by Laura Moore
She couldn’t help but glance back. Jim looked appropriately envious, but since he was one of the kindest guys around, he said, “For sure, dude. And it sounds like you’re getting treated like royalty by Maebeth.”
Expecting Josh to answer with his signature cocky grin, she was surprised when his face flamed beneath the brim of his hat. And his expression? He looked…sheepish, though she’d never seen a sheep’s face turn bright red.
“Yeah, Maebeth’s been real nice to me. She’s coming today, you know.”
Quinn missed Jim’s reply, for up ahead Ward and Pete had reined to a halt. The group of riders was in one of the meadows, this one roughly a hundred acres in size and presently empty of Angus cattle or Lincoln sheep to prevent overgrazing.
It must be time for the races.
The riders formed a loose circle around Ward. He was already speaking, and as she caught his words, she realized that he’d been explaining the origin of the races to Ethan, which had begun when she was twelve and riding Bandit, a sweetheart of a paint horse who’d taught her so much. Thirty years old this year, he was still just as bighearted and dependable, his job now to carry guests on trail rides.
“Since we’re mostly wrangling cattle or leading trail rides, we don’t often have the chance to test our horses against each other. Dad came up with the idea of holding a friendly competition once Quinn was big enough to have a fighting chance and not cry too much when we creamed her.”
Not waiting to see whether Ethan smirked in response to Ward’s comment, she said, “Rewriting history much, big brother? I seem to remember you sulking like a baby the first time Bandit and I beat you by two lengths.”
“It was by a nose, brat.”
“Still feeling the sting, huh?”
With a shake of his head, he returned his attention to Ethan. “Excuse the interruption. My kid sister has so few chances to tout her accomplishments.” Ignoring her loud snort, Ward continued. “So Dad’s picked this spot and is going to draw names at random for each heat. The race is straightforward. It starts over there by that outcrop.” He pointed to a rock formation a few hundred yards in the distance. “The finish line will be here. We’ve delegated Tess and Mia to officiate. Tess will start the riders off and Mia will call the winners at this end.”
It was a nice way to include the two in the event, Quinn thought, since her future sisters-in-law still persisted in their vow to never break out of a trot. She wondered why her dad and Ward hadn’t found something for Ethan to do as well. He could run the stopwatch. Usually it was passed around randomly.
Shielded by the brim of her hat, she let her gaze travel over him. He must have done a bit of riding in the years since he’d left Acacia because he was handling Kane with ease. The large chestnut was tossing his head in excitement. All the horses were pumped up this afternoon, frisky and chomping at the bit. They knew this wasn’t a typical workday outing.
She’d been surprised to see him on Kane. Her dad was funny about certain things. One, he was super-obsessed about his tractors. Two, he considered Kane, who’d been foaled on the ranch, his baby. Even she had trouble wheedling a ride on him. But Ethan had taken him out twice now. When she’d remarked on the fact, her dad had merely smiled and said, “Ethan does a real good job on him.”
Something was up, and it annoyed the heck out of her that she’d been left in the dark.
Unlike most of the men, Ethan was hatless and he’d shaved this morning—it was Thanksgiving after all. The dramatic lines of his face were on full display: the slash of his cheekbones, the dark ledge of his brows above his flint-gray eyes, the blade of his nose, the jut of his chin, the thin lips that looked too severe to smile, his cropped salt-and-pepper hair. Taken individually, they were just parts of his face. Together they formed a stark, uncompromising beauty.
As if he’d felt the weight of her gaze, Ethan turned his head. And she forgot how to breathe. When had he become the handsomest man she knew? On the heels of that terrifying thought, she realized that his mouth remained pressed in a stern line. No tiny upward hook at the corners of his mouth, no crinkle of crow’s-feet by his eyes telegraphed his quiet amusement. She’d grown used to seeing the tug of a reluctant smile and a flash of something irresistible illuminate his gray eyes and soften his stoic demeanor.
Afraid of what he might see in her expression, a longing that left her confused and invited scores of remembered inadequacies, she looked away quickly, focusing on her father, who withdrew two small squares of paper from his breast pocket. Unfolding them, he said, “Looks like we’ll be starting this year’s races with some serious flash. Adele, you’re up against Josh. Now remember, honey, he’s just a rookie.”
Her mom was astride Forester, her dark bay gelding. As she gathered up her reins, she asked, “Shall I go easy on you, Josh?”
“Heck, no. Where would the fun be in that?” Josh replied.
Whoops and laughter erupted, everyone quickly getting into the spirit of the races. With wide grins on their faces, the two contestants trotted off with Tess, who was riding her favorite horse, Brocco.
Quinn had seen enough of Waylon in action to know that he was a fine horse, with some serious go in him. He topped Forester by a couple of hands, and he was only six years to Forester’s twelve.
No matter. Adele and Forester smoked the Texan duo.
Quinn could tell by the almost comical expression on Josh’s face when Waylon crossed the finish line a generous length behind Forester that he hadn’t been expecting a woman old enough to be his mother to leave him in the dust.
Perhaps he should have checked out whose name was on the plaques and trophies in the glass case in the tack room. Adele Evers had been a champion rider and barrel racer.
Though everyone else at Silver Creek knew exactly what class of competitor she was, they all clapped loudly, and Quinn yelled, “Way to go, Mom!” after she had circled back and was trotting toward them.
“Oh, that was fun! Forester does love to run. And since I have to head back to the house to get the turkey in the oven, I thought I’d give him a chance.” She leaned down and patted him on his arched neck. “No hard feelings, Josh?”
He swept off his hat in a gallant gesture. “No, ma’am. But I’d like to challenge you to a rematch real soon.”
Her mother laughed. “Any day you choose.” With a wave, she urged Forester into an easy lope and headed back to the ranch.
Ward and Reid’s were the next names in the draw. Some serious trash talk was immediately exchanged. She could even hear them as they headed to where Tess was waiting to start the race.
Her brothers thundered toward them neck and neck. Then Reid leaned just a little more forward over his gelding, and Sirrus, his nose stretched forward, inched past Ward’s black gelding.
“And it’s Reid and Sirrus for the win!” Mia called, not even attempting to hide her elation.
When her brothers rejoined them, Ward was subjected to a round of good-natured ribbing.
Holding his gloved hand up, he said, “No offense, Mia, but maybe you should stick to judging wines.”
Formerly shy Mia merely wrinkled her nose. “Or maybe you should just gallop faster next time, Ward.”
“Ooh, burn,” Quinn said gleefully.
Reid guided Sirrus over to Mia. Wrapping an arm around her, he leaned in for a kiss.
Ward made an exasperated noise. “Right, do we need any clearer evidence that the judge’s vision is flawed? Look at that ugly mug she’s kissing.” He shook his head in mock despair.
“Over at the vineyard that’s what we call sour grapes, dude,” Reid replied. “Why don’t you go keep Tess company so she can soothe your wounded pride?”
Quinn was still grinning when her father spoke. “Time for the next draw. In this heat we have Quinn up against Ethan.”
“What? But Dad, he can’t—” She swallowed her objection at the stone-cold look Ethan shot her.
“Ethan can’t what, Quinn?” her dad asked.
&n
bsp; “Nothing,” she muttered. If Ethan was fool enough to risk re-injuring his shoulder racing, that was his business. And no, she would not be foolishly offering any more massages.
Calls of encouragement as well as a few razzing comments from Reid followed them as they loped toward Tess. Ward rode on the other side of Ethan, her brother having decided to stay with his fiancée for the remainder of the races.
Quinn looked straight between Domino’s black ears, worried that if she let her gaze stray to Ethan she’d get distracted by the way his long thigh muscles hugged the saddle and how tall he sat, following Kane’s rolling gait with surprising ease. It occurred to her that he might be an even better rider than she’d thought. Still, even Reid had to work to beat her. A win was certain.
It would have been difficult for Quinn to escape developing a competitive nature when she had two older brothers and worked most of her day among physically active men. It was an adrenaline rush to pit her athleticism against theirs, hold her own, and sometimes even blow them away. And being the daughter of a former champion brought out the compulsion to give every race her all.
The problem was that with their present audience, she couldn’t protect Ethan by sandbagging, even if she’d wanted to. Everyone, even Josh, knew how fast Domino was. But she wasn’t inclined to throw the race in any case. A good trouncing was what Ethan deserved for once more being as friendly as winter in Siberia.
They pulled up next to Tess, and Quinn had Domino execute a turn on the haunches, just to remind Ethan what real riders could do. “Prepare to eat my dust, buddy.”
He raised a brow. “Don’t believe that’s Kane’s plan.”
“That’s the ticket, Ethan. Don’t let Quinn psych you out. She’s the queen of trash talk.”
“Losing is such a bummer, isn’t it, Ward? Of course I can only speak theoretically, unlike you.”
“Make sure you beat her by a country mile, Ethan.”
Tess cleared her throat. “Ahem. If the riders are ready?” She was obviously taking her role as race official very seriously.
Ethan had already gathered up his reins and was sitting deep in the saddle. She bared her teeth in a mocking smile. “Yeah, let’s get this party started.”
“All right, then.” Tess paused for a beat. “On your mark, ready, set…go!”
—
With Tess Casari’s shout of “Go!” still ringing in the air, Ethan closed his legs, bringing his heels to Kane’s barrel, and opened his fingers around the reins. Kane was a superb animal, and that was all the signal he needed to leap forward. Within seconds they were at a full gallop, tearing over the open field.
She’d had an even better start; he expected no less from her. She was two heartbeats ahead of him, with Kane’s nose at her leather-covered knee, and Ethan’s eyes right at her shapely ass, those taut cheeks encircled by a pair of dark brown leather chaps, drawing his gaze like a bull’s-eye. He couldn’t hang back here. The sight was too hypnotic.
Dragging his gaze from Quinn’s rear, he fixed it where it belonged. The finish line was ahead, two hundred yards away.
Damn, but he’d missed this exhilarating, hell-bent-for-leather kind of riding, of feeling a good horse’s awesome power thundering beneath him. He’d missed the challenge of staying balanced over his mount’s neck so that he was helping it, not hindering it. Ethan’s hands followed the dip and rise of Kane’s copper neck. Below, the horse’s dark red forelegs stretched long as he ate up the ground.
He didn’t know Kane well, so it was difficult to gauge how much was left in his tank and if it was sufficient to beat Quinn’s Domino.
Could he do it?
Pride and the rush of pitting himself against this woman who was driving him crazy demanded he try. He leaned even lower over Kane’s neck, so the ends of the gelding’s long mane whipped the front of his shirt. Clearly loving the race and bred for speed and endurance, Kane responded, surging forward until he was neck and neck with Domino. He sensed as much as saw Quinn’s sideways glance and hoped to hell astonishment was stamped on her face.
Less than a hundred yards to go. It was up to Kane now and how much he wanted the win. Ethan’s sole job was to make sure he encouraged Kane to go for it and didn’t do anything to get in his way. Hunkering low, he brought his hands even farther up the bobbing neck beneath him. The gelding’s ears swiveled back and, as if turbocharged, his hooves drummed even faster. Ethan grinned into the wind as the chestnut pulled away from Domino and tore across the finish line.
—
Daniel was still crowing when the assembled riders pulled into the open area between the corrals and the horse barn and began dismounting and then tending to their mounts.
“If you can believe it, I enjoyed watching Kane run that race almost as much as if I’d beaten Quinn myself. You did a good job with him, Ethan.”
“Thanks. I appreciate the loan. He’s a great horse, Daniel.” Unknotting the cinch, he pulled off the saddle, only now feeling the twinge in his shoulder. He glanced over at Quinn. It was highly doubtful she’d give him another massage—even if he were masochistic enough to ask for one—since she’d barely looked at him since offering a terse “Congratulations” after they’d slowed to a jog to circle back to the group. Betraying herself, she added, “Helluva run for a greenhorn,” with a cold, slashing glance meant to leave him looking like a Christmas ribbon.
Yeah, she was good and pissed at having lost to him.
Ignoring the voice that whispered that he’d be behaving the same way if Kane hadn’t made that last-second surge, he focused on enjoying the moment, which included reveling in Quinn’s ire.
“Mind sharing where you’ve been honing your racing skills?”
“Several months before Afghanistan I was on assignment in Dubai. Met a man who bred Arabians. Aziz heard I liked horses, so he invited me to ride with some of his exercisers in exchange for photographing them. We’d go to the Warqa Desert. They gave me some tips. Before that, I spent some time with gauchos in Argentina. Played some polo in Chile—”
“Wait, don’t tell me,” she interrupted. “And before that you went foxhunting in Ireland.”
He inclined his head, making sure not to smile. She already looked angry enough to spit nails. “Irish foxhunters are crazy bastards, every last one of them. They breed terrific horses, though.”
Narrowing her eyes until they were sharp slivers of blue, she shook her head. “If I’d known you’ve been spending the years riding all over the world, I might have put some effort into the race.”
“Bull,” he said without heat. “You wanted that win as bad as I.”
Her lips tightened, but she had the grace not to bother to lie.
“Who knows,” he added, “maybe someday you’ll have enough experience to beat me.”
QUINN HADN’T THOUGHT the day could get worse. She was still feeling as if Ethan, her dad, and perhaps her entire family had pulled a fast one on her. Had they all known Ethan rode whenever he had a moment to spare? And if he’d hung out with gauchos on the pampas, then he might even rope as well as she.
Did he have to be any more attractive?
And because she had to make some effort with her appearance before the Thanksgiving meal, she’d been forced to cut short her time with Tucker, Sooner, and Bowie and placate Alfie with some grapes and sliced bananas before stripping off her clothes and jumping in the shower. Knowing it would please her mother, she pulled on a burgundy knit pencil skirt that ended midcalf, paired it with a gathered embroidered blouse, and tugged on her favorite boots. Deciding that everyone was going to razz her for having lost to Ethan, she took the extra time to dry and brush her hair and apply gloss to her lips; she should look good when she faked a smile.
It was funny how things worked. If she hadn’t spent those minutes primping to boost her confidence, maybe she would have arrived at her parents’ house with it intact. Instead that few minutes’ delay put her on a collision course with Josh and Maebeth and blasted any self-assurance
she possessed to smithereens.
Since it was a little past five o’clock, they must have thought everyone was already inside. Or else they were so lust-addled they simply couldn’t keep their hands or mouths off each other.
She’d stumbled upon lots of lovers around the grounds of Silver Creek. But never when she was carrying a platter full of brownies.
“Oh, crap!” she cried as the dish slipped from her nerveless fingers, dropped on the toes of her boots, and then bounced onto the path, her brownies getting a nasty coating of gravel.
Maebeth’s face was a magenta hue—doubtless an exact match to Quinn’s—as with one hand she shoved her dress to a basically respectable midthigh length and with the other grabbed at the scooped collar where Josh had shoved it aside to reach her breast.
Josh was marginally more presentable. Quinn thanked God Maebeth hadn’t gotten to work on his belt buckle. But the snap buttons on his shirt made a distinct click click as Josh refastened them and then jammed his shirttails inside his black jeans.
Quinn stood there feeling like a fool until she finally realized she couldn’t leave two dozen brownies lying in the dirt. She knelt down and blindly rearranged them on the chipped platter—damn, she’d liked that piece. She had just dropped the last smushed square onto the messy pile when the door of Maebeth’s Charger opened and then slammed.
Maebeth held a large Pyrex dish covered in tinfoil. “I better take this inside so it can go in the oven,” she said with a strained brightness.
“I’ll be right there, Mae honey. Just need to speak to Quinn about something.”
Wow. “Mae honey” and public makeout sessions. Josh hadn’t let even a spore of moss settle on him.
No, really, we don’t need to say anything to each other. But Quinn’s protest remained a silent one, her tongue turned to lead in her mouth.
