his eyes, the rowels of his spurs suddenly muffled when his muddy feet hit the area rug. She’d kill him later when she saw the brown spots.

“Clinton McAlister,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Clint is my—”

“Ranch manager,” he interrupted Gigi before she could say “grandson,” which caused Gigi to draw back. For some reason, he didn’t want this woman knowing who he was, although he wondered if she hadn’t guessed already. This was a small town and people talked. Fact is, he owned the Baer Mountain Ranch. His grandmother had deeded it over to him a few years ago.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, keeping their eye contact to a minimum.

Damn, but she was beautiful.

And warm. Her fingers were soft, her flesh so hot he nearly hissed.

“Clinton is actually—”

“Really cold,” he interrupted his grandmother again, reluctantly releasing her hand. “As you can tell.”

“Clinton,” Gigi said, “whatever is the matter with you?”

If he admitted he was the owner of the Baer Mountain Ranch, he might be obligated to sit down and speak to this stranger—and that he didn’t want to do. He had a feeling spending time with her would be…troublesome.

“I’m freezing, Gigi,” he said. And then with his eyes he pleaded, just humor me, would you?

His grandmother might be pushing seventy, but she was no fool. She could smell something in the air…and it wasn’t just brownies.

“Fine,” she said. “Off with you. Go change.” She waved her hands. “You smell like horse.”

“Actually,” their guest said before he could turn away, “I like the smell of horse.”

Clint had no idea why the words sent a stab of warmth right through his gut. All she’d done was admit to something he understood—he liked the smell of horse, too. But hearing her softly feminine voice say the words like and smell in a sentence in connection to him, well, it made him think about stuff that he probably shouldn’t, especially given that she’d been talking about horses.

“Well, I smell like wet horse,” he said, more sternly than he meant to.

He caught his grandmother’s gaze. She was leaning back now, her gray eyebrows lifted, and it was obvious she was trying not to smile.

“I’ll be upstairs,” he grumbled, turning.

“You’ll go upstairs and change and then come right back downstairs,” Gigi said.

“Gigi, I have work to do.”

“That work can wait. It’s still pouring outside.”

It was, though it’d probably pass quickly. Storms this time of year always did.

“Go on,” Gigi ordered, waving her hands again. “Mr. Ranch Foreman,” she tacked on.

“Fine,” he snapped.

Chapter Three

Samantha watched him go. Frankly, she was unable to tear her eyes away from him. The rain had turned his white shirt damn near transparent, and though her eyesight was failing, she could still make out every sinewy cord of muscle that rippled down his back.

“He’s a real handful, that one,” Eugenia Baer proclaimed.

Sam faced the woman she’d traveled two thousand miles to see. She hadn’t expected to meet her. Everyone she’d ever talked to about Mrs. Baer had painted her a recluse. Although to be honest, the entire family was something of an enigma. If she’d had money to spare she could have hired a P.I. Instead she’d been forced to research on the Internet. Eugenia Baer appeared to be the last living descendant of William Baer, the man who’d founded the ranch.

“I don’t think he wants me here,” Samantha said, running her fingers through her brown hair, but there was hardly any hair there. She hadn’t gotten used to having it all buzzed off in the hospital.

“Nonsense, dear. He’s just wet and cold and miserable.”

He wasn’t wet and cold and miserable when they’d first met. Frankly, he’d been hard and sweaty and hot…

Sam!

At some point in the future she would have no idea if a man was good-looking or not. She better enjoy it while she could.

“Has he worked for you long?” Sam asked, hearing footsteps above her head. It was a weird question to ask given that she suspected Clinton had worked for the ranch his entire life. He was this woman’s grandson. But Sam wasn’t thinking clearly. Up there, somewhere on the second floor, a man was stripping out of his clothes.

She swallowed, forced herself to meet Eugenia’s eyes.

“Who, Clinton?” she asked, looking uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Well, uh. Yes. I guess you could say he has worked for me a long time. Practically his whole life.”

There was something about the way the woman said the words that alerted Sam to the fact that Eugena Baer thought Sam was clueless about Clinton’s true identity. Interesting.

“Does he help with the Baer Mountain Mustangs?” she boldly asked, hoping to startle a confession. She had broached the subject of the horses just before Clint had walked in and she’d yet to discover if Mrs. Baer would admit to the wild herd.

“Um, yeah,” Eugenia said, bending forward and grabbing her cup of tea off the table, “about those mustangs.”

And here it was, Sam thought. This was when Eugenia Baer would deny the Baer Mountain Mustangs were still alive. Although to be honest, Sam felt fortunate to have gotten this far. Telling Eugenia she’d driven two thousand miles because the dream of seeing the horses had been the one thing to help her through the loss of her mom and dad had touched the rancher. As it happened she, too, had suffered a loss: her son-in-law and daughter had passed away a few years back.

“I’ve heard the rumors about them, of course,” Eugenia said now. “Most people in these parts have.” She held a porcelain cup with tiny violets painted on the side and it somehow suited the woman whose gray hair and ivory skin appeared almost too delicate to belong to a rancher. “But whatever makes you think these mustangs even exist?”

And Samantha caught her breath. Not the brush-off she’d expected.

“My mother,” she said.

“Your mother?” the woman asked.

Sam nodded. “Before she died, when I was a child, she would tell me bedtime stories about them.”

Eugenia raised her eyebrows.

“My grandmother lived outside of Billings.”

“I see,” Eugenia said.

Sam almost added more, but how could she explain to this stranger how important this was to her? Horses has always been such a huge part of her life. Before her mom and dad had died, she’d shown on the American quarter horse circuit, coming close to winning a world title or two, despite her parents’ limited budget. They’d supported her riding into adulthood—if not financially, then emotionally—and then the accident had brought her whole world crashing down. Now, here she was, on the Baer Mountain Ranch, determined to do something she and her mom had always pledged to do together. Track down those horses. Sure it was a long way to drive in the hopes of convincing someone to help her dream come true, but she was determined to try.

“Look, dear,” Eugenia said, taking a sip of her tea before setting her cup back down with a near-silent clink. “I can’t tell you how many people have come to our ranch for the same reason.”

Sam grew motionless.

“Most people come here seeking answers for commercial reasons. But I don’t think I’ve ever had someone show up here asking to see the horses because their mom told them bedtime stories.”

Sam didn’t say anything. Frankly, she was on the verge of tears. The accident was fresh in her memory, and she still hurt every time she thought about that day. Still missed her mom and dad more than anything else in the world. Missed their daily phone calls. Missed updating them on her horse’s progress. Missed calling them just to talk. Still wished things had been different that day and that they hadn’t…

No!

That was a dangerous direction to take, her psychologist had warned her. There was a reason she’d been left behind. She had to believe that.

“Tell me, dear, how did they die?”

Sam cleared her throat. It took a second or two for her to gather her composure enough to talk. Above, the sounds had stopped. She hoped that didn’t mean Clint McAlister was on his way back down.

“Car accident,” she said. “We were on our way back from watching The Nutcracker last December. We did that every year, you see, ever since I was a little girl. It was icy. And, well…”

She couldn’t finish her sentence, didn’t need to. Eugenia reached out and clasped her hands. Sam looked into her eyes, saw compassion there and the deep, deep understanding that only someone who’d lost a loved one could ever understand.

“I was…out of it for a while,” Sam admitted, though she never talked about the wreck. Not to anyone. Not to her former coworkers. Not even to her friends. And yet here she was confessing all to this perfect stranger. “When I woke up I was told my parents were dead.”

Hot tears seared her cheek. “They were all I had, though I was closest to my mom. She shared my love of horses. Went to almost all of my horse shows…” She swallowed back more tears. “That’s why this is so important to me.”

Eugenia nodded. “I see,” she said with another squeeze.

“You don’t have to tell me about the mustangs if you don’t want to,” Sam said. “I respect your family’s desire to keep them to yourself. I mean, if they really are a wild herd running free on your land, you managed to keep them a secret all these years. I don’t think I’d want to share them with the outside world, either.”

Eugenia didn’t say anything, just stared at her, probing the very depth of Sam’s soul.

“You know what? Forget that I ever came here. I’m so sorry I intruded. I realize now what a terrible imposition this is.”

She got up.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Eugenia asked.

And Samantha’s heart stopped.

“You sit down, young lady.”

Sam sank onto the couch.

“You drive a hard bargain, though,” Eugenia said.

“I do?” Sam asked.

“And I might have gotten crotchety in my old age, my grandson will tell you that, but even I’m not proof against such a request.”

“Are they real?” she asked, her voice close to a whisper.

Eugenia’s smile lit up the room. “What would you say if I told you they just might be?”

“I would say that’s all I needed to hear.” She started to stand again. But before she could turn away, Eugenia caught her hand.

“They’re real,” she said softly.

Samantha started to cry.

Oh, Mom. They really do exist.

She wished her mother was with her.

HE WALKED INTO A DAMN THERAPY session—at least that’s what it felt like what with everyone looking misty-eyed.

“What the hell happened?” Clinton burst out.

The two women glanced up. Samantha slowly sank back down to the couch. And then they were holding hands. Worse, he recognized the expression on his grandmother’s face: she wanted to pull Samantha Davies into her arms.

“Go on with you,” his grandmother said, releasing one of Samantha’s hands and wiping her own eyes. “We were just having a little heart-to-heart.”

“About what?” he asked.

“Our mustangs.”

And if Clinton had been near that damn couch, he’d have sank into it, too. Never. Not once. Not in all the years that he’d been alive, had his grandmother ever admitted to a stranger that their mustangs were more than local legend.

“Gigi,” he said gently.

“Sit down, Mr. McAlister,” she said, patting the couch. “We need to talk.”

“About what?” he asked, preferring to move forward and sit in one of two armchairs across from them.

“Don’t play stupid, young man. You’ll be gathering our horses next week. I want you to take Samantha here along.”

Samantha gasped. “Oh, Mrs. Baer. I can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“It’s too much of an imposition.”

Well, at least one of them was acting sensibly. “Gigi, please,” he said. “She’s right. It’s not feasible, not to mention that it’s highly dangerous. Why, can she even ride?”

She could be a reporter, he thought to himself. Or some kind of damn animal rights activist. Lord. The possibilities were endless.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” his grandmother said. “Of course she can ride. She’s from the east coast.” She said it as if everyone in that part of the country rode horses.

“What the blazes does that have to do with whether she can ride or not?”

“But I can ride,” Samantha said in a small voice.

Clinton leaned back. He stared at the two women in front of him. Somehow, Samantha Davies had managed to wrap his grandmother around her little finger…and he wished he could figure out how she’d done it in such a short amount of time.

“I won’t do it,” he said. “I won’t bring her along. It’s too dangerous.”

“Poppycock,” Gigi said.

“Gigi, think about this. We don’t even know this woman.”

“She has a big heart,” Gigi said, taking the woman’s hand. “I can see it in her eyes.”

“Thank you,” Samantha said.

Clint released a sigh of frustration. “I’m telling you, Gigi, she might end up getting hurt. The spring gathering is tough. The weather’s unpredictable.” He motioned outside where the sun had started to pop through the clouds, the unsettled pattern typical for this time of year. “It’s a long ride. She’d have blisters on her bottom in two hours flat.”

“Excuse me,” Sam said. “I’m right here in the room with you and I assure you, I can ride. I can ride really, really well,” she punctuated. “No blisters would be sprouting on this bottom.” She smiled.

He ignored it. “Oh, yeah? Should we just take your word for that?”

“Of course not,” she said. “You have horses here, right? Test me. Right now, if you like.”

“Excellent idea,” Gigi said, standing. “Let’s go.”

“Gigi,” Clint said, “this is crazy.”

“It’s not crazy,” his grandmother said. “At least no more crazier than anything you’ve done in recent days, Mr. Ranch Manager. I want to do this.” She glanced in Samantha Davies’s direction. “For her.”

Clinton didn’t have a choice. “Hell’s fires,” he muttered. This day just got better and better.

Chapter Four

Clinton stormed out of the house, so upset he nearly slammed the door.

“Damn, foolish women.”

Gigi had insisted Samantha go and change, which meant Clint had been left with the task of fetching her suitcase. “Of all the stupid, ridiculous ideas. Probably wants me to go saddle up a horse, too,” he grumbled under his breath.

As it turned out, that’s exactly what his grandmother asked him to do.

“Please,” Gigi added with a smile. Clint stared between his grandmother and his “guest” and envisioned a cartoon character of himself—one with an angry red light shooting up his face like a thermometer.

“Sure,” he said sarcastically, having to resist the urge to slam the door a second time.

The rainstorm had passed—gone as quickly as it’d come. He paused for a second in the barn’s aisle. He wanted to saddle up the rankest bronc he could find, but as much as he was tempted, he wouldn’t do that. He didn’t want to kill the woman, no matter that she’d seriously pissed him off by batting her big green eyes at his grandmother. It didn’t matter that he owned the ranch, either, and that he had every right to tell Samantha Davies to get lost. He wouldn’t do that, either, because the plain and simple truth was, he loved his grandmother. He would do anything for her. She knew it, too. Gigi Baer had been a rock in his life and if she wanted Miss Samantha Davies to go along on the spring gathering, he’d let her go along.

If she could ride.

He wouldn’t compromise her safety, the safety of his men and the safety of his livestock just because some city slicker had a wild hair up her you-know-what.

“Oh!” he heard his grandmother say when less than ten minutes later, the two of them, Samantha and his grandmother, entered the barn, their footfalls clearly audible on the packed dirt. “You’ve saddled Red.”

Clint was tightening the girth—Red on cross ties in the middle of the aisle—the smooth leather strap Clint held gliding through the metal ring. Samantha now wore jeans, he saw, and a light green shirt.

“She said she could ride.” Red was at least sixteen hands, and about as wide as he was tall, too. Lots of power.

When he glanced up, Samantha was staring at him. Horses chomped on the midafternoon snack he’d given them, their softly muffled snorts breaking the silence, and he thought to himself that she didn’t seem afraid of Red at all. She came right up to him, offering the palm of her hand for the horse to sniff.

“Hey there, Red,” she said softly.

The horse started to nibble at her palm—as if trying to eat an invisible treat.

“Do you happen to have an English saddle?” she asked, green eyes shifting in his direction.

“Excuse me?” he asked, leather girth forgotten.

She was backlit, her short brown hair blond around the edges. “I usually ride English,” she said with a wide I-know-that-might-sound-strange smile. “The truth is, I can count on one hand how many times I’ve ridden western.”

He dropped the strap, rested his arm on the chestnut horse’s withers and met his grandmother’s gaze. “You hear that, Gigi? The woman wants to ride in an English saddle.”

His grandmother just shook her head. It was cool inside the barn, a gentle breeze blowing up the aisle. Gigi had tossed a tan jacket over her white blouse and jeans.

“Just finish saddling that horse, Clint. If she’s been riding English, a western saddle ought to be a piece of cake.”

Clint shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, and went back to girthing up the horse, wrapping the strap in and out of the metal loop before giving it a final tug. He’d hung the left stirrup over the saddle horn to keep it out of his way while he worked, but he released it quickly—too quickly—the thing slapping against Red’s wide body. The horse pinned his ears.

“Maybe I can send for my own saddle if things work out,” she told his grandmother, smiling sheepishly.

Only if she managed to control the horse beneath this saddle. But he found himself snorting nonetheless. The ranch hands would laugh themselves silly if they caught sight of someone riding one of his cow ponies in an English saddle.

Over his dead body.

“Excuse me,” he said, eyeing the tack room behind her. “I need to get Red’s bridle.”

“Oh,” she said, taking a step back.

But it wasn’t enough.

He brushed past her, Samantha’s gaze darting to his body like a foam bullet from a Nerf gun. “Sorry,” she said.

He paused for a heartbeat. Their arms had touched. That was all. It wasn’t as if his crotch had accidentally crossed one of her no-fly zones. Yet it felt as if that’s exactly what happened. Worse, he felt a familiar buzz in that same region.

Crap.

He didn’t look at her, but he couldn’t deny that he fought the urge to glance back as he stepped into the tack room. The smell of leather filled his nostrils, it was such a familiar scent that it instantly soothed him.

“Just been without a woman too long,” he muttered to himself. “Nothing to it.”

He grabbed the bridle from the rack, turned.

Gigi stood there.

“What was that you were saying?” she asked. The look on her face was the same one he recognized from years of stepping in cow patties—and then entering her house afterward.

“I said it’s been too long since I’ve cleaned this bridle.”

That’s not what you said, his grandmother silently told him.

That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it, he told her right back on his way out.

The snaffle bit was the only piece of English tack he owned. Thing was, old Red wasn’t very responsive to the jointed piece of metal. But if she knew how to ride…

Red stood still as he slipped the leather halter off his head, the big horse opening his mouth obediently. The metal mouthpiece clinked against his teeth, but it didn’t bug the sorrel gelding. They were used to that kind of thing, just as they were used to the leather headstall being tugged over their ears. Once he buckled the throatlatch, he stepped back.

“He’s all yours,” he said with a smile as false as their ancient ranch hand Elliot’s fake teeth.

“Thanks,” she said, reaching for the reins. She stepped up to Red’s left side, the correct side to lead a horse from, but not something a greenhorn would know. Clint had his first inkling that she might know a thing or two.

“I saw an arena out behind the barn. Should I take him there?”

“Sure,” Gigi said.

Clint glanced at his grandmother, who shot Clint an I-told-you-so grin. This time it was Clint who shook his head.

There was at least an inch of water on the ground, the horse’s hooves sucking at the earth in rhythmic plop-plop-plops. But it was still cool outside and that might present a problem, too. Cool weather was like a drug to horses—uppers. They could be slightly rambunctious after a cooldown like they’d just had.

But Samantha Davies opened the arena gate without the slightest hesitation, yet another clue that she knew her way around a ranch. Most gates were made with the same type of latch. Someone who wasn’t familiar with them wouldn’t know how they worked, but she flipped the latch and then slid it loose with an expert turn of the wrist.

Maybe he should have come up with another test. Like trick riding or calf roping or something.

She closed the gate behind her as easily as she opened it. There was no fear on her face as she turned to Red, just obvious determination as she lifted her foot into the stirrup. Her jeans pulled tight across her bottom, and Clint found himself staring at the shape of her rear until Gigi nudged him in the side.

“What?” he asked as Samantha Davies expertly pulled herself into the saddle.

“I think you really have been without a woman for too long,” Gigi said with a wicked smile, and then—God help him—a wink.

“WHERE TO?” SAMANTHA ASKED, picking up the slack on the reins and turning Red toward the rail. “You want me to do some figure eights or something?”

Eugenia Bear had a grin on her face about as wide as the snow-capped mountains behind her. “Can you do a reining pattern?” she asked.

“Gigi,” her grandson said. “She said she rides English. She doesn’t know what a reining pattern is.”

“Actually, I do,” Sam said, trying to keep the wattage of her grin down. “I’ve watched more than my fair share at horse shows. I bet if you ran some of those cows over there into the arena, I could do some cutting for you, too.”

Eugenia’s pleasure appeared to grow—if possible. “There,” she said to Clinton, “you see? She’s an expert.”

“So she claims,” he said. “But I’d like to actually see her do the pattern before we move on to cows—if we move on to cows.”

“Well, I don’t know the pattern, exactly,” Sam said, “but I have a pretty clear idea what to do. Let’s see what I can get this little cow pony to do.”

“Little?” she heard Clint huff.

“Most of the horses I ride are closer to seventeen hands,” she said. “They breed them big on the quarter horse circuit.”

She pulled Red away before she could gauge Clint’s reaction. A reigning pattern was meant to showcase a rider’s ability to control a horse. Those patterns were always performed in a western saddle, but that wouldn’t matter. Patterns had been a big part of her training, and that gave her confidence as she guided Red toward the rail.

“Come on,” she told the horse. “You gotta make me look good.”

But Red didn’t like to go. That became apparent the instant she tried to squeeze him into a canter—or a lope—as the western people labeled it. He didn’t even want to trot, much less jog—or God forbid—gallop. But she hadn’t ridden over fences for nothing. Holding on over three-foot obstacles, sometimes higher, had given her the legs of a linebacker. She ground her heels into Red and made him behave.

He did.

Sam sighed. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, like riding a horse. She hadn’t ridden much in the past few months—doctor’s orders—but it was a lot like roller skating. Once you knew how, you never forgot.

“Okay,” she called out, trying to ignore the saddle horn as she squeezed Red. English saddles didn’t have horns and so she was somewhat distracted by its presence. “Here I go.”

The pattern was deceptively simple. Big circle at a lope, change of pace, then a small circle. Switch leads. Do the same thing going the other direction. Stop in the middle. Spin. Red didn’t like the spin, but she dug her leg into him and made him do it. All in all, it wasn’t a bad pattern, and she loved the last part where she got to run down the middle of the arena at a full gallop, coming to a sliding stop at the end. That part Red did beautifully.

“Bravo!” Eugenia called out when she was done. “That was terrific.”

Perhaps not terrific, Sam thought, but she gave Red a pat on the neck nonetheless. They’d hardly win points on the quarter horse circuit, but she was proud of her ride and, man, it felt wonderful to be back, almost as wonderful as the look on Clint’s face.

“I bet I really could work some of those cows,” Sam said, riding up to where her audience stood.

“How long has it been?” Eugenia said.

“Not since the accident,” she said. She hadn’t had the heart when they’d finally given her the go-ahead, not when she was going to have to sell her horse anyway to cover her medical bills.

Coaster, her beloved black gelding, was going to a new home soon.

“Accident?” Clint asked. “What accident?”

“The one that killed my parents,” Sam admitted.

Chapter Five

Her parents were dead?

“What?” Clint asked.

“They died four months ago,” she said. “Just before Christmas.”

Damn. No wonder Gigi had taken an instant shining to her. His grandmother’s maternal instincts were legendary. Crap. It’s what’d gotten him through the death of his own parents.

Gigi had never truly recovered from the death of her only child. To be honest, Clint had never truly recovered, either. Even though he’d lost his mom and dad years ago—ten, to be exact—he still missed them every day of his life.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his gut twisting as he recalled his own grief. “I know what that’s like. It’s not easy.”

She nodded, Red shifting beneath her, but she controlled the horse beautifully. He was an honest man—something he prided himself on—and she had one of the nicest seats he’d seen on a woman in a long time, and he wasn’t talking about the seat she sat on. Although that was nice, too.

“You should stay with us.”

Clint jerked his head up. He’d been leaning against the top rail of the gate and he damn near stumbled backward when he heard Gigi say the words.

“What?” Samantha asked.

Gigi nodded toward the woman on horseback. “You should say with us,” she said again. “You can help us prep for the gathering in a few days.”

“Gigi,” Clint said in a low, furious voice, hoping the woman behind him was hard of hearing. “Are you crazy? We just met her today.”

“Clinton McAlister,” Gigi said, turning toward him. “I can’t believe you would say that. Just look into that child’s eyes. She’s still grieving.” And this time it was his grandmother who lowered her voice. “And you know better than most what that’s like. Don’t be a complete ass.”

Ass?

His grandmother spent entirely too much time on the Internet.

“Fine,” he said, because what else could he say? If he kept on protesting he would, indeed, end up looking like an ass. “But she stays in one of the bunkhouses.”

His grandmother shook her head. “The boys’ll be using that next week. She can’t be staying in a bunkhouse with men. She’ll stay in the house.”

“Gigi!”

“Don’t you Gigi me,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “I’ve swatted your butt a time or two before and I’m not afraid to do it again.”

“Wait.” Gigi and Clint turned to face Samantha. “You don’t need to open up your home to me, Mrs. Baer.”

Her home? It was his home. But, of course, Samantha didn’t know that. Or maybe she did. Frankly, he didn’t care. She couldn’t stay with them. That was that.

“Don’t be silly,” Gigi said. “If you’re going on the roundup, you’ll need to stay here. We don’t leave until later this week and there isn’t a hotel within twenty miles.”

“Yes, but—”

“I won’t take no for an answer,” Gigi said, holding up a hand.

He would take no. “Gigi—”

“You can sleep upstairs,” she added. “In the room next to mine.”

“Gigi,” he repeated, and then lowered his voice. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s plenty of other rooms for her to choose from.”

Which gave his Gigi the wrong impression; that he was okay with Samantha staying with them.

“Fine,” Gigi said, a smile settling upon her face. Obviously, she felt as if she’d won this particular battle. “You can pick your room, Samantha,” she said.

“Call me Sam,” the woman on horseback said with a smile. “Nobody calls me Samantha except used car salesmen and telephone solicitors.”

“Sam,” his grandmother said, “there’s plenty to choose from.”

“Well, I—” she started to say, until Red put his head down and let loose a snort that drowned out her words.

“What was that, dear?” Gigi asked.

“I think she said no,” Clint pointed out.

“Actually, I said I don’t want to impose,” Sam explained, pulling on the reins because Red was trying to sniff the sand in the arena.

“You wouldn’t be imposing. We’d love to have you, wouldn’t we, Clinton?” Gigi asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Clint said jovially. “I’d love to have you.”

His grandmother elbowed him again, the expression on her adorably wrinkled face clearly warning him to behave.

“I just don’t think it’s a smart idea,” Sam said.

“Clinton,” his grandmother said, “now that that’s settled, why don’t you untack Red here? I’ll show Sam to the house.”

“Gigi, she just said she didn’t think it was a smart idea.”

“Nonsense. Sam, hop on down from there. Clint can take care of Red.”

“But, I—”

“Best do as she asks,” Clint advised. “Once she gets an idea in her head, you’re not going to get it out.”

“Are you sure?” she asked Gigi.

“I’m sure, honey. Now hop on down from there.”

“But I can untack him.” Sam slipped out of the saddle.

“Excellent idea,” Clint said with his own bright smile—though his was false. Okay, maybe not false, more like wolfish. He’d spotted the blush on Samantha’s face, the one that had flared at his “I’d love to have you” comment. “Maybe we can both do it together.”

“Clinton,” his grandmother snapped in warning. “Quit teasing her. You’re making her uncomfortable.”

Obviously, his grandmother had spotted the blush on Samantha’s face, too. He looked at Gigi in question. He hadn’t seen her so protective in…well, he couldn’t remember when she’d taken someone under her wing so thoroughly, and in such a short amount of time. She must like Samantha Davies a lot. Then again, he supposed that was to be expected. He and Gigi had been through more than their fair share of grief. First his parents, then her own husband five years ago to a heart attack. His grandmother had deeded the ranch to him, she’d been so stricken by grief. For a time there, Clint wasn’t sure she’d make it through. But she’d managed to recover. And now she had that light back in her eyes.

“I’m sure Sam’s tired from her drive. You can take care of the horse.”

“That’s okay, Mrs. Baer, I can do it myself—”

“Gigi,” his grandmother said. “Everyone calls me that.”

Everyone? The only person to call her that was him.

“Gigi, I’d really like to untack and brush him myself.”

“She could untack and brush me,” Clint said under his breath.

His grandmother shot him a look and muttered out of the side of her mouth, “What you’re after is a piece of ass, and don’t think I don’t know it.”

“Gigi!” Clint said, pretending to be horrified. He opened the gate for Sam and smiled up at her. “Seriously,” he said to Samantha, “I’ll help you out.”

Maybe he could scare her into going away.

SHE COULD UNTACK AND BRUSH ME.

Had he been flirting with her when he’d said that? Somehow she doubted it. And why didn’t he want her to know who he was? Earlier, when she’d been talking to his grandmother, it’d been clear that he’d wanted Eugenia to introduce him as a simple ranch hand…and not as his grandson.

Why?

“Clint,” she said. “I, uh…I know you’re Eugenia’s grandson.”

He stopped so suddenly Red tossed his head. “You do?”

She nodded.

“Did Gigi tell you?”

She shook her head. “I knew from the first moment I met you.”

“Oh,” he said. She could tell he was trying to hide his surprise from her.

Moisture still hung heavy in the air. A breeze played with her short hair and it blew the scent of him toward her.

He smelled like a man.

And she was attracted to that scent. It made her recall—perfectly—what he’d looked like with his shirt open. Those cords of muscle, the tan hue of his skin, the way she’d caught him looking at her earlier, as if he’d like to—

Sam!

“She’s really a special lady,” she said through a throat gone dry with—okay, she should just admit it—lust. She hadn’t been with a man since the Mesozoic era.

“Yes, she is.”

But she wasn’t the type to indulge in an affair although if there was one time in her life when it might be okay to do something impulsive, that was now. Sex with him would be something to remember for a lifetime, and since she was going blind…

Blind.

She couldn’t breathe for a moment, forced her lungs to pump air to her heart. The sad truth was that she couldn’t imagine it. She could only try her best to prepare for it. She’d been left behind for some reason. She had to believe that reason would present itself at some point in the future.

Maybe it was the Baer Mountain Mustangs.

“Tell me about them,” she said, their entrance into the barn giving Sam a second or two of panic when her vision dimmed. But it was only her eyes adjusting to the sudden darkness.

“Tell you about what?”

She led Red to the cross-ties. “The mustangs.”

He didn’t say anything. She swiveled around and grabbed Red’s halter from the hook Clint had hung it on.

“Yeah,” he said. “About the mustangs.”

She slipped the bridle from Red’s head, before turning back to him. The horse spat the bit out as if he was aiming for a spittoon.

“What about them?”

“Gigi can be too trusting sometimes. Gullible. Naive.”

“So can we all,” she said, remembering a time when she’d thought life would never change. It had only been last December. She was too young—just barely twenty-six. Her parents had still been young, too, and healthy. They’d had years ahead of them. Or so she’d thought, four months ago.

“She likes you,” he said. “But the jury’s still out as far as I’m concerned.”

She slipped the halter over Red’s head. “That’s not what it seemed like earlier,” she said as she buckled the crown piece. Though she was losing more and more of her peripheral vision, she’d been having trouble focusing up close, too. She worried about what that might mean, then shook her head. What did she have to fear? That she was going blind? She already knew that for sure.

Enjoy every day.

Her doctor’s words echoed in her ears. She would enjoy every day. That was going to be her motto from here on out. So when she finished, she faced Clint with more bravado than she truly felt. Maybe it was the gut-wrenching realization that she would be unable to see him in the not-too-distant future. Maybe it boiled down to good, old-fashioned lust—God, she’d never forget what he looked like tapping that pole into the ground—but for some reason, she felt like playing with him.

“You mean you can take me to the mustangs, but then you’ll have to kill me?”

“I, well, I—” He frowned. “No. Of course not. I’m just not taking you anywhere until your background checks out.”

“So you’re going to do a background check on me?” she said, closing the distance between them. He seemed to lean away from her. Or maybe he didn’t. But his pupils flared, his chin lifting a bit when she got too close. Like a horse about to turn and run, Clint’s muscles tensed. She could see the cords of his neck pop out, watched as his eyes narrowed.

She would never forget his luminescent blue eyes.

And hungry.

He was attracted to her.

“You could be a reporter for all I know,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“Just what are you then?” He scooted closer to her, turning the tables.

He leaned into her. Sam couldn’t breathe. And then she sucked in a breath…and got a mouthful of musky-smelling Clinton McAlister.

“Who are you, Samantha Davies?”

Chapter Six

One of the horses snorted in the stall behind Sam. He saw her jump. She was on edge. Excellent. So was he.

“What do you do for a living?” he asked, staring into her big, green eyes. “So far all I know is that you ride horses.” He smirked. “English.”

“And that should reassure you,” she said, lifting her chin. “I’m a horse person, and so I can’t be half-bad.” She patted Red.

He moved even closer, smiling when he saw her swallow. Hard.

“Yeah,” he said softly, “but what do you do for a living?” he asked again. The question wasn’t that hard. He must have her rattled.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” he repeated, and he could swear he felt heat emanating from her all of a sudden. Her cheeks grew rosy, and then the color spread to her neck.

“I’m a geologist.”

That caught him off guard. “A geologist?”

She shoved a strand of hair away from her eyes. The wind had mussed it up. “I put myself through school, found myself a high paying job. I used to work for one of the chemical companies.”

“Used to? What happened? You get fired?” He wasn’t thinking right. Under normal circumstances he would never ask such a rude question.

She must have him rattled.

“I had to quit. They gave me three months off to heal, longer if I needed it, but I’m still sort of recovering from my injuries. Plus, I started having issues at work, couldn’t focus…so I quit.”

“Quit and came here.”

She nodded.

“But you said you have a horse. One that you used to show.”

“I do have a horse, but he’s for sale down in Texas.”

“You don’t strike me as the type that would want to sell her horse.”

She shrugged. “My medical bills, the portion that the insurance company didn’t cover. It was expensive. My horse is worth a lot of money. I have to do what I can to pay the bills.”

So she was selling her horse. The only thing she owned, if he didn’t miss his guess.

The whole story kind of made him sick. And what injuries was she still recovering from? She looked fine to him.

“You should probably get going before Gigi comes out here and tans my hide for keeping you too long.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” she said, hooking the left stirrup over the horn of the saddle so she could undo the girth.

“I thought you didn’t know how to ride western?” he asked, resting a hand on Red’s neck.

“I said I didn’t ride in a western saddle, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how the saddles work.”

Despite himself, his gaze drifted downward to her rear. The memory of how it’d felt to have her be the aggressor, however briefly, made his body react in a way that made him uncomfortable given that he’d just met her.

She glanced at him—and caught him still staring at her behind.

A smile slowly lifted the edges of her mouth. “Do I have dirt on me?” she asked.

He knew she knew exactly what he’d been doing: checking her out. But that didn’t seem to bother her, and for the first time he found himself thinking that it might not be a bad thing that she was staying in the house.

“Your rear looks great to me,” he said, throwing caution to the wind.

“So does yours.”

“You sure you don’t want to bunk down in the room next to me?”

He’d pushed too far. He could tell by the way the back of her neck turned red and she suddenly devoted all her attention to Red. “No thanks,” she said as she pulled the heavy leather saddle toward her.

But a western saddle was not an English saddle and she began to tip backward under the weight of it.

“Careful,” he called, reaching out to help her. He pushed the saddle back on Red’s back just in time, and when he turned to steady her, they were belly-to-belly, Clint’s hands clutching her upper arms.

“Uh…thanks,” she said. “I, uh…I lost my balance.”

Let her go.

“Western saddles are heavy,” he murmured. Her arms were tiny. He could just about wrap his entire hand around one.

“Yeah. I just thought…” He held her gaze.

Let. Her. Go.

“What’d you think?” he asked softly. Just touching her about lit him on fire and he couldn’t imagine what it’d be like to kiss her—

“Gracious! You’re still in here.”

They sprang apart.

Gigi stared at him in silent rebuke. “What the devil’s taking so long, Clint? Her tea’s getting cold.”

“DON’T LET HIM PUSH YOU around,” Gigi told Sam as she led her away from the barn.

“Believe me, I won’t,” the young woman said, her eyes peering down at the ground.

“Do you have a hotel back in town?” Gigi asked. “Do you need to go back there and check out?”

“No, but really, Mrs. Baer, I hate to impose.”

She seemed like such a sweet thing. Gigi had wanted to wrap her up and tell her everything would be all right. Samantha had a world of hurt hiding inside.

“It’s fine,” Gigi said. “But you’ll need to watch that one in there,” she said, pointing over her shoulder. “He’s a real scallywag.”

She glanced back at the barn. “I’ve noticed.”

“He thinks because he’s my grandson he can boss me around.”

“I’ve noticed that, too.”

Gigi studied her. “So I take it that means you knew who he was this whole time. My grandson. Not some kind of ranch hand.”

“I knew,” she said.

Clever girl. “Well, thank God for that. With Clint admitting he lives with me, I was hoping you didn’t think me a cougar or something.”

The young woman stared at her for long seconds, but then threw back her head and laughed. It was so good to see her let loose. She had a feeling that hadn’t happened in a while. And, my, but she was a handsome thing. No wonder Clint was interested in her, although to be honest, Clint had had plenty of beautiful women throwing themselves at him in the past. Not that Sam had thrown herself at him. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was just strange that her grandson was showing an interest in the girl when he’d just met her.

Strange and encouraging. She’d given up all hope of ever having great-grandchildren.

“I wouldn’t have thought that. Well, maybe I might have,” she said. “But only for about one-point-nine seconds.”

“Well,” Gigi said, “as long as it wasn’t for two seconds, I would have forgiven you.”

It’d been too long since Clint had shown interest in any girl, Gigi thought. Oh, there’d been the odd trip into town. He was, after all, a man. But not since Julia had he been so obvious in his pursuit.

Julia. God. Now there was a woman she’d been glad to see the last of.

She can bunk down next to me.

Gigi just bet her grandson would like that.

“It’s a beautiful house,” Sam said, stopping yet again and gazing up at it.

She loved horses. She’d be perfect for Clint.

“It’s been in my family for a long, long time,” Gigi said.

But she was from the city and so that might be a problem. It’d been a problem with Julia. And that made Clint’s interest in Sam all the more strange. Gigi would have thought after Julia he’d give a woman like Sam a wide berth.

“That’s right,” Sam said. “Your family settled this land in the early eighteen-hundreds.”

Maybe he was just flirting with her. Maybe that’s all this was.

“We were one of the first families to live in Montana,” she said. “That’s how we ended up with so much acreage.”

“Twelve thousand acres.”

“No, dear,” Eugenia said. “That’s just this parcel here.” She motioned to the land around them. “We own another hundred thousand to the west there.”

“Really? I only ever read about the twelve thousand acres online.”

She hadn’t known that? Good. At least Gigi wouldn’t have to worry about Sam wanting Clinton for his money…like she had with Julia. It was obvious Sam had been attracted to her grandson before she’d known what he was worth.

“And another fifty-thousand to the east. We have some smaller parcels in between that.”

“I had no idea,” Sam mused.

“We’re one of the largest landowners in Montana.” She watched the woman’s eyes carefully, looking to see if a glint of something entered them. Maybe greed, or delight, or the conniving machination of a woman after her grandson for what he was worth on paper…which was a lot.

“That’s how you’ve kept the horses a secret all these years, isn’t it?” she asked.

So far, so good. The girl didn’t seem the least little bit gleeful.

“We move them around a lot,” Gigi admitted, “which is why they’re not truly wild. We manage them just like we do the cattle.”

“So they don’t run free in the hills?”

Gigi shook her head. “If we let them to do that they’d quickly reproduce in such numbers that they’d become a problem. So we selectively allow them to breed.”

“Oh,” she said, disappointed.

“But they run free on a lot of land,” Gigi added.

“I see.”

One of the first questions out of Julia’s mouth was exactly how many acres did they own.

“We run cattle here, too,” Gigi said. “It’s how we keep the place afloat. We might be rich in land, but we have to make ends meet somehow. Some years, it’s not easy what with the cattle market being up and down. We’ve thought about selling some of our land, but then what would we do with the horses?”

That wasn’t true. That wasn’t true at all, but if Sam here was after Clint’s wealth, like Julia had been, Gigi wanted to know about it. So she watched Sam’s face closely for signs.

She just looked sad.

“Have you ever thought about setting up a trust for the horses?” Sam asked. “You know, maybe gather together some private investors. I’ve met a lot of wealthy people—through showing horses—and so I could probably coordinate it all. That way, when money is tight, you wouldn’t have to worry about caring for the horses again.”

“No,” Gigi said honestly. Because in truth the Baers were wealthy. Very wealthy. They’d sold land over the years, invested it. Yes, they lived simply, hadn’t remodeled the house in the past fifty years, or added expensive horse barns or flaunted their wealth. No need for that. They kept to themselves.

“I’d like to help,” Sam said, “if you’ll let me. Horse people are great. If I tell them I need money for wild mustangs, they’ll be onboard. It’ll be a tax write-off for them. That’ll be a plus. And if they donate money we could generate annual income. That income would grow over the years. You guys would never have to worry about taking care of your horses again.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.