Her gaze lingered on the logo, but her mind had moved to the memory of what happened behind those closed doors. Did he remember the exact location of their first kiss? Probably not. Only women were sappy romantics with memories like elephants.
She turned to ask him about his missing horse, but her question was cut off by the jingle of a ringtone tune she couldn’t quite place.
He reached for the phone holster on his hip, like an old west sheriff going for his gun. The movement brought back the memory of them arguing over which of the actors in their favorite western, Tombstone, looked the most authentic.
“Val Kilmer, of course,” she’d insisted. “His Doc Holliday will go down in cinematic history.”
Paul, who actually seemed a bit jealous of her schoolgirl crush on the actor, swore he was going to buy a black coat like the one Kurt Russell wore, as soon as his fledgling mustache filled in.
She watched him pace with his phone to his ear. No mustache. No obvious tattoos. His dark blue Wranglers, low-heel cowboy boots and tucked in short-sleeve cotton shirt—an attractive plaid of grays and blues with an orange stripe—were the right combination of casual and successful.
He dressed much the same as he had in high school. But now, his biceps and chest filled out his shirt with a healthy maturity that made her mouth water.
Only his hand-tooled belt and pewter buckle, which resembled a Superman logo with a Z instead of an S, cried: money.
“No,” Paul barked, his tone strident and unyielding. “They signed a contract and it sticks no matter what kind of deal they think they can get in Bozeman. We aren’t Bozeman and people pick us for a reason. Remind them of how many trips to the city we’re saving them.”
She didn’t know what the contract entailed but she wouldn’t have wanted to argue the point with him. Especially when he added, “If they give you any more grief, tell them my brother is a lawyer and he hasn’t worked off this year’s retainer yet.”
After he ended the call, he ran his hand impatiently through his hair before he looked at her. “Dealing with the public never gets any easier.” He shrugged. “Now, where were we?”
“We were going to see a man about a horse,” she said, grinning at his blush when he caught her double entendre. Obviously, he remembered OC’s code for taking a pee.
“Skipper,” he said, leading the way to the barn. “That’s what Chloe named him. Technically, he’s her horse. I told the kids they’d each get a foal from Felicity—the mare we passed coming in.”
“The little pinto by her side is your son’s, then?”
He nodded. “In theory. But Mark’s crazy about Legos and video games at the moment. I don’t know if he’ll develop a fondness for riding or not.”
She wondered if that bothered him. Her father wouldn’t have let a little thing like personal preference derail his intentions where his child was concerned.
“This horse isn’t here to look pretty,” he told her when he brought home her first pony. “You’re gonna be the best cowgirl this county has ever seen, Queen Bee. It’ll take work. But you can do it.”
In high school, even on cold and rainy days, she rode Charlie. Did Mom or OC ever ask what her dreams were? Did she even know?
Probably not.
“Hold on. I’m gonna let the foreman next door know we’re opening the gate.”
She could picture the fence line between her family’s ranch and the old Armistead place. Unless something had changed, the distance was at least a mile off. “I don’t think I can walk that far, Paul.”
He let out a gruff snorting sound. “You and me both. That’s what my quad is for, darlin’,” he said sliding the barn door open with a hefty push.
She knew the endearment wasn’t personal but a small squiggle of sweetness passed through her.
A couple of minutes later, he emerged from the barn driving a burly, mud-splattered all-terrain vehicle. A feedbag hung from one of the front hooks and several thick braided ropes were attached by bungee cords.
He scooted forward to make room for her directly behind him. “Hop aboard.”
Paul watched to see how Bailey digested the news that she was going to have to cozy up against him for the ride. She studied the ATV for a moment then shrugged. “Haven’t been on one of these in ages.”
The road between the two ranches was rutted and dusty, but it appeared Austen’s foreman had graded the trail since the last time Paul visited his brother’s weekend estate.
“Are the Armisteads still alive?”
When Bailey leaned close enough to be heard over the engine noise, her front brushed against his back. Nice, but not quite what he’d hoped for. Admitting that made him feel about twelve.
“Mrs. Armistead died about ten years ago. John had a health scare and his kids made him move into an assisted living place in Bozeman a couple of years ago. That’s when my brother bought it.”
She leaned around him, holding onto his waist for balance. “Are you kidding me? Austen bought a ranch? Why?”
The sensations shooting through his body made it hard to think, let alone carry on a conversation. “Tax write-off, mostly. But then he had this...umm...thing.” He didn’t want to get into the political scandal that cost Austen his job. “He needed some peace and quiet. So, he’s been living there off and on for a few months.”
She returned to her less friendly position. Glancing out the corner of his eye he could see her hands gripping on the holds on the back fender.
“Does everyone in your family own property around here?”
“Mia’s got some empty land near the river. She and Edward were going to retire there. She got the property in their divorce settlement. Meg has a cabin way the hell up and out that way.” He pointed toward the Gallatin Range. He’d never been able to find the place on his own, but Meg called it her sanity spot.
The left front tire hit a rock, making the ATV buck sideways. He grabbed the handle bar to regain control.
Bailey let out a tiny yip and locked her arms around his waist. Her warmth felt...familiar, like muscle memory. After that, he kept his eyes open for big rocks...to run over.
“Is that him?” Bailey leaned in even closer so she could direct his gaze toward a flash of brown and white. Her bosom connected with his shoulder, which triggered a reaction much lower down.
Paul eased back on the throttle as they crested a slight rise. He let the ATV roll to a stop then turned off the motor.
By focusing on the white and brown pinto forty or so feet away, he could almost talk his body out of embarrassing him in front of Bailey.
The compact little horse with four white feet and a white blaze kicked up his heels as if putting on a show for the new spectators. He snorted and tossed his mane, nearly dancing on the tips of his hooves.
“What the hell is he doing...chasing butterflies?”
Bailey snickered and rocked back. “Maybe. I’ve seen colts play and jump just for the fun of it.”
The only place their bodies touched now was her thighs pressed against his hips. He tried to swallow and nearly choked. “Damn dust,” he muttered.
“Your colt is gorgeous, Paul. Great build. Has some Arabian in him, doesn’t he?”
“Uh-huh.” Brilliant conversationalist.
“His white mane and tail remind me of Charlie.” She shifted positions to sit higher on the back of the seat.
“Charlie,” he repeated. The horse she’d ridden in every fair parade and rodeo during high school. “What happened to him?”
When she didn’t answer right away, he slid one leg to the ground and hopped to standing, taking care not to kick her.
Bailey’s gaze was no longer on Skipper. She seemed to be staring unseeing at Copper Mountain in the distance. “I knew when I took him to Fresno State he might not be able to complete all four years, and, sure enough, the summer before my senior year, his left front knee started swelling. That’s about the same time I met Ross. I could take my pick from his stable if I joined him on the ci
rcuit.”
Ross. Paul had never met the man but he didn’t care for him one bit. Talk about emotional blackmail. “Drop out of college and come with me and I’ll give you the horse of your dreams, baby,” he thought.
Bailey’s self-deprecating chuckle effectively ruined his private rant.
“It didn’t hurt that he looked like Hugh Jackman in a cowboy hat and could ride anything on four legs. I wasn’t the only cowgirl he swept off her feet, but I was the one he wanted to marry.”
Naturally. The man might be a conniving cad, but he had great taste in women.
“What’d you do with Charlie?”
“Boarded him with a friend.” Her tone told him this was still a painful subject. He didn’t expect her to say more, but she added, “I got a call in Plano, Texas. Charlie had stopped eating. His knees were swollen and obviously causing him pain. The vet didn’t give me any choice. I couldn’t let him suffer.”
“That’s too bad. I know how much he meant to you. You called him your life saver.”
“Yep. Every time OC came home drunk, I’d hop on Charlie’s back and fly the coop. I didn’t even need a bridle.”
He pictured Chloe bareback on Skipper without a bridle and his blood ran cold. He offered Bailey a hand getting off the quad. “Don’t tell Chloe you did that. She’s a dangerous combination of horse crazy and fearless.”
She put her hand in his tentatively. “I was the same way. My mother blamed her premature gray hair on me.” Back in the day, she would have ignored his help and bounced off the back of the quad. “How do you plan to catch him? Can you rope?” she asked, placing her feet carefully as she got her bearing.
Seeing the changes in her—out here in what had been her natural element—unnerved him. He realized for the first time how much things had changed. It was possible the girl he’d loved with all his heart was not the same person as this Bailey Jenkins.
He leaned over the side to reach for the bag he’d strapped to one of the anchor hooks. “Not really. I’m hoping this will work. He’s a bit of a pig.”
“Most teenage boys are.”
She took the bag from him and started toward Skipper, who was pretending to ignore them. “Hey, hey, Skip-ip-per,” she sang. “I want to curry you some day. Hey, hey, Skipper, come see what’s inside this bag. You’ll love it, I know. Mmm...mmm.”
The melody sounded faintly familiar but the words were pure Bailey.
Skipper nibbled a few blades of grass then turned their way, his reddish-brown ears cocked forward.
Bailey jiggled the feedbag, making the oats dance melodically.
Skipper’s nostrils flared. He shook his head, sending his mane aflutter.
“Come here, pretty boy. I’ll whisper sweet nothings in your ear and bring you nasturtiums and blue grama grass if you let me take you home.”
Her tone alone would have won Paul over if he were a horse. Not surprisingly, Skipper took a couple of steps toward them. Then his gaze landed on Paul. His head lifted and his eyes rolled back. If horses could sneer, Skipper would have flipped them off before he hightailed it in the opposite direction.
Paul sighed. “Stupid horse. Good try, though. I’ll call Austen’s foreman and ask him to catch the little bastard.”
He got back behind the wheel and waited.
Instead of joining him, Bailey headed in the opposite direction. “Stay on the ATV, Paul. He wants to come, but he can’t bring himself to give you the satisfaction of caving in.”
“Me? This is a power play with me?”
“You’re the alpha male.”
I am?
As the baby of the family, Paul had pretty much followed everyone else’s lead—except at work. Maybe running the show at Big Z Hardware had rubbed off on his personal life.
His phone hummed in his shirt pocket, letting him know he had a text.
“C + M want to spend weekend w u. Y or N?”
His kids wanted to come home. The answer was a no-brainer.
He typed the letter Y and hit send. Did that make him a pushover? Did he care? No. Where his kids were concerned, the only thing that mattered was their happiness.
When he pocketed the phone again, Bailey had her arms around the neck of his unpredictable young horse. Fear plunged through him like an eight-foot wave. He grabbed both handles ready to shoot across the gap between them if necessary.
His heart raced and his mouth felt so dry he could barely swallow. Please, please, please... He didn’t have time to complete the prayer because Bailey pivoted on her good heel and started toward him.
To Paul’s complete and utter shock, Skipper followed a polite step or two behind.
He knew better than to cheer so he waited and watched. She rewarded him with an appreciative smile.
“Hand me the halter...slowly...but whatever you do, don’t make eye contact with Skipper.”
“Serio—okay.”
From his peripheral vision, he watched her fit the red nylon halter over Skipper’s ears and fasten it. She petted the horse’s head and neck, lavishing him with praise for being a “smart, brave boy.” Then she clipped the thick braided lead to the metal ring under his chin.
He bites, Paul was tempted to say, but decided against it. Maybe he only bites men who bring his feed.
“Okay,” she said. “Tie this off and I think he’ll follow us home without a fuss.”
“How do you know this? Are you the new horse whisperer?”
After securing the rope, he tried to pat Skipper and nearly lost a hunk of forearm for his effort. Disgusted and more than a little frustrated, he started the engine and made a wide circle so they were headed back on the same path.
Skipper trotted jauntily, never taking his eyes off Bailey.
“I think he’s smitten,” Paul said.
“He’s a beautiful animal. Just rough around the edges. Your daughter should work with him every day. Lunging him, walking on a lead, daily grooming.”
“I’m picking her up this afternoon. We’ll stop here on our way home.” He hesitated before asking, “I don’t suppose you...”
She wasn’t touching him at all now. Had she picked up on his earlier reaction? Or had his jest about the horse whisperer irked her?
“I’m going to a meeting of the local crafters’ guild tonight. I’m hoping to convince a couple of members to give jewelry making a try.”
Her business. Duh.
He’d completely forgotten the reason she’d come to him the other day. She’d needed help looking for a place to set up B. Dazzled Western Bling.
Damn. That wasn’t like him. Jen would have been shocked. “I swear your mother nursed you at her desk in that stinking hardware store so you think it’s home,” his ex-wife said when she told him she wanted a divorce. “Business is all you talk about. All you dream about.”
Not any more, apparently.
Lately, every dream—especially the X-rated ones—starred Bailey Jenkins.
OC dialed the number he hadn’t called in a good month. He pushed the speakerphone button out of habit. A month ago he’d been too weak to even hold the receiver. Thank God, Bailey hadn’t seen him like that.
The line rang four times before a voice said, “Jenkins’s Fish and Game, Marla speaking.”
Lazy bitch. What took you so long to pick up? “Marla, it’s me. Is Jack around?”
“Hello, OC. Of course he’s not around. It’s summer in Montana. He’s up in the mountains showing flatlanders where to drop a line. Probably has another three or four hours of daylight.”
He’d never liked talking to Marla. The woman thought two years of junior college made her more intelligent than she was.
“Whatever you’ve got to say to Jack, you can say it to me, OC. I’ll give him the message.”
He bit back the three-word phrase he wanted to say. Although it galled him to no end, he needed Marla’s cooperation to help Bailey.
“You probably heard Bailey’s back in town.”
“Yup.”
&nb
sp; “Well, she needs a place where she can set up her jewelry-making business. I figure the back room of the Fish and Game oughta work just fine.”
Her epithet didn’t surprise him. She’d always had a penchant for four-letter words. “I don’t want strangers tramping through here when I’m booking trips.”
“That’s what the patio door is for. You’d never cross paths.”
“I don’t care. My answer is no.”
“It’s still my business. I’ve got a say in how it’s run.”
“Not really.”
Her smug, self-satisfied tone made the hair on the back of OC’s neck stand up.
“Jack’s been keeping the Fish and Game afloat for the past few months, and we’re leaving. New Mexico or Arizona. I haven’t decided which.”
He’d heard that claim before.
“I haven’t taken any new bookings for after August first. You’re welcome to take over if you’re back on your feet...excuse me...foot, by then.”
The vitriol in her tone made his skin crawl. “That’s your idea of helping out a friend? Leaving while I’m still flat on my back?”
Marla chortled. “You’re no friend of mine, OC. My husband has a blind spot where you’re concerned. Thinks you hung the freakin’ moon or something. But, you’re a drunk—a mean drunk, who wouldn’t have a business if it weren’t for Jack Sawyer.”
OC didn’t argue with her. Not when there was some truth to her claim. But that didn’t keep him from wishing he had the strength to get out of bed and march into his shop to bodily throw her ass out the door.
Obviously relishing her chance to give OC what she thought he deserved, Marla told him, “Jack’s nearly killed himself with exhaustion trying to be two people. And the whole time he’s carting those flatlander chumps from fishing hole to fishing hole, do you know what he has to listen to? Them complaining because he’s not the Fish Whisperer.
“For some reason, they’re convinced the great and powerful OC Jenkins would have taken them to a special, secret stretch of river. Jack doesn’t complain, but it has to hurt when he walks the same stinkin’ streams as you did. There’s no secret spot, is there, OC?”
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