Читать книгу The Wrangler - Pamela Britton - Страница 9

When it rained in Montana, it rained, Clinton thought, keeping to a slow trot. Of course, he’d been born and raised in this country and so that came as no surprise.

But it might to the woman he’d left by the roadside. He found himself glancing back, the pool that had already gathered on the brim of his hat streaming in rivulets onto his shirt. Should have brought a jacket. But his soaked clothes didn’t prevent him from pulling back on the reins for an instant. His horse obediently halted. He turned his horse’s head just in time to hear her car door pop open. She disappeared from view.

At least one of them would stay dry.

I know about the mustangs.

Well, he thought, good for her. Knowing about the mustangs and being able to confirm their existence were two different things. Sure, there were those who’d come to the ranch in the hopes of seeing them. Amongst horse enthusiasts the Baer Mountain Mustangs were an urban legend. But the truth was, they weren’t truly wild. The Baer family had kept them contained—and more or less hidden—for nearly two hundred years. Still, word had leaked out. People begged to see them or to help protect them or to film them…. He’d lost count of how many had come before her. And no matter who they might be or how much money they might offer him, he refused to confirm the urban legend was true. That was all he needed: a bunch of horse enthusiasts knocking on his door.

“Come on,” he told Buttercup—yes, Buttercup—a private joke between him and his grandmother. “Let’s head back to the ranch before we get washed down a canyon.”

The gray gelding obediently moved into a canter, the gait as smooth as a carousel horse, or so his niece assured him. He never bothered to pull his horse’s mane short and it flicked his hand with each tug of the horse’s legs. It might be colder than the lair of a snake, but he loved riding in the rain. Thunder boomed overhead. Electricity charged the air and Clint found himself on the verge of a smile.

“Easy there,” he told his horse who flicked its head up in response to the steady rumble. “We’ll be back at the ranch in a minute.”

There was a small rise straight ahead, and beyond that, another one. But he paused at the top of the first hill, and despite telling himself not to, he headed back to the road. Through streamers of rain, he could see the fuzzy outline of taillights.

She was going toward the ranch.

“Crap,” he muttered. He watched for a second longer, waiting to see if she made a U-turn. She didn’t. After a minute or two, she disappeared over another hill.

Now what? Did he go back to the house? Sure as certain, she’d be there, bugging him, asking about his herd of horses. Blah, blah, blah….

He just about rode in the other direction.

Instead he spurred his horse into a faster canter. If he hurried, he’d beat her back.

The ranch was surrounded by rolling hills and as he came down a softly sloping incline, he could just make out her car’s headlights. It still rained, and by now, he was soaked to the bone, but it didn’t bother him. What bothered him was the woman who hadn’t taken “no” for an answer.

“Careful,” he told Buttercup as his horse’s front hooves lost purchase on the slick ground. They slid for a bit, leaving twin furrows in the soggy ground.

In the valley below, if one wanted to label it a valley because it was really more of a shallow bowl, sat the Baer Mountain Ranch. Two hundred years before, the main home had been nothing more than a one-room shack. Over the past hundred years, that’d changed. The home had morphed from a single room into a more conventional two-story ranch house. Nothing ostentatious—that wasn’t the Baer family way—but it was a good-sized property, surrounded by various outbuildings. A three-story, three-sided metal hay barn stood off in the distance. Another metal shed that stored various farm equipment sat alongside it. A larger wooden structure that was a two-story horse stable was left of the house. Behind the barn, near the back pasture they’d carved a pad for an arena that was ringed by two-inch pipes. Various corrals attached to the side of it accommodated still more horses as well as cattle. It was, to outsiders, a normal ranch. And for the most part, that’s exactly what it was. But the rest of it—the horses in the rugged mountains to the east—that was something he’d never talk about.

Not even to a good-looking, sweet-eyed interloper.

A horse out in pasture neighed as he approached the twelve-stall barn, Clint thinking absently that he and a few of the guys would need to buck some hay into the second-story loft pretty soon. Maybe he could get started on that task right now. That way, he could avoid the pretty little brunette pulling into the circular driveway. Point of fact, she’d arrived ahead of him, and, since he didn’t see her in her car, he assumed Gigi had let her in.

Terrific, he thought, hopping off and tugging the reins over his horse’s head right as another clap of thunder rang out. That meant he’d be forced to be nice to her. Although maybe not. Maybe she’d be gone by the time he untacked. Gigi could be a real pit bull if she didn’t like someone.

The rain came down harder, hitting the tin roof of the barn like a million shards of glass. He took his time even though he’d started to grow cold in his soaked-to-the-bone shirt. The double doors to the barn afforded him a partial view of the front of the house. Nobody drove away.

“Damn,” he muttered, unclipping his horse from the cross-ties when the cold became too much to bear. “Don’t get comfortable in there,” he told Buttercup as he let him loose in his stall. “I’ll be back out when this rain stops.”

She wasn’t gone.

He saw her car the instant he stepped out of the barn. To be honest, that kind of stunned him. They didn’t usually get many visitors in these parts, and when they did, Gigi usually sent them on their way damn quickly—especially if they were asking about the mustangs. For a second or two he hung back. The white window trim around the two-story home had turned gray from the rain. The yellow daisies Gigi loved and that she’d planted along the front porch were bowing their heads in protest. Clint stared at the front door as if expecting it to open at any moment. It didn’t.

“Double damn.” Guess he was stuck.

“Well, now,” a familiar voice cried the second he entered. He could smell brownies in the air, and that nearly brought him up short.

Gigi made brownies for treasured friends, for family and for important guests. None of which described their visitor. Then again, maybe Gigi had put them in the oven before the woman arrived.

“Clinton McAlister, what the devil’s taken you so long out in that barn?”

“Horse’s wet,” he said, refusing to glance left in the direction of the family room. “Waited until he was dry.”

He was certain his grandmother had her sitting on the floral-print couch beneath the front window. And he was certain they were both drinking tea, steam rising from a cup on the oak coffee table in front of them. He could smell the lemon from here. He hung his hat on a hook to the right. Water poured off the brim and landed on the hardwood floor.

“You better clean that up,” his grandmother said, obviously spying the puddle.

“I know, I know…” he muttered, his spurs hitting the wood and emitting a chink-chink-chink as he walked toward the kitchen—and he still didn’t shift his gaze in their guest’s direction. He didn’t want to. Peering into her attractive face affected him in a way that it probably shouldn’t do given that they’d been strangers up until an hour ago.

“Come meet Samantha Davies.”

“Already did,” he said.

“Clinton!” his grandmother cried.

He about skidded to a stop.

“You sit down and be nice,” Gigi ordered, and sure enough, she had her on the couch, one of his grandmother’s hands patting the seat cushion to the right of her. Their “guest” sat to her left.

And finally, reluctantly, he looked that woman in the eye. She was even prettier up close. Olive-colored skin. Brown hair that was short, but that flattered her high cheekbones and heart-shaped face. And eyes as green as springtime prairie grass.

“Gigi,” he said to his grandmother, using the name he’d been calling her since he was three because he’d been unable to pronounce the words “Grandma Eugenia”; it’d all come out sounding like Gigigigi…and the name had stuck. “I need to go upstairs and change.”

“Not before you shake hands,” she said.

Fine, he told his grandmother with his eyes, the rowels of his spurs suddenly muffled when his muddy feet hit the area rug. She’d kill him later when she saw the brown spots.

“Clinton McAlister,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Clint is my—”

“Ranch manager,” he interrupted Gigi before she could say “grandson,” which caused Gigi to draw back. For some reason, he didn’t want this woman knowing who he was, although he wondered if she hadn’t guessed already. This was a small town and people talked. Fact is, he owned the Baer Mountain Ranch. His grandmother had deeded it over to him a few years ago.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, keeping their eye contact to a minimum.

Damn, but she was beautiful.

And warm. Her fingers were soft, her flesh so hot he nearly hissed.

“Clinton is actually—”

“Really cold,” he interrupted his grandmother again, reluctantly releasing her hand. “As you can tell.”

“Clinton,” Gigi said, “whatever is the matter with you?”

If he admitted he was the owner of the Baer Mountain Ranch, he might be obligated to sit down and speak to this stranger—and that he didn’t want to do. He had a feeling spending time with her would be…troublesome.

“I’m freezing, Gigi,” he said. And then with his eyes he pleaded, just humor me, would you?

His grandmother might be pushing seventy, but she was no fool. She could smell something in the air…and it wasn’t just brownies.

“Fine,” she said. “Off with you. Go change.” She waved her hands. “You smell like horse.”

“Actually,” their guest said before he could turn away, “I like the smell of horse.”

Clint had no idea why the words sent a stab of warmth right through his gut. All she’d done was admit to something he understood—he liked the smell of horse, too. But hearing her softly feminine voice say the words like and smell in a sentence in connection to him, well, it made him think about stuff that he probably shouldn’t, especially given that she’d been talking about horses.

“Well, I smell like wet horse,” he said, more sternly than he meant to.

He caught his grandmother’s gaze. She was leaning back now, her gray eyebrows lifted, and it was obvious she was trying not to smile.

“I’ll be upstairs,” he grumbled, turning.

“You’ll go upstairs and change and then come right back downstairs,” Gigi said.

“Gigi, I have work to do.”

“That work can wait. It’s still pouring outside.”

It was, though it’d probably pass quickly. Storms this time of year always did.

“Go on,” Gigi ordered, waving her hands again. “Mr. Ranch Foreman,” she tacked on.

“Fine,” he snapped.