Read Taking the Reins (Roped and Wrangled) Online

Authors: Kat Murray

Taking the Reins (Roped and Wrangled) (10 page)

BOOK: Taking the Reins (Roped and Wrangled)
12.77Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
“You are amazing. A goddess.” She dropped a kiss on the older woman’s cheek, then wrapped the sandwich in a paper towel. On the way out the door, she detoured to the sitting area, where her nephew lay on his back on a quilt on the floor, rattling a toy. “And you’re pretty amazing, too.” She bent down to press a kiss to his nose, inhaling his fresh powdery baby scent that she never quite understood how babies managed, then jogged out the door.
“Good morning, Tiny,” she called as she walked in through the stables a minute later.
“Ha.” The older man huffed as he dragged a feed bucket out of the storage area. “Hardly. You’d think they’d never seen a horse before.”
She stopped in her tracks, taking a bite of the sandwich. “Who?”
“The hands.” He tilted his head toward the end of the stables, where the breeding stalls were located. “Bunch of goo-goo eyed men. It’s just a horse.”
She followed his nod and saw several of her men huddled around the stall where their newborn foal resided. Taking a moment to appreciate the amusing fact that grown men were literally cooing over a baby, she walked behind them and cleared her throat. “Guess all the chores are done already?” she asked mildly.
Several guilty heads swiveled in her direction before manly throat clearing and other grunting occurred. A few of the men scratched at their necks or looked away, and Steve’s face turned a bright pink. They dispersed, boots shuffling around her and out to the other stalls.
She stifled a laugh, then stepped up on a bucket to get a better view herself. The new little one was prancing almost in place, very proud of the fact that he had full control of his legs at less than twelve-hours-old.
She thought back to her nephew, who didn’t even have control of his head quite yet, and laughed.
Morgan walked up next to her. “So this is the new bundle of joy, huh? He got a name yet?”
“Nope. When the owners tell me, then we’ll know.” They watched in silence a little longer as he moved around the stall, content to explore his surroundings as long as mama was nearby. “He’s got spirit.”
Morgan nodded absently, pushing at his glasses a little with one finger. “I’ll give him a checkup here in a minute, after I deal with this sprain. Any problems with the delivery?”
“Nope, she was a champ.”
The colt walked over to his mother and butted his head against her leg, darting out of the way as soon as he could.
“Cocky little guy, isn’t he?” Morgan asked humorously.
“Aren’t all men?” she muttered.
“You wound me. I feel I need to stand up for my gender.”
“Don’t bother. Now, shoo.” He took off to examine another horse, leaving her to watch the colt just a little longer. Naturally, she had an excuse. Just watching out for their investment, she reasoned with herself. Couldn’t tell the client she’d just let the new baby flounder on his own. Tomorrow they’d turn baby and mama out into the pasture for some serious playtime. But now, she would just watch. Only for another minute or two . . .
“Good looking fella.”
A minute too long. The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention. With a deep breath, she nodded. “Yup. Client was pleased with him. Checked my e-mail this morning. They’ll stop by later today to check on the two of them.”
Red walked up next to her, draping his arms over the wall. Unlike her, he didn’t need a bucket or anything else to stand on in order to see over the door. “Do they all leave the pregnant ones here?”
She shook her head, catching her hat before it fell off and into the stall. “Many just bring their mares here for breeding, then take them back when pregnancy is confirmed. But not all of them have the time or resources to handle their expanding ladies, so . . .” She gestured toward the proud new mama.
Silence reigned for a moment.
“Ever considered AI?”
Artificial Insemination. She grimaced, though she didn’t mean to. “No. I know it has its uses, and that’s fine. But for us . . .” She sighed and rotated, turning her back to the stall and leaning her shoulders against the wood. “I would just rather keep some things the same. The mating process here is as natural as we can make it, while still being safe. With all the sweat, and the work it takes. The entire teasing game from the beginning, letting him know she’s here, she’s the one for him but he can’t have her quite yet. The energy you get when he covers her, keeping on your toes in case you have a biter and have to separate them. The pheromones flying around the place . . .” She trailed off, realizing what she’d said, how it’d come out. And she glanced, horrified, at Red to see if he was even paying attention.
He was not just paying attention, but honed in on her with an intensity she hadn’t seen in a man’s eyes . . . ever. Like he might jump her the minute her back was turned, pull her into an empty stall, and cover her like a stallion with his mate, and damn whoever else was in the stables and could hear them.
Jesus God in heaven. What had she started? Inching away, she kept herself facing him. “So, I have . . . stuff. Work. Things like that.”
His eyes tracked her movements, and for a moment she had the distinct impression of being hunted by Red. A predator watching for any hint, any slight weakness to pounce on and bring his prey down.
And it shouldn’t turn her on, how intense he was. It should scare the crap out of her. But she felt it, felt it deep inside where she hid all her feminine, girly thoughts and wishes.
“So, let’s get in there and see how our new guy is doing.” Morgan stepped up, rubbing his hands together. Then, sensing the tension between the two, he paused and pushed his glasses up just a little. “Did I interrupt a conversation? I can come back in a few—”
“Nope.” Red cut him off with the single word, but his eyes never left Peyton’s. “We’re done here.” Then he turned and left without another word, without another heated glance in her direction.
Morgan whistled through his teeth. “Peyton, Peyton, Peyton.”
“What?” she snapped, finally looking at her friend rather than the trainer walking away.
“You got it bad.”
“What’s ‘it’?”
He poked her in the shoulder, hard. That’s what she liked about Morgan. He didn’t pull punches—figuratively—with her because she was a female. “Don’t play coy. It doesn’t fit under your hat.”
She rolled her eyes. “Sorry for not being a dopey girl. And just for the record, I have nothing. Bad or otherwise.”
“Liar, liar, Wranglers on fire,” he sang, unlatching the stall door and sliding it open.
“Bite me.”
“You’re asking the wrong man, if I’m not mistaken.”
Peyton walked away, flipping him the bird over her shoulder when he laughed.
 
Piss poor timing, Morgan.
Though Red had no clue what might have happened had the vet not stepped in, he knew it was something important. Something he needed to explore.
The fact that he still had a job spoke volumes. Peyton might feel like he was their only shot, but that wasn’t the truth. And she wasn’t an idiot. There were other ways to get back on their feet. His reputation might get them there faster, but Peyton wasn’t going to sacrifice her own dignity for it.
So she was keeping him around for some other reason.
Knowing he would do nobody any good, he checked with Tiny to see which horse might need some exercise, then saddled up the meanest of the group for a hard ride around the perimeter of the property. He needed the time to think about something other than her. And his mount was enjoying the challenge. Double advantage. Soon enough, his mind cleared and he had to focus his entire attention on keeping the animal in check. The ornery SOB—a five-year-old stallion named Salamander—kept him engaged the entire ride, testing his limits every step of the way.
But an hour later, when he rode back into the stable and started to dismount, his eyes automatically started scanning the area for Peyton.
Clearly he hadn’t ridden hard enough, long enough. Probably no way to do that. He was screwed where that woman was concerned. Only confirmed his suspicions from the beginning. Which was why he’d tried to avoid taking the job in the first place.
Now look where it got him.
Trace walked up beside him, Ninja on a lead. “Did you clear your head yet?”
“Hmm?” Red led Salamander, who was trying to take a chunk out of his shoulder with his teeth, to his stall and started the process of unsaddling.
Trace followed suit with Ninja, who was across the way. “I started taking out Salamander when I need to clear my mind. He doesn’t give a damn inch, you always have to be present with him. Helps take the mind off whatever it’s working on.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Need to talk about it?”
Was he seriously going to have to have this conversation with her brother? Hell, no. “Nope. Nothing to talk about. How was Ninja?”
Trace smiled, the smile of a man who knew the score and wasn’t going to push, even though he could. “Did well. Enjoyed the obstacles for sure. You were right to suggest cutting for this one. Not really my forte, though. That’s Peyton’s skill. She’ll have some good shows with this horse under her.”
His head nearly imploded with the sound of her name. He focused on brushing Salamander out.
“I think I need to head into town,” said Trace, his voice breaking the silence of the barn.
The statement seemed rhetorical so Red said nothing.
“Want to come with?”
Red lifted his head. “Nope. I have a list though, if you don’t mind stopping at the feed store.”
Trace laughed and shook his head. “I didn’t mean for an errand. I mean for the night. There’s a new bar in town that wasn’t here when I left all those years ago. I was going to go check it out. Get off the ranch for the night, kick the dust off my boots and forget about horses and business for a few hours. Sound like a plan?”
Red debated only for a moment before nodding once, decisively. “Absolutely.”
Chapter Nine
I
n Red’s experience, typical watering holes in a town Marshall’s size consisted of a dying jukebox, a dart set missing most of the darts, and two types of beer. Tap, or bottle. The customers were always cowboys, looking to get away from something. Maybe the little woman back home. Or the fact that they were fifty and still working for someone else. The buckle that got away. And the atmosphere would always be dark and smoky, even if nobody smoked indoors anymore.
Jo’s Place, as the sign above the front door proclaimed, looked from the outside to be another such watering hole. But stepping inside was a whole new experience. Light filled every inch, not a dark corner to be found. The air was clean, a little sweet smelling. Music played from a decent sound system. And there were women, more than a few. They sat scattered around, in groups or with a man. As the two men made their way to the bar, Red caught sight of more than one drink with a colorful umbrella sticking out.
But while the place clearly appealed to women, the decor was still country, nothing so feminine that would drive a man out the door. Brilliant.
Sitting down, he and Trace waited until a woman walked up, wearing a clean black polo with the bar’s name embroidered over the breast pocket. Her long black hair swayed from a ponytail down between her shoulder blades, one black strand caught on the third earring in her right ear.
“What can I get you boys?”
“Bottle,” Red said, then was shocked when she handed him a real menu, not a laminated piece of cardboard.
“Domestic is on the left, foreign to the right,” she said, leaning in a little, pointing with one finger, the nail painted black.
“Bud for me,” Trace drawled, his accent deepening. Red didn’t miss the fact that Trace’s eyes were glued to the woman’s chest, which strained the front of her polo.
“Same,” Red answered, handing the menu back. She flashed them both a genuine smile and turned, giving them a moment to appreciate the soft curves hidden under the uniform.
“This is not what I was expecting,” Trace said quietly, looking around in awe. “From the few times I snuck in here before I left town, things have definitely changed.”
“Disappointed?”
“Nope. Just different. But change is good.” He waited until the server set the drinks on the bar. When he reached for his wallet, she shook her head.
“First timers, first round’s on the house.” With a wink she hurried down to the other side of the bar to take care of a man waving at her.
“How’d she know?” Trace asked. “We look just like every other guy in here.”
Red shrugged and took a sip. No point asking questions when free beer was involved.
After a moment, Trace asked, “Mind if I give that a go?” He used his bottle to point at the pretty dark-haired bartender leaning over the front to talk to another patron. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, more earrings in this one than the other.
“You have my blessing.”
“Hmm.” After his own sip, Trace went on. “Not at all interested? Someone else in here catch your eye?”
“Nope.” To cut down the chitchat, Red slapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’m gonna strike up a round of pool. I saw a table in the back. Good luck.”
Trace saluted him by raising his bottle, then turned back to study the bartender.
She, on the other hand, didn’t spare him a second glance.
Good luck, Red thought again with amusement, making his way to the pool table sitting in a sectioned-off portion of the bar. He racked up the balls and started to chalk his stick. For a moment, he watched as Trace made every effort to catch the bartender’s eye while trying to not be obvious. That had failure written all over it. At least, the way Trace was playing it tonight. Change up the game, change up the results.
The stick disappeared from his hand with a harsh tug. Turning, he came face to face with Sam Nylen. Just the bastard he’d love to meet in a dark alley for a fist-to-face conversation. If his own reputation wasn’t rolled up with Peyton’s—with the M-Star ranch total—he’d give it serious consideration. Instead, he forced a calm into his body and voice. “I think that was mine.”
Nylen sneered at him. “Nancy boys get their toys taken away.”
Rocking back on his heels, when he would rather be throwing a punch, Red said mildly, “It’s always nice to share.”
Holding the stick out, Nylen worked hard to look contrite. Red knew the game. The moment he reached for the stick, either the other man would yank it away again like a two-year-old or hit him. It was a toss-up. So he went for the third option—grab another stick from the rack against the wall. Reaching for the chalk, he asked, “So how are things, Nylen? Find work yet?”
“Piss off.” Without asking, he leaned over and jabbed at the cue ball, sending it careening at the racked billiard balls, barely clipping the side and making a complete mess of the table. But apparently Nylen thought they were playing the game, because he stood back to watch Red line up a shot.
“Piss off’s an interesting way to offer up a friendly game of pool.” Red aimed his cue, pulled back slowly and connected right in the middle, knocking in a solid red. “Solids for me, looks like.”
“I had a job. I had your job. Then Sylvia had to up and die on me.”
“The woman was in a car accident,” Red said dryly. “I don’t think she did it on purpose.” He had no love or admiration for the woman, knowing what she’d done to the ranch, and more important, to Peyton as a daughter. But respect for the dead was something he didn’t take lightly.
“She left me without a job.”
“Hardly.” He paused to send another solid into the corner pocket. “I’m betting if Peyton was happy with your job performance, she wouldn’t have let you go when she took over.”
A look of satisfaction crossed Nylen’s face. It made Red’s stomach roil. “Her mama sure was happy with my performance. Didn’t mind the work I did in the barn either.” He threw his head back, hat falling to the floor as he laughed at what he seemed to think was the world’s funniest joke.
Odd, since it had the opposite effect on Red. Quietly, he took another shot, but came up short and shifted away from the table to give Nylen room.
Nylen rushed through his turn again, doing nothing but creating more bizarre angles for them both to navigate. Red sighed and started calculating his turn . . . both with pool and the conversation.
“The way I figure it, that pretty Peyton was jealous.”
Red managed to keep from throwing up on his boots at the thought. Barely. He took aim, pulled back on his stick, and winced when something hit the back of his leg from behind.
“Oh, sorry.” Nylen stepped back. “Let my cue get away from me.”
“Right,” he muttered, then took the shot, not caring when he aimed wrong and sent the ball in the wrong direction.
“Her mama always had what Peyton wanted. The ranch. Control.” Nylen wiggled his eyebrows. “Me.”
“I’m sure that was very hard for her to bear,” Red said, though Nylen didn’t seem to catch the sarcasm.
“So when she had the chance, she canned my ass. Punishment for not taking her instead of her mother. No matter what she says, I know it was that.”
Not because you were stealing?
But hey, why be factual? Red knew now what Nylen was getting at. Covering his ass. Laying groundwork in case someone accused him at a later date of stealing. At least one or two other people had to be within earshot of the pool table.
“The fact is, I can see why you took the job,” Nylen went on, rubbing chalk over his cue.
Now he was lost. He stared at Nylen, no clue how to advance from here.
“Wasn’t no secret I was banging Sylvia. Shit, I’m sure everyone knew.”
From the sounds of it, they did, yes. But how tasteful of him to remind everyone listening.
“The way I figure it, you saw the good deal I had going, and once I was out of the way, you wanted some of it yourself.”
“The good deal . . .” His hand tightened around the cue, biting into the polished wood. How hard would he have to hit the man with the stick for it to be technically considered assault?
Was there such a thing as justifiable homicide?
“Yeah. You not following me? I had the mom. Now you can have the daughter.”
Fuck. There it was. The breaking point.
“You mother fu—”
“Gentlemen.” A strong hand clamped down on his shoulder, squeezing hard. “How’s the shootin’ tonight?”
Trace stood shoulder to shoulder with Red, his presence obviously adding to Nylen’s opposition. Though his stance was casual, relaxed, Red didn’t miss the tension vibrating his shoulder via the man’s grip.
Nylen seemed either oblivious to the additional support, or he really was the world’s biggest idiot. “Trace Muldoon. I was just talking about your family.”
“Were you.” His hand tightened almost imperceptibly on Red’s shoulder. “Rehashing good times?”
“I do miss your mama,” he said, somehow managing to imply a wealth of dirty thoughts with those five simple words.
“I’m sure you do. But she’s gone now.” No remorse or sadness lingered in his tone. “And we’ve got the ranch now. And as I hear it, you were let go.”
“I did good work.” He tossed the cue down on the table, scattering balls. “Peyton had no right.”
“She had every right,” Trace argued softly. “And every reason, as I hear it.”
Nylen’s face flushed an unattractive shade of purple. “I did good work,” he snarled again. “That bitch lied, whatever she said. I did good work. She was jealous I didn’t get to her fast enough after her mother died. She was just—”
He moved with lethal speed, and Trace let him. Before the sentence was finished, Red had Nylen trapped against the wall, fists gripping around his shirt, lifting him off the ground so only his toes touched.
“I think I must have heard you wrong,” Red said softly. “I believe I heard you say something not very nice about Peyton Muldoon. And that can’t be right, since I know she’s damn near perfect. So maybe you want to try again. And this time, choose wiser words.”
Nylen choked out a sound, though it wasn’t anything in English. Red’s arm ached at holding up the man’s weight.
“That’s what I thought.” He eased the man back down but didn’t step away. “See, that’s her brother over there, and I’m sure he would love nothing more than to remind you how much he loves his sister. But right now, he’s letting me have a turn.”
Nylen’s eyes widened, reminding him of a cartoon frog. And not the princely kind. “She’s got you by the sac, doesn’t she?”
He lifted his arm until his elbow was angled against the man’s windpipe. “Try again.”
Nylen wheezed. “Nice girl,” he strangled out.
Trace patted him on the back. “I think our . . . friend . . . is ready to take his leave now.”
Letting go and stepping back completely, Red watched as the other man slid down the wall a little.
“I hope there’s no problem back here,” a stern, feminine voice said from behind them. Red glanced over his shoulder to see the woman from behind the bar standing at the entrance to the pool room, hands on her hips, looking ready to take action if she had to.
“No, no problem at all,” Trace said easily. “Mr. Nylen here was just about to leave.”
She watched the three of them closely, as if waiting for one of them to give up his hand. When no one said a word, she nodded. “Fine with me. Nylen, Jenna’s got your bill rung up at the bar. Cash out and go.”
He walked away, wobbling a little, and cursed as he exited the small back room.
The dark-haired bartender crossed her arms over her chest. “I hate fighting. I don’t want it in here. And I have no problems calling the cops to remove anyone who throws a punch.”
“No punches here,” Red promised. No need to mention how closely he’d been tempted.
“Better not be.”
“Aw, come on now.” Sliding over to stand next to her, Trace gave her a smile that Red could imagine had melted too many hearts in the past. “I’m sure your boss knows what he’s in for. Cowboys get a little rowdy sometimes. It all works itself out in the end.”
“My boss?” She lifted a brow.
Trace narrowed his eyes. “Yeah. Jo. The boss? Manager? Owner. Whatever you want to call him.”
The woman’s face split into a wide grin. “I call
him
nonexistent. I’m Jo.” With that, she turned and walked back to her post behind the bar.
“Well, that explains why she acts like she owns the place,” Trace mused. “Huh.”
“I’m guessing that’s a strike out for you,” Red added.
“You think my sister’s damn near perfect?” Trace shot back.
“Tell her I said that, and I’ll kill you.”
 
Peyton opened her eyes at the sound of a car pulling up the drive and rolled to her back. The couch wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, but that was where she’d ended up. And it wasn’t because she was waiting to hear how Trace’s evening with Red had gone. Nope. Not at all. Not in any way, shape, or—
BOOK: Taking the Reins (Roped and Wrangled)
12.77Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Black Bridge by Edward Sklepowich
Homefront: The Voice of Freedom by John Milius and Raymond Benson
By Death Divided by Patricia Hall
A Taste of Sauvignon by Heather Heyford
Studio Showdown by Samantha-Ellen Bound
Outback Dreams by Rachael Johns
Criminal by Terra Elan McVoy