by Liz Isaacson
“Two bedrooms down here,” Landon said. “Bathroom between them. There’s a small kitchen here too, so you’ll have everything you need.”
Molly poked her head in one of the bedrooms, but it was unremarkable. The bathroom was standard. The kitchen was more like a kitchenette, but with her limited cooking abilities, it would do just fine. After all, a freezer was a freezer was a freezer, and the tiny one in this basement would hold her microwavable meals as well as any other she’d had in the past.
“It’s great,” she said, though she wished she had her own structure, with privacy and maybe a tall fence. “Is there a separate entrance?”
“No, unfortunately,” Landon said. “But we won’t be in your way.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.” She glanced at Megan, who’d come downstairs with them. “Don’t y’all have three children?”
“They’re used to people coming in and out,” Megan said. “Honestly, you’re not going to bother us at all.”
Molly wasn’t so sure of that, but she smiled and nodded, wondering if that would be all she did out here at Brush Creek.
“See you Monday morning,” Landon said, guiding his wife back to the stairs and out of sight.
Monday came, and Molly had barely left her basement bachelorette pad. She’d gone to the grocery store in the evening on Saturday and for a walk on Sunday once she’d heard Landon and Megan leave the house.
But she couldn’t hide away in the basement forever, so she ascended the steps a few minutes before seven. Two distinct male voices tickled her eardrums as she neared the top, and she stepped into the living area to find Landon talking to another man. He shifted, and Molly’s world turned white around the edges.
Not just any other man. Oh, no. The very cowboy who’d ruined her shirt.
“You,” she said, a healthy dose of venom in only three letters.
The dark-haired man switched his gaze to Molly and his mouth dropped open. He recovered quickly, and asked, “What are you doin’ here?”
“What am I doin’ here? I work here.”
“You’ve met?” Landon asked, volleying his gaze between the two of them.
“Not really,” the cowboy said, glaring. Molly had no idea what he had to be upset about. She was the one with a shirt the color of banana popsicles.
“Well, Emmett, this is Molly Brady. Molly, this is Emmett Graves. He’s gonna be your trainer.”
Molly closed her eyes and ground her teeth together, silently begging God to open a hole in the earth wide enough to swallow her whole. When she opened her eyes, arrogant, handsome Emmett Graves still stood there, grinning at her for all he was worth.
Chapter Three
Emmett could mask a lot of emotions behind his smile, a weapon he used when he really wanted to stalk from the room and slam the door behind him. He should’ve known the leggy redhead was a cowgirl—he’d known there was something off about the clothes she wore to a country line dance.
“So she’ll be shadowing you for a few weeks, and then I expect you to put her to work.” Landon clapped Emmett on the shoulder, bringing him out of the staring contest with Molly. She finally looked away too, cocking one hip and folding her arms.
Landon left, probably because the tension in the homestead was explosive and he didn’t want to get hit with any of the shrapnel. Megan hummed as she entered the kitchen with her two-year-old in her arms.
“Oh, good morning, you two. You’ve met?” She didn’t seem to notice the thickness of the air or the fact that Emmett and Molly were still facing off. He didn’t want to be the first to speak or move—or maybe he did. Take control of the situation.
Whatever. He sighed and turned toward Megan. “We’ve met.” He went into the kitchen, fully expecting Molly to simply follow him. “Lunch today?”
“Pasta salad and grilled chicken.”
“Gotta use up all those noodles you bought last fall, is that it?”
“Hey.” She laughed when she met Emmett’s eyes. “You never know what winter is going to be like here. If we’d been snowed in, you’d have been happy for all those noodles.”
Emmett danced away from her as she waved a wooden spoon around. “I still am, Megs. Put the spoon down.” He chuckled as he exited through the French doors, his mood buoyed up by the sunshine and crisp blue sky. He took in a deep breath—and got a noseful of fruity-floral perfume.
Molly. He glanced behind him to find her only half a step back. He groaned. “Come on then.” He purposely walked at a swifter clip than he normally did, but Molly kept up with him just fine.
“Have you had a tour of the ranch?” he asked.
“No.”
“Where are you livin’?” he asked as he paused next to the machinery shed.
“The basement.”
Emmett openly stared at her. “Permanently?”
“Landon said he was going to expand Cabin Row. Said he commissioned someone named Blake to build a few more cabins.”
This was the first Emmett had heard of an expansion project, but he didn’t really need to know, though if Blake was going to be spending his work hours on construction, surely someone would have to pick up the slack on the farming side of the ranch’s operation.
“Well, this here’s the machinery shed. Has three bays. Landon’s fairly handy with cars and trucks. So am I, for that matter.” He pointed to the building behind it. “Big shed there holds most of our smaller farming supplies.” He started walking again. “Bigger machines here.” He pointed to the swathers, balers, tractors, mowers, and trailers.
“We don’t do much with farming, do we?”
“During planting and harvesting, yes. The Horse Ranch relies on what we can grow ourselves, or things get a little pricey. Blake—who’s going to build your cabin—manages and oversees all the farming operations, but everyone helps for a few days during peak times.”
She swallowed and nodded, her eyes never leaving the giant machines parked next to the bays. Emmett suppressed his smile, instead giving her a judgmental look that she ignored.
“Anyway,” Emmett said. “The horse barn is over here. We have about twenty horses at any given time, and Landon schedules us in the pastures, the outdoor arena, or the indoor training facility. Our barn holds twenty-five horses, and I’ve heard Landon talking about expanding it.”
“The ranch must be doing well,” Molly said, and Emmett was a touch surprised at the awe and kindness in her voice.
“Must be,” Emmett said. “He’s never hired a new trainer before. There’s always been him, five of us, and our farming manager.”
“Six cabins across the street.”
“All single occupied,” Emmett said. “Well, except for the cowboys who’ve got families.” He glanced through the budding trees at the row of cabins. One had bicycles leaning against the tree out front, and another had a stroller parked on the front porch.
“How many of them have families?” she asked.
Emmett’s stomach twisted, though he couldn’t identify why. “The foreman is married. Has two boys. His wife cuts hair. Our team roping trainer got married a couple of years ago, and they just had a baby last fall. Let’s see….” Emmett entered the barn as he pretended to think. “Our bronc trainer is married, with a baby who’s almost two now. And Blake, the farmer, is getting married in a month or so. His fiancé has three kids already.”
“So there are other women here. Children.”
“Yeah.” Emmett smiled, though as he’d given his little speech on those who lived at the ranch, he’d realized that only he and Grant Ford, another cowboy who worked with cattle, were single. He’d once been in the majority, and now he wasn’t.
It was his turn to swallow uncomfortably as he led Molly down the aisle toward the horses he was currently training. He stopped outside the stall, the brown horse with a strip of white down her nose, coming forward to greet him.
“Hey, Little Hurricane.” He stroked the horse’s nose. “She’s got quite a personality, but
she’s coming along.” He grinned at the horse and then turned around to the black horse who’d also come over. “That there’s Brush Creek Beauty.” He loved Beauty, and he tapped his forehead to hers.
Molly seemed comfortable around horses, at least. She stroked Hurricane’s nose too and let the horse sniff her palm. She wore a smile—at least until she faced Emmett. Then the smile faded and her surly attitude returned.
“What brings you to Brush Creek?” Emmett asked. “Saddles and reins are down in the tack room.” He nodded further down the aisle and led the way.
“I just retired from the rodeo circuit.”
Emmett’s step stuttered. “Oh yeah? Let me guess. You were a barrel racer.” He managed to mostly keep the disgust from infusing his voice.
“You don’t like barrel racers,” she stated.
“I like ‘em fine when they’re here buying my horses. Otherwise….” He scanned her from her strawberry blonde cowgirl hat to her black boottips. “I could do without them.”
“Now let me guess,” she said, jumping in front of him and almost coming chest to chest with him. “You rode bulls.”
He smirked at her, one half of his mouth quirking up. He smacked his arctic gum, glad she’d get a whiff of mint if she was going to be standing so close. His body hummed, but he couldn’t tell if it was a good thing or not. “Wrong. Guess again.”
“Hmm.” She narrowed her eyes. “Only cowboys as arrogant as you ride bulls.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“You weren’t even in the rodeo, then.”
“Sure was, sweetheart.”
“We must’ve been on the circuit at the same time then.”
“Why’s that?”
“You can’t be that old.”
“I retired seven years ago.” Emmett stared her down, wishing she’d back up a step. The hum definitely wasn’t a good one, and his fingers clenched.
“And I started eight years ago. So there was some definite overlap.”
“A year,” he said. “An old pro like me probably didn’t pay attention to a rookie.” Especially a barrel racing rookie, he added in his mind.
Her freckles stood out against her blush. “I’ll find out what you competed in on the circuit.”
“That’s fine. I don’t mind female fans.” He stepped around her, his hip brushing into the stall to give her a wide enough berth, and entered the tack room. “Since you know how to ride, I’ll let you go through the equipment here and get a saddle you think will work for Hurricane.”
“Which horse is more practiced?” she asked, cramming herself into the small room with him.
Annoyance soared through him, almost clouding his judgment. “No one works with Beauty but me.”
“Oh, you’ve got a crush on your pretty little horse, is that it?”
Emmett turned and faced her, even took a step closer to her. Satisfied when she shrunk back a step, he said, “That’s right. And the other half of my heart belongs to my cat.”
Her shoulders straightened and she lifted her chin, completely unafraid of him. She really had survived well in the rodeo circuit. “Get your gear and meet me in the outdoor arena. We’ll be there all week.” Emmett grabbed his stuff and high-tailed it out of there before he could say or do something he’d regret later.
“All right, Beauty,” Emmett said once he had his horse saddled and warmed up. He liked just riding around the outdoor arena, the gentle clopping of hooves therapeutic and the fresh breeze comforting.
When Molly entered the arena on Hurricane, Emmett’s heart catapulted to the back of his throat. She was magnificent on a horse, her hands soft on the reins, her back straight and tall, her confidence oozing from her.
She smiled at him, and Emmett thought maybe he could tolerate her following him around for a few weeks. Then she could go off on her own. After all, if Landon really had more barrel racing business, he wouldn’t allow two of them to train a horse at the same time.
She trotted Hurricane four feet from the fence line, around and around, just the way she’d surely warmed up her horse before a run. Emmett appreciated that she kept distance between them and that she knew what to do.
He pulled Beauty into the center of the arena and gestured for Molly to do the same with her horse. “So Hurricane is coming out wide on her turns. Sometimes she blows off that third barrel completely. I want you to get the barrels set up and walk ‘er through the route. Keep her face loose; don’t let her head come up on the second turn. Make sure she’s exactly four feet from that last barrel, and really set your weight on the outside so she’ll come back in.”
Molly nodded and loped her horse around the arena another time before dismounting and beginning to drag the barrels out to their positions.
He watched her for several seconds past appropriate. She had muscles in her arms and legs that he appreciated, along with those curvy hips that could steer a horse without much effort. He cleared his throat and looked away.
He wasn’t happy about Molly’s intrusion into his life. And the way she wore ice in every line of her face didn’t help either. So she was strong, and capable, and beautiful. Didn’t mean Emmett was getting warm fuzzies about her.
Leading Beauty out of the arena to the alley he’d constructed, he said, “We’re gonna conquer this alley today.” He led the horse to the entrance of the alley, and Beauty stopped. He jumped down and peered at her. “What’s with this?”
Her refusal to run the alley was a new development that Emmett needed to sort out before he could advance her to the next part of her training. After all, if he couldn’t even get the horse into the arena, there was no sense in making sure she could run the barrels.
He walked down the alley, leaving Beauty where she stood. He hummed to himself, hoping the horse had developed some anxiety that he could cure. He’d already had the vet and animal chiropractor out to the ranch, and Beauty wasn’t showing any signs of soreness.
At the end of the alley, he unlatched the gate that led into the arena. Molly watched him, but he ignored her. He hummed as he went back, letting his fingers catch on every post until he returned to Beauty.
She’d never had a problem with noise—in fact he trained his hyper horses to deal with the distraction of crowd noise and focus on their runs. Some horses required a more gentle hand, and some needed to know their rider was there, solid in the saddle.
Emmett had tried different tactics last week to test Beauty’s hypertension issues, and he’d found none. He gathered her reins and walked her down the alley. She plodded along behind him, but a snuffle and a head toss came about halfway down.
“Easy,” he said, breaking his humming to soothe the horse.
“What’s wrong with her?” Molly asked when Emmett made it into the arena.
“Nothing’s wrong with her,” Emmett said, instantly annoyed by the woman’s quick judgment and slightly acidic tone. “She’s just developed some anxiety about the alley.” He reached up and stroked his fingers down her necks. “She’ll be ready in no time. Come on, Beauty. Don’t listen to the nasty barrel racer.”
He shot a daggered look at Molly, who frowned and folded her arms, that hip jutting out. Emmett wondered how much she practiced that displeasured look, because she had it down.
“A nasty barrel racer is gonna have to ride her,” Molly called as Emmett took Beauty through the alley in the opposite direction.
“But she won’t have to deal with her anxiety,” Emmett called back. “Because I’m going to train her up right,” he added under his breath so Molly couldn’t hear. He took the horse way out past the alley and turned her around.
“Slow and steady,” he said, leading her back in. He kept a decent grip on the reins in both directions, glad when Molly had gotten on with training her own horse. He watched her lift her inside hand and put her weight on the outside, patting the horse’s neck when it came all the way around the barrel and completed the turn.
He had to admit she knew what she was doing. Maybe she di
dn’t know all the steps of taking a wild horse and training it into a champion, but she definitely had the skills to do it. If she was trained up right, she’d be churning out barrel racing horses by the end of the year.
For some reason that didn’t sit well in Emmett’s gut. He needed to release his own anxiety if he wanted to make any progress with Beauty today, so he lashed her to the post at the end of the alley and went back in the barn.
He stuffed one chocolate chip cookie in his mouth—his reward for dealing with Molly—and put three in his pocket. When he returned to Beauty, she nosed his jacket as if she could see through leather.
“Yep,” he said. “You have to go down the alley—no snuffling, keep that head low—to get it.” He undid her reins and dropped them, stepping into the alley and expecting the horse to follow.
She did, all the way to the end. Emmett smiled at her, praised her, and gave her a cookie. He repeated the process, this time with him on the outside of the alley. Beauty performed her job well, kept her head low, and went all the way into the arena. She even trotted over to the first barrel, as Emmett had already started teaching her the patterns and strides she needed to master.
He whistled through his teeth without thinking, and he got the desired result with Beauty. She turned and came back to him. Unfortunately, so did Hurricane, who Molly had been coaching through the patterns.
He gave Beauty a cookie and chuckled as Molly struggled to get Hurricane to return to the barrel patterns. The horse wouldn’t though, as Emmett had trained it come to him on command.
He chuckled as Hurricane arrived and lifted his head over the fence, ready for his treat too. Emmett gave it to him along with an affectionate pat or two. Or ten. He wasn’t counting.
Molly sighed in this hugely exaggerated way, and Emmett glanced at her sitting atop his horse like a queen.
“Sorry,” he said, deciding to go for nice on this one. “I forgot about the effect my whistle has on him.”
“It’s fine.” But her tone didn’t suggest fine. It suggested absolutely, one-hundred percent not fine. Emmett watched her go and shook his head. She’d probably won a lot of championships. A rider as focused as she was had the discipline to train for hours a day for the fifteen-second run.
