Rode Hard, Put Up Wet

by Lola Rebel

  The boys are that age. The right age to do stupid shit, even if it weren't for a paycheck. You offer them permission and the money, and… well, it only takes one look at their faces to know exactly how they feel about the offer.

  "Well, sure. We could take a look at him. You know. Give it a shot. What kind of money we talking about?"

  "Don't know. I figure that if we brought somebody in, I'd probably end up paying a couple hundred bucks. Call it a hundred if y'all manage it. Cash bonus."

  "And when are we supposed to do this? Plenty of post-holes need digging."

  "I don't damn know. You boys complain too much. Here I am, offering you extra money, and you're bellyachin' about when should you do it?"

  The youngest is nineteen and his boots are kicking up dust before the other two know what's going on. Randy's quiet, but he's got a wildness to him, as well. Rash. Making the offer might as well have meant Phil was just asking him to do it.

  For all that Callahan knew, the boy had already been trying on the side, and the only difference now was that he had permission to do it in the open. If that were the case—and a creeping doubt in his mind couldn't quite be forced into a box that said it wasn't—he'd better not find out about it.

  Because up til now, it was definitely not their jobs to do any horse-breaking, and he was definitely not going to be God damn happy if he came back from lunch to find out that Randy was out of work for the next month because a horse broke his damn sternum doing something stupid off the clock.

  But then again, what was he going to do about it now? Yell at him? Nope. The other two took off after him a minute later, and by the time Phil Callahan was leaning up against the paddock fence, they'd already gotten the big thing saddled up, in spite of the Black's best efforts not to be saddled.

  It was only a moment later, as Randy shifted his weight up into the stirrup—the horse pulled away and Randy dropped back to the ground safely—that the bright red sports car drove up.

  Callahan turned. This wasn't the time for folks to be showing up, and it definitely wasn't the time for Morgan Lowe.

  Especially not with the boys thinkin' what they were thinkin'.

  Because if they didn't keep it to themselves, Callahan might start thinkin' it himself.

  Chapter Eight

  Morgan Lowe grew up in Nevada.

  She's aware of rodeos, in the sort of way that people are aware that people race around half-mile dirt tracks somewhere in the country, and that people make money doing it.

  She's aware of them in the same way that she's aware that there are probably stamp collectors working for her. It's likely the case, and she's not so stupid as to question it, but that doesn't mean that she knows anything about it, and it doesn't really mean that she's interested in knowing anything about it, either.

  But as she walks up, a youngish man—couldn't be older than twenty—with a cowboy's body tries to throw his weight up onto the horse.

  Part of Morgan might think that he's attractive, in a theoretical way. He's got a handsome body, but she's not thinking about any of that. The one that she's thinking about, thinking in more ways than she should, since the man is as off-limits as anyone could possibly come, stands outside the fence.

  He's got a sturdy build, and a square jaw. In some ways he looks like someone who was a movie star in his younger years, and then stopped doing it.

  Philip Callahan has a quiet confidence, and he doesn't look like the sort of guy who has ever looked in the mirror and wondered what someone else thought about his looks. Not that he has anything to worry about.

  If it was just his jaw, it might have been enough for most women. He's got an attractively square jaw, and whether he's smiling or frowning he manages to look at once intense and masculine.

  Like a movie star, which is exactly the impression she'd gotten. If he never did any work in that field, well, he was missing out. Then again, Morgan figures, it's not likely that there are as many Hollywood agents in Wyoming as there are in Vegas.

  It's more than just his jaw, though. Every motion, every movement, every expression… everything about the man is picture-perfect. As if he were designed by the Lord and imbued with his good looks for some kind of purpose. Like he was there specifically to tempt Morgan Lowe.

  He turns as she comes up. He's caught between laughing at the kid, she knows, and being less than happy to see her. She doesn't have time to worry about whether or not he's happy to see her, though. She's got a business to run, and that business relies on her getting close to him and convincing him to sell the property.

  "You're back," he says. Neutral. Which is better than she expected, at least. "Did you forget your jacket yesterday, and just now remembered?"

  "I thought I'd come see what I could do. You left in a hurry."

  "Well, I had to get back, didn't I?" He turns back to the horse. "We've got to get rid of him, and with his breeding—that means racing."

  Something sounds weird in his voice. He's got feelings about the horse, feelings that it's hard for Morgan to put her finger on. Just that he's got them.

  "Has he got a name?"

  "No," he says. "My wife was working on one, when he was just young."

  Wife? She looks down at his hand. A disappointment that she doesn't want to admit to runs through her when she sees the ring.

  "You're married, Mr. Callahan?"

  "Was married." He doesn't look at her. He reaches up with one hand and twists the ring around his finger a little.

  "What happened?"

  "Complications." The boy manages to get his leg swung up over the horse. It yanks left and then jerks hard to the right and kicks back, and half a second later the kid's on the tumbling head-over-heels into the dirt.

  The black stallion turns around and tries to throw what's left of the stuff on his back off, but they've got the saddle strapped on.

  "I'm sorry," Morgan says finally. Unsure what else to say. She feels bad about what she was just thinking about how he looked.

  "Don't be. I'm just a sentimental old man."

  "You don't look so old to me."

  "Yeah, tell that to the boys. Look at them. I tried that shit, my hip would pull clear out of its socket."

  "You look like you used to do pretty good for yourself."

  "This kinda shit? Never. I was a football guy. Was supposed to go to some big university in California, but… I dunno. Things didn't go that way."

  "Oh yeah?" It's caught her interest a little, but she's not going to pry if it's going to piss him off. She's got to walk a careful line.

  Once this is all done, she goes back home to Nevada. She's not looking for a relationship, and she's sure as hell not looking for a new friend for life.

  But at the same time, to convert the sale, she's got to get in his head a little. And he's got to get into her head a little, too. It's like dancing. They can't do a hell of a lot of anything if they're not on the same page.

  At the same time, you don't keep dancing forever. Eventually, you both step off the dance floor and you go back to your separate lives. The problem is, sometimes you find a real good dance partner, and…

  Morgan looks over at Phil Callahan. She doesn't know much about him. Once-married, former football player. Owns a ranch and a horse that he thinks could be good racing stock. Owns a ranch that's right between her new Wyoming plants. One that she'd very much like to own, instead.

  But from the tight hips, the broad shoulders… the powerful legs and the way that his shirt gets tight around his arms… she could definitely find worse dancing partners than him.

  Which means that she's got a real mistake lining up, if she's not careful. This is business, it's not personal.

  But that doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt in the end if she goes in too far, gets in too deep, or lets herself get funny ideas about him before they finally split up in the end.

  And with a man who looks like this, it is really a lot easier than it should be, to get all the wrong ideas.

  Ch
apter Nine

  "I don't know what you're trying to prove," Philip says finally. It's a quaint time, because Michael's trying to prove something himself, getting up there on that stallion.

  He's liable to get himself killed, but until one of them gets that hundred dollars they seem to have decided that they're going to take turns getting themselves thrown off and hoping to hell that it doesn't result in a whole mess of broken bones.

  So far, James fell in a way that had Callahan a little worried about him. He jumped up an instant later, and the way he was moving his left arm said that it couldn't have been worse than a strain. He looked like it barely hurt at all, so he might have been lucky.

  They've got it working a little better, now. They've actually got to the point where they can almost stay in the seat a few seconds. At this point, though, they've still got a long way to go, and with the sun starting to dip down on the horizon…

  "I don't know what you mean," she says. She's been watching the boys with a passing interest. Which is to say, she's kept her eyes on it, but she doesn't seem to have any sort of vested interest in their success. Not that any of them do, really.

  The notion that they're showing off for a girl, though, means that they're not going to quit now until Philip drags them off the back of the damn horse, or until one of them wins the day.

  "You got, what, a hundred people working that site? Probably another hundred at the other one. That about right?"

  "Not exactly, but close enough."

  "Why do you need my land? You got two big ol' factories going up. Ain't no need for three of them all in a row."

  "Apartments," she says. James works his arm in its socket. Must have hurt a little, at least, or he'd already be throwing his weight up while his brothers catch their breath. Then he takes a firm grip on the reins and shifts his weight up.

  "You in the business of renting out apartments, too?"

  James keeps his weight low. The horse tries to throw him off to the side, but he expects it, now. The elder boy throws his weight against it and stays in the saddle. His hurt arm flies free, the good one cinched in tight and close.

  "For the workers. We can offer them cheap rent, and it keeps them closer to the job site. So it's a win for them, and a win for us."

  "Huh."

  The horse tries throwing James again. Callahan winces as the boy's weight, low as he can keep it, comes flying off the saddle a couple inches. The horse comes back down onto the ground hard, and James keeps a good enough grip that the horse yanks him back down into the saddle.

  "We're not going to try to cheat you, you know. We'll make you a very generous offer, and we're prepared to negotiate. But having the space right there, practically butting up against both sides—I shouldn't tell you this, but it's worth quite a bit."

  "Well, then I'm sorry that I'm being such a cuss about it." His heart really isn't in the conversation. He's watching James and hoping he doesn't get his arm ripped out. Still, he's looking good for it.

  Then the horse kicks just right, and James's hand must not be cinched in tight enough because he slips and tumbles right onto his ass. Randy and Michael make a bee-line to grab the horse and get it calmed down. James pushes himself up, looks up to see how the girl's thinking about him.

  But Philip Callahan's standing right there next to her, and he knows the answer. He's not thinking about them at all. Not thinking about him, either, and he shouldn't be thinking about her.

  She's thinking about what it would do for her business if she got them to sell her the land.

  "Well, if you're sorry about it, I can get some papers drawn up—"

  "Not that sorry," he says. He shakes his head as if he were sad about it, but he's not.

  "You can't blame a girl for trying, can you?"

  He can't. And he doesn't. But that doesn't mean that he's changing his mind. His eyes slide over on the horizon. They have time for maybe another few tries before they're done. The little sapling reminds him why he's not selling.

  "I don't blame you, Miss Lowe. I just want you to know that I'm not changing my mind, in spite of not blaming you."

  "Well, if you won't let me buy your ranch, you could at least let me buy you dinner." Callahan looks over at her. His eyebrow raises. "And the boys. Of course. Ain't every day you get that kind of entertainment for free."

  Randy tightens a gloved hand into the reins and throws his weight up onto the horse, and then hangs on for dear life as the ornery son of a bitch gets to trying to throw him off again.

  "I couldn't. And neither could they. You got other things on your mind, don't worry about us."

  "Well, Mr. Callahan, I'm not a woman who gives up easy. If I was, I wouldn't be able to do my job. So you're going to be seeing a lot of me. You might as well get the benefits, too."

  He lets out a breath. "You want to take the boys, they'll eat about anything. But leave me out of it, I'll find something on my own."

  He doesn't want to admit that he doesn't want to start any rumors about the two of them, and he doesn't want to spend any time with her because if some rumors got started then they wouldn't be that far from the truth.

  Morgan Lowe is a hell of an attractive woman. It's easy to imagine himself with her. It'd be easy for any man to imagine it. The boys seemed to think that he had some ideas in his head about it, and it was hard not to think that maybe he was getting some sort of notion.

  He didn't want to get any notions. He wanted to keep working his ranch, get rid of the Black, and get back to his life. Get back to the work that he'd known since he was just a boy.

  Because the truth is, there's no space for a second attractive woman in his life, no matter how much he wants there to be.

  Chapter Ten

  Morgan Lowe sits in her car with the lights off, and her stomach doing a flip. What the heck is she thinking? There's nothing to be nervous about.

  And yet, it's dark, the lights in the house are still on, and she's got a paper bag full of takeout. Takeout for two, it should be noted. Because she's got to impress somehow, and not being a scaly bitch has been the best way to get him to talk to her so far.

  There's no being sure that this will even work. But going out of her way to think about him, maybe, will show that she's got the human element. Maybe she'll look thoughtful.

  Maybe she won't. Maybe she'll look pushy and needy and everything that she doesn't want to be described as. Maybe everything will just go sideways, and she'll have to go back with her tail between her legs, knowing that things couldn't possibly go in the direction of selling the place.

  But there's a good chance that neither is going to happen. More than likely, she stays in this awful limbo that she's already been in for days now. She'll be allowed to come around, and he won't be even willing to think about it.

  Well, everyone's willing to think about it. Everyone has a price, and it's a price that she'd be willing to pay, if it means that she gets to have that feather in her cap. Doesn't matter what the number is—none is too high.

  But sometimes the price isn't something in money. Or you can't get them to make the mental translation from the money to whatever they really want.

  Sometimes they want what they've got because they think it makes them look better. They don't want the thing, they want to look good. So you give them an out, a way to look good without whatever you wanted. Then the emotions are out of the way, and then they've got a number.

  Morgan isn't sure what the emotions are that Callahan is dealing with. He's got history here, and when that history isn't with you any more… well, once she's got a better idea of the problem, she can get a better idea of the solution.

  She hefts up the bag of takeout. He'll let her in, or he won't. But she's not going to let herself get turned away by just the thought that he might not. She's got too much pride and she's worked too hard to get where she is, to let it go now.

  Not when she's so close.

  When she finally makes this sale, they'll have to respect her. The same t
hing is true of her, after all, as anyone else.

  It's not the ranch that matters. It's winning where her father lost, and showing Brad and all those sons of bitches back at the site that she's not just some woman who wants to priss around the site while the men do the real work.

  She's just as much of a leader, just as much of a captain of the ship as her father ever was. Just like him, she's willing to do any job that needs doing. And just like him, as the company grew, she hires the right people so that she shouldn't need to do much on the floor.

  This—property acquisition—was what her real job was. Hopefully there wouldn't be a riot waiting for her, Brad Lang at its head, by the time the ink dries.

  Chapter Eleven

  It's been a while since there was any reason to keep beer in the house. After all, there aren't any parties going on. Nobody's coming over to see much of anything.

  But with the buyers coming out any day now, it's not hard to imagine that they might want something to drink. Most will take water, some will take soda. A couple might not say no to a beer.

  And neither, right now, with the mood he's been in, would Philip Callahan. Not only wouldn't he—he didn't. Not that there was any reason that he shouldn't be drinking a little.

  He'd never had cause to drink alone, but it was a little celebration, all for himself. A chance to say to the world that he wasn't giving up. That he'd figure out, some way or the other, how to keep the ranch open.

  The stallion went, that was a couple grand right into the ranch. Went into new samples, went into new breeding stock. Went into making it a real business again, making real money. Making more than just horse-hair.

  There's a knock at the door. He's not that drunk. There's no way that he's imagining it. The knock comes again, and he sets the can down on the table, next to the four others like it.