Stabled (The Stables Trilogy #1)

by Penny Lam

  You deserve to be on trial, Maple Parsons. You know what you did.

  The thought, black as pitch and just as sticky, plastered itself in her mind before she could think about something else. She wanted to cower from it and all the swampy memories it dredged up. Her boyfriend leaving her hadn’t just left her hollow; it had left her scarred and volatile. The problem with volatility was it struck when you were least prepared to deal with it.

  Maple hadn’t been prepared for it, and she’d done something she wasn’t proud of. It was a good thing she’d left God behind on the ranch, because she’d be damned for the things she’d done. In her mind she heard tires squeal before the sickening bump-bump.

  Shaking her head, she picked at her fingernails, scratching away the memory.

  Maple couldn’t hide forever, though. Instead, she could bury her secrets and pain deeper, and try her hardest to move on. Hopefully at Mr. Deyton’s ranch. It wasn’t like he gave her much of a choice. Did she even want a choice? Or did she want someone to take the reins and steer her, taking away her choices? The thought made her so nervous she yelped at the driver, her stomach rolling.

  He pulled to the side just in time for her to lose her breakfast outside of the car. It was not a promising start.

  Chapter Two

  The ranch was marked by marble. Two huge pillars of cool, colored marble were at odds with the arid landscape around them. The fancy, swirling, decorative wrought-iron arch between the pillars was a mockery of the spiky, sharp flora that penetrated the fence around the property.

  The fence was taller than usual, the space between barbed wire tighter. It was typical to leave a little room so a person could hold the wire apart and squeeze between. No person was getting on Mr. Deyton’s property.

  Of course, as the gates slammed shut behind them and the driver locked them in place, that meant no person was getting off the property, either.

  Maple twisted her hands, apprehensive, as the car drove up a winding gravel road.

  "Would you like a better view?" The driver asked.

  “Yes, please.” Her palms were sweating and she wiped them on her jeans. What had she been thinking? Why was she here? The window hummed as it was rolled down by the driver. The whip of the wind felt cool on Maple's hot face, and she leaned out a bit so she could see ahead more clearly.

  Her mouth opened. Deyton's house wasn't huge in the way she'd expected. She'd imagined three stories, wrought iron balconies, and ornate front doors. The front gate had only reinforced that. Instead, she saw a ranch-style home. Which, of course, made sense. Sort of. Maple had a difficult time reconciling the expectations she'd had with the house she was seeing.

  Oh, it was still large. Massive, really, for what it was. She couldn't see the back of it, but it sprawled, more like a complex than a home. And the windows! The whole front of the house was glass. She could see inside of it from the car. White walls, huge splashes of color from pieces of art. This particularly piqued her interest. She’d been an art history major and now wondered what his pieces would say about him.

  Standing in front was a silhouette. “That’s Mr. Deyton, Miss. I’m sure he’ll want to show you around.”

  As they drove closer, she saw the cowboy hat tipped low, shielding the face. Her first surprise was that Mr. Deyton was taller than she'd expected. Extra tall, towering a few inches over six feet at a glance. His shoulders were wide and strong. He was in a dirty chambray button-down shirt. The top two buttons were undone. It hung on his well-muscled frame with the softness of a favorite, much-worn shirt.

  He was in jeans. Not fancy jeans. Wranglers, maybe? But he wore them fitted, like the cowboys she knew; after all, no one wanted the chafing that came from a baggy piece of clothing.

  Her eyes watered a little from the wind blowing in them, but it was dawning on her, slow and steady, that this man still worked on his ranch. Most of the ranchers she knew worked a little after their ranch got to be a certain size, but they spent most of the time in offices, taking care of paperwork and selling their product.

  Mr. Deyton--J.B.--was waiting. For her.

  Maple brought her thumb to her mouth and worried the nail with her teeth. Nothing about this was as she expected. The phone interview, the chauffeur, the house... or the man. They pulled to a stop in front of him and he lifted his gaze, the low brim of his hat finally revealing his face.

  Oh.

  She’d once read the phrase "devastatingly handsome" in a novel, and it had seemed like overkill. How could something as basic as looks be 'devastating?'

  Now she understood. Because with his tanned, weather-worn face, J.B. Deyton was a threat. His eyes were sharp. The kind of eyes that made her feel as if he'd see everything she'd ever done wrong in her life in a single glance. And she'd done more than just some wrong. His mouth was grim, but his lips sensual despite it. He was younger, too, than she'd expected. Maybe early to mid thirties. With his sun-worn skin it was hard to tell. He had that same ageless appeal of lifelong cowboys.

  Yes, he was devastating, beautiful to the point of pain. Just the right kind of handsome to chip at the careful walls she’d placed inside herself. What little calm she'd mustered was quickly unraveling. He'd demanded that she come interview on the phone, and she hadn't been able to argue. With just his voice, he'd commanded her. Now that she saw him in person, she felt herself splitting into two people.

  One Maple wanted to tell the driver to take her home, take her home, take her home. She wasn't ready for this. She wasn't ready for him.

  The other Maple, the one with the secrets, opened the door with a shaky hand and slid out of the car, ready to do anything he asked. Ready to beg for him.

  Damn. It was too late to turn back.

  "Maple." There is was again. That rough voice, owning the very air it rode out on. Maple shut her eyes, trying to find some thread of herself to grab a hold of. It was too late, because it was that exact moment an idea took root; this man could, and probably would, destroy what was left of her.

  "Yessir?" She looked at him and hesitated, unsure of what to do.

  Shake his hand, Maple. This is an interview, for Christ’s sake!

  Every ounce of her didn’t want to touch him. Touch made things real. She didn’t want the threat J.B. posed to her control to be made real.

  It didn’t matter. Maple went through the motions, shuffling forward and holding out a hand. He took it and shook once. His hands were dry and rough. Worker's hands. She was so overwhelmed by the moment that she forgot to squeeze to "put herself in it," as her Paw liked to say. His grip tightened on hers, though, and she wanted to crumple at his feet.

  Just as quickly as he'd shaken her hand, he dropped his into his front pockets. "It's--" she stumbled, desperate to remember formalities, words, anything, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Deyton."

  Her cheeks burned at the way she'd breathed pleasure.

  Maple thought she might vomit again.

  Hooded eyes speared her, gaze fixed pointedly on hers. Exposing her. This close she noticed something was off about them. Disconcerting. But the shade thrown from the wide brim of his hat made it difficult to discern just what was off.

  The moment dragged on for enough time that Maple was aware of her rapid breathing. She wanted to shut her eyes and hide from him. She wanted to go back in time, to the moment she picked up the phone, and tell her past self you aren't ready for this. He'll swallow you whole.

  “Reckon I better show you the stable.” He walked away.

  Maple hovered, watching his strong back under the thin chambray shirt. That was it? Just a quick handshake? He didn’t want to know about her? Ask her questions?

  Her feet dragged as her mind raced. It was hot, but not as bad as it had been. West Texas summers consisted of a tolerable dry heat. Sure, she felt it. But it didn’t stick or cling to her skin. When Maple had been at college in Louisiana she’d felt humidity for the first real time in her life. That had made the heat intolerable.

  The stable
wasn’t close to the house. It’s barn doors were thrown wide open. J.B. went in and Maple followed. It was a large inside, and quite nice. Maple noticed the wood for the stalls was beautiful; smooth and treated with a cherry stain. It made the inside look warm, the cherry creating an almost womb-like feel. She wondered if the horses liked it, or if they could even see the color as she saw it.

  There were twelve stalls in all, six on each side. At the far end were spaces for tack, grooming, and supplies. She could hear the soft swish of tails and the slow stomp of a hoof here and there. It smelled... like home. A mix of hay and manure and animal sweat. Sunlight filtered in through the open doors and through small windows along the top of the stable, but it only provided enough light to work.

  He walked through the stall, naming each horse. Not all of the stalls had occupants. There was Red, J.B.'s primary horse. She was nineteen years old, fifteen hands tall with a bay coat that started dark at her ears, then brightened to a deep mahogany. There was a white stripe on her nose and her hooves were capped in white. She was beautiful, well-paired with her rider.

  Next was Justice. Standing tall at sixteen hands, he was black at his head and neck, then faded to a smoky chestnut. J.B. said that Justice was usually ridden by one of his ranch hands when their own horse was sick or out of commission. Maple liked the star of white on his nose; it was like a sheriff's badge, making his name apropos.

  Then there was Mesa, dark chocolate all over and a petite fourteen hands tall, and next to her was Bonnie. Maple fell in love with Bonne immediately. She was older, twenty-seven years. Her muzzle was graying. Her body, still strong and tall at fifteen hands, was colored a soft, golden brown. Her mane was turning gray along her crest. Her eyes were a gorgeous, soulful black. The other horses had ignored her as J.B. introduced them, but Bonnie sidled up to the door immediately.

  Maple lifted her hand, stroking a warm cheek. It might be imagination, but it felt as if Bonnie leaned into her touch a little. She stood there, stroking and murmuring to the old horse. Telling Bonnie her name. Light brushes along the horse's neck.

  "Do you have any carrots?" she asked J.B..

  "I do, but I reckon we need to keep movin'. Carrots can come later, if yer a good girl."

  She felt a tug in her stomach at that, her head swimming. If yer a good girl. Was he speaking to Bonnie or to her? It felt as if the reward was being offered to Maple, like she was just another horse in his stable. She chewed her lip, mad that she wasn't more upset about it.

  You just misheard.

  "There's one more you should meet," J.B. murmured as he walked away. This horse was kept at the end, many stalls away from the other horses. As they approached Maple heard the warning neigh and the stamping of hooves. Their presence was making the horse nervous.

  Immediately, she shared its anxiety. She hadn't seen the horse yet. But like when she’d encountered J.B., there was a twisting trepidation in her heart as she approached the stall. Again she was struck with the impression that her demise might lie in that stall. Drawn to it none the less, she peered in.

  A beast thundered his hooves, stomping and snorting at her. At least sixteen and a half hands tall, the horse tossed his black head back and forth, being sure to pin her with both dark eyes. The massive chest and shoulders were attached to a formidable flank. The horse's coat was midnight; a black so dark it appeared blue in the spotted light of the stable.

  She gasped.

  "This would be Bane," J.B. said testily. Even his voice and composure changed around the jumpy horse. "Bane, because he's the bane of my existence. Won't let anyone ride him. Hell to clean out his stall. He's clipped three ranch hands with his hooves. He--” J.B.’s voice caught, startling Maple, “He’s done more than his fair share of hurt. 'Supposed to be trained when I bought him." J.B. spat in the dirt. "Obviously, he ain’t. Don't go in there on your own. Once a day someone’ll come out and help you with the bastard."

  Her blood thundered in her ears, and Maple couldn't take her eyes off the horse. She would have stayed there, locked in place, had a shovel not been shoved into her hands. A pair of work gloves followed.

  "Um?" Maple looked stupidly at the gear.

  "The day's almost gone, Maple. Let's get this place cleaned up." J.B. was already shoving his hands into gloves. They were large hands, and their grip on the wheelbarrow was sure.

  "Where should I put the horses?" She asked.

  "All but Bane can go into the pasture behind the barn. Be sure to lock the gate."

  She slipped the work gloves on and leaned the shovel next to Red's stall. One by one she went in, letting them smell her, stroking their necks. Each had a loose rope harness hanging in their stall. With tender care, Maple slipped them on and led the horses to pasture one by one.

  Bonnie took the longest, poking around until Maple gave her flank a gentle slap to get moving. Once the horses were moseying around the grass, she shut the gate and locked it. The sun still burned, fighting against the tug of the horizon, but they had plenty of grass and seemed content.

  Back inside, she grabbed her shovel and set to mucking out the stables. It was hard work. She loved every minute of it. Work was the one thing she knew she could lose herself in without getting hurt. She and J.B. worked silently, but efficiently, together. She shoveled the manure and he cleared out the soiled bedding.

  It was good work. It was hard work. Maple enjoyed the heat and focus. She was constantly aware of J.B.. The way he could lift and push bales of hay without a grunt. Or the way he occasionally would stop and peer at the horses in the pasture. Like he was just checking to make sure they were happy. Okay.

  She swept out the old straw. Together they moved new bedding in and fluffed it out. Maple replaced the horses' food and water. By the time she was finished, her cotton shirt was stuck to her, itching and soaked with sweat. Her jeans were worse and her boots were filthy. She'd have to give them a good cleaning tonight and hope the urine didn't ruin the leather.

  As if hearing her thoughts, J.B. said, "We'll get some rubber boots for you tomorrow. Is there anything else you need for the job?"

  They were in Bonnie's stall together. Now that she wasn't working, Maple became aware of her close proximity to her strange employer. He'd taken his hat off and his thick black hair was plastered to his head and neck. It was a little long-- the ends curled around his ears and nape, and looked playful and boyish; at complete odds with the rest of him. His shirt was stuck to his chest and confirmed that his body was the fit, lithe musculature of a man who works hard.

  Maple swallowed hard. "Does this mean I got the job?"

  Chapter Three

  His eyebrows pressed tight together. "Of course. What d'ya think we've been doin' this whole time?"

  "You told me to work, so, um..." her cheeks burned and she hated how nervous she was around him. He didn't seem like the type of person who had patience for timid girls like her. "I just did what you told me to? Followed orders?"

  "Was it an order?" His voice lowered, raspy. From the hard work? Was she making him angry? Maple's fingers knotted together, sliding and tugging on knuckles.

  "I suppose not, Sir--"

  "J.B.."

  Why did his name feel so strange in her mouth? She'd be okay with 'sir,' or 'Mr. Deyton.' To call him 'J.B.' seemed to be admitting an intimacy with the man. One she wasn't sure was there. She wasn't sure she could handle it being there.

  "I suppose not... J.B." Yep, felt like she was chewing on something tough, though not completely disagreeable. "I don't need anything else to do the job. Thank you for this opportunity."

  He nodded. "Yep." His eyes stopped meeting hers, instead gazing longingly at the stall door. Her heart fell, and she realized how much he must want to get away from her. This was his ranch, he wouldn't want to spend time with a silly girl like her.

  "What about Bane?"

  "I'll let the boys do him tonight. Tomorrow night Raúl'll help you. You'll meet him at dinner."

  Her stomach rumbled, and s
he was glad he mentioned food. This day was surreal. "Okay."

  "We better get the horses back in for the night," he drawled. They both took steps toward the door, bringing them close together. Her guts twisted when his hand grazed her wrist, stopping her.

  They paused, air static around them. Then J.B.'s large, rough looking hand gestured. "Ladies first, Maple."

  She was so self-conscious as she stepped in front of him that Maple felt every nerve alive, anticipating. The hairs on the back of her neck stood tall as she felt him move behind her, so close she caught a hint of his leather, cowboy smell. It was as if there were tiny fingers in her skin reaching out for him, craving him.