Busting Loose (13 page)

Because it was embarrassing. Failure was always embarrassing. She merely shrugged. Childish, so childish. But she couldn't quite bring herself to admit, out loud, that her acting career was a flop anyway.

They didn't get rid of actresses they liked by pushing their characters down elevator shafts. And the evil identical twin bit? Totally fell through.

Trace hopped out and went around the back to check on Lad. Bea opened the door and started to step out, stopping herself when she remembered. Time to put on the Wellies. She'd worn boots with her jeans, yes. But they were nice, not barn boots. So she quickly switched them for the appropriate pair and hopped down.

The smell hit her first. The overwhelming smell of horses and dry dust and, well, everything else that went along with horses. She dodged a pile of road apples—yuck—and watched Trace lead Lad around to stretch out his legs. “What should I do?”

“You can start unloading the tack, if you wouldn't mind. I need to take him for a quick ride just to get the cobwebs kicked out. Plus, I want to check the layout of the area. Then I'll go put him up.”

She started hauling the tack out from its secure place on the side of the trailer. There was a stable, which was where Trace said he would be sleeping tonight, with Lad. Apparently many of the stables came with cots for the cowboys. But she would take the trailer's bunk. The thought was a little unnerving, sleeping in a parking lot by herself. But also sort of thrilling. Like camping, but not.

“Do you want me to get him saddled?” she asked as he led Lad back her way. “Do you need to go check us in or anything?”

“Yeah, would you mind?” He held out Lad's leading rope. “I'll be back soon. These things take all of five seconds to register for, if there's no line.”

“I've got it!” She smiled with confidence and waved while he disappeared, then said, “Hurry back,” under her breath. Giving Lad a long stare, she fessed up. “Okay, look. Here's the deal. I've been doing this whole saddle thing for a while. I'm good. But I've never worked with you, and you've never dealt with me. So let's get through this with little to no drama and we can cross it off our bucket list, all right?”

Lad blinked at her, as if saying he was completely bored by her monologue.

“Because Lover Boy, while a great horse, isn't quite worth the same as you, monetarily speaking, I mean. He's worth a lot to me, but . . . never mind. Why am I explaining myself to you?”

He wuffed out a breath through his nose, as if to agree,
This is pointless.

“Fine then. Let's just get to it. You stand there like you are and we'll be done.”

As she crouched down to grab the saddle blanket, the shadowy outline of a man came up behind her. “That was fast.”

“Is that a compliment?”

She gasped and whirled around, standing up at the same time, nearly bumping into the man behind her. He grabbed her arms to steady her. A few inches shorter than she was, he was still solidly built and had no problem keeping her on her feet. “Didn't mean to scare you.”

“Sorry, I thought you were my brother.” She stepped back from the man's hold, though it wasn't rough or scary. She just . . . suddenly didn't feel right having another man touch her, even in such a simple way. “Can I help you?”

“You can start by introducing me to this handsome guy.” The man reached out a hand, palm up, for Lad to sniff. Bea took the moment to inspect him.

In his late forties, maybe early fifties, he was a man who took care of himself. Not a weekend cowboy, but the real deal. However, he wasn't the kind to just throw on a chambray shirt and a pair of dusty jeans and be ready to go like Red or Trace did. The man dressed in style, if “cowboy” was a recognized style. Jeans that fit his frame well, a shirt that wasn't campy, but also didn't scream “rodeo,” and a hat that looked like it'd seen years, but was still clean and presentable. But the boots . . . those were a thing of beauty. Designer, for sure, not something to wear riding out. He was interesting, well put together, and still a real cowboy.

“This is Lad,” she said, holding on to the horse's halter loosely. Just in case. She wasn't as familiar with the working horses as she was the ones she could ride. No sense in taking a chance. “He's four years old, and an amazing work of art.”

“Work of art, huh?” The man stood quietly, just letting the animal absorb his presence. “I'd say that's probably true. You two make quite a pair, just based on sight alone. How long you had him?”

“Oh, he's not mine. He's my brother's.” She pushed some hair back from her face, and the man's eyes tracked the movement. She had a feeling those eyes, hawk eyes, rarely missed anything. “But together, they're magic. His name is Trace Muldoon. We're with M-Star ranch.”

“M-Star, huh.” Moving slowly, with the grace of a panther, the man moved to Lad's other side and stroked a hand down his neck. Lad shivered in pleasure, tail swishing once. “What kind of operation you running there?”

“Breeding and training. Our trainer, Redford Callahan, is—”

“Red?” The man bent down a little and looked at her from under Lad's neck. “You've got Red with you?”

“We do.” Pride, though she'd had nothing to do with the hiring of Red, swelled for her family's ranch. “He stays because he knows a good thing when he's involved in it.”

The man chuckled softly. “Nice sales pitch.”

“Truth needs no sales pitch.” He laughed again at that. “Are you here competing?”

He stepped around to Lad's front again and eyed her for a moment. Then he held out a hand. “Jefferson Montague.”

“Nice to meet you, Jefferson.” Should she have called him Mr. Montague? He didn't seem like the kind to stand on ceremony. She shook. When he didn't hold her hand longer than normal, she gave him points.

He kept watching her, as if expecting her to say something. What, she had no clue. So she coughed and filled the silence. “Are you going to be here all weekend?”

“I am.” He nodded, gave Lad one more look, and stepped back. “I've got to head on back to my own camp. But I'll be sure to watch for your brother and this one out in the ring.”

“You do that. I hope we can talk again some more, later!” She shot him a brilliant smile. A feeling of accomplishment warmed her. It wasn't a sale or anything so important. But mingling and keeping your name in people's minds was another part of the game. And this was a part she could play easily.

Trace headed back a few minutes later, just as she was finishing the last cinch on Lad's saddle. “We're all set. We can stay parked here, and his stall is number eleven.”

“And you're sure you want to stay with him all night?”

“Positive. The bunk is all yours.” He grinned and double-checked Bea's work. She wasn't offended. Anyone would have. Being properly saddled was just too important to trust to others entirely. “Thanks for that. Any troubles with him?”

“Nope. He was a perfect gentleman.” She rubbed a hand over the space between Lad's eyes. “Go stretch your legs, both of you. Then maybe I can run and grab some dinner for us.”

“I'm all over that.” He swung into the saddle easily, tipped his hat, then headed off for a quick ride.

I can do this. I am worth something to this family.
With that thought, she walked in the direction of the stadium to find groups of people. Time to mingle and do her part.

M
organ walked Pepper, the cocker spaniel with a penchant for eating pennies, and his owner to the lobby and left them with Jaycee, who was back to playing receptionist between patients for the day. “Jaycee, Pepper needs to come back in about a week if things haven't, uh, progressed with the pennies.”

“Got it!” Jaycee waved to him and he started back for his office. Friday had been mostly cleared out but for the few stragglers who couldn't reschedule, and one penny-loving pooch. All in all, a pretty restful day. Which was fortunate, as he'd had several new guests show up for the shelter via the sheriff and a few good citizens. Time away from the clinic had given him a chance to process them in, check them out, and make sure they were healthy. After a quick quarantine, a round of shots, and a temperament test, they'd go up for adoption.

“Morgan?”

He popped his head back out from his office. “Yeah, Jaycee?”

“There's someone here to see you. I put her in exam room one.”

His heart raced at the thought of Bea.
She's out of town, you moron. Get a grip.
He walked out and found a Muldoon female in the room. Just not
his
Muldoon female.

“Hey, Peyton. What's up?” At the jingle of a collar, he glanced down. “And Milton. Hey, buddy.”

The dog pranced over and sat obediently for a rub.

“Something wrong with him?” Automatically, he started checking for any tender spots, examining his eyes, checking his gums for anemia.

Peyton blew out a breath. “Hell if I know. He's making enough racket to have me thinking something's wrong.”

“Like what? Sharp cries?” Morgan's hands retraced their steps, checking each leg, each paw for sore spots or discomfort. “What's going on, boy?”

But Milton's bug eyes just stared at him with adoration, if a little confusion.

“If nothing's wrong, then he's just an asshole.” Peyton tugged the end of her braid, as if she was ready to rip her hair straight from her scalp with her bare hands. “He whines nonstop. He won't eat—”

“It's been less than a full day,” Morgan said wryly.

“Have you
seen
that monster eat? The dog doesn't leave a crumb behind. He cleans his bowl with his tongue. Missing breakfast is a big-ass deal.”

Silently, Morgan agreed. But when he picked Milton up, the dog allowed it without a single whimper. Just snuggled his cold snout into the crook of his neck and sighed, like this was his master plan all along.

“Maybe he just misses Bea.”

Peyton huffed. “Miss someone who dresses him up in stupid outfits and shoes and treats him like a baby instead of a dog?”

“She rescued him,” Morgan said quietly. He scratched behind Milton's ears and his stub tail started to wag. “She's his mama, for all intents and purposes. His pack leader. She was the one who saw something in him, took him out of the cage, and gave him something nobody else had before.”

A home. He saw from the softening of Peyton's features, she understood. But she refused to admit it out loud. “Well, he needs to stop. Emma is about ready to punt-kick him out the door, and I can't get any work done. Even Seth doesn't want anything to do with him like this. He keeps saying ‘doggy no no' and covering his ears.” She glared at him. “Do something.”

“I'll keep him. It'll be a full house anyway, since I have to take a turn with the abandoned puppies. Their foster parents are out of town this weekend, too.” With the docile Boston's eyes closed and his body limp, it was hard to deny him anything. “She comes home tomorrow?”

“Probably Sunday, if Trace makes it through to the end of the events. They'll be done too late Saturday to drive back.” Peyton narrowed her eyes and scratched Milton's back. “You little shit. You're just like your mommy. You manipulated all of us to get what you wanted, didn't you?”

Milton unapologetically farted.

 

Bea turned for the nineteenth time onto her left side, groaned, then rolled to her back and groaned again. The mattress—if you could call the pitiful excuse for padding a mattress—was so thin and lumpy she could feel the bones in her back crying. As she rolled to her right side, she was face-to-face with a cold metal wall.

Not quite the Ritz. The horse trailer in the parking lot of the middle-of-nowhere town was almost worse than her first apartment in LA. And a lot less steady. She put a hand on the wall as the trailer swayed gently with the breeze. All the negatives of a cruise ship and none of the charm.

Rolling to her back once more, she gave up the idea of sleep. There were three viable options here.

One, she could take the truck and go check in to a local motel for the rest of the night. Bea immediately disregarded that idea. It was too much like quitting. And there was no way in hell she was quitting. She wouldn't give Peyton the satisfaction.

Two, she could go see Trace in the stable and stay with him and the horse all night. Not quite quitting, but not exactly ideal either.

Or three, she could call someone and make them talk to her until she was too tired to care
where
she was sleeping or how uncomfortable she was.

She grabbed her phone from her bag.

After two rings, Morgan's sleepy voice answered with a grunt, and a rusty “Hello?”

“Hey-ya, cutie.” When he mumbled something, she frowned. “Did I wake you?”

“No. Yes.” He sighed heavily. “I think I might have passed out on the kitchen floor.”

“Might have?”

“Okay, did.”

“What are you doing sleeping in the kitchen when you've got a perfectly decent bed down the hallway?” The thought of his bed sent a pang of longing through her. Not just for his specific bed—though she'd really enjoy that . . . with him in it—but for any bed that wasn't in a rocking trailer that smelled like horse and hay. Firm ground, please.

He didn't answer, but someone else did.

She'd know that pathetic whine anywhere. “What's Milton doing there?”

“How the hell did you...? Never mind. You and this dog have a very odd connection. And I'm babysitting him.”

“Aww, you're babysitting my baby?” She grinned at that. “Very sweet. Though why doesn't Peyton have him? She agreed to watch him.”

“He apparently missed you so much he brought everyone in the house to their collective knees with his whining and carrying on. He does better with me. Seems to associate me with you.” The smug pleasure in his voice was unmistakable. “Smart dog.”

“Smart dog, indeed,” she said quietly.

“I gave him the pillowcase you used the other night. I hadn't gotten around to laundry yet. He's been sleeping with it on the blanket you left here for him. Your scent seems to keep him from freaking out too much.”

“But that doesn't explain why you're sleeping in the kitchen.”

“I've also got a box of puppies here. Their foster parents went out of town this weekend, too, and I agreed to take them. They're on wet food now, but they still have to go out every few minutes, it seems like. And then they want to play with Milton, and they get all riled up and—”

“I get the picture.” The image of Morgan lying flat on his face on the kitchen floor while a bunch of ragged puppies crawled over his body like a jungle gym had her stifling a laugh. “And Milton is okay with them?”

“He loves them. They think he's the king of the castle, and any attention he shares with them is worth celebrating.”

“Sweet. But I'm sorry they're keeping you up.”

“I need a mom for the kids. Someone to trade off kid duty,” he joked. His laughter trailed off into deep breathing, and she was almost positive he'd fallen asleep.

“Morgan?”

Nothing but the soft sound of breathing and dog snorts.

“Morgan,” she said, but whispering this time. If he really was asleep, she didn't want to jolt him back awake. When he said nothing, she ended the call and slid her phone back in her purse. The man was adorable.

But a mom for the kids . . . Was that a subtle poke at her? Or was it just a joke he hadn't thought twice about and she was reading too much into it?

Yes, of course it was. Get a grip, Bea. Being too touchy. She'd blame it on the lack of sleep herself, and being edgy in the trailer alone. Morgan wasn't the kind of guy to play subtle tricks. If he wanted to say something, he'd say it. His natural lack of sneakiness wouldn't let him handle it any other way.

She let the image of him with the puppies and her own dog lull her into sleep, with a smile on her face.

 

Bea watched as a competitor rode out of the arena and clapped politely with the rest of the crowd. Her hands were dusty, and she coughed to the side at the smell. Lord, she needed a shower. Two showers, and then a bath, with a nice lavender bath bomb and some exfoliating scrub . . . Who knew just being around the arena would coat her in a layer of filth? She'd never gotten so dirty just slipping in and out with Lover Boy for her rides. Must be the excess dust from all the horses running around together.

She sat off to the side a little. Though she'd met others during the day, they didn't know her. And they had their own groups, their own cliques to sit with. A few men had sent her what she could only assume were
inviting
glances, but she wasn't even thinking twice about that. Better off on her own than accidentally leading a man on. That was fine, she didn't mind. Her focus was on Trace and Lad and their showing up everyone else in this next round. M-Star had a reputation to build, and that was the first order of business. Not sitting around making friends.

The bleacher underneath her butt vibrated and she glanced up, shading her eyes a little. The man from the day before, Mr. Montague, was heading straight for her. She bit down the urge to sigh and instead waited politely for him to approach.

“Mind if I grab a seat?”

She indicated the bleacher and he sat, a respectful distance away. Not crowding her, not where their knees could brush against each other. She liked that about him. That he wasn't constantly trying to find ways to touch her, like other men did. “How are you today, Mr. Montague?”

“Oh, you can call me Jefferson, Ms. Muldoon.”

“Then it's Bea to you.” She returned his easy smile, then watched another horse and rider enter the arena. “Do you have a horse in the competition today?”

He watched her a little, as if he couldn't believe she'd asked that. Was she missing something here? Then he shook his head. “No, I don't.”

“Well, good.” She grinned and reached down to her bag to grab her sunglasses and slip them on. “Then I won't offend you when I cheer on my brother and root for the others to score low.”

“No, that you won't.” He chuckled a little, then asked her about her job at M-Star.

“It's not a job, really.” Her hands felt a little clammy, and she resisted the urge to wipe them on the thighs of her jeans. “I'm really just helping out while I'm in town. I live out in California mostly.”

“Do you show any of the horses? Do any training?”

“That's my brother and Red's area of expertise. I'm more involved in . . . the business side of things. Marketing and advertising. Support staff. That sort of thing.” Warming to the idea, she went on. “I'm the marketing director for M-Star.”
God, forgive the lie.

“Marketing director, eh?” He leaned back and propped his shoulder on the seat behind them, spreading his arms out. But again, not touching her or reaching over for some slick, creepy move. “For a smaller operation, that's a new one.”

“It's a big part of ranching these days, I think. Maintaining the authenticity that comes with a home-grown operation, while attempting to take on a grassroots marketing approach in a corporate-driven world.” Holy shit, had she just said all that?

He nodded absently. “I think you're right. So tell me more.”

And . . . shit. “The operations are run by my sister, Peyton.” Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, she went on. “She grew up on the ranch, same as Trace and myself. But now the ranch is growing up with her at the helm. She's got a wonderful understanding of the business and of horses in general. And when she brought Red on, it was magic in the making.”

“Simple, effective. I like family-run operations. They're more honest, most of the time. Easier to meet halfway.”

Bea and Jefferson clapped again as the contestant rode out of the arena. Then Bea let out a huge whoop as Trace entered through the gate. She stood, waving her hands in the air and yelling his name in excitement. And . . . whoops. She sat down abruptly, the metal clanging beneath her feet. “Sorry. I got a little carried away.”

His expression said he was amused, not annoyed. “No problem. I understand the feeling.”

Bea watched Trace and Lad. Her butt was on the edge of the bleachers, her fingers curled into the seat, her knees bouncing with anticipation. Each motion caused another hitch in her breath. Each quick jolt of the horse's body had her hand creeping up until she covered her throat. And when the announcer called time, she sagged with relief. Being so tense was exhausting.

“They make quite a pair.”

“I know it.” She couldn't help the stupid grin on her face. Her brother was unbelievable on a horse. She'd have called him a god, but that would go to his head. “He's amazing. And to think, that is the same boy who used to pull my pigtails and call me snot-face.”

“When you were kids?”