Читать книгу The Restless Virgin - Peggy Moreland, Peggy Moreland - Страница 9

One

Austin, Texas

1998

Sam frowned at the scribbled directions she held, trying her darndest to decipher her nephew’s scrawled handwriting. When she got back to the Double-Cross, she promised herself, she was going to make arrangements to have a separate phone line installed for her veterinary practice and invest in a good answering machine. And this time she meant it! Unraveling the messages taken by whoever happened to pick up the phone at the main house on the Double-Cross Heart Ranch was a royal pain in the butt.

She glanced up, peering through her truck’s bug-splattered windshield at empty pastures duck with overgrown weeds and cedar saplings. Snapped barbed wire coiled crazily along the fence line like a home perm gone bad, while sparrows splashed in a rusted water trough. Above the crumbling limestone pillars flanking the gate, a faded sign swung.

“Rivers Ranch,” she said aloud. Since the name matched that on the message her nephew Jaime had taken, she figured she must have the right place.

And if this is how Nash Rivers takes care of what’s his, she added mentally, it’s no wonder he’s got a sick horse.

But his abilities as a rancher weren’t her concern, Sam reminded herself. Only his livestock were. Still, having been raised on a ranch, the sight of so much neglect was a hard thing for her to abide.

Setting her jaw against her client’s poor management of his land, Sam turned onto the pitted road beneath the warped and faded sign and headed for the barn she could see in the distance.

An S-600 Mercedes sedan was parked at an odd angle to the barn, its silver-and-chrome body catching the sunlight and shooting it back, nearly blinding Sam. As she drew nearer, she saw a man pacing between the car and the barn. At the sound of her truck, he stopped and turned, watching her approach from behind a pair of dark sunglasses. Dressed in a gray pinstriped suit, he seemed at odds with the rustic setting around him...but well matched to the sleek, expensive car parked in front of him.

The dark scowl he wore sent a shiver down Sam’s spine. She quickly shoved back the dread of having to deal with him, and forced herself to focus instead on the animal that needed her care. Anxious to get to her patient, she parked and hopped down from the cab of her truck, pausing to grab her vet bag from the toolbox in back. “Nash Rivers?” she asked as she approached him.

He continued to scowl at her. “Yes?”

“I’m here to see about your horse.”

Nash slipped his sunglasses to the end of his nose and peered down at her. “You’re the vet?”

He wasn’t the first client shocked to discover that Dr. Sam McCloud was a woman, but his skeptical tone made Sam tense defensively. “Yeah. You got a problem with that?”

Problem? Nash took his gaze on a slow journey from the top of her sweat-stained gimme cap, over her faded T-shirt and ragged jeans, down to the scuffed toes of her manure-caked boots. Yeah, he had a problem, all right, but it wasn’t with her choice of profession. It was with her.

She dressed like a down-on-his-luck cowboy and carried a chip on her shoulder the size of a Texas armadillo. She was gruff, mannish and about as charming as a coiled rattler. If a man could get past all that, Nash supposed he might notice the long brown ponytail that poked through the back opening of her cap, and a pair of piercing brown eyes that screamed a silent warning: “One step closer, buster, and I’ll jerk your heart out of your chest with my bare hands.” And if the look wasn’t enough to scare a man off, Nash supposed a fellow might wonder about the figure concealed beneath that oversize T-shirt and baggy jeans.

But not Nash. He wasn’t interested in women. Especially one who took such pains to hide her femininity.

“Not as long as you can do your job,” he replied tersely, shoving the sunglasses back into place on his nose.

But not before Sam saw the disapproval in his gray eyes. She glared at his back as he turned to lead the way into the barn, tempted to climb right back in her truck and let him find another vet willing to make a call to his pathetic ranch. But she couldn’t. Not when an animal needed her care.

Damping down her anger, she followed him, glancing right and left, taking in the empty stalls, the smell of mildew and wood rot that hung in the air. Though the floor of the alley was raked clean, everything else about the place screamed neglect.

Sam was so absorbed in the squalor of the barn’s interior, she nearly plowed into Nash’s backside when he stopped before a stall. Catching herself just short of physical contact, she took a hasty step backward and pulled her cap farther down on her forehead, shadowing her heat-reddened cheeks. Nervously wetting her lips, she avoided Nash’s gaze and turned toward the stall and the horse inside it. A bay, about fifteen hands high, peered back at her.

The horse did something for Sam that a man rarely could—he made her smile. “Hey there, boy,” she whispered, stretching out a slow hand in greeting. “What’s wrong with you, buddy?” A velvet nuzzle nudged at her hand and Sam’s smile broadened.

“Nothing that a twenty-gauge shotgun wouldn’t solve.”

Sam whipped her head around at the sarcastic comment, her brow furrowed. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Nash pulled off his sunglasses and polished them on the lapel of his suit. “I want him put down.”

The vet bag slipped from Sam’s fingers and fell to the floor, shooting up a puff of dust. “Put down?” she echoed. “But why? What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing.” He slid the glasses into the inside pocket of his jacket, then rolled his wrist, glancing at his watch, his expression one of impatience. “How long will this take? I’ve got to get back to my office.”

Sam stared at him in disbelief, not at all sure she had heard him correctly. “Are you asking me to put down a healthy horse?”

He gave his sleeve a sharp snap, then lifted his hand to smooth it over hair as black as midnight. “That’s the idea. Now, again, how long will this take?”

Sam felt the blood drain from her face, then rise again as anger pulsed through her body. She stooped and snatched her bag from the floor. “A lifetime,” she muttered, straightening. “Specifically, his!” she added with a jerk of her head in the horse’s direction. She spun and headed for her truck.

The nerve of the man! she fumed silently. Calling her all the way out here for a job like this. Sam McCloud never put down an animal unless there was nothing medically left to offer, and only then if she felt she was saving the animal from more suffering. Grumbling under her breath about fools and murderers, Sam had almost made it to the barn door when a hand closed over her arm, jerking her back around.

Nash Rivers stood in front of her, his eyes narrowed dangerously. A sense of déjà vu swept over Sam as she remembered another time, another man who’d stopped her in just such a way. Fighting back the memory and the fear, she thrust out her chin. “Get your hands off me.”

Nash dropped his hold on her and took an impatient breath. “Look, I don’t want to argue with you. I just want this taken care of as quickly as possible. I’ve already wasted several hours waiting for you to respond to my call. I don’t relish having to wait any longer while I try to find another vet willing to come all the way out here.”

“That’s too damn bad.”

Again Sam turned toward her truck.

Again Nash grabbed her arm.

Sam wheeled, her eyes shooting fire.

The look was warning enough. Nash dropped his hand. “Listen, lady,” he began, struggling for patience, “I want the horse put down. And I’m willing to pay whatever you ask. Just do it quickly, okay? So both of us can get back to work.”

“My work is saving horses,” Sam snapped. “Not killing them.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “That horse you’re so determined to save nearly killed my daughter. And I’ll be damned if I’ll give him a chance to try again. Now are you going to put him down, or do I have to call another vet to handle this for me?”

Before Sam could answer, a whirlwind of white-blond hair, clawing fingers and kicking feet came out of nowhere and attacked her. “You can’t kill my horse. I won’t let you!” the child screamed as she beat at Sam’s stomach and arms.

“Hey! Hold on there a minute.” Sam struggled frantically to get a grip on the little girl. Finally managing to close her hands on the child’s upper arms, she dropped to her knees in front of her, holding her in place. Though dried blood marked an ugly cut from hairline to eyebrow on the girl’s forehead, the injury didn’t seem to have affected her strength any. Her body remained rigid as she glared at Sam, her lips pressed tightly together, her cheeks red, her eyes puffy from crying.

In spite of her attack on Sam, the child’s concern for her horse placed her a notch or two above Nash Rivers in Sam’s estimation. “I’m not going to kill your horse, sweetheart, I promise.”

The girl continued to glare stubbornly at Sam. “What’s your name?” Sam asked, hoping to put the girl at ease.

“Colby.”

“Mine’s Sam.”

In spite of her resentment, the child sputtered a laugh. “Sam? That’s a boy’s name.”

“And a girl’s. Short for Samantha. What’s your horse’s name?”

The smile melted from Colby’s face. “Whiskey, and I’m not letting you kill him.”

“I’m not going to hurt him. But your daddy tells me that he hurt you.”

“He didn’t mean to!” Colby cried, her voice rising in panic. “We were just out riding and something spooked him and he shied. It wasn’t his fault! Whiskey would never hurt me.” She made two quick swipes across her chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

From behind Sam came a disbelieving snort, then Nash was dropping down beside them, pulling his daughter from Sam’s grasp and onto his knee. “So how do you explain the bruise on your back and the cut on your head?”

Colby tipped her face up to her father’s, her blue eyes brimming. “But, Daddy, I told you that wasn’t Whiskey’s fault. I fell! He didn’t throw me.”

Nash stood, placing his daughter firmly back on her feet. “The results are the same,” he said, unmoved by her tears. “Now go on back to the house and let Nina tend to your scrapes.”

Colby planted her fists on her hips. “No! And you can’t make me!” She darted away before Nash could stop her and ran down the alleyway to Whiskey’s stall. Hitching a boot onto the bottom rail, she quickly scaled the gate and dropped down on the other side.

“Damn!” Nash muttered under his breath. “Now look what you’ve done,” he said, turning his anger on Sam. “If you’d put the horse down like I asked you, we could have avoided this emotional scene.”

Though Sam disagreed—and was tempted to get while the getting was good—something kept her in place. Maybe it was because she saw in Colby a bit of herself at the child’s age. Maybe it was because she’d also gone up against her own father—and lost more battles than she cared to remember. Or maybe it was simply because she was afraid that if she left, Nash would find another vet to do his dirty work for him. Whatever the reason, Sam dug in her boot heels. “You’ll break her heart if you dispose of her horse.”

Nash raked his fingers through his hair, turning the neatly combed style into dark spikes as he looked down the alleyway in the direction Colby had disappeared. “Yeah, but I’d rather break her heart than see her hurt by that beast.”

Sam lifted a shoulder. “Accidents happen. She could injure herself just as easily stepping off a curb as she could riding her horse.”

He turned to frown at her. “Thanks for the comforting words,” he replied dryly.

“I’m not trying to offer comfort. I’m stating facts. I’ve been riding horses since I was old enough to walk, and I can tell you right now I’ve hurt myself a lot more often walking than I ever have riding.”

“Doesn’t say much for your coordination, does it?”

Sam refused to let the barb penetrate. “She needs to have that cut on her head cleaned.”

Nash snorted. “I tried. She won’t let me touch her.”

“That’s certainly understandable.”

Nash snapped his head around, his eyes like flint as they scraped against Sam. She shrugged, refusing to let him intimidate her. “She’s more worried about her horse’s welfare than her own. As long as she feels she has to protect him from you, she isn’t going to let you near him or her.”

“So what do you suggest I do? Wait for her to collapse before I seek medical attention for her?”

In spite of his sarcasm, Sam saw the worry in the deep lines plowed between his brows, the concern for his daughter in his tightly compressed lips, in the depths of his gray eyes. That he loved Colby was obvious, that he was overreacting to an accident even more so.

But Sam figured if that cut on the kid’s head was going to get tended to, it would be up to her. She heaved a resigned sigh. “Stay here and I’ll see what I can do.” She strode down the alleyway and stopped in front of Whiskey’s stall. Propping her foot on the lowest rung, she draped her arms along the top of the gate. Colby stood inside the stall at the horse’s head, stroking Whiskey’s nose.

“Go away,” she grumbled. “Whiskey and me don’t need you.”

“I think you do,” Sam replied softly. When Colby whipped her head around to glare at her, Sam added, “I’ve already told you that your horse is safe with me. I would never put down a healthy animal.”

The battle waged within was obvious on the child’s face as she struggled to decide whether or not she should trust Sam. She narrowed an eye. “Swear?”

Sam quickly swiped a finger across her heart, just as Colby had done earlier. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“I thought you might need my services.”

Colby wrinkled her nose. “For what?”

“Well, Whiskey doesn’t need any doctoring, but you sure do.”

Colby touched a small finger to the cut on her forehead, frowning. “Daddy wanted to take me to the hospital.”

Sam stretched her neck over the gate, pretending to study the cut. “Doesn’t look that bad to me. A little cleaning, some antibiotic ointment, a bandage and you ought to be just fine.”

Colby peered at Sam suspiciously. “I thought vets just doctored animals.”

“Normally they do. But I’ve doctored some humans, too. In fact, one of my most frequent patients is my nephew, Jaime. He’s always getting bummed up in one way or another.”

Colby took a step closer. “This isn’t a trick, is it, so you can drug me, then kill my horse?”

Sam had to fight back a laugh at the extent of the child’s wild imagination, but she solemnly held up her hand, thumb tucked into palm. “On my honor.”

Colby scuffed the rest of the way to the gate. “Okay, but Daddy has to go, too, or no deal. I don’t trust him for a minute.”

This time Sam couldn’t stop the laugh. She didn’t trust Nash Rivers either. She swung the gate wide and Colby stepped through.

“This isn’t going to hurt, is it?” Colby asked, peering up at Sam, her fear obvious.

Sam closed the gate, her smile softening. “It’ll sting a little, but that’s all. I promise.”

“What’s going on?” Nash asked impatiently as he joined them.

Colby eased closer to Sam’s side, slipping her hand into Sam’s. The trust in the gesture touched Sam’s soul, but it was the stubborn thrust of Colby’s chin when she looked up at her father that rubbed a raw spot on Sam’s heart, reminding her of times when she’d stood up against her own father in just such a manner.

“Sam’s going to doctor my cuts and you have to go with us.”

Nash quickly shifted his gaze to Sam, his surprise obvious. “She is?” At Sam’s nod, he let out a sigh, one more of relief than frustration this time. “There’s a first-aid kit at the house. If you’ll come with me.”

Unlike the barn, the house Nash led them to was in good repair. Built of native limestone, the structure looked as if it had stood a century or more and could probably weather another one or two. A covered porch extended across the front of the house and down one side. Wisteria climbed the posts and twined around the railings, its branches dripping with fragrant pink blooms. Behind the veil of leaves, Sam could see two wooden rockers swaying in the afternoon breeze.

She tried to picture Nash sitting there in the evening, slowly rocking, maybe even whittling, while watching the sun set. But the image just wouldn’t form. It was easier to imagine him in a boardroom, his feet propped on his desk, phone tucked between shoulder and ear, while a flock of secretaries darted about at his bidding. With a shake of her head, she climbed the steps after him and followed him into the house.

The country-style kitchen they entered reminded Sam a bit of the one in her own family’s home, though the McClouds’ was more spacious and had more modern conveniences. Still, it was warm and inviting, with a round oak table scarred from years of use. Sam stooped to pick Colby up and set her on the counter by a chipped porcelain sink while Nash dug through cabinets, looking for the first-aid kit.

Tearing off a strip of paper towel, Sam wet it, then dabbed at the cut, cleaning away the dried blood and dirt. To her relief, she saw that the wound was only superficial, as she’d first thought. “This isn’t very deep,” she assured Colby with a pat on her knee. “You won’t feel much of a sting at all.”

Dubiously, Colby watched as Sam opened the first-aid kit Nash had laid out and selected the items she’d need. Nash eased closer to her side, watching, too. Uncomfortably aware of his presence and wishing Colby hadn’t insisted on her father being there, Sam gave Nash’s shoulder an impatient bump. “Give me some room,” she grumbled.

Obediently, Nash stepped back while Sam poured hydrogen peroxide on a cotton ball, but he closed the distance right back up when Sam touched the cotton to Colby’s forehead. When Colby cried out, shrinking away, Nash grabbed Sam’s hand. “You’re hurting her,” he growled.

Sam froze as his fingers closed painfully over hers, her breath locked up in her lungs. Images pushed at her from the past, ugly and debilitating. Breathe, she ordered herself sternly, as the familiar panic set in. In, out. In, out. Just breathe, for God’s sake!

Colby giggled, unaware of Sam’s level of distress. “She didn’t hurt me, Daddy. It was just cold.”

Nash slowly loosened his grip on Sam. “Oh,” he mumbled in embarrassment. “Sorry.”

Sam’s breath came out in a rush of air. She dropped the cotton ball, then flexed her fingers for a moment as if to rid them of the feel of him. Firming her lips to hide their trembling, she picked up the tube of ointment and squirted a dime-sized dollop onto the tip of her finger. She leaned closer, combing Colby’s hair out of the way, and gently traced the wound.

“The cut’s a little deeper at her hairline, so I’m going to put on a butterfly bandage to close it in order to prevent scarring.”

“Scarring?” Before Sam could stop him, Nash had wedged himself between her and Colby, his face going pale as he examined the wound.

His reaction confirmed Sam’s earlier opinion that Nash Rivers was an overprotective father who was overreacting to a simple accident.

“Nothing to worry about,” she assured him. “In a couple of weeks, you won’t even know it was there.” She waited until he moved out of her way, then she carefully stretched the bandage over the skin, closing the wound. “There!” She stepped back, briskly dusting her hands together. “All done.” She grinned at Colby. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

Colby smiled back shyly. “Not bad at all. You’ve got soft hands.”

Stunned, Sam opened her palms and looked down at them. Soft? Her hands went places Colby wouldn’t even want to think about and were as rough as cobs due to the number of washings they received each day.

“I think she means gentle,” Nash offered.

Sam whipped her head around to find him watching her. Quickly, she stuffed her hands in her pockets and took another step back, her face flaming as she turned her gaze on Colby. “Speaking of hands, you need to wash yours. We don’t want you spreading any germs if you happen to touch your bandage.”

“My hands aren’t dirty,” Colby argued. “I just—”

Nash caught her under the arms and. set her on the floor, interrupting her. “Wash them anyway. Doctor’s orders. And stop by Nina’s room and apologize for your behavior. You almost gave her a heart attack.”

“Oh, Daddy,” Colby whined, “Nina’s a worrywart. You know that.”

“She worries because she loves you. Now scoot,” he ordered firmly, giving her a light swat on the behind to get her moving.

Dragging her feet, Colby obeyed.

And Sam wished she could call her back, for now she was alone with Nash. Fishing for something to say to fill the silence, she asked, “How long’s Colby been riding?”

“Since she was three. She’s always been nuts about horses. After we moved to Austin, I found a stable where she could continue her lessons, but it’s a forty-five-minute drive from here, so we had to quit after a few months.”

“We?” Sam asked, cocking her head to look at him. “You took lessons, too?”

His eyebrows shot up at the question. “Me? Hell, no! But somebody had to drive her there.”

In other words, Colby’s lessons didn’t fit into Nash’s busy schedule, Sam concluded. “Would you mind if I saddled Whiskey and rode him around for a bit?”

His frown returned. “For what purpose?”

“Just to form an opinion. Then I’d like to see Colby ride him, to see how she handles him.”

Nash narrowed his eyes and stabbed a finger in the direction of Sam’s chest. “You can ride him all you want, but Colby stays on the ground. I won’t have my daughter on that horse’s back again.” He tightened his jaw as he turned to stare down the hallway Colby had disappeared into. The image of her lying on the ground, blood spurting from the wound on her head, formed in his mind and he had to swallow back the fear that rose with it. “She’s my baby,” he murmured, “and all I’ve got left. I can’t take a chance on losing her, too.”

Grateful that Nash had stayed behind at the house to make phone calls, Sam took the saddle Colby had offered her and tossed it onto the horse’s back. She settled it over the pad before dipping her knees to reach underneath for the girt. “Did you pick out this saddle yourself, Colby?”

Perched on top of the stall gate, watching, Colby shook her head. “No. Daddy bought it for me for my birthday.”

And money was obviously no object, judging by the quality of the leather and the tooled name of the saddle maker. “How old are you?”

“Six. My birthday was May first.”

“Really?” Sam tightened the cinch, then threaded the strap back through, making a loop, and tugged it into place. “Mine’s the tenth.”

“Did you have a party? I didn’t get to have one this year. Daddy said he didn’t have time to fool with it. But he said next year we’ll have a bi-i-ig blowout. Course I don’t know who I’ll invite. We’ll be gone by then.”

Sam angled her head, hearing the disappointment in the girl’s voice. “You’re moving?”

Dejected, Colby dropped her elbow to her knee and her chin onto her palm. “Into a condo, just as soon as Daddy gets the deal on the ranch. He’s turning it into a subdivision. You know, houses and shops and stuff. The works. I think he calls it a planned community.” She flapped a hand, scrunching her nose. “Or something like that.”

“So your daddy doesn’t ranch?”

Colby sighed, obviously disappointed. “No. He’s a developer. He buys land, divides it all up, builds streets and stuff then sells it to builders.”

Which explained to Sam the neglect she’d seen upon first entering the ranch. Nash Rivers wouldn’t spend time or money on fences and cultivation if he was planning to subdivide the property for development.

She frowned, remembering the rusted sign that she’d driven under proclaiming the place Rivers Ranch. At one time, someone named Rivers had ranched the land. If not Nash, then who? “Have y’all lived here long?” she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“About a year. We lived in San Antonio when I was little, but when my grandpa died, we moved here.”

His father’s ranch, then, not Nash’s. Probably an inheritance, Sam decided.

“Before we lived in San Antonio, we lived in Dallas,” Colby added. “Daddy didn’t like Dallas after my mother died. He said it held too many memories, so we moved to San Antonio.”

That the child could speak so matter-of-factly about her mother’s death surprised Sam. She’d lost her own mother when she was barely two, and though she didn’t remember her, she never thought of her without feeling a swell of tears.

“How old were you when your mother died?” she asked softly.

“About eight hours. She was a diabetic. She wasn’t supposed to have any babies, but Daddy said she wanted me so bad that she was willing to give up her own life just so that I could be born. That’s pretty cool, isn’t it?”

The tale was heartbreaking, and made even more so by the emotionless way in which Colby told it. Sam had to ease her breath out before she could answer. “Yeah, that’s pretty cool.”

“Daddy says I look like her, but I’ve got her picture in my room on my nightstand and I don’t think we look anything alike. Except for the color of our hair, maybe. She was blond like me, but her hair was straight and pretty and mine’s all kinky and curly.” Wrinkling her nose, Colby wadded a fistful of hair in her hand then let it drop in disgust. “Daddy says it would probably look better if I’d put a comb through it sometimes, but, heck, it just gets tangled up all over again.”

Sam bit back a grin as she bent over to lift Whiskey’s front hoof to clean it out. Did the kid ever run out of breath?

“Anyways,” Colby went on, with a dismissing wave of her hand, “Daddy loved my mother a lot and sometimes I can tell he still misses her. Are you married?”

The question came out of nowhere and caught Sam off guard. “W-well, no,” she stammered as she dropped Whiskey’s hoof and moved to pick up his rear one.

“How come?”

Sam felt heat creep up her neck. She bent her head over her work, digging the hoof pick under a clump of dirt and stone. “I don’t know. Too busy doctoring horses, I guess.”

Colby grinned, showing off the gap where her front tooth should have been. “Maybe you could marry my daddy. He’s always telling me I need a mother.”

Whiskey’s hoof slipped from Sam’s grasp. Mother? She hauled in a steadying breath and moved to the opposite side of the horse, out of sight of Colby. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. Your daddy would probably like to do his own choosing.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t care. He usually lets me have pretty much what I want, anyway.”

And Sam didn’t doubt that for a minute. Biting back a smile, she replied, “That may be true, but your daddy needs to do the choosing, just the same.” Before Colby got any more ideas in that pretty little head of hers, Sam quickly exchanged Whiskey’s halter for a bridle. “Where do you warm him up?” she asked, hoping to put an end to the discussion.

Colby hopped down from the gate. “There’s an arena out back. Well, not an arena, really. My grandpa used it to work cattle, but it’s big and I’ve got barrels set up for practicing, so I call it an arena.”

Sam chuckled, pausing to ruffle the girl’s hair. The child talked a mile a minute, giving her life history when a simple answer would suffice. “Okay, then. Let’s head for the arena and we’ll see what Whiskey can do.”

Once outside, Sam used an old feed bucket as a step to mount the horse, while Colby climbed onto the fence. There was no way Sam’s long legs would bend enough to fit into Colby’s stirrups, so she simply let her feet dangle at the horse’s sides.

Whiskey danced a bit at the unaccustomed weight, then settled down to a walk. Making smooching noises at the horse, Sam eased him into a trot, circled the arena a few times, then ordered him to lope. The horse responded easily to each change of command. Pleased, Sam reined him to a fast stop, then made him back up a few steps.

She grinned over at Colby. “Nice horse.”

Colby beamed. “Thanks. Are you going to run the barrels?”

Though she hadn’t run a barrel pattern in years, the temptation was too much for Sam. “Do you mind?”

“Heck, no! Whiskey’s fast, though, so you better be ready to turn and burn!”

Sam laughed at the barrel-racing term as she guided the horse into position. Drawing a bead on the first barrel, Sam blanked everything else out. Beneath her, she felt the anticipation build in Whiskey. That he was a competitor was obvious in the quiver of muscle, the increased tension on the reins, the tossing of his head. Already seeing herself running the pattern, Sam squeezed her legs against the horse’s sides. He bolted forward and she had to keep a tight rein to keep him from getting away from her.

Wind ripped her cap off her head just before they reached the first barrel and sent it spinning behind them. Preparing for the turn, Sam shifted her weight, while sliding her hand down the rein and squeezing her right leg against the horse’s side.

Whiskey responded immediately, rating himself for the turn and digging into the freshly plowed earth with his rear hooves. He came out of the first turn and raced for the second. Subconsciously, Sam noted the smooth lead change, the bunching of finely honed muscles and the burst of power as he wrapped the second and headed for the third.

Grinning from the sheer pleasure of it all, she turned the last barrel and gave Whiskey his head as he raced for home. Bracing a hand against the saddle horn, she reined him to a dust-churning stop, then tossed back her head and laughed.

“Wow, Sam! You’re good!” Colby called out.

“Whiskey’s a good horse,” Sam replied, turning him toward the fence where Colby waited.

“He ought to be. I paid enough for him.”

Sam’s smile slowly wilted as she realized that Nash had joined his daughter at the fence. He stood with one foot propped on the lowest rail, his arms braced along the top one. He’d removed his jacket and tie while at the house and rolled his shirtsleeves halfway up his forearms, revealing tanned skin and a smattering of dark hair. The wind played with his razor-cut hairstyle, blowing a tuft of it across his forehead. The result was a combination of mouthwatering maleness and little-boy charm.

Maybe you could marry my daddy. He’s always telling me I need a mother.

Remembering Colby’s words, Sam swallowed hard as she met Nash’s gaze.

“You’ve obviously ridden barrels before,” he commented.

Gray eyes watched her, measuring her while he waited for a response. Self-consciously, Sam tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “I started when I was about Colby’s age and quit when—well, when I went away to college.”

“So what do you think of Whiskey?”

Uncomfortable meeting his gaze, Sam ducked her head and leaned forward to scratch the horse’s ears. “He’s a good horse. Well-trained, even-tempered, but a competitor. The bit might be part of the problem. He seems to fight it a little. A combination might suit him better.” She lifted her head. “But before I can offer an opinion on whether he’s well matched with Colby, I’ll need to see her ride.”

Colby twisted around on the fence, her hands pressed together prayerfully at her chest. “Can I, Daddy? Please? I promise I won’t fall off this time.”

Nash eyed her, scowling. “I’ve already told you, Colby. I don’t want you on that horse.”

“But Sam rode him and he didn’t act up. I promise I’ll be careful and besides, you’re right here if anything should happen. Please, Daddy? Pretty please?”

How anyone could deny those brimming baby blues, that angelic face, Sam didn’t know. The child was obviously a charmer, and knew all the right buttons to push to get what she wanted from her father. But Nash stood firm.

“I said no, Colby.”

Tears that had brimmed, now spilled over. “But, Daddy,” she cried. “We made a deal. You said if I agreed to move to Austin and leave all my friends in San Antonio, that I could have my very own horse. And now you won’t even let me ride him.”

Sam watched Nash’s shoulders sag in defeat. It seemed a little guilt heaped on his shoulders accomplished what Colby’s sugarcoated pleas couldn’t.

“Oh, all right,” he said grudgingly. “But no running.” He wagged a finger beneath her nose. “You break a slow lope and you’re on the ground, understand?”

Colby’s tears disappeared as quickly as they’d formed. “Yes, sir!” She scrambled down from the fence while Sam slid from Whiskey’s back.

Cupping her hands, Sam bent over to boost Colby up. After giving the horse a fond pat on the rump, Sam stepped back out of the way. “Let her rip, cowgirl.”

Laughing, Colby guided the horse to the starting position again. Sam folded her arms beneath her breasts and watched. She could feel Nash’s gaze on her back and tried her best to ignore him. “Remember, Colby,” she called. “Easy fingers. Use your legs. And don’t let him get ahead of you.”

With a salute, Colby fixed her attention on the first barrel. Her expression turned intense as she prepared for the run. Sam felt her own heart thrumming against her ribs and she discreetly crossed two fingers against her forearm, out of Nash’s view. “Just stay in the saddle, Colby,” she whispered under her breath. “And I’ll take care of the rest.”

Sam watched Colby ride, making mental notes of the girl’s movements as she guided the horse through the pattern. She’s leaning forward too much on the barrels, Sam thought. She needs to lean back and tuck her bottom more. And, whoa, that pocket! Way too wide. She needs to tuck his nose more and shape him on the turns.

Colby rounded the last barrel and headed home, her white-blond hair flying out behind her. A smile split her face, revealing that missing front tooth. Sam found her own smile growing. “That was good, Colby. Really good.” She caught Whiskey’s reins and reached up to give the child a pat on the knee. “You’re a natural. No doubt about it.”

Colby lifted her head, her eyes shining brightly. “Did you hear that, Daddy? Sam says I’m a natural!”

“Yeah, I heard her.”

The voice came from directly behind her and Sam’s shoulders tensed as Nash moved up beside her. She smoothed a hand along the horse’s neck, trying her best to level her breathing. “The two are well matched,” she offered hesitantly. “An adjustment or two in tack will help, but Colby needs more instruction.”

Nash stuffed his hands into pockets and rocked back on his heels, his relief obvious. “Well, that pretty much solves it then, doesn’t it?”

Sam stole a glance at him. “What do you mean?”

He lifted a shoulder. “I’ve already told you that the only classes I could find for her are forty-five minutes away and I can’t commit to that much time away from work.”

“But, Daddy—”

Sam placed a hand on Colby’s knee to quiet her. “What if someone came here to teach her?” she asked. “Would you agree to lessons then?”

Nash frowned at Sam. “And how am I supposed to find someone willing to come all the way out here to teach her when I can’t even find a place within driving distance to take her?”

Sam glanced up at Colby, shooting her a wink as she squeezed the child’s knee in encouragement. “I might know someone who’d be willing to make the drive.” She turned her gaze on Nash. “If I can arrange it, would you give Whiskey and Colby another chance?”

Sam could tell that he wanted to say no, but she also knew that she’d trapped him, and he was as aware of that fact as she was. How could he refuse now, when she was practically serving up a teacher for his daughter on a silver platter?

“And who is going to want to take the time to drive out here for a private lesson with one student?” he asked dryly.

Sam met his gaze squarely. “I am.”