by Brenda Mott
Bailey drew back and gazed solidly at him. Then her own lips curved. “You should do that more often. Smile, I mean. Looks better on you than that scowl you usually wear.”
Trent grunted and let the smile disappear. “I thought we were catching horses.”
“Okay, okay.” Bailey shook her head and gave her attention to Dokina once more. Trent watched as she crooned to the little mare and held out a cookie. Dokina perked her ears and stretched out her neck to investigate, taking a tentative step in Bailey’s direction. Two other mares came forward in response to the proffered treat. Immediately, Dokina pinned her ears and drove them away, teeth bared. The mares parted company with a volley of squeals and a show of back hooves, and all the while, Bailey stood her ground.
Trent shook his head and haltered Shafana, his favorite gray. He would have expected Bailey to run at the possibility of being smack-dab in the middle of a horse fight. But she only took a cautious step out of the way, then held the horse cookie out to Dokina once more. Though she fumbled with the halter a bit, she managed to slip it over the mare’s head and get it buckled into place.
Bailey looked at him, a triumphant grin spreading across her pretty face, and Trent’s heart did more than give a little jump. It was the first time he’d seen her smile with anything other than polite reserve, the first time he’d seen such an expression of pure, childlike joy on her face. He liked it, and that bothered him.
“Nothing to it,” Bailey said, walking toward him, leading Dokina.
Trent fell into step beside her with Shafana. The other mares followed, as he’d known they would. Some had marks from the wire on their legs and chests, but fortunately none was hurt beyond those few minor scrapes, which hadn’t done more than skin off small spots of hair and hide. A little nitrofurazone ointment would have them good as new.
Bailey’s eyes sparkled. “They’re beautiful.” She nodded toward a golden-red chestnut with flaxen mane and tail. “I love that one. What’s her name?”
“Bint Sihanna Bronnz.”
“Quite a mouthful,” Bailey said. “Is she for sale?”
He shook his head. “No. These are some of my broodmares. I raise and sell foals. I also travel around the show circuit, pick up horses here and there, then resell them.”
“I see. Well, I hadn’t planned on looking at your horses this way, but since I’m already here…”
He was quiet for a moment. And he hadn’t planned on being with her this way. Hell, he hadn’t really wanted to hang around her at all. Business was business and he’d agreed to show her what he had for sale, but he’d had every intention of doing so on his own terms, in his own time. Now, with Bailey walking toward the barn, leading Dokina and chatting with him as though she belonged right here, he felt confused and off balance. He’d tried hard to keep everything in his life orderly and mapped out since Amy had left him—since he’d lost Sarah. It was the only way he could deal with his emotions, the only way he seemed able to get through each day.
Bailey and her damn stray dog had upset all that.
“I’ve got time to show them to you now if you want,” he heard himself saying.
She turned that blasted heart-stopping smile on him once more. “That would be wonderful. Where would you like Dokina?”
AFTER HELPING TRENT put ointment on the mares that had gotten scraped, Bailey assisted him in turning them out in a paddock behind the barn and tried to pretend he had no effect on her whatsoever. It had to be the horses that had her stomach in knots…that was it. She hadn’t been around them much, and finding herself right in the middle of the group of mares was a little more than she’d bargained for, especially when they started to squabble over the horse cookies.
She hoped Trent hadn’t noticed the momentary scare Dokina gave her when the mare pinned her ears, bared her teeth and charged. But then Bailey realized the horse wasn’t after her at all—she was simply defending what she felt belonged to her. That Bailey could also relate to, and she’d immediately felt calm.
Now her heart was doing a little skip-hop. Damn it, why did Trent have to look so much better in blue jeans than any man she’d seen lately?
“So, are you ready for the grand tour?” Trent asked, pulling her from her musings.
“Sure.” She handed him the purple halter and lead rope, and he hung it on the fence and shouldered the one he’d removed from the gray mare.
“The saddle horses I have for sale are in the upper pasture,” he said.
“You’ve got a beautiful place here.” Bailey’s gaze swept Windsong Ranch. An adobe-style house, looking like something from a western movie, sprawled not far from the barn, beneath the shade of massive cottonwoods that circled the well-kept lawn. The pasture, fenced in either wire or white rail, stretched as far as the eye could see. The scent of horses, hay and wildflowers caught on the breeze and surrounded her, leaving Bailey with the impression that everything was neat, clean and in its proper place.
She wondered if that was the way Trent laid out his life day by day—nothing out of place, most especially his emotions. Telling herself she had no business analyzing the man, she turned her thoughts back to the ranch. “How many acres do you have here, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Two hundred and fifty.”
“Wow. And I thought eighty was a lot.” She smiled. “It’s nice the way you put your house at the very back. Gives you some privacy.”
Trent didn’t smile. He shot her a funny look, then clamped his mouth shut as though he’d been going to say something but had decided not to at the last minute.
What was his problem?
He closed up more and more as they walked along, restricting his comments to information about the horses he had for sale. Bailey felt that he’d suddenly thrown a wall up between them, and she wondered why. Sure, he’d been angry at what the dog had done, and she’d acted a little defensive in return. But he’d seemed to warm to her while they worked to bring the horses in.
It was just as well that she keep her distance from him, Bailey decided as she followed Trent into the pasture, where a dozen-odd horses grazed.
“How experienced a rider are you?” Trent asked.
“Not very,” Bailey admitted. “I’ve taken some riding lessons, and I’ve been reading up on owning a horse.”
He grunted. “So that explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Why you seem to know something about horses, yet don’t appear totally comfortable around them.”
She bristled. “I’ve learned a lot over the past few months, Mr. Murdock. I can assure you I plan to continue that route.”
“No need to get your back up,” he said. “I was just making an observation. And like I said at the bank, it’s Trent. Mr. Murdock is my father.”
“Only if you call me Bailey,” she said. Just because they kept their distance didn’t mean they had to be formal. After all, they were neighbors.
“Okay, Bailey. Let me tell you a little more about these horses.”
She walked beside him, listening as he went into detail about the good points—and bad—of each horse. His knowledge impressed her and his honesty took her by surprise. “I thought people who sold horses were only supposed to mention their good qualities and hide their bad,” she said. She’d recently read an article in Western Horseman entitled “Buyer Beware.”
“There are a lot of disreputable people in the horse business,” Trent agreed, “just as there are in any business. But I don’t work that way, Bailey. I want my customers to be satisfied and my horses to have a good home. They can’t have that unless I’m up-front in the first place.”
“Good point.”
“Not to say any of these horses are bad animals,” he went on. “I wouldn’t have them for sale if that was the case. But no horse is perfect.”
In her experience, animals were usually far more perfect than people, but she didn’t argue. “So, the little gray mare is hard to catch,” Bailey said. “But she’s a good sol
id riding mount.”
“The best,” Trent said. “She’s bombproof.”
“What does that mean?”
“She doesn’t spook at anything. And she can cover ground all day long and be ready for more.” He ran his hand over the shoulder of a dark bay gelding. “This is Mirage, a son of my stallion Alysana. He’s one of the few foals I kept because he has such a great personality, but when he was a two-year-old he had an accident. Fell off a cliff and got pretty banged up. His foreleg took the worst of it.” Trent indicated a scar on the gelding’s right foreleg that ran the length of the cannon bone. “He’s sound, but only for light trail riding. You couldn’t work him hard or use him for endurance riding or anything like that. Still, he’s got a willing heart and he’s real easy to catch.”
Unlike his owner.
Bailey chuckled. “I can see that,” she said as the horse nudged Trent’s shoulder affectionately, looking for a treat. Trent pulled a horse cookie from his pocket and the gelding took it with a soft smack of his lips. He chewed with eyes half-closed, as though savoring the alfalfa cube. Several other horses made their way over to see what was going on.
Trent offered each of them cookies, then held up his empty palms. “I’m all out,” he said, rubbing the forehead of a black mare. “That’s it.”
Bailey smiled to herself. A man who talked to horses couldn’t be all bad. “They’re nice horses,” she said. “It’s going to be hard to choose one.”
“They’re a pretty good bunch,” Trent said, patting the black mare’s shoulder.
“What about that one?” Bailey pointed to a gray whose coat was flecked with red markings. The horse kept to the rear of the group. As the animal turned his head, she noted his left eye appeared cloudy, and the skin around it was heavily scarred. “Oh! What happened to his eye?”
“He had it all but poked out by a tree branch when a pack of dogs ran him into the woods three years ago.” Trent frowned pointedly at her and Bailey cringed inwardly.
No wonder he’d been so upset when her stray dog had chased his horses. “Can he see out of it?” she asked, ignoring Trent’s underlying reprimand.
“No. I don’t even know why I keep him in here with the others that are for sale. If he were a mare, I’d just put her with the other broodmares, but what am I going to do with a gelding? Most people turn away from him the minute they see his eye.”
“Why? Just because he isn’t perfect doesn’t mean he isn’t a good horse, does it?” Bailey moved toward the gelding. “Hey, there, pretty baby,” she crooned. The gelding stretched his neck inquisitively and gently lipped Bailey’s hand as she drew close to him. Bailey smiled, warming immediately to the horse that no one wanted. “I’m sorry. I’m all out of cookies.” She stroked the gray’s muzzle. “What’s his name?”
“Star.”
“Star?” Bailey gave him an amused smile. “No fancy Arab name?”
Trent shrugged. “He has some fancy stuff tacked onto it.”
Bailey rubbed the gelding’s forehead. “It fits him. I like it, and I love his coloring. It looks like he has freckles.”
“He’s a flea-bitten gray.”
She glared at him. “How can you insult such a pretty horse?”
He laughed. “It’s not an insult. That freckled pattern is called flea-bitten gray.”
Bailey flushed. “Oh. Guess I need to read up on my colors a little more.” She continued to stroke the horse, and Star responded by closing his eyes and nudging her with his head. “I think he likes me, too. So, is he for sale?”
Trent looked at her with surprise. “He’s blind in one eye. You wouldn’t really want him, would you?”
“Why not?” Bailey challenged. “Is he ridable?”
“Yes. He’s a little shy on his near side, but as long as he trusts his rider, there’s nothing he won’t do for you. I guess that’s why I’ve kept him. He’s a good horse.”
“Well, then, I’ll have to try him out later.” She gave the gelding one last pat, then walked back to stand beside Trent. “But for now we’ve got a fence to fix.”
“I told you, I can take care of it.”
“I wouldn’t feel right not helping,” Bailey said firmly.
“All right, if that’s what you want,” he said. “But it’s too late to get started now. Come back in the morning. Then, if you like, you can ride any of the horses you’re interested in.”
For a minute, she wondered if he was simply putting her off, not wanting her help, but the look in his eyes seemed genuine. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. And thanks for showing your horses to me.”
“No problem.”
Bailey walked across the pasture toward the downed wire that separated her ranch from his, furious with herself at the disappointment that welled inside her. Surely she hadn’t been enjoying Trent’s company that much. Yet the prospect of going back to her empty house didn’t hold quite the appeal now as it had when she’d driven home from work a short while ago.
Bailey gave herself a mental shake. What was wrong with her?
She reached her front porch just in time to see a huge gray cat leap onto the railing, snatch her forgotten sandwich from the plate where she’d left it and sprint across the lawn into the bushes bordering the yard. At the same time, a mournful howl from the barn split the air. Bailey sighed and placed her hands on her hips, rolling her eyes heavenward.
Why was it she always seemed to attract—and be attracted to—strays and misfits?
She knew the answer. She just wasn’t sure she liked it. Years spent convincing herself she’d left her past behind hadn’t really changed anything. Her whole life she’d felt unwanted, unloved; a misfit that people simply passed off whenever they could.
It didn’t matter. She had a chance for a brand-new start here in Ferguson. She just had to remember that taking in strays and misfits was okay…as long as she drew the line where it needed to be drawn. She couldn’t let Trent Murdock step across that line, nor could she let herself. Keeping her distance shouldn’t be a problem. It was obvious from the time she’d just spent with him that Trent didn’t want pity. He was far too strong for that.
Yet when she’d looked deep into his eyes, she’d seen a haunting pain that she could relate to.
Relate to or not, he doesn’t want you getting close. Bailey’s inner voice spoke sensibly. He wasn’t one of her misfits to be taken in and watched over.
Which was a good thing, since she had no intention of doing so anyway.
Stray dogs were one thing.
Cowboys with haunting eyes were quite another.
CHAPTER THREE
TRENT COULD NOT SLEEP. What was it about a woman who took in stray dogs and stood up for the rights of a blind horse that had him tossing and turning all night? He neither needed nor wanted a woman in his life, much less Bailey Chancellor, yet he still couldn’t stop thinking about her. She fascinated him.
She’d tried to seem nonchalant, but she was obviously drawn to the animals she perceived as needy. She’d taken a harder look at Star than any of the other horses he’d shown her; and most people would’ve called animal control and let them deal with a dog like the blue heeler-mix rather than feed it and lock it in the barn to save its sorry hide.
Trent shook his head. As much as he loved dogs, he’d come close to phoning animal control himself when he’d first noticed the heeler, for the dog’s sake if nothing else. A stray could get into all kinds of trouble, not to mention that the animal had no way to fend for itself. He’d never understood why people thought they could simply turn an animal loose in the country and it would be okay.
He might have left food out for the dog if it hadn’t looked so much like Jax. He’d brought Jax home to Sarah just before they found out she had cancer. The blue heeler–border collie cross had become her constant companion. Amy had taken the dog with her when she left, and Trent hadn’t bothered to get another one.
But somehow Bailey had managed to distract him from all that with her unplanne
d visit to Windsong. Hell, he’d talked more to her than he had to anyone in a long while, other than the buyers who came to see his Arabians. He’d tried to tell himself that Bailey, too, was simply a potential buyer. But he knew better. Deep down, he had to admit he’d enjoyed her company far more than he wanted to. Why, he wasn’t sure, and that disturbed him more than anything.
Trent got out of bed at six, ready for his morning routine: feed and water the horses, check the foals, have some coffee, then head back outside to work on halter-training the colts and fillies, which varied in age and in stages of learning. He didn’t know what time Bailey planned to come over, but he was fairly certain it wouldn’t be any time too soon. City people generally started their days when business hours began. They had no concept of rising with the chickens, so to speak.
As he went outside, a sharp ringing, like something striking the ground repeatedly, came from Bailey’s place, the sound carrying easily on the clear mountain air. Curious, Trent walked to a high point of ground where he was able to look down on the small valley in which Bailey’s ranch nestled. He could just make out the woman who’d kept him awake much of the night. She was in the backyard, and from the looks of it, she was wielding a posthole digger. Surely not. What on earth was she doing?
There was only one way to find out.
Rationalizing that he was being neighborly not nosy, he headed across the pasture, through the gap in the fence, onto Bailey’s property. As he drew near, he saw the blue heeler-mix tethered to a rope tied to a tree not far from where Bailey was digging. The dog acted like someone had just kicked the daylights out of him. A mournful expression on his face, he crouched on his belly, ears flat, tail tucked, the rope pulled as taut as it could possibly get without choking him. Trent doubted Bailey had done anything to him. He was probably just afraid of the rope.
Trent turned his attention to Bailey. She was indeed digging a hole, a pair of gardening gloves protecting her hands, her hair in a French braid. She wore cutoff jeans, and a white tank top that showed off a tan he wondered how she’d had time to acquire, given that her job kept her indoors all day. Probably a tanning salon. But as Bailey glanced over her shoulder and smiled at him, she somehow seemed at home gripping the posthole digger, more than a city woman should have. More like a woman who’d come by her tan honestly.
