It turned him on.
Her hair was so short that it left the back of her neck exposed. He’d been longing to kiss those fine hairs at the nape of her neck ever since he’d first spotted her standing there in the barn, all bundled up in her purple jacket, cheeks pink from cold.
“Well, okay. A roundup. But frankly it’s nothing more than a trail ride when you come right down to it.”
“Lady, what we’ll be doing will be a lot more than riding the trails.”
“I know,” she said. “But that’s beside the point. I’m not sleeping with you.”
“No?” he asked, so close to her now that he could feel heat radiating off her body. The sun had started to come up, warm light filtering through the barn. It turned her green eyes the color of the hay that dotted the stall floor.
“No,” she said firmly.
“Funny,” he said softly, “I could have sworn you wanted me to kiss you earlier.”
She lifted her chin.
You’re going too far.
But he couldn’t stop. She was like a newborn foal—skittish and standoffish, but something he was tempted to tame.
“You wanted to kiss me,” she corrected.
“Actually,” he said softly, giving in to the urge to touch her, his fingers making contact with the side of her neck, “I think you’re right.”
He was going to kiss her. No sense in denying it. He was going to kiss her and damn the consequences.
“Clint,” she murmured, and was that a sigh of longing, or a huff of warning? Didn’t matter. She didn’t dart away.
She wanted him.
“Pucker up, woman.”
“Excuse—”
He sucked the rest of her words right out of her mouth. He didn’t mean to. He just meant to give her a little peck on the lips. But the moment he tasted her, the instant his lips made contact with hers, he was lost.
Damn.
She tasted like Gigi’s coffee. And something else. Something he didn’t recognize at first.
Cinnamon.
It clung to her lips. She pressed against him and he felt his whole body jerk in response. He couldn’t seem to make himself pull back and so he pushed her against the wall instead, tipped his head to the side and branded her with his lips.
Her hands lifted to his chest, slipped beneath his jacket against his flesh, her fingers exploring every ridge of his chest, sliding upward until she found his shoulders.
He pulled his head away, he’d had to—he needed to breathe. But as soon as his mouth left hers, he wanted to dive back for more. She was like a cool lake on a hot, summer day. All he wanted was to keep plunging beneath the surface…plunging and plunging and plunging. And so he angled his head the opposite direction and kissed her again. His hands found the slit in her jacket, her warmth startling him. She arched into him.
“Crap,” he muttered, tossing his head back and sucking in yet another breath. “This is crazy.”
His hand was near the curve of her breast and so he stroked her side with his thumb and found the soft edge near the bottom. When he glanced down, her eyes were shielded by her lashes, her lips red from his kiss.
He wanted her.
Wanted her like he hadn’t wanted a woman in a long, long time…since Julia. That was enough to make him let her go.
“I think,” he said, lifting his hand to the back of his neck and shaking his head, “that I’m going to have to find another way to keep you quiet.”
SHE LEFT THE BARN. SHE KNEW it was cowardly, but she needed some space between her and Clint.
“There you are!” Gigi said when she entered the house.
Sam drew up short, almost as if Gigi could see into her head. God, were her lips red? Could Gigi tell what had just happened by the blush on her cheeks. Were her clothes rumpled?
“Your horse broker called back, said he’s headed off to a show and not to panic if he doesn’t immediately return your calls.”
Sam nodded, knowing if she didn’t, Gigi would be suspicious. “Thanks,” she said, swiping at a lock of hair in her face, but when she closed the front door she almost leaned against it.
“You okay?” Gigi asked.
“Fine,” she said. “I’m just a little tired.”
Gigi stepped toward her, suddenly all business. “Are you sleeping okay? I know sometimes after an accident like yours…”
After Sam had woken up in the hospital, all she’d wanted to do was rest. But then her injuries had healed and sleep had become the enemy. She would dream about the first terrifying lurch of the car’s backend. About screams. About someone crying in pain—her mom, or maybe herself. The sound of a chainsaw. So, yes, she was tired. Always tired.
“Sam?”
Sam jerked, brought back to earth by the sound of Gigi’s voice. “I’m okay,” she said. “Really. It’s just cold outside. My mouth needs to defrost.”
But Gigi didn’t miss a thing. The older woman scanned her face thoroughly. “I see,” she said, Sam was afraid she saw far too much.
“I’m going up to my room.”
“I’m heading into town later if you want to join me,” Gigi said.
“That’d be great.” It might be a smart idea to get away.
But for the next few hours Sam kept replaying what had happened in the barn. Had she been too forward? Should she have allowed him to get so close? Did he think she was easy because she’d let him kiss her?
What the hell had she been thinking?
That was the question that kept repeating itself over and over again. Even as Sam was charmed by Williams, Montana—named after Clint’s great-great-grandfather, she’d learned—she’d been distracted. It was a lovely day, though, and when she returned her embarrassment had faded. Her only fear was that Clint would regret what had happened. Except he was nowhere to be found.
“Why don’t you saddle up one of the horses in the barn and ride?” Gigi asked. “Unless you’re too sore.”
“No. I’m fine,” Sam said. Remarkably, she felt very few aches.
“Excellent. You should probably start building your stamina for the roundup. We leave two days from now.”
Gigi had a point. And so Sam busied herself with the familiar task of grooming the little palomino mare Gigi had recommended. Coaster would be cared for by someone else, soon. Someone else would get to feed him carrots or his favorite oatmeal treats.
“You look sad.”
Sam jumped because, of course, it was Clint.
“Hi,” she said, her heart suddenly beating so hard and fast it made her breathless.
“What were you thinking?”
She hadn’t seen him approach or heard him, although he was leading a horse into the barn. Buttercup, she realized.
“Nothing,” she said, going back to grooming the palomino whose name she didn’t know. “Just thinking,” she added, trying to sound dismissive and failing terribly. It was horrible, this attraction she felt. All right, maybe not horrible. More like startling. She couldn’t come within two feet of the guy without blushing like a teenager.
“You going riding?”
She nodded.
“Great. I’ll go with you.”
That caused her to turn toward him. “Don’t you have work to do?”
He shook his head. “I’m free for the next hour. Just finished fixing that fence post I was working on yesterday. I was going to ride out and open the gate so the cows can graze in there now. You could ride with me.”
Ride with him.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “Sure. I’ll keep you company.”
He smiled. “Good. Let me tie up Buttercup here and I’ll tell you what tack to use on Inca.”
“Is that her name?”
He nodded.
“Is she a mustang?” she asked, watching as he put Buttercup on cross-ties near the end of the barn.
“No. She’s a quarter horse. We don’t break a lot of the mustangs. They can be damn stubborn to work with. Too many decades of being undomesticated.�
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“But they’re used to you going up to them, right?” she said. “I mean, you said you microchip them. I assume that means you interact with them on a regular basis.”
He motioned for her to follow him into the tack room, which she did, though it caused her heart palpitations. Would he kiss her there? What if he tried?
He didn’t.
“Use this bridle here,” he said, lightly touching a curb bit hanging on a rack. He went and picked up the same saddle she’d used yesterday, or so it seemed. “And, yeah, we interact with the horses regularly. But we rarely do anything more than sort ’em out, give them their yearly vaccines, that sort of thing. So you couldn’t really say they’re ‘handled.’”
“How did you end up with Buttercup?” she asked, following him out of the tack room.
“He was an orphan foal. None of the mares would adopt him and so we had to bring him in. But you can clearly see how different he looks from, say, the quarter horses. The blue eyes are common in our mustangs. The refined heads, too. We think that comes from their Spanish blood.”
“Are they mostly grays?” she asked, as he threw a saddle blanket on Inca’s back and then the saddle.
“No. Most are paints, but we have a few Appaloosas, too, mixed in with bays and sorrels.”
She could stand there all day and listen to him talk about his horses. She felt her spirits lift. She’d done the right thing by coming here. There might be this “thing” between her and Clint, but she could deal with that. And, really, if it went any further, would that be bad? Why not jump into bed with a handsome cowboy? What was wrong with that?
He finished what he was doing, turned to her. “I’ll let you bridle her yourself.”
“Not a problem,” she said, taking the leather headstall from him.
He went and unclipped his own horse. Sam felt her heart tick faster for an altogether different reason. She would get to ride again. In Montana’s wide-open spaces. Could life get any better?
It might if that life included a cowboy named Clint.
Chapter Ten
“You look good for someone who’s only ever ridden in an English saddle,” Clint found himself saying, the two of them having left the homestead behind. They were out past the arena now, approaching one of the many pastures that surrounded the homestead. Barbwire fence stretched for miles in both directions.
“Thanks,” she said, her smile as white as the snow on top of the mountains. “You look good, too.”
And there it was again, the glint in her eyes that made them sparkle and made him think, damn, I wish we weren’t on horseback so I could push her up against another stall wall.
“I doubt it,” he said sheepishly. “I’ve been out trying to fix that damn fence all morning. Took me forever to get the post sunk in deep enough, and then longer still to restring the wire better than I did yesterday. That was just a temporary fix.”
Buttercup tossed his head when they reached the pasture gate, and Clint opened it from the back of his horse.
“Impressive,” she said when he moved his horse back so she could step through. “You could compete on the quarter horse circuit, too, in the trail riding class.”
He reversed his horse again so he could close the gate. “I’m no fancy show rider.”
“Neither am I,” she said, stopping so he could catch up. “The outfits we wear might look expensive, but I’m just an average girl from a middle-class family who’s saved her money to fund her habit—showing horses.”
Her hair might be short, but the wind still played with it. Clint would never forget the sight of her in the saddle, her short brown hair blowing around her face, her green eyes glowing, the backdrop of mountains and pasture.
“I’ve heard it costs a lot of money.”
“It does,” she said. “Some people like to ski, or boat or fish. Those are expensive hobbies, too. Mine just involves a four-legged animal.”
“Yeah, but you can put your fishing poles in a garage, you can’t do that with a horse.”
“True,” she said, pushing her bangs away from her eyes. “Training and board are expensive. I gave up horses for a while to go to college and get a degree. I did it to make a decent living…so I could afford to show my horse. In between vet bills, shoeing and all the other incidental charges, it can be pricey on a monthly basis. Needless to say, I don’t have a whole lot of money in my savings account.”
“So you’re selling your horse,” he said, kicking Buttercup forward so the two of them were even.
“Yeah.”
“Is that what made you so sad earlier?”
She glanced at him sharply. “Sheesh, you have the most amazing way of doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Reading my mind. You seem to know exactly what I’m thinking.”
“I’m psychic,” he said.
“No, you’re not. You’re just good at reading people. It comes with working with horses, I’ve noticed. You mind if we trot.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t mind if we jog.”
That made her laugh, which lifted Clint’s own spirits far more than it should.
“Well?” he asked, squeezing his horse into the requested gate. “Is it?”
“Is it what?” she asked in an obvious attempt at being evasive.”
“Is it selling your horse that made you sad?”
She didn’t answer for a while, but that was okay with Clint. He enjoyed the sounds of nature, of the rhythmic jingle of his spurs as Buttercup jogged along. The sound of the prairie birds in the distance. The soft thuds of hooves in the grass.
“It is,” she admitted at last. Clint glanced over at her. She had a perfect profile. Pert nose. Tiny chin. Generous mouth. That mouth was pressed into a flat line, one that conveyed the sadness she fought so hard to hide.
He pulled his gelding up. She followed suit. “What is it?” she asked.
“Have you lost everything, Samantha?”
She blinked, shielding her eyes from his view, but not before he read what was in them.
“You mentioned medical bills before. And that you’re going to have to sell your horse. You don’t have a job. I didn’t see what you unpacked from the car, but Gigi said it looked like everything you owned.”
She shook her head. “No, I haven’t lost everything.”
He finished the sentence for her. “Yet.”
“Hopefully not ever,” she said. “Coaster is worth twenty thousand at least, probably more. That’ll cover a large portion of my medical bills, and hopefully leave me enough to pay the rest of my bills.”
“And if you don’t sell him?”
She shrugged. “I might have to move. Find a new place to live. Another job. But I will definitely have to sell Coaster. My job as a geologist doesn’t pay enough for me to catch up.”
He nodded and decided to change the subject. She looked even more sad than when she’d been in the barn. “Why’d you go into geology?”
She shrugged. “I’d heard there were always jobs in the oil industry. Honestly, I thought it’d be easy to graduate, find a job in Texas, maybe buy a ranch later on.”
“Why Texas?”
“Are you kidding?” she asked. “That’s the heart of quarter horse country.”
He rolled his eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”
“But I couldn’t find a job there. Best offer came out of Wilmington, Delaware, working for a chemical company. They send me out to survey property. A lot of the chemicals used in their products are petroleum based.”
“Sounds like a great job.”
“It was.”
“So?” he asked. “What happened?”
She shrugged again.
“You said the other day you had problems. What kind of problems?”
“Just some physical limitations.”
“Such as.”
She finally looked him straight in the eye. “An injury to my brain. It’s caused some…” She searched for the word. “Complications. T
o my body. I’m technically disabled now, but I manage to get around okay.”
He wanted to ask her what kind of complications, but he could tell she was hesitant to talk about it. And when it came down to it, who was he to ask? They barely knew each other.
“So, you won’t be able to find another job?”
She shook her head. “Not for a long time.”
“And now you’re forced to sell your horse.”
She nodded, sucking her lower lip between her teeth. “It’s what I have to do,” she said. “I don’t have a choice.”
He had to turn away. Looking at her, seeing the sadness in her eyes, it did things to him. What if he had to leave the Baer Mountain Ranch? He knew that would never happen, but what if?
“You’ve had some rotten luck,” he finally said.
“E-yup. But, hey, at least I’m alive.”
Unlike her parents. God, he couldn’t imagine. Waking up and finding out your mom and dad were dead, and then discovering you were disabled and would have to quit your job. Maybe move, sell your horse….
“Ready to run?” He wanted—needed—to put a smile on her face.
“Sure. I think I can manage that.”
He didn’t even have time to cram his hat more firmly on his head.
She kicked Inca and off she went. Clint held Buttercup back for an instant—much to the horse’s disgust—just so he could admire her style. Man, she could ride. She leaned forward, legs quiet against her horse’s side, as if she were a part of her horse.
“Go,” he told Buttercup.
And his horse didn’t need to be told twice.
SHE’D ALMOST TOLD HIM. Almost told him she was going blind.
Once again, Sam shut her eyes, imagining what it would be like. Inca thundered beneath her, her hooves like jungle drums. Ba-da-dump, ba-da-dump, ba-da-dump. Wind poked at Sam’s eyes, causing them to tear up. Or were those tears from something else?
Not again. She would not cry.
She opened her eyes. The grass was nothing but a blur beneath her. Ahead was open pasture. Behind her, the Baer Mountains.
For a second her vision blurred and panic took her breath away. She sucked in a breath, quickly wiping her eyes. Better.
The Wrangler Page 7
