by Brenda Mott
Really.
Bailey swallowed hard and tried to look away from the pockets of Trent’s Wrangler jeans as he made his way up her porch steps. Buddy came around the corner, halted when he saw Trent, then eyed Bailey and actually wagged his tail.
“Will you look at that,” she said, her jaw dropping. “He wagged his tail at me.”
“I don’t blame him,” Trent said, shooting her a teasing smile. “You offered me something cold to drink and here I am. He’s not stupid.”
She graced Trent with a mock glare. “In other words, he’s not liable to bite the hand that feeds him.”
“Exactly.”
“Hmmph,” Bailey said. “Goes to show how much you know. I think he’s starting to like me.” She wondered if she could say the same for Trent.
As soon as the thought was out, she pushed it back where it had come from. Silly! He liked her well enough, in a friendship sort of way, but that was as far as it would go. She knew that, and it was fine by her.
“Come here, Buddy!” she called, snapping her fingers, determined to prove her point.
The heeler took one glance at her, trotted toward the fence and leaped over it as though it wasn’t even there.
A chuckle rumbled up from Trent’s chest. “So much for your theory and your fence,” he teased.
Bailey shot him a glare for real. “Very funny.”
“Guess I’m going to have to get better in a hurry,” Trent said, holding up his sprained wrist, “so I can help you raise that fence higher.”
A retort that she didn’t need his help was on the tip of her tongue, but the warmth in his eyes was enough to stop her. “I guess so,” she said. “Now, do you want that root beer or not?”
“Sure do.” He followed her into the kitchen, and Bailey took two cans of Barq’s from the fridge.
“Would you like a glass?” she asked.
“No. The can’s fine.” As he took it, their fingers brushed, making the pulse in her throat leap. What was wrong with her? She was acting as silly as a filly on locoweed.
Outside, Bailey sank onto the porch steps, thinking Trent would find a place away from her. No such luck. Instead, he sat on the step above her, his knees grazing the side of her arm. She turned toward him, searching for something to say. Something that sounded as though it came from a woman who had good sense and knew her own mind.
“You smell good.” That definitely was not it.
Bailey looked at her root beer and wondered half-heartedly if it had somehow been tampered with at the factory—spiked with truth serum.
Trent’s eyebrows shot up like two caterpillars on a twig. “Thanks,” he said. “Though I don’t see how I could, after an evening doing chores.” His mouth quirked in a half grin.
“That’s just it,” Bailey said, trying for a save. “You smell like hay and—and wood shavings…” And musky cologne that obviously lasts all day. “And you remind me of—of a warm summer afternoon.”
“I do?”
“Oh, yeah.” She groped for something to add, something that would kick her brain back into gear and make her stop thinking how nice it would be to wrap her arms around Trent and inhale that musky cologne at close range. “I love the scent of hay and wood shavings.”
“So do I,” Trent said. “I’ve always loved the smell of horses and barns, especially a show barn where all the horses are shampooed and groomed to the nines, smelling of baby oil and pine shavings.”
“I got to go to a horse show once,” Bailey said. “The stock show, as a matter of fact.” It was one of the best memories of her childhood, one of the few that were truly good. “I was ten years old. I think that’s where my longing for a horse began.” She smiled as she recalled her twelfth set of foster parents taking her to the Denver National Western Stock Show.
Suddenly, she felt Trent’s hand on her shoulder, gently massaging. Startled, Bailey met his gaze. “Who took you there?” he asked softly.
She could read the unspoken words in his eyes. Not your parents. She’d told him they’d died when she was four. Bailey froze beneath his touch, afraid to move. Afraid that he’d take his hand away, yet at the same time wishing he would.
Again, the feeling she’d had at the ice-cream parlor overcame her—a reluctance to open up to Trent. She wasn’t quite ready for that. “My foster parents,” Bailey said. There was no need to tell him that she’d been moved from one home to another, for one reason or another, for the better part of her life.
Trent’s gaze softened, and he continued to stroke her shoulder. “You should’ve been able to share things like that with your own parents,” he said, his voice husky. “But instead, it was all taken from you. Just like that.” He snapped the fingers of his other hand, and sadness filled his eyes, tearing at Bailey’s heart. The look of deep understanding she saw there was enough to undo her. Completely.
Here she’d thought to relate to Trent, when indeed it was the other way around. That he might feel sympathy for her had never occurred to Bailey, and the knowledge swept through her like a shock wave, leaving her feeling vulnerable.
“Yes.” She nodded, unable to wrench her gaze from his. Her throat tightened with emotion, and she reached up to lay her hand on his, watching him over her shoulder. “I have only a few vague memories of my parents, yet I’ve always felt a part of me died with them, a part I could never get back.” The words came out barely above a whisper, as if she had something stuck in her windpipe.
Bailey told herself to look away from him, that what she saw in Trent’s eyes couldn’t possibly lead to anything. A hunger, a longing, lingered there, as though he too suffered from wanting something he couldn’t have. His gaze darkened.
Bailey held her breath.
And then she turned toward him. He lowered his face to hers and raised his hand to cup her jaw. She shut her eyes and ignored the warning in her mind that screamed at her to move away before it was too late.
But it was already too late. Trent’s mouth closed over hers in a kiss that was neither gentle nor harsh. Instead, it was needy, possessive, both giving and taking. He wound the fingers of his left hand through her hair and she placed her hands at his nape, drawing him near. Their mouths sought frantically with a hunger neither Trent nor Bailey could deny or contain.
He kissed her over and over again, until she was breathless, until her heart cried out for him to stop and to never stop, both at the same time.
When at last he pulled away, his eyes were the color of a stormy sky, his features taut with longing. “Bailey,” he whispered. His strong fingers massaged her neck, still caught in the curtain of her hair. He trailed the back of his free hand over her cheek, his sprained wrist forgotten.
And that one word, just her name, held so much…spoke volumes.
Like her, he felt a loss and a need to compensate for it. And like her, he was scared. Afraid to give love to the wrong person, afraid to lose again.
For the first time, it hit home. What scared the hell out of her was knowing that they really had something in common, something that could lead to a strong bond between them. She was afraid to be vulnerable, afraid to offer her love openly, only to have it crushed into nothing. That was what frightened her most about him. That was what had kept her pulling away from him, telling herself she didn’t need to be burdened by the emotional baggage he carried.
Trent rose from the step and retrieved his pop can. “Thanks,” he said simply. For the kiss? The root beer? For sharing ice cream and an evening full of emotion?
Bailey couldn’t speak.
She just watched him stride to his pickup truck and leave without a backward glance.
And one thought stayed with her.
They had something in common, all right, she and Trent. And oddly enough, it wasn’t bringing them together—it was tearing them apart.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TRENT TOSSED and turned in his bed that night, then finally got up and went outside to sit on the porch. He could not stop thinking of Bailey.
He couldn’t believe he’d kissed her! Yet he’d been powerless to stop it from happening. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he’d thoroughly enjoyed it. Bailey was a beautiful woman, inside and out, and knowing that she understood what it was like to suffer a tragic loss served only to draw him closer to her. But he didn’t want to be closer to her. He’d made a promise and he meant to keep it. Falling for Bailey could only spell trouble with a capital T, in more ways than he could even begin to count.
She was all wrong for him, for crying out loud. Clearly, she was a woman who knew exactly what she wanted—a family. She’d come right out and said so, and then she’d asked him if he ever planned to marry again. Her statement had seemed innocent enough at the time, but now he wondered if it really had been. Not that she was trying to corner him or anything. It was just that Bailey obviously felt as attracted to him as he did to her, and therefore needed to find out if he wanted to settle down again.
She might as well get that idea out of her head right now, and he might as well forget about what had happened between them.
If only he could.
Good God, he’d known the woman mere days! What was he doing kissing her, much less thinking the thoughts he was thinking about her? Disgusted with himself, Trent stared into the darkness. The yard light over at Bailey’s place cast a silver glow, illuminating enough of the pasture for Trent to make out Star’s silhouette against the backdrop of night.
This was doing him no good.
How the hell was he ever going to get past what he was feeling for Bailey with her living right next door? Trent stood and shoved his hands through his hair, his wrist throbbing. This was crazy. He was a grown man, and there was absolutely no reason he couldn’t forget about that kiss and move on.
So why couldn’t he sleep?
Trent stalked back into the house, letting the screen door slam behind him. He glanced at the kitchen clock. Twelve-thirty; eleven-thirty in California. His dad had always been a night owl, unlike most horsemen. But he was also usually up by six or seven at the latest. Vigorous and youthful beyond his sixty-eight years, Zachary Murdock was a man who loved his horses and his children almost equally, and who’d reacted with nothing short of joy the day he’d found out he was to become a father for the fifth time.
Trent smiled at the knowledge that he’d been the only one of the kids who’d arrived unplanned. With ten years between him and his youngest sister, he’d been coddled by all four of his sisters, who’d never felt one ounce of jealousy or resentment because he was the only son. Maybe that was because his parents had never shown favoritism for one child over another.
His dad had missed out on college by becoming a father at seventeen, but he’d made up for it by working hard, building his Arabian ranch into one envied by most people in the Sonoma Valley, where Zach eventually went to live. People from all over the world paid good money to own a Zadel Arabian—the ranch name a combination of Trent’s father’s and that of his mother, Della.
Trent came from a family so filled with love, he’d had no doubt he would find the same in his own marriage to Amy. But all his dreams had shattered, and he had no desire to go that route again. He needed to stay away from Bailey.
Maybe talking to his dad would help.
He reached for the phone and dialed.
Zach’s voice stretched across the miles, sounding so close. “Hello, Trent.”
Trent grinned. “How’d you know it was me, and don’t say caller ID, because you haven’t bothered to subscribe.”
His dad chuckled, his voice deep and friendly. “Who else would be phoning me at this hour?” Then he sobered. “Is everything all right, son?”
No, everything isn’t.
He had a horrible case of lust for Bailey, and he’d kissed her and wanted to do so again.
“Everything’s fine, Dad. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Well, I’m glad about that,” Zach said. “Your mother’s sound asleep. I was just sitting here watching the Late Show and thinking of you, believe it or not.”
“You were?”
“Indeed. Guess what I got today.”
“No!” Trent didn’t even have to guess. He could tell by the little-boy quality in his dad’s voice exactly what it was. A new horse, and if that was the case, it would be none other than the one his father had passionately longed for, a seven-year-old stallion owned by Zach’s neighbor and friendly rival on the show circuit. Zach had coveted the animal for years, and ever since his neighbor had fallen into poor health and debated putting the stallion up for sale three months ago, Zach had talked of little else. Ibn Ra Jahim, a half brother to his own mare Bronnz, was a chestnut with flaxen mane and tail, his coat a brilliant red-gold.
“I did!” Zach laughed. “Fifty thousand dollars’ worth of horseflesh, son, and I feel like a boy again!”
Trent chuckled. “You always feel like a boy, Dad.”
“Well, horses will do that to you, I’m telling you. They keep you young. So, do you want me to ship some semen to you come February?” It was the usual start of the breeding season, which ran into late spring.
The eleven-month gestation period of a mare was a long time to wait for a foal. But the reward a breeder felt when that foal finally arrived, simply could not be described. “Sure, Dad, that would be great,” Trent said dryly. “I doubt I can afford your stud fee, though.”
“Stud fee schmud fee,” Zach said, and Trent could picture him characteristically waving dismissively. “Consider it an early birthday present. Just remember who your friends are if you ever want to sell his sister.”
Trent laughed. With Zach’s collection of stallions, he no doubt had the perfect mate already lined up for Bronnz. “That I can do, Dad, but I still wouldn’t feel right not paying you for the semen.”
“Well, then, I guess you’ll have to talk to your banker about a loan,” Zach joked. “How is Hal Peterson, anyway?”
“Hal retired,” Trent said.
“The hell you say! I didn’t think that old codger would ever give up banking. He loved that job more than his wife, maybe even more than his horses.” The comment was good-natured. His dad had met Hal Peterson on more than one occasion, when Zach came to visit. The two horsemen got along like peanut butter and honey.
“Yeah, well, a lot of folks aren’t too happy about it, but I guess that’s the way it goes,” Trent said.
“So who took his place?”
“A woman, name of Bailey Chancellor.”
“A lady bank president, huh?” Zach’s voice piqued with interest. “Is she good at her job?”
She’s a good kisser.
Trent curled his fist around the phone cord. “I think she probably is. She’s making changes in the bank’s policy that have a lot of folks up in arms, but her intentions are good.” The Bailey he’d seen was a woman full of compassion and idealism. Surely she didn’t turn down farmers’ loans for the pleasure of imitating Ebenezer Scrooge.
“Well, hopefully she’ll work out. Some folks just don’t like change. It might take time for them to come around.”
“I would imagine.”
Zach paused. “Is something wrong?” His ability to pick up on the mood of his children had never ceased to amaze Trent.
“No, Dad, not really.”
“You’re sure?”
“Bailey’s my neighbor.”
“And that’s a problem?”
“I kissed her.”
“I see. Well, that might not be especially good for business relations, but it’s not exactly a crime, you know. Not unless she threatens you with sexual harassment, that is. But that’s not what’s going on, is it?”
Trent sighed and sank onto a chair at the kitchen table. “Nothing’s going on. I kissed her—that’s that. I won’t let it happen again.”
Zach’s tone softened. “Son, it’s perfectly normal for you to want a woman. Why are you beating yourself up over it?”
“I’m not beating myself up.” The den
ial came out a little too sharply even to his own ears. “Look, Dad, we’ve been over this before. I just don’t have any desire to be with somebody right now. I’m happy by myself, and I don’t expect that to change.”
“Trent, I know you’re still hurting. Your mother and I are, too. You’ll always grieve for your daughter, but time will ease your pain.”
“Dad—”
“Hear me out. What you went through was horrible, something no parent should ever have to suffer. Life isn’t always fair, but just because you lost your wife and your child doesn’t mean you don’t have a right to happiness.” The rattle of cellophane on the other end of the line told Trent his father was doing what he always did when he was about to settle into a deep, serious discussion—opening a bag of pretzels and pouring them into his favorite wooden bowl. That and a ginger ale were his dad’s version of a good cigar and a glass of brandy.
Trent didn’t want to get into a serious discussion, but Zach was already off and running.
“I know you miss Sarah like there’s no tomorrow. But you can’t crawl into the grave after your daughter, man! You’ve got to snap out of this lone-wolf thing and get out and enjoy your life. You’re young, son, and I hate seeing you this way. You say you’re happy, but you’re not. You’ve wrapped yourself in a cocoon where nobody can reach you and you don’t have to be afraid to love again. And that bothers me more than you can know.”
Trent stared at the wall without seeing it. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Dad. I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I just want to be left alone. It doesn’t bother me. I’m doing fine, and I don’t want you to worry over me. Now, tell me more about your new stallion.”
Zach sighed, and pretzels rattled against the wooden bowl as he fished around for one and popped it into his mouth.
They talked horses for almost an hour. Before they hung up, Zach tried one last time. “Promise me one thing before you go.”
