Kiss Me Hello (Sweetest Kisses)

by Grace Burrowes

  “You’re supposed to help here, you know, not provoke them.” Her voice didn’t shake, but her body was beginning to send out the flight-or-flight-or-flight! signals.

  She’d gotten mighty good at the flight response.

  “Calm down,” Mr. Sugar Cubes said. “If you’re upset, they’ll pick up on it.”

  “Smart ladies, then, because I’m beyond upset. These are not fixtures, and they should not convey with the property. A washing machine or a dryer I could overlook, but these—crap on a croissant, they could bite you, mister.”

  He was holding out his hand—and a sizable paw it was too—with one sugar cube balanced on his palm. The first horse to reach him stuck out its big nose and wiggled its horsey lips over his hand, and then the sugar cube was gone.

  “You too, Buttercup.” He put a second sugar cube on his hand, and the other horse repeated the disappearing act. “Good girls.” He moved to stand between the horses, letting one sniff his pocket while he scratched the neck of the other. “You need some good tucker, ladies, and your feet are a disgrace. But, my, it is good to see you.”

  Red hair was falling like a fine blizzard from where he scratched the horse’s shoulders, and the mare was craning her neck as the man talked and scratched some more.

  “Not to interrupt your class reunion, but what am I supposed to do with your girlfriends?” Sid asked.

  “They aren’t mine, though they might well be yours. Come meet them.”

  He turned, and in a lithe, one-armed move, scooped Sid from the safety of her rocky perch and set her on her feet between him and the horses.

  “Mister, if you ever handle me like that again—”

  “You’ll do what?”

  “You won’t like where it hurts. How do you tell them apart?”

  They were peering at her, the big, hairy pair of them, probably thinking of having a Sidonie Salad, and Sid took a step back, only to bump into a hard wall of muscular male chest.

  “Look at their faces,” he said. “Buttercup has a blaze, and Daisy has a snip and a star.”

  Sid was pressed so tightly against him she could feel him speak. She could also feel he wasn’t in the least tense or worried, which suggested the man was in want of brains.

  What he called faces were noses about a yard long, with big, pointed hairy ears at one end, nostrils and teeth at the other, and eyes high up in between. Still, those eyes were regarding Sid with something like intelligence, with a patient curiosity, like old people or small children viewed newcomers.

  “How do you know them?” she asked, hands at her sides.

  “Thirteen years ago, they were the state champs. They’re elderly now, for their breed, and it looks to me like they wintered none too well. You going to pet them or stare them into submission?”

  “Pet…!?”

  Before she could rephrase what had come out as only a squeak, Vulcan had taken her hand in his much larger one and laid it on the neck of the nearest horse.

  “Scratch. They thrive on a little special treatment, same as the rest of us.”

  Sid had no choice but to oblige him, because his hand covered hers as it rested on the horse’s neck. Over the scent of horse and chilly spring day, Sid got a whiff of cloves and cinnamon underlaid with notes that suggested not a bakery, but a faraway meadow where the sunshine fell differently and clothes would be superfluous.

  The hand that wasn’t covering Sid’s rested on her shoulder, preventing her from ducking and running.

  “Talk to them,” he said. “They’re working draft animals, and they’re used to people communicating with them.”

  “What do I say?”

  “Introduce yourself. Compliment them, welcome them. The words don’t matter so much as the tone of the voice.” He seemed serious, and the horse was lowering its head closer to the ground the longer Sid scratched her neck.

  “Like that, don’t you, girl? I’m Sid, and don’t get too comfortable here, because I am no kind of farmer, and neither is Luis.”

  The horse let loose another sibilant, odoriferous fart.

  “Pleased to meet you too. There, I talked to her, and she responded. Can I call the SPCA now?”

  “No, you may not. Daisy will get jealous if you neglect her.”

  “And bitch slap me with her tail?”

  “At least.”

  Sid could see that happening, so she dropped her hand, then held it out to the other horse.

  “You too? I’m changing your names to Subzero and Kenmore, because you’re the size of industrial freezers.” The horse sighed as Sid began scratching the second hairy neck, and Sid hid a smile. “Where’s your dignity, horse? There’s a man present, of sorts.”

  “You want me to leave?”

  “Yes, particularly if you’re going to take these two with you.”

  “Smaller draft horses than these won’t fit in a conventional horse trailer. The halters I brought with me won’t fit them either, though I’ll be happy to clear out if you’re—”

  “No! That’s not what I—” Sid fell silent. What did she expect him to do, if he wasn’t going to take the horses with him? “Will the SPCA come get them, or animal control?”

  “You want them put down?” he asked.

  That deep voice held a chill, one that had Sid twisting around to peer at him over her shoulder. “Put down to what?”

  “Euthanized, put to sleep. Killed for your convenience.”

  His tone was positively arctic, though he was standing so close to Sid she could feel his body heat through her clothes.

  “Don’t be an ass. They’ve wandered off from somebody’s property. They’re merely strays, and need to be taken home.”

  “I’m not so sure of that, but let’s find them somewhere to put up overnight, and we can argue the details where Daisy and Buttercup can’t hear us. Come along.”

  He took Sid by the wrist, and began leading her away from the horses.

  Sid trundled along with him—beside him seemed the safest place to be—but glanced warily over her shoulder.

  “We’re being followed.”

  He dropped her wrist and turned so quickly Sid barely had time to step back.

  “Scat!” He waved his hands and charged at the nearest horse, who shied and then stood her ground a few feet off. “Scram, Daisy! Shoo!”

  The horse stood very tall, then lowered her head, and ponderously scampered a few feet before standing very tall again. The second horse gave a big shrug of her neck and hopped sideways.

  “You get them all wound up,” Sid said, edging toward the gate, “I am burying you where you fall, mister, and the grave will be shallow, because there’s a lot of you to bury.”

  “They want to play. Head for the barn. This won’t take long.”

  Sid did not need to be told twice. She shamelessly hustled for the gate, stopping to watch what happened in the field behind her only when she’d climbed to the highest fence board.

  A two-ton version of tag-you’re-it seemed to be going on, with the horses galumphing up to the man, then veering away only to stop, wheel, and charge him again. He dodged easily, and swatted at them on the neck and shoulders and rump when they went by. When they were a few steps past him, the horses would kick up their back legs or buck, and by God, the ground did shake.

  The guy was grinning now, his face transformed from forbiddingly handsome to stunningly attractive. He called to each horse, good-naturedly taunting first one then the other, until by some unspoken consent, both mares approached him with their heads down.

  Sid couldn’t hear what he said to them, but she saw the way he touched them, the way he fiddled with those big ears, and gave each horse one last scratch. The mares watched him walk back toward the barn, and Sid could have sworn their expressions were forlorn.

  “You’re old friends with them,” she said a
s he climbed over the fence. She tried to turn on the top board, only to find herself plucked straight up into the air, then set gently on her feet. “For the love of meadow muffins, mister, are you trying to get your face slapped?”

  His lips quirked, but he did not smile. “No.”

  “What am I supposed to do about your lady friends?”

  “Nothing for right now. Who’s the kid?”

  “What kid?” Sid followed the blacksmith’s gaze to the front porch of their new house. Their new old house.

  “The kid who’s going to tear me into little bitty pieces if you don’t let him know I’m your new best friend.”

  “Never had a best friend before,” Sid said, but the man had a point. Luis was looking daggers at the blacksmith, the boy’s shirt luffing against his skinny body, showing tension in every bone and sinew. “Come on, I’ll introduce you. Or I would if you’d told me your name.”

  “Everybody calls me Mac.”

  She eyed him up and down as they started for the house. “Like the truck? Don’t they have a plant around here somewhere?”

  “Hagerstown, but it’s Volvo now, and no, not like the truck. Like MacKenzie.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. MacKenzie. I’d be more pleased if you’d take those free-to-good-homes along with you.”

  “No, it’s MacKenzie, as in MacKenzie Knightley. I’m fairly certain the horses are yours.”

  “You’ve said that twice now, and while I’m a woman slow to anger”—he snorted beside her—“it’s only fair to warn you the notion of me owning those mastodons will sour my mood considerably. Luis!” Sid’s voice caught the boy as he was slouching away from the porch post to duck into the house. “He’s shy.”

  “Right.”

  “He is, and you’d be too if you’d been in eight foster homes in less than three years. Be nice, Mr. Knightley.”

  “Or you’ll beat me up?”

  “I’ll tell your horses on you, and they will be very disappointed in you.”

  They reached the porch, and Luis was back to holding up a porch post, his hands tucked into his armpits, because at almost sixteen, he was too macho to wear a damned jacket.

  “Luis, this is Mac. He’s come to tell us what to do with the horses.”

  “Luis.” Mac surprised her by holding out one of those big hands, and Sid said a quick prayer her son would not embarrass her. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Her foster son, but that was splitting hairs.

  Luis looked at Mac’s hand, which the man continued to hold out, while his gaze held the boy’s. Slowly, Luis offered his hand.

  “MacKenzie Knightley. My friends call me Mac.”

  “Luis Martineau.”

  “You know anything about horses, Luis?”

  “Only what I’ve learned from Neils and Adelia,” Luis said. “Horses are to be respected.”

  The slight emphasis on the last word had Sid’s heart catching. Luis had taken to his riding lessons like nothing else she’d thrown at him, likely because of the people as much as the horses.

  “They are to be respected,” Mac said, “and cared for. Those two mares are in the beginning stages of neglect, and somebody will have to look after them.”

  Sid took up a lean on another porch post. “I wish you all the luck in the world with that, Mr. Knightley, because that somebody will not be me or Luis. Now, having settled that, may I offer you a cup of coffee?”

  “I’m a tea drinker, actually.”

  “You’re in luck,” she said, heading for the door. “The only room we’ve unpacked is the kitchen, and the only thing we’ve stocked is the fridge.”

  Chapter 2

  Mac did not watch Sid Lindstrom’s saucy little butt disappear through the door before him, mostly because the kid would take it amiss.

  But it was an effort not to. A surprising, intriguing, vaguely resented effort.

  Mac’s two younger brothers, Trent and James, shared the mistaken belief that Mac was indifferent to women. Or maybe they thought he preferred men, though that was patently not true.

  Eighty percent of Mac’s criminal clients were men, and of the remaining twenty, women were much more likely to write bad checks than blow someone away in a drug deal gone bad.

  Mac liked women, often admired them for their courage, stamina, and grace under pressure, and was as prone to appreciating their physical attributes as the next man—perhaps more prone, given that his appreciation was invariably silent.

  He’d grown used to looking and not touching, and with Sid Lindstrom, the unprecedented urge to touch, to taste, to gather her scent and learn the feel and sound and details of her, was interesting.

  Though if she’d take on two tons of stray horse with a broom, a mere man had best watch himself around her.

  “What kind of tea?” she asked him, opening a cupboard. Just for the pleasure of sniffing the flowery scent of her hair, he stood right behind her.

  “This’ll do.” He reached over her shoulder and plucked a box of generic, bagged decaf.

  “And you no doubt take it plain. Luis, are you joining us?”

  The boy’s dark gaze went from Mac to Sid, back to Mac. He scrubbed a hand through unruly dark red hair, then shook his head.

  “I’ll finish setting up my room.”

  “Let me know if you need any help. I’ll be making the pizza run around four o’clock.”

  Luis ghosted out of the kitchen. Maybe he’d learned to move quietly in his eight different foster homes, or maybe he’d learned it on the street.

  “He must like you,” Sid said, putting a fancy stainless steel teakettle on the stove.

  “How on earth would you conclude that? I thought he was trying to visually slice my throat.” Mac opened another cupboard and found some mugs decorated in bright paisley rainbows.

  “He would not have left you alone with me if he’d been the least bit worried. Spoons are in the drawer.”

  Mac took out one spoon and dropped it into the smaller of the two mugs. Outside, sitting on her rock, his first impression of Sidonie had been of isolation and stillness.

  And he’d been surprised—he hadn’t been expecting Sid Lindstrom to sport a lovely set of female curves, big green eyes, and a wide, full mouth. Her hair was blond with hints of auburn, and was tucked into a braid that hung down the inside of her jacket.

  How long was that braid, and what would it look like loose against the naked skin of her back?

  “Are you smiling at that mug?” She stood, arms crossed, by the stove. “I have to ask, because you seem so disinclined to the expression generally.”

  “What will you do with those horses?”

  She blinked at his deflection of the question—he had been smiling—shrugged out of her jacket, and hung it on a peg beside the door.

  “I don’t know the first thing about horses.” She took the steaming kettle off the stove. “Don’t know the first thing about farms, except you can sell them for a lot of money. The horses need a new home in any case, because I’m only out here to catch my breath. Damson Valley is supposed to be pretty, safe, friendly, and cheap. I don’t intend to be here for long.”

  Well, of course she didn’t. The first woman Mac had noticed in any significant sense, and she wouldn’t let the grass grow under her feet. Probably for the best, even if that fat braid did hang right down to the top of her fanny.

  “A pair like that can’t go just anywhere. Draft animals are literally a breed apart from the typical pleasure horse, or even the typical show horse.”

  “They’re bigger, that’s for damned sure. You going to stand there or be sociable and join me at the table?” She didn’t wait for him to answer, but took both mugs to the table.

  Mac moved instinctively to hold her chair, but this resulted in a little wrestling match over the chair.

  “Mr. Knightle
y, what do you think you’re doing?” She didn’t take her hand off the back of the chair, her expression puzzled.

  “Holding your chair for you.”

  “Suitez-vous, Vulcan.” She tucked her butt into the chair. “Get the milk, would you?”

  He stole another whiff of her hair first, but was pleased to see she drank whole milk, not skim, not that pansy-ass two percent. Worst of all in his estimation were those who drank one percent—a token gesture of fat to prove how gastronomically brave they were, maybe, or how sophisticated. If he ever caught his brothers—

  “What did that milk jug do to deserve such a thunderous expression?” She took the gallon jug from him.

  “Looking for the expiration date. You can never be too careful.”

  He hung his jacket over hers, same peg.

  “How are draft horses different, and why can’t I run an ad, free to good home? Put ’em on Craigslist under Equine Dirigibles?” She poured milk into her tea, then capped the jug and set it on the table. “And for pity’s sake, sit. Unless you’re metabolically incapable of sitting? My brother Tony certainly was.”

  She pursed her lips, then took a sip of her tea.

  Was. Mac heard the past tense. A guy who’d lost both parents in early adulthood couldn’t miss that particular use of it.

  “Draft horses are different from other breeds in several regards,” Mac said, taking the chair next to hers. “Conventional tack won’t fit them, conventional trailers won’t haul them, conventional feeding protocols won’t keep them fit, conventional fencing won’t keep them safe.”

  “So they’re a lot of trouble. Lovely.”

  “Luis isn’t a lot of trouble?”

  He’d made her smile. The lady apparently enjoyed verbal sparring, as would any self-respecting lawyer.

  “Point taken, but Luis and I chose each other. I am certain Thing One and Thing Two were not here when we did the walk through before settlement.”

  “If they were on the far side of the pond, particularly if they were having a prone nap, you wouldn’t have seen them over the lip of the pond.”

  “How do you know this property so well?”