by Erica Penrod
Viv hopped down and shook her wounded hand as the breeze picked up and whipped through her hair, struggling to capture her defiant auburn curls. Her throat tightened with each step Boone Jameson took toward her.
Dust swirled around his feet, and she couldn’t tell if he brought the wind or if he stirred things up wherever he went. She’d have to stand on her toes to look him in the eye, and the way he walked, like a horse to grain, made her think he knew what he wanted and how to get it. His black button-down shirt stretched across broad shoulders, his sleeves were rolled to the elbows, and his strong biceps flexed as he lowered the duffel bag from his shoulder, bent down, and scratched the dogs behind the ears. He looked up at her with deep-set blue eyes beneath a straw hat and grinned. His reputation as a prestigious cutting horse trainer followed him like a spotlight, but the way he looked at her had her seeing stars.
Viv bit her lip and swore for the second time in two minutes. Ticked at herself for getting caught up in his good looks like some half-brained rodeo groupie, she untangled herself and focused on her nemesis. After what she heard about Boone Jameson, she expected him to crawl in on eight legs, not prance in like a prized stallion. He was supposed to be one of the best cutting horse trainers in the world, as good as Dallas Ruggles was with a rope horse, but a scandal between him and a wealthy cutter’s wife drove him out of Texas and into Utah. Desperation must’ve been the only reason Boone wanted to work on this ranch. If he was looking for money, he was in the wrong place.
The man stood up and offered his hand to her. “I’m Boone Jameson.” His voice was deep and rough, matching the stubble on his face.
“I know who you are,” she said, regretting her words when a smug look spread across his face. “I mean by reputation, and my father said you were coming.”
She shoved her hands in her pockets and glanced down at the toe of her dirt-covered boot, hoping the tone of her voice conveyed which rumored reputation she referred to. When she looked up and he was still smiling, she gritted her teeth in frustration. Either he didn’t interpret her insult, or he was so egotistical he didn’t care.
Boone withdrew his hand and stepped back. Clearing his throat, he looked down at her. “Where’s your father?” he asked, his tone dismissing her as anything but the owner’s daughter.
Viv pulled a pair of torn leather gloves from her back pocket. “He had to run into town for some supplies.” She slipped her fingers into place. “We weren’t expecting you until this evening.”
“Well, I’m here now,” he said, without looking at her.
She tried to imagine what he thought as he surveyed the yard and house. Years of western sunsets faded the once-yellow siding on the house into the color of weathered wheat, while a wood paneled door, with a hole the size of her father’s boot in the right corner, sat front and center. Windows blotched with hard water were once framed by brown shutters, but only shattered remains of wooden slats lay in the flower bed of weeds.
“I’d like to look around,” Boone said, pulling her thoughts to the present. When he walked towards the stalls, she understood he wasn’t asking for permission.
What she didn’t understand was how her father planned to pay Jameson. Dad refused to talk money with her, so she didn’t know how bad things were until he sold everything that wasn’t nailed down to buy the cutting bred colt. As far as she knew, they didn’t have anything left to pay the trainer.
“I can give you a tour,” she said, and hustled to catch up to the long-legged cowboy.
“There’s no need,” he said without slowing his pace. “I don’t think I can get lost.”
Viv heard the sarcasm in his voice and dug her heels into the dirt. Just who did he think he was? His starched jeans and expensive boots weren’t going to impress anyone around here. As far as she was concerned, he was just a hired hand, and he’d be better off to remember that.
The dogs paused, turned up their ears, and looked at her before they trotted off with the jerk. Traitors.
She went over to the arena, picked up the pitchfork, and looked over to see Jameson studying the horses in the field. There was more than a pile of manure she’d like to toss out, but she’d learned a long time ago that once her father made up his mind, there was no sense arguing. That was like squatting with your spurs on: ill-advised and painful. Her father wanted Boone Jameson to turn his colt into a futurity champion, and he wasn’t about to listen to anything his daughter had to say about it. But there was more than one way to corral a bull. Viv knew she just needed time to make her dad think he’d been headed to the barn all along.
On the other side of the arena, a row of dirty stalls called for her attention—or better yet, the persistent aroma reminded her she had work to finish before her shift started at the diner. She swung the pitchfork over her shoulder and headed towards the pens.
The sound of her father’s truck made her pause. He was back earlier than she expected, but he wasn’t alone. Viv stared until the blurred image became clear, and her brain refused to believe what she saw. A woman sat beside Dad. Not on the passenger side, but in the middle, right next to her father.
Transfixed by the idea that there was a woman interested in her burly father, Viv didn’t notice the black sports car following her dad’s rusted pickup truck down the dirt lane until they parked. The sports car was a puzzle, until she saw the unmistakable driver inside. What in the heck was Lucas Royal doing here?
The door squeaked in protest as it swung open, and her father got out. He straightened his hat before he reached in and helped the woman down. Amanda Royal?
In the small town of Lewiston, Utah, there were two kinds of people: the Royals, robed in wealth, and everyone else.
“Viv,” her father called, and motioned to her. “Come here.”
She stabbed the pitchfork into the ground and walked with trepidation toward her father. There was something strange about him, besides the fact that he stood there holding hands with the richest woman in town. The look in his eyes reminded Viv of the few times he had too much to drink. Was he drunk now?
Lucas got out of his car and leaned against the door with his arms folded across his chest. He wore aviator sunglasses and paid no attention to the spectacle their parents were making. Viv bit her lip, the pain reassuring her she was wide awake as she stopped in front of them.
“This is Amanda Royal,” her father said.
“Yes, I know,” Viv said. “We’ve met.” She recalled the few times the wealthy and widowed Mrs. Royal came to the diner. Viv watched them watch each other and waited for someone to give her the punch line.
“Amanda McIntyre, if you please,” Mrs. Royal said, and wrapped her arm around Viv’s father.
Her father grinned like a stranger. “Viv, meet your new stepmother.”
Viv’s heart stopped and her head spun. She fell back a step and felt strong arms catch her. Looking up, she saw Boone looking down at her with a huge grin across his face.
Wrapped up in her sworn enemy’s arms, Viv was warm and protected. A feeling that would have been thoroughly enjoyable if she didn’t hate the guy so much. Boone winked at the alluring Amanda and smiled. “You always did like to make an entrance, Big Sis.”
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About the Author
Erica spends her time folding laundry for her four children and husband. In between loads she loves to read, move furniture and display junk she’s collected at local thrift and antique stores. Most weekends she’s in the stands as head cheerleader watching her family compete in rodeo. Her favorite place is anywhere her husband is and she’s saddened by the thought of cooking dinner every night for the rest of her life.
Erica loves to write, enjoys looking for inspiration in the candy aisle, and then eating her inspiration while typing.
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The Holidays & The Husband (Country Brides & Cowboy Boots)
