The Cowboy Wore A Kilt

by Grace Burrowes

"Maybe competing is something you can get back to after Kara goes off to college?"

  Just like that, the shadows descended again. "College costs money, Declan. Tons and tons of money, for a good school that can handle Kara's educational needs. There's a program over in Big Spring, but they have very few majors. Gallaudet University has more majors, but Washington, DC, is exorbitantly expensive."

  This was how Declan had felt in Scotland, hemmed in, limited, frustrated. Every option foreclosed before he'd had a chance to explore it.

  And Thad Brewster, with no regard for the human cost, had decided this woman must be deprived of the ranch that anchored her spirit and sheltered her child.

  "I have some time to get college figured out for Kara," Claudia said, stifling a yawn. "Her grades are spectacular, she's taking AP classes, and the Internet and translation apps have been her salvation. Not every kid barrels straight into college, anyway." She dropped her feet to the floor, her knee brushing Declan's thigh again as lightning flashed at the windows.

  "I don't mean to be rude," Declan said, standing, "but I'd better turn in if I'm to be a cowboy tomorrow. Thanks for a lovely meal, and for shifting my reservation ahead."

  He didn't think, he simply extended a hand down to her, intending to help a tired lady to her feet.

  Claudia rose, her hand in his, and because they stood between the couch and a coffee table, she ended up quite close to him.

  Quite close.

  "Off to bed with you," she said, patting his chest. "If you haven't ridden in a while, you'll want to start out slowly."

  Overhead, thunder boomed so loudly the heavens might have been splitting asunder. Declan's heart hammered almost as loudly.

  As the thunder died away, the temptation to wrap his arms around the woman before him was as overwhelming as it was stupid. He was here to steal her ranch, more or less, and making a pass would add dishonor to injury.

  Claudia went up on her toes and kissed him, a friendly little buss to the cheek. "G'night, Declan. Glad you'll be with us this week."

  He stared at the fire, which was throwing out almost as much heat as his imagination. "If a good-night kiss is one of the amenities at the Bar J, you should be booked solid for the next two years."

  His attempt at levity failed. Claudia's smile said she knew it for the dodge it was, and she was pleased that Declan had needed to dodge.

  "You never did tell me what you want for breakfast," she said, not budging an inch.

  What Declan wanted was a new job and a do-over with Claudia Jensen. "Anything hot."

  Damn.

  Her smile became luminous, turning her into a fireside houri. "Bacon, eggs, toast, grits, with all the trimmings. You'll need your energy."

  She sauntered off to the hallway—Don't look, laddie. Not a single, witless peek—and Declan stalked off toward the kitchen. Cranachan had whisky in it, and Kara might know where the rest of the bottle was to be found.

  ***

  Storms were part of life in the Texas Panhandle. Pounding rain, sleet, flash floods, snow…nothing boring about weather in the Canyon, but this storm had an edge to it that made Claudia uneasy. The wind wasn't steady, it gusted and dropped, and then roared anew. The rain came and went, alternating a pattering downpour with freezing torrents. The lightning and thunder had apparently parked directly over the Canyon for the night.

  Maybe the weather was to blame for Claudia's overture to Declan MacLeod, for that's what her kiss had been. An invitation to flirt, at least, but with seven days to see where the flirting went, she'd been offering…more than a friendly gesture.

  And why not? Why in the Sam-damn hell not? She shucked out of her jeans, did the toothbrush and washcloth drill, put her hair into two braids, and tried to find a reason to behave more cautiously where Declan was concerned.

  Her instincts declared that he was decent down to his bones. He hadn't mentioned a wife, girlfriend, or fiancée. He didn't wear a ring, and he had no pale, telltale circle on his fourth finger to suggest he was either prevaricating or on the immediate rebound.

  Up close, he was a mighty solid slab of male, and even at the end of the evening, he'd smelled good.

  "Not like you," Claudia said to Hotay. "You smell like mesquite smoke now, but by this time tomorrow, you might smell like the muck pit."

  Fresh manure gave off heat, and Hotay was not discriminating about his sources of warmth.

  Claudia slipped into a flannel nightie—the sheets would be frigid—and climbed into bed. Fatigue hit her like a mule kick—and Sunday was supposed to be her easy day—and yet sleep would not come.

  Other good-looking, appealing men had come to stay at the Bar J, and a few had even been willing to do the six-hundred-thread-count two-step. Claudia hadn't been interested.

  Maybe she was lonelier now, more tired, more broke…or maybe Declan MacLeod was something special.

  That was her last thought before a sandpapery tongue scraping across her chin woke her up.

  "Hotay."

  He was a weight on her chest, like a worry, only hairier. He licked her chin again, and Claudia sat up to shift him to her side.

  "Storm got you rattled, cat?"

  The floodlight shining across from the barnyard into Claudia's window confirmed that the power was still on. The rain was coming down steadily, but the wind had gone quiet.

  "Mralph."

  Hotay had some Maine Coon in him, and his voice was distinctively expressive.

  "Don't fret," Claudia said, stroking a hand over his head. "By morning the sun will be out, and we'll be two inches of rain closer to green-up."

  "MRALPH." Hotay hopped off the bed and leaped up onto the windowsill, where he marched back and forth, tail switching.

  "It's two in the stinkin' darn morning, cat. Either go eat a mouse or come back to bed."

  He sat and wrapped his plume of a tail over his paws, then batted at the vase of pansies perched on the sill.

  "Knock my flowers over, and I'll—"

  Another gentle tap on the vase sent the flowers an inch closer to the edge of the sill.

  "That is my grandma's vase, you evil varmint." Claudia tossed the covers aside and pushed off the bed. "You bust that vase and the coyotes will feast on your bones. I'll provide the hot sauce and throw in a side of—"

  Claudia shut up, because when she stood by the window, over the steady rain, she could hear a rhythmic concussion from the direction of the barn.

  "A loose door?" Claudia and Kara had brought in the horses right before dinner. Triple checking the latches on the stall doors was part of the routine. The wind had been awful, though, and a window might be banging loose.

  If that window came off its hinges, it could injure a horse.

  "Damn it to hell, cat. Remind me why I love living here."

  A bathrobe would just get muddy, so Claudia pulled on an Irish cable-knit sweater that hung nearly to her knees, then grabbed a slicker from the hooks lining the back hallway. She shoved her feet into a pair of green wellies by the door and slogged across the yard to the barn.

  The rain was brutally cold, and the pounding got louder when she gained the relative protection of the stable.

  "Night check, my friends," she said softly, because her scent might not have carried to the horses amid the cold rain and bitter breezes. "Everybody please be tucked up all cozy in your straw."

  Though the night-lights were on, they shed just enough illumination to save Claudia from tripping over a muck wagon. She ran the beam of her cell phone flashlight over each stall, working her way down the aisle as the pounding grew louder. Something hitting wood, hard, repeatedly, though each stall held the horse it was supposed to.

  The second-to-last stall belonged to Boo, who was kicking the wooden division between his stall and his neighbor's in a steady, unhappy rhythm. Bored horses did that, or horses in pain.

  "You okay, dude?" No matted coat, no runny manure in the straw, no signs he'd been rolling, nothing to indicate a potentially fatal bellyache.<
br />
  He thumped the wall again with a back hoof.

  Instinct prodded at Claudia. Boo's antics had the horses across the aisle pacing around in their straw bedding. The Belgian gelding—Prince—wuffled, and the sound had a worried quality. But then, Prince was a ton of equine marshmallow.

  "What about you, Strawberry?" Claudia asked, moving to the corner stall.

  Her belly reacted before her mind made sense of what she saw. Fear got her by the vitals, and panic tried to crowd after.

  A sturdy hoof protruded from between the bars of Strawberry's stall. He was a good-sized roan, absolutely sensible under saddle, and on no planet should his back foot have been sticking up at nearly eye level through the iron bars of his stall.

  "Shit," Claudia muttered, approaching Strawberry's stall slowly. "Shit, shit, shit."

  The horse lay on his back. The hind foot wedged between the stall's bars prevented him from moving. If the gelding's foot and leg were okay, his back and hips were likely all pulled out of whack. Even if no structural damage had been done, lying essentially upside down would wreak havoc with the horse's digestion.

  "Easy, boy," Claudia said, as Boo gave the wall another kick. "Easy, and we'll get Strawberry free here in a minute."

  Though that meant finding the hacksaw to cut the bars, hoping the horse didn't thrash himself into a greater injury as Claudia sawed at the bars, hoping the horse didn't go into shock, or injure her when she tried to get him free—

  "Stop frettin'," she said, quoting her late father, "and get busy."

  The door at the other end of the shed row rolled open, and a man's shape was briefly silhouetted against the shadows.

  Claudia clicked her flashlight off and on. "Don't turn on the lights, Declan. I have a situation here, and I need the horses to stay calm." Her voice was shaky, not from cold, but from sheer upset. "One of the horses is cast, and he's got a foot hung up. I don't think he's in shock yet, but I'm—"

  Declan apparently knew not to run in a barn, but he hustled down the aisle. "I was standing at the terrace window when I saw you come down here. How can I help?"

  "I need a hacksaw, some prayers, and a whole crap-ton of luck," Claudia said, going to Strawberry's stall. "He can't stay like that, and heaven knows what damage he's already sustained. Damned storms get them all wound up. He probably felt a little frisky—Declan, what the hell are you doing?"

  He'd grabbed the metal bars on either side of Strawberry's foot and pulled against them. "Let's both try."

  Declan wore his corduroy jacket over bare skin, and his jeans lacked a belt. As he exerted pressure on one of the bars, muscles rippled and shifted across his chest, but the bar didn't budge.

  "Brace a foot against the crossbeam," Claudia said. "If you can bend the bar, I'll push the horse's foot back through."

  It meant working in close proximity, and Declan sounded as if he was cussing in Gaelic, but the damned bar bowed just enough, and Claudia eased the horse's foot in the right direction.

  "Thank Jesus!" She hugged Declan hard for one instant, then slid the stall door open.

  Strawberry lay on his side, looking like a big, bewildered dog.

  "Smart boy," Claudia crooned. "No heroic measures. Just get your bearings. I'll find you some painkiller, and we'll hope you can get up under your own steam in a few minutes. Declan, you know anything about horses?"

  He stood in the stall doorway. "I know you'll catch your death in that getup. I can stay with him while you get proper clothes on."

  Declan's hair was damp and disheveled, his tone repressive. Because Claudia had grown up around cowboys, she knew a worried man could sound a lot like an irritable one.

  "Strawberry needs some horsey aspirin first," she said, pushing to her feet. "He's probably pulled muscles from stem to stern, torn ligaments, and possibly worse. In any case, managing pain is part of preventing colic. I'll be back in a second, but if you talk to him, talk sweetly. No scolding, no threatening, no—"

  Declan tugged her from the stall and pulled a piece of straw from her hair. "I'll sing him a damned lullaby. Fetch the painkiller, and then get warm clothes on. I have enough on my conscience without you catching pneumonia."

  He nearly growled when he was upset, but he was right—the barn was cold, and the night would be long. Claudia got a syringe of apple-flavored medicated paste from the tack room, gave Strawberry a generous dose, and tossed two flakes of hay into a corner of the stall.

  "I'll be right back," she said. "If he tries to get up, let him. Strawberry's fourteen hundred pounds of muscle with a thinking brain about the size of a golf ball. Common sense doesn't always figure into his decisions, and he's had a bad night. Don't start the coffeepot in the tack room. It takes forever, and I'll bring you something hot from the house."

  "Go," Declan said, pointing toward the barn door. "And no caffeine for me, thank you."

  Claudia wanted to tell him not to give her orders, wanted to thank him, and wanted to hug him.

  She shook her finger at him. "No heroic measures from you either. Your safety comes before his."

  Declan turned her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle push in the direction of the door. "Warm clothes, Claudia, before I throw you over my shoulder and carry you to the house bodily."

  For that, she did hug him, and then smiled all the way across the yard.

  Chapter Three

  The Bar J was a recipe for disaster.

  A woman virtually alone in the middle of nowhere with livestock to care for, a deaf teenager on the property, and bad weather a fact of life. If Declan hadn't been wrestling his conscience at two in the morning, Claudia would probably be out here—her bare knees on display over boots three sizes too large for her—trying to use a hacksaw to free a horse from looming tragedy.

  "What got into you?" Declan asked the horse.

  Strawberry was curled in the bedding, looking as sweet and serene as if he were auditioning for a nativity play. Thunder boomed to the south, and the horse shuddered.

  "Don't like storms, then? I can understand that, you being from a species that prefers to run from trouble. Hard to run in a twelve-by-twelve stall."

  The barn was sturdy post-and-beam construction, not a prefab metal frame set up on a concrete slab. The smells were good—horse, hay, manure, leather—putting Declan in mind of his grandfather's farm in Fife.

  The horse stuck its front legs out straight and made as if to rise.

  "Careful, laddie. You've had a fright."

  Claudia had had a fright, too, but she'd known what to do and had been ready to do it. Declan hadn't had a fright, he'd been in a flat damned panic when he'd seen Claudia scampering across the muck in wellies, a jacket, and a sweater.

  Daft woman. Daft, determined woman.

  Strawberry clambered to his feet and shook like a wet dog.

  "Take it easy." Declan opened the stall door and stood in the doorway, ready to go to the horse, though he'd no clue what to do if the gelding got to bucking and carrying on. Strawberry stuck out his big nose in Declan's direction and hobbled closer.

  "You buggered up your back end," Declan said, scratching behind the horse's ears. "Claudia will fuss at you for that. You've given her one more thing to worry about."

  Declan was still scratching the beast, scolding him, and saying prayers the animal wasn't permanently lame when the lights hummed to life at low illumination.

  Claudia came up the aisle wearing what Declan's mum would have called snow pants—waterproof on the outside, probably fleece on the inside—along with the big sweater and open jacket she'd worn earlier. Her hair was still in two braids, but now Declan had the luxury of noticing how long and thick those braids were.

  "I brought hot chocolate," Claudia said, brandishing a thermos. "I see the patient is standing."

  "He can move a bit, though he's stiff. He likes to have his back rubbed."

  Claudia came into the stall. "Don't we all? Strawberry, that has to be the stupidest maneuver I've ever seen a horse pull
. You better be sorry, and I hope I don't have to shoot your ridiculous butt tomorrow morning."

  She was not teasing.

  "He's on his feet. Why would you shoot him? Can't you give a fellow some time to come right?" Or maybe explain why he's come to steal your ranch?

  Strawberry turned enormous brown eyes on his owner, as if echoing Declan's question.

  "I hate to put down any of my stock," Claudia said, tucking the thermos under her arm and stroking Strawberry's neck. "They rely on me to keep them safe and healthy, and if they're injured, that's at least partly on me. A horse in constant pain, one whose movement has to be limited for his own safety, can easily colic. If the colic is bad, you can lose the horse, and it's an awful way to go. I'll spare a dying horse pain if I can. I owe them that."

  She'd apparently had to make that decision at some point, possibly more than once. The idea of Claudia taking aim at an animal she cared for ripped at Declan's soul.

  "He's not dying," Declan said. "If I can do anything to help, you've only to tell me."

  "Let's see what we're dealing with. The painkiller should be kicking in. If Strawberry can't walk now, he's probably done for. Even if he can get around, he might still be done for before this is all over."

  You're not done for, Declan silently promised the horse.

  "Are you confident walking him?" Claudia asked.

  Strawberry lipped at his hay, which had to be a good sign.

  "My grandda had plow horses," Declan said. "I haven't been around horses for a while, but I'm sure the basics will come back to me."

  Claudia fetched a halter with an attached lead rope from the hook on the outside of the stall door. "Strawberry, time for a little stroll up the barn aisle with your new best friend Declan."

  Declan led the horse up the aisle at a slow, uneven clip-clop, and Strawberry came along docilely beside him. The rain pattered steadily against the roof, and the thunder was now distant, but the temperature, if anything, had dropped.

  "Lead him back to me and keep to his side," Claudia said.

  They repeated the exercise twice more, and each time the horse seemed to move more freely.