THE RESTLESS VIRGIN

by Peggy Moreland

  Mandy watched Sam, her instincts going on red alert. "What about her dad? What's he like?"

  "Nash?" Sam snorted. "He's a suit."

  At Mandy's quizzical look, Sam pushed away from the counter to pace. "You know the type. Brooks Brothers suit, Italian silk tie, Rolex watch, Mercedes. And all business. I bet he even schedules trips to the rest room on his day planner."

  Mandy lifted a brow. She'd never known Sam to get this worked up over a man. "Is he handsome?"

  "If you like pretty boys. Merideth would love him," she added, using their younger sister's taste in men as a reference point for Mandy.

  "So he is handsome."

  An image formed in Sam's mind of Nash standing at the fence, the wind lifting his carefully combed hair then dropping it carelessly down on his forehead. Sleeves rolled to the elbow, revealing muscled forearms dusted with dark hair. Carved cheekbones, a stubborn jaw. Gray eyes leveled on her, eyes that seemed capable of stripping her down to her most vulnerable core.

  A shiver chased along her spine.

  "Yeah, I guess," she replied vaguely, dumping the rest of her milk down the drain, her appetite suddenly gone. "I really didn't pay that much attention."

  Three days later, Sam was in the barn at Rivers Ranch, saddling Whiskey in preparation for her first lesson with Colby, when she heard a car door slam in the yard. She lifted her head, turning slightly, and bit back an oath when Nash stepped inside the barn. Wearing a navy blazer and khaki pants, he looked as out of place as he had the first time she'd seen him.

  "Where's Colby?" he asked.

  "In the house, changing clothes."

  He glanced at his watch, frowning. "So when do we start?"

  "We?" Sam repeated, arching a brow his way as he strode down the alleyway toward her.

  His frown deepened. "Yes, we. I intend to be present at every lesson."

  "Great," Sam muttered under her breath. She stooped and caught the rear girt, buckling it into place.

  He stopped and braced his hands on his hips. "We didn't discuss the details of this arrangement, so I think we need to do so now. How much are you charging for these lessons?"

  "Nothing. I'm doing this for Colby."

  His eyes widened then narrowed. "Colby isn't a charity case. I paid her last teacher forty dollars an hour. I'll pay you the same, plus an additional ten dollars for the trip out."

  "Keep your money. I don't want it or need it. Like I said, I'm doing this for Colby." She stooped and picked up Whiskey's hoof. "Who's your farrier?"

  "Cletus Boggs. Now, about your fee—"

  "Better call him. This rear shoe is loose. And tell Cletus to use shoes with rims for the front hooves. It'll help give Whiskey more traction on the turns."

  "Fine. And I'm paying you, whether you like it or not."

  Sam dropped the hoof and picked up a currycomb, taking out her frustrations with Nash on the burrs matted in the horse's tail. "Your money would be better spent on repairing Whiskey's stall. There are some loose boards he could injure himself on. And you need a new load of shavings for the floor."

  "Is that an order or a suggestion?"

  The challenge in his voice had Sam cocking her head to look at him. Seeing the hostility in his gray eyes, she tightened her fingers on the comb. "Take it however you want, but the horse deserves the best care you can give him."

  "Hi, Daddy!"

  Sam and Nash both turned at the sound of Colby's voice. Nash's frown disappeared as Colby skipped down the alley way toward them. "Hey, sunshine!" He held out his arms and she ran the last few steps and vaulted into them.

  Planting a kiss on his cheek, she curled an arm around his neck and reared back to look at him. "Are you going to watch me ride?"

  "Yep. Are you ready?"

  Colby's mouth puckered into a pout. "I've been ready for hours, but Sam made me go back to the house and put on jeans."

  Nash shot Sam a questioning glance. She lifted a shoulder as she dropped Whiskey's tail, then tossed the currycomb back in the bucket. "She had on shorts. I was afraid the saddle would rub sores on her legs."

  Nash turned his gaze on his daughter. "Sam's the boss. What she says goes."

  He couldn't have said anything that would have surprised Sam more. From the moment he'd announced his intention of being present at the lessons, she'd prepared herself to have to fight him at every turn. Not trusting this unexpected display of support, she eyed him warily. "We're burning daylight," she mumbled. "Let's get started."

  Nash swung Colby onto the saddle, then untied the reins and led the horse out into the arena. Sam followed, pulling her cap lower on her forehead to shade her eyes from the bright sunlight.

  "Okay, Colby, let's warm him up," she instructed, anxious to get the lesson underway. "Circle the arena a couple of times at a walk, then have him trot. And I want to see you use your body to give him the change of command. Understand?"

  Colby beamed at Sam as she took the reins from Nash. "Yes, ma'am."

  Sam positioned herself in the middle of the arena, placing herself as far from Nash as possible, while still being able to keep an eye on Colby. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him at the fence, shrugging out of his jacket. As he leaned to hook it on a fence post, the stretch of starched white cotton across his back revealed muscles that Sam would have preferred not to have noticed. But she did notice and, as hard as she tried, she couldn't seem to tear her eyes away. With his back still to her, he cocked a hip slightly, then lifted a hand and unbuttoned a cuff. He carefully folded the sleeve back two turns, then lifted the opposite hand and started on the other. As each turn revealed another three inches of bare skin, Sam's mouth grew dryer and dryer until it was as parched as the ground beneath her feet.

  Ignore him, she told herself, and turned away. Determined to do just that, she folded her arms beneath her breasts and focused on Colby. "Okay, move him up to a trot," she called out.

  Colby leaned forward, lifting the reins, and repeated the voice command. Sam nodded her approval, turning slowly in a tight circle as she monitored Colby's movements around the arena … and nearly jumped out of her skin when she made a complete circle and Nash's chest filled her field of vision, inches from her face and blocking her view of Colby. Unaware that he'd even moved, she cried, "What are you doing?"

  He lowered his gaze to hers, one brow arched higher than the other, then glanced back over her head toward his daughter. "Watching."

  Sam huffed a breath and took a step back, stuffing her hands into her back pockets. "Watch somewhere else. You're in my way."

  "It's a big arena. I'd think there's ample room for two adults to watch without any trouble."

  "Fine," she snarled. "You can stay here. I'm moving." She stalked off, headed for the far end of the arena … and could've sworn she heard Nash chuckle. The idea that he would laugh at her made her that much more angry. "Okay, Colby," she said irritably, "lope."

  Whiskey responded immediately, charging forward. "Slow him down," Sam yelled. "This is a lope, not a race."

  Colby dutifully obeyed, giving the reins a sharp tug, and Whiskey settled into a slow lope. Sam nodded her approval as she hitched a boot on a rail behind her. She tucked her fingers into her front pockets and settled her shoulders against the fence. Nash stood where she'd left him, his hands braced on his hips, his dress shirt a shocking white compared to the faded barn behind him. A little too white, Sam decided. A slow, devious smile chipped at one corner of her mouth.

  "Take him to the middle, Colby," she ordered, "and give me a fast stop."

  Dust churned as Colby swung Whiskey around, then rose into a cloud when the horse slid to a stop on his haunches inches from where Nash stood.

  Choking on dust and fanning the air in front of his face, Nash sputtered, "Darn it, Colby! Didn't you see me standing here?"

  Colby's chin quivered. "I was just doing what Sam told me to do. You did say that she was the boss."

  Nash turned to glare at Sam, and though she tried her best not to
smile, she failed miserably. Serves him right, she told herself, for being so darn stubborn.

  Brushing at the dust on his shirtfront, Nash shifted his gaze back to Colby. "Well, next time, look where you're going."

  "I'm sorry, Daddy."

  He heaved a deep breath, then lifted a hand to pat her knee. "That's okay, sweetheart. I know you didn't do it on purpose."

  Enjoying herself immensely, Sam shouted, "That was a good stop, Colby. Now let's see some figure eights. Trot him once through the pattern so you can show him what you want him to do, then lope. Remember to keep his nose tucked to the center and use your legs to keep him shaped."

  Sam smothered a laugh as she watched Nash jump out of the way, then hustle to the side of the arena as Colby followed Sam's directions.

  After a series of seven or more figure eights, Sam instructed Colby to walk Whiskey a couple of laps to cool him off while she set up the barrels. Crossing to the third barrel she tipped it over and rolled it into place. The barrel was old and rusted from years of exposure. As she righted it, she caught a glimpse of Nash watching her, frowning … and another idea occurred to her. "How about you set the first one," she called to him.

  Still frowning, Nash gave the barrel closest to him a nudge with his shoe and sent it toppling over. Leaning over, he gave it a shove, rolling it into position, then caught the top rim and levered it upright. Opening his hands, he stared down at the rust and dirt that covered them. He twisted left and right, searching for something to wipe them on.

  "What's the matter, Nash?" Sam mocked. "Haven't you ever gotten your hands dirty before?"

  He turned to scowl at her, then plucked a white handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped furiously at his hands. Sam tossed back her head and laughed as she headed for the remaining barrel. Whistling happily, she turned it over, gave it a push with her boot and sent it rolling.

  Nash watched her, his eyes narrowing. Damn woman! She was trying to make a fool of him, he was sure. "Well, two can play at this game," he muttered under his breath. While Sam was still perched like a pelican, ready to give the barrel another shove, Nash stole up behind her, hooked a foot around the boot that was planted on the ground and gave a sharp tug. Sam yelped, beating wildly at the air in an attempt to regain her balance, but ended up facedown on the ground. She came up spitting dirt, her hands doubled into fists at her sides as she whirled to face Nash.

  He smiled sweetly. "What's the matter, Sam? Haven't you ever gotten your hands dirty before?"

  "You overgrown juvenile delinquent!" she muttered through clenched teeth.

  "Me?" he asked innocently, touching the pad of a finger to his chest. "Isn't that a little like the pot calling the kettle black?" He stepped closer and thumbed a speck of dirt from her face, then left his hand there to cup her cheek. His lips quirked in a teasing smile. "You know, you're kind of cute when you're mad."

  Sam felt the blood drain from her face as the pad of each finger, the swell of flesh at the base of his thumb burned into her cheek. Though she expected the familiar panic to set in, she was aware of nothing but the gentleness of his fingers, their underlying strength, and the clear gray eyes that smiled down at her. Heat burned through her and lit a fiery path all the way to her lower abdomen where it settled into a burning pool of fire. The sensation was a rare one for Sam and so unexpected she didn't know what to do with it. Falling back on her anger, she hauled off and took a swing at him.

  Nash slapped a hand on her wrist, stopping her fist about three inches from his nose. Eyes and lips that a moment ago had teased suddenly sobered. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he warned in a low voice. "My mother taught me not to hit girls, but for you I might make an exception."

  "Hey, Daddy!" Colby called. "What are you doing to Sam?"

  Slowly Nash loosened his grip, and turned Sam's hand over, forcing her palm open. He smoothed the pads of his fingers from her wrist to the tips of her squared nails, his gaze locked on hers. Lightning streaked up Sam's arm at the contact and jump-started her heart, which seemed to have stopped beating.

  "Nothing, sweetheart," he said, though he kept his gaze leveled on Sam. "Just checking to see if Sam cut her hand on that old barrel."

  "Are you hurt, Sam?" Colby asked in concern, trotting her horse over to join them.

  Sam snatched her hand from Nash's grasp and dragged it across the seat of her pants as she took a step back. That he was aware of his effect on her was obvious from the knowing glint in his eyes. Swallowing hard, she turned, tearing her gaze from his, and forced a smile for Colby's benefit. "No. It was just a scrape." She hauled in a breath to steady her heart. "Are you ready to run some barrels?"

  "There's this man."

  "Oh?"

  After a year of counseling, Sam was used to having her therapist respond to everything she said with a question, but she frowned at the suggestion in this one-word response. "It's not what you think."

  Dr. Camille Tilton leaned slightly forward in her chair, folding her hands on her desk, her face expressionless. "And what am I thinking?"

  Sam squirmed, already regretting that she'd made this appointment. "That I'm interested in him or something," she mumbled.

  Camille leaned back, templing her fingers in front of her. "If he's unimportant, then why do you mention him?"

  "Because—well, because he touched me," Sam blurted out.

  "Where?"

  Sam frowned, rubbing her hands down her thighs, not enjoying being forced to relive the moment. Two days had passed since the event, but Sam could still feel the impression of his fingertips on her cheek. She lifted a hand, demonstrating. "Here."

  "And this upset you."

  A statement rather than a question this time. Camille knew Sam well. "Yeah. Well, sort of," she admitted hesitantly. She rolled her eyes heavenward at her inability to put her feelings into words. These sessions were always painful. She sometimes wondered why she subjected herself to them.

  Because you want a life, her conscience reminded her, a normal one. And if it meant sitting through years of therapy, answering questions, baring her soul, by God she'd have one!

  "He made me feel … I don't know, kind of hot and cold at the same time."

  "Heat can be associated with anger. Were you angry with him?"

  "Yeah. In the beginning, at least."

  "And cold can be associated with fear. Was this what you were feeling?"

  "Maybe." Sam sat up straighter in the chair, digging her fingers through her hair. "I don't know. I just felt weird."

  "Weird. Can you explain that more fully?"

  "If I could, I wouldn't be sitting here," Sam said dryly.

  An understanding smile softened Camille's face. "Well, let me see if I can help you. Let's talk about fear first. Did his touch frighten you?"

  "I always freeze up when a man gets near me. You know that."

  "Yes, and the fear is understandable, considering your past. But you said you were angry with him initially. Why don't you tell me about that."

  Sam heaved a breath. "I'm giving his daughter riding lessons and he insists on being present during every lesson. He's a suit. You know the type. Manicured nails, not a hair out of place. And he keeps crowding me. Everywhere I turn, he's there."

  "And you resent that."

  "Yeah," Sam said sourly. "So I decided to teach him a lesson. You know, in hopes he'd decide to quit hanging around for the lessons."

  "And what did you do?"

  Sam smirked, remembering. "Well, I arranged it so he'd have to eat some dust, get his hands dirty."

  "Couldn't you have just requested that he not attend the lessons?"

  Sam snorted. "He'd never go for that. He's much too protective of Colby. Colby's his daughter," she offered in explanation.

  Camille merely nodded. "Let's get back to how you felt when he touched you. You said initially you were angry, which I assume was due to his presence and your not wanting him there for the lesson. Let's focus now on what else you might have been feeling
, specifically when he touched you. Are you attracted to him at all?"

  Sam felt heat burn her cheeks. Though she was tempted to lie, she knew Camille would see right through her. She always did. "I don't know. Maybe."

  "Is he handsome?"

  "Yeah, I guess, but he's definitely not my type."

  "And what is your type?"

  Sam snorted indelicately. "Definitely not a suit."

  "But something about him appeals to you. If it isn't his appearance, perhaps it is something intrinsic, or something purely physical. A woman can be drawn to a man for reasons other than the way he dresses. In one word, describe him to me."

  "Protective."

  "Of whom?"

  "His daughter."

  "Another word."

  "Anal."

  "In what sense?"

  "He's always looking at his watch like he's got somewhere to go, some place to be. And he's obsessively neat."

  "In what way?"

  "How he dresses. Slacks perfectly creased, starched shirts. And he doesn't like to get his hands dirty."

  "Another word."

  "Sad."

  Camille arched a brow. "Elaborate."

  Wishing she'd chosen another word, Sam squirmed. "His wife died after giving birth to his daughter. Colby told me that they moved from Dallas to San Antonio, because there were too many memories there for her dad."

  "Sad, then, is Colby's assessment of her father, not yours."

  "No," Sam said slowly, only beginning to realize that it was true. "I've seen it, too. When he was telling me he didn't want his daughter to ride her horse anymore, he said the reason was that he was afraid she'd get hurt, and she was all he had left. And when he said it, there was a sadness in his voice that almost bordered on fear."