by Susan Fox
As if reading his mind, the horse gazed sideways at him out of one liquid brown eye, then shifted position and plunked a gigantic hoof on the toe of Evan’s boot.
“Ow!” He shoved the horse, to no avail. The animal opened its mouth, revealing frighteningly large teeth, and yawned. Evan drew back from those giant teeth and the gust of grassy breath. Or at least as far back as he could draw, given that he was anchored by one foot.
“Rusty!” It was Jess’s assistant. She bustled over and gave the horse a gentle swat on the neck. It yawned once more and shifted position again, freeing Evan’s foot.
“You all right?” the girl asked.
His boot was filthy and scarred, his toes were no doubt bruised, his nostrils twitched in protest at the smell of horse. “I’ll live,” he said curtly.
“You gotta be firm with him.”
“I’ll remember that.” As if he had any idea how to be “firm” with a horse. He sent a silent curse winging in Gianni’s direction. It wasn’t the first to fly that route over the last couple of days, and he knew with certainty it wouldn’t be the last.
Horses were bad enough. At least he’d been able to anticipate, and do some preparatory reading. But he hadn’t anticipated Jess.
Back when they were seventeen he had, thanks to his adolescent hormones and stupidity, screwed up the finest thing he’d ever known.
The ugly horse stared at him sideways again.
“All right,” he muttered. “Even if she did blow me off back then, I owe her a face-to-face apology. I’ll do it as soon as I get the chance, and then I’m going home.”
The horse shifted position, looked away, and snorted.
Evan was tempted to bail out on this ride, but that would raise questions. He didn’t want to air his and Jess’s personal business in public. He glanced over to where she was still engaged in pairing guests with horses. She was so not his type of woman, it made no sense that the sight of her quickened his breath and sent a heavy pulse of arousal through his blood.
She shoved the brown cowboy hat off her head so it hung on a cord down her back, and laughed at something a big-haired woman said.
God, but he’d missed that infectious laugh. It seemed to bubble from a wellspring in her very soul. Suddenly, his knees weakened and he leaned against the horse. He remembered how many times over the past years Jess Bly had popped into his thoughts.
She’d been his best friend, his staunch ally, since his first day at Caribou Crossing Elementary. He was seven; it was grade two; his family had moved to town three days earlier. His parents—Barbie-doll Brooke and dark-skinned Mohinder—were, as usual, hungover and fighting, so he’d walked to school by himself. An outsider, as always. Hating being in another new place; hating the dust and mosquitoes; hating having parents who smelled like stale booze, parents who hit each other and him.
And then magic happened. A little girl with a ponytail and sunny smile befriended him.
That same female, with the same hair and same smile, now clamped her hat back on her head and bellowed, “Okay, folks, listen up.”
He shoved away from the horse and tried to focus, but his thoughts were more on Jess herself than on what she was saying. Superficially, she didn’t look much different than she had as a teenager. Slim, fit, not too tall. Hair a glossy chestnut, hanging past her shoulders, bound with a leather thong so it fell in a gleaming tail. It was her face that had changed the most. It was unlined, yet wore a maturity that said she was a woman now. Was that why he felt so uncomfortable, so sexually aware of her? This was almost as unsettling as back when his childhood pal had first sprouted breasts.
“All right,” Jess called. He focused yet again. She’d been giving instructions and he had missed the whole spiel. That wasn’t like him. He had—as Cynthia teased him—a mind like a steel trap.
“Mount up. Just do what I said, and Madisun and I will help you. When you’re up, check your stirrups, then bring your horses over here by the gate.”
“Mount,” Evan muttered. He might not have heard her directions but he’d speed-read a book on riding during the lengthy trip from The Apple to Hicksville. He could do this. Left foot in the left stirrup. But the book hadn’t mentioned that the stirrup would be hanging three feet off the ground.
“Up you go,” the assistant—Madisun—said cheerily.
“Easy for you to say.”
She chuckled and patted his horse’s neck.
Evan grabbed hold of the stirrup and managed to force the toe of his once-shiny boot into it, then got a death grip on the saddle and hauled himself up, inch by painful inch. He settled into an unyielding leather contraption perched a mile off the ground atop a beast who obviously had a grudge against him.
“Great, you’re all hunky-dory.” The girl handed him the reins. “His name’s Rusty and he’s as gentle as a lamb.”
“Tell that to my toes.”
She laughed, her brown eyes sparkling in the sun. “You’ll do great. Now, how are your stirrups? Feel okay?”
The boots pinched his feet, his toes were jammed through clunky metal rungs, his legs were twisted at an unnatural angle, and, to add insult to injury, he was sitting on top of a horse. “Just hunky-dory,” he echoed through gritted teeth.
She turned the horse’s head toward the closed gate in the wooden-railed fence that marked off the barnyard, and gave him another of her gentle slaps, this time on the rump. Rusty ambled over to where the other riders were congregating.
Evan tried to concentrate as Jess gave a few more instructions, but his mind still wouldn’t settle. He’d give his Rolex watch—hell, he’d give a year of his life—to be back in Manhattan, wheeling and dealing in his glass-walled office.
“Any questions?” Jess called in a clear voice.
Oh yeah, he had questions. Questions about her business plan, questions about why his hand tingled when it touched her shoulder, questions about what the hell he was doing here. As for questions about riding, he wasn’t about to confess he hadn’t been paying attention. Besides, he’d read his book and knew the basics: heels down, back straight, hold the reins in one hand. How tough could it be? With any luck, he wouldn’t make a fool of himself in front of Jess, and this would be the first and only ride he’d ever take in his life.
“I’ll be at the head of the line,” Jess told the ten guests, “and Madisun will bring up the rear. Sing out if you have any worries. We’ll walk for the first ten minutes to get the horses warmed up and everyone comfortable. Then we’ll do a nice slow trot. Don’t worry about grabbing on to the horn.”
Jess sprang into the saddle of a tall black horse, her motions graceful and effortless. “After the first quarter hour we’ll stop and Madisun and I will check and see how you’re all doing.” She reached down to unlatch the gate, swung it back, and rode through, motioning one of the guests to follow.
As Rusty strolled forward to take his place in the single-file line heading through the gate, Evan thought nervously about the waiver they’d all signed. It went against his nature to sign away his rights, but likely the thing wouldn’t stand up if one of Cynthia’s litigation colleagues got her teeth into it.
Not that Evan planned on having an accident. He curled one hand around the horn as the horses took a dirt trail winding through a forest of tall trees. Evergreens, he figured. He remembered something about needles indicating evergreens and leaves meaning deciduous, but that was grade three science. He’d never bothered to learn anything else about the vegetation that grew around Caribou Crossing.
After the first few minutes he realized nothing much was going to happen. His horse plodded along, the motion not exactly comfortable but nothing to be nervous about. The horse ahead plodded, the horse behind plodded. Now he could see why Rusty had been yawning. He released his death grip on the horn and patted the horse’s neck. “Good boy.”
He glanced at his hand, then lifted it to his face. Red dust was already working its way into the creases of his palm and there was a distinct odor of
horse. He wrinkled his nose and wiped his hand on his jeans. Thank God the Crazy Horse had a laundry service.
His horse was three back from Jess’s and occasionally he caught a glimpse of her hat or heard her laugh as she chatted to the person behind her. That laugh again, hearty and infectious.
So TJ Cousins was Jess Bly. Before he made a precipitous exit back to New York—before he let Gianni down—he needed to analyze the situation fully.
He’d come here predisposed to reject TJ’s investment proposal. In Manhattan, it had seemed like pie in the sky. Now that he realized TJ was really Jess, he suspected the pie was half-baked. He and Jess had both been dreamers, but he’d had a solid grip on reality. With Brooke and Mohinder Kincaid for parents, reality was hard to ignore. So he’d done his homework, come up with a detailed plan, and developed the discipline and business savvy to turn his dream into a reality that was the polar opposite of the life he’d grown up with.
Jess, much as he’d cared for her, never had turned one of her dreams into a solid plan, not in the years he’d known her. He peered ahead, trying to catch another glimpse of her, but the trail twisted through trees and she was hidden from view. Was there any chance she’d changed?
People did change. Look at him. In the first couple of years of university, on scholarship at Cornell, he’d transformed himself from a hick into a reasonable facsimile of a cultured gentleman. Maybe Jess had transformed herself from a lovable nitwit into a woman with business acumen. He chuckled. And his heavy-footed horse could fly.
No, he figured she was just a girl who liked to play with dreams. If her latest one didn’t pan out, he doubted it’d be a big surprise—or a big loss—to her. Her wrangler job had the two things she’d always considered essential: It centered around horses and it was located in her “neck of the woods,” as she used to phrase it. No, there’d never been any doubt about her priorities.
Nor had there been any doubt about his: He’d always wanted to take a gigantic bite out of the Big Apple. In the past ten years, he’d realized his dream. He had gone to university and graduate school, won a prestige job at a top investment firm, then struck out on his own and established a successful business.
He sucked in a deep breath. The air here smelled peculiar. Of dust and plants and horses. A far cry from Manhattan, where the odors of a dozen cuisines mingled with exhaust fumes and the burning-garbage smell of expensive cigars. Manhattan might stink, but it was the stink of life. Vital, cosmopolitan, hub-of-the-universe life. Never a dull moment. Rusty wouldn’t have time to yawn.
Suddenly his horse lurched forward. Evan made a desperate grab for the horn. Was Rusty running away?
He regained enough composure to realize Rusty was still in line, and all the horses had picked up the pace. This must be a trot. It had to be the most uncomfortable motion in the world. He winced each time his backside whacked the unyielding leather. And it wasn’t just his butt that was taking a pounding. Grimly, he wondered if he was doing irreversible damage to his male equipment. Could he feel any more miserable?
When he got back to Manhattan, he was going to kill Gianni. No, he was going to tell him to invest with TJ Cousins, and watch his client quickly go bankrupt. Except doing so would violate his professional pride and ethics. Evan flopped down, groaned, jounced up again. It would have to be murder.
Finally, as mysteriously as they had started, the horses stopped trotting and settled back to a saunter. So this was riding. Painful and utterly boring. Evan couldn’t understand why some folks got so excited about it.
But Jess always had. When he first met her, she’d been riding for years. She boasted that she’d been comfortable in the saddle before she could walk, and he’d believed her. Especially after he met her parents, true horse lovers, too.
Looking back, he marveled at their friendship. They’d had nothing in common, but somehow they’d become the best of pals. The thought of her had sustained him through so many miserable nights in his sagging bed at the run-down shack his parents rented.
He realized Rusty had stopped. All the horses had, single file along a path through a grassy meadow. What a relief. His left knee was aching, so he took his foot out of the stirrup and stretched his leg. Christ, they’d been riding for only fifteen minutes. He was supposed to be in good shape, according to his personal trainer.
Jess rode back along the line having a quick word with each guest, her black horse prancing and fussing. Evan guessed the horse was as restless as he was.
When Jess reached Evan, she said, “How ya doin’?”
He hated to admit weakness but his knee really was killing him. And this was an hour-and-a-half ride. He pointed down. “Sore knee.”
“Put your foot back in the stirrup.”
“That’s not going to help.”
She gave an exasperated growl in the back of her throat. “Just do it, Ev.”
After he obeyed, she shook her head. “Your stirrup’s too short. Weren’t you listening when I talked about stirrup length?”
“I, uh, guess I thought they were okay.”
“Well, this one’s not. Lift your leg.”
“Huh?”
She rolled her eyes. “Kick your foot out of the stirrup again and hike your leg forward on the saddle like this.” She demonstrated and he obeyed clumsily.
Then she leaned over and lifted the flap of leather that covered the stirrup. He glanced down and saw that the stirrup was held on to the saddle by a strip of leather that buckled like a belt. Jess pulled the end of the strap out of the buckle. The brim of her hat brushed his hip as nimble fingers worked the leather only a few inches from his thigh. Awareness of Jess as a woman surged through him and he sucked in a breath as his male equipment proved it was still entirely functional, hardening under his fly.
Jess did up the buckle, yanked the stirrup down, then replaced the leather flap and gave it a pat.
When she straightened, saying, “Now you’re set,” her cheeks were flushed. From bending over, or had she noticed his arousal?
For a moment they stared into each other’s eyes.
Evan felt like he had as a teenager, when his body figured out that the tomboy he’d grown up with had overnight blossomed into a desirable young woman.
God help him, he’d wanted her, and he wanted her now. It had been irrational then, when their dreams were aimed in opposite directions, and now it was impossible. She was married, he was practically engaged, and he was almost certainly going to stomp on her latest dream as roughly as Rusty had stomped on his foot.
Jess clamped a hand on her hat, anchoring it more firmly, and turned her attention to the woman behind him. Evan found he’d been holding his breath, and now drew in air with a small gasp.
“What?” Jess called over her shoulder.
“Nothing. Uh . . . my knee feels better now. Thanks.”
“Uh-huh. Next time pay attention.”
He grinned. Jess could be patient, but she didn’t suffer fools gladly. Must be tough, working with dudes. She was a naturally skilled rider; their ineptness must drive her nuts.
Like he had, as a kid. He’d never been the physical type, never fit in as a country boy and never wanted to. Jess had given up attempting to lure him into physical activity when she saw that the few times she managed to persuade him onto a bike or a frozen lake he only fell down.
Strangely enough, it was in New York he’d learned to value fitness. At first it was a necessity, when headaches and backaches impaired his ability to function. But once he’d strengthened a few muscles and felt better, he was hooked. He would never be a true athlete, but it was a kick to realize he wasn’t as hopeless as he’d always believed. Just a late bloomer, he told himself, taking pride in watching his biceps flex as he pumped iron, or in giving agile Cynthia a run for her money on the squash court.
“If I can play squash, I can ride,” he muttered to Rusty as the line of horses began to move. No way was he going to fall off in front of Jess.
She was good at her
job. She’d found her niche and ought to stay here. Still, if he went home now and told Gianni not to invest, he’d be pulling the plug and sinking Jess’s dream. And he would be doing it based not on who she was now, but who she’d been a long time ago—plus, to be honest, his own discomfort about being around her.
That wasn’t fair. Not to her, nor to Gianni. And it would violate one of his own basic principles: to not judge a book by its front and back covers but to read the pages in between. He’d already treated Jess shabbily once. He owed her. But what he owed her was an objective assessment. He wouldn’t be doing her a favor if he endorsed her funding and her business went belly-up.
Yet would Gianni even want him to stay at the Crazy Horse once he knew about Evan’s prior . . . friendship with TJ Cousins? It could be seen as a conflict of interest. He needed to phone his client as soon as the ride was over.
If the phone was available. The one damned pay phone. The Crazy Horse might be an internationally known resort, but it was still Hicksville in many ways. His picturesque cabin, charmingly decorated in something Gianni’d probably call “rustic chic,” featured numerous amenities: healthy designer beverages in the fridge, a CD player with a stack of country and western music and relaxation CDs beside it, a goose-down duvet on the four-poster bed, thick towels and a terry robe, and an assortment of herbal bath products.
Evan cared more about what it didn’t have. No cell reception, no telephone, no Internet, not even a television so he could keep up with world events. When he’d disbelievingly queried Will, one of the co-owners, who’d shown him to his room, Will said there was a pay phone and TV at the lodge, and a computer guests could use.
“That’s it?” Evan had asked disbelievingly. “That’s the full extent of the guests’ ability to connect with the outside world?” Had he traveled back in time more than half a century? And a pay phone? Seriously? He was paying six thousand dollars a week, and he had to use a pay phone?
