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Authors: Kat Murray

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“Him?” Her eyes flew back to Trace. “Him who? What is going on? Whose baby is that?”
Her brother took another maddeningly calm sip of coffee. “That’d be mine.”
 
He was five shades of stupid. That’s the only reason he could think of to explain why he was listening to his gut again instead of his head. Clearly, his gut wasn’t up on the little problem he was having fighting a serious attraction to the current owner of the M-Star.
And yet there he was, pulling up to the first barn, all but asking to get kicked in the teeth. He’d waited around so long for his gut to change its mind that he’d missed Peyton’s forty-eight-hour cutoff. Not that he thought she’d really hold him to it. But she’d give him hell just the same, because she could.
Feisty. That’s all she was. And it got under his skin more than he ever wanted to admit. He knew he was setting himself up for a big disaster, putting himself in close working proximity to Peyton Muldoon.
He pulled up to a rig that looked like it should have headed to the junk pile years ago. Definitely didn’t recognize it, and it was something to remember all right. Hopping down, he saw a horse and rider working out in the main arena and headed that way. From this distance, he couldn’t recognize the rider either, but using his sharp detective skills, he figured the man for the owner of the rustmobile.
The horse, he was glad to see as he came up, was in much better shape. Excellent, actually. The man put the animal through its paces, weaving in and out of an obstacle course set up with barrels, dummies, and traffic cones. Sure-footed, confident, and quick, the horse maneuvered the course like it was born to handle the job. As the exercise ended and horse and rider headed to the side of the arena, he couldn’t help but wonder who the hell the guy was. Not a beginner, that was for sure.
Locating Peyton off to the side, he girded his loins, wished he’d worn a cup, and headed over. She had one boot heel hitched up to the bottom rung of the metal gate and her elbows leaning over the top. The position did some interesting things to her backside, plastering the jeans to her bottom in a way he could more than appreciate.
“Peyton.” He eased up slowly, giving her ample warning so she couldn’t blame him for startling her.
She turned a cool, dispassionate eye toward him. “Callahan. See you finally came sniffing around.” Glancing back at the horse and rider exiting the arena from the opposite side, she asked, “All those other ranches rescind their offers? Are we the last stop?”
“First stop.” Why lie? She could find out with one call that he’d already said no to every other offer. “Came here to accept the job.”
She pushed the gate wide open and started walking to the obstacle course, picking up cones. “Too late.”
He paused, gate halfway shut behind him. “Too late for what?”
“I said forty-eight hours. It’s been”—she checked her watch, but he’d bet she didn’t have to—“fifty-six.”
“True.” He picked up one of the dummies and walked it to the side where she was stacking cones. “I just needed a little more time.”
“Wanted to play hardball. Show me who’s boss.” Her words were harsh, but she bit the corner of her lip, as if not sure how to play it.
“Actually, no. I just needed the time to think.” Or to try to convince himself that his instincts were wrong. Fruitless in practice. He rolled a barrel over, and she hopped up on it.
“Doesn’t matter. You’re too late.”
He understood pride, knew sometimes it stepped in the way of a good thing. And he was a good thing . . . for the ranch. “You keep saying that, but we know it’s not true.” He placed a hand on either side of her hips and caged her in. “You need me. Said so yourself. You need anyone, but you really need me. So go ahead and give me hell for taking my sweet time. I can take it. I even deserve it. But when you run out of steam, we can go inside, sit down like adults, and start making a plan.”
Her smile was all teeth, and more than a little scary. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
He raised a brow.
And her expression turned smug. “I have a trainer.”
That knocked him down a few pegs. “You what?”
“Did you stuff cotton in your ears?” She grabbed his chin with one hand, and his breath caught as he wondered what she was going to do with it. “I have a new trainer.”
“Bull. No way in hell you could get a trainer that fast. I’m only eight hours late.”
She shrugged and dropped her hand. He resisted the urge to pick it up and replace it. Her touching him was a new development. And his body liked it, even as his mind screamed to step away.
“Who?”
Peyton looked to the right, and he followed her eyes to see the mystery rider walking back through the training arena at a fast pace.
“Peyton? This guy bothering you? Need me to take care of him?”
She looked back at Red, her eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Don’t you dare,” he muttered.
With a sigh, she hopped down and ducked under his arm, body brushing against his. He jerked back like he’d been scalded.
“No, Trace. Not bothering me. He’s just a little lost.”
Trace? The name was familiar. First or last name?
Reaching Peyton, the man slipped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. Red’s eyes narrowed in automatic response.
With reluctance, Peyton started the introduction. “Trace, this is Red Callahan.”
Red held out a hand, shook it a little more firmly than normal. God, this was insane. He had no business being possessive.
“Red, this is my brother, Trace.”
Brother? Well shit in a bag, that was not at all what he’d been expecting. Wait. “Trace Muldoon? Rodeo circuit?”
“One in the same.” He tipped his hat in mock salute.
“I’ll be damned. Why are you here? There’s the big rodeo in Oklahoma next weekend.”
The man’s face shuttered a little. “Personal business. I’ll be sticking close to home for a while.”
“I saw you ride in Montana a year ago. You were damn good.”
The man nodded in acknowledgment. Red looked back between Trace and Peyton. Despite the almost foot difference in height, he could now see the similarities between the siblings. But hold on. “Trace is your trainer?”
“That’s right. You didn’t show up, and he did. So it’s one point to Trace, zero to Red. Thanks for stopping by though. Good luck with everything.” She turned to go but Trace held her still.
“You can’t be serious. He’s a cowboy. A rider. A damn good one,” he added to Trace, “so no offense meant. But you know it’s not the same thing. You’re going to use your brother as a trainer while he’s off the circuit? And when he goes back? Then what?”
“Then it’s still none of your concern,” she bit out, stepping toward him. Her body vibrated with anger; her fists were clenched. If he had to guess, even her toes would be curled in her boots. When Peyton Muldoon felt something, it was all or nothing.
“Now, Peyton,” Trace began.
She whirled on him. “Don’t. Don’t even start. You promised.”
“But he’s here. And you know—”
“Don’t tell me what I know. He had his shot and he didn’t show up.”
“I’m here now,” he said quietly, not caring for being talked about like he wasn’t there at all. “I’m here, and I’m sorry.”
The quiet, sincere apology seemed to kick the wind from her angry sails. She knocked her hat back and blew out a breath. “I didn’t think you knew the word sorry.”
“I use it sparingly.”
“Peyton, can we talk?” When she said nothing, Trace tugged her elbow until she jolted and followed him to another corner of the arena.
Red watched with amusement as Trace bent and spoke in Peyton’s ear. She tilted back and said something that had her brother shaking his head. Red stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned his back, giving them the illusion of more privacy. Wandering to another corner, he came upon the office. With the door wide open, he felt no guilt sticking his head in.
A computer, older than Moses, sat on a desk cluttered with papers. Pile had to be two feet deep. Looked like the last trainer did less than nil with paperwork. Not shocking, knowing the kind of man Nylen was. Paperwork was never a favorite, but it was a necessary evil.
“Callahan.”
He turned to see Trace walking over, no Peyton in sight.
Trace stopped in front of him, propped his shoulder on the wall, and looked very much at ease. “You’re right.”
Once again, not what he’d expected. Red mimicked Trace’s posture, facing him. “Care to elaborate?”
“I’m a cowboy. Rodeo lover. I can ride ’em. I can’t train ’em, not like this ranch needs. I’m not a pro at it. I was willing to give it a shot for Peyton. I love her, and I love this ranch, though I haven’t been here for a while. And I would have been better than nothing.” He smiled a little at the not-so-glowing recommendation. “But if there’s a better offer on the table, she’ll grab it.”
Red made a show of looking around Trace to the empty building. “Don’t see any grabbing.”
Trace chuckled. “If you know Peyton at all, you know it’s going to kill her to take back her decision. Admitting defeat has never been her strong suit. It’s sort of a Muldoon thing. She just needs some time to lick her wounds. She’ll get to it.” The laughter died from his eyes, and suddenly Red had no problem seeing Trace in the role of big, protective brother. “And when she’s ready, you
will
be good to her.”
“Will I?” Being a shithead wasn’t his plan. But he was curious how far Trace would take the protector role.
“She’s had the wind knocked out of her recently, first having the reins of the business handed over so unexpectedly, then Nylen showing just what an asshole he could be. I’m not saying she couldn’t use a little humility. But there’s humility, and then there’s humiliation. Take her prickliness in stride, and it’ll go a long way to smoothing the road to good working conditions.”
Red nodded once. “I’ll take that into consideration.”
“You do that.” He leaned away a bit. “What’s your big plan for the ranch?”
Red scratched his chin, then decided there wasn’t any harm in sharing. “She’s going after the wrong clientele.”
“Wrong?” Trace smiled. “Isn’t any client whose check clears the right one?”
Red shook his head. “Selling kid ponies and work horses is fine and all. But if she wants to remake this place’s reputation, she needs fewer customers, but quality ones. She needs to be selling the big guys. She isn’t doing enough of that. Make the most of the breeding program.”
“Well, can’t say I”—Trace’s cell phone beeped in his pocked and he slipped it out. When he opened it, his eyes darted over the screen before narrowing. “Damn it.” He shut the phone with a snap and stuffed it back in his pocket with obvious frustration. Taking off his hat, he ran his fingers through his hair once before slamming it back on his head. “I’m needed at the house. Keep what I said in mind.” With that, he was gone.
Red stood for a moment, absorbing what had just happened. Trace was a good cowboy, no doubt about it. He’d watched the man on TV, seen him in person once. But a good horseman didn’t always make a trainer. And Trace was wise enough to know his limits.
And he knew his sister well. Red believed the advice about Peyton. But he wasn’t really one to give space when he was ready to push. She’d had a good twenty minutes to sulk. Hopefully that was enough time.
Because he was ready for a good long talk with Peyton Muldoon, and this time he was taking the upper hand.
Chapter Four
P
eyton slammed her body into the office chair so hard it rocked back. Grabbing the edge of the desk before she tipped over completely, she forced her racing heart to slow down.
Give him another chance, my ass. Damn you, Trace.
Her brother didn’t seem to mind she’d have to choke down her pride to do it. Yes, she was aware Trace was only a temporary solution. He’d go back to the rodeo eventually, no matter what he said. It was in his blood, in his heart. So he wasn’t a permanent fix.
And it wasn’t just pride, she admitted. But fear. Her hand stroked over the desktop, worn and nicked in places. Her father’s desk. God, she missed seeing him behind it, even when he would frown and pull at his hair absently going over the books. Not that he’d done that often. The man knew horses. He didn’t have a head for business at all.
She’d always wanted to run the ranch with him. And now she had to do it for him. And for herself. But did she truly have what it took to get their feet back on the ground? So many people counting on her. Expecting things from her.
In the bedroom above the office, Peyton could hear Emma through the heating grates, singing in a low, gravelly voice, some lullaby to Trace’s son, while she walked the floor. Though it was the child that was supposed to be soothed, Peyton felt her own muscles slacken a little at the comforting sound.
Maybe Trace did intend to set up permanent residence. But that didn’t mean he was the best choice for training.
That, unfortunately for all involved, was Redford Callahan. Just her luck.
To keep the madness going—because it was exactly what she needed—she picked up the office phone, reached into the top drawer where she kept the address book, flipped through and found Bea’s phone number, and dialed. Again. For the seventeenth time.
But who was counting?
After five rings, the damn thing went to voicemail. Again. Peyton was very quickly coming to loathe the sound of that beep that signaled, once again, she’d failed to reach her irresponsible sister. She’d already left several simple, concise messages explaining the reason Bea needed to call back. This time? She wasn’t in the mood for simple
or
concise.
“Beatrice Muldoon. For the love of all that’s holy, get your TV starlet ass out of bed and call me back. I’m not kidding around. This is important business.
Business.
You know, that thing I’m busy running while you’re getting your makeup done every day? Call. Me.”
She hung up the phone hard enough to rattle the whole intercom system. With a few deep breaths, she placed the address book back with delicate care. Nothing would be solved by her losing her shit and flying off the handle.
Good as it felt in the moment.
“That’ll bring her in.”
She jumped in her seat, then scowled at Trace, who was standing in the doorway to her office. “Bite me.”
Instead of taking her suggestion, he slid in and took a seat opposite her on the other side of the desk. “I can’t imagine why she would be ignoring you, what with all your friendly conversational skills at work. In fact, I’m not sure how I held off as long as I did.”
“You didn’t hold off. You came racing back here like your pants were on fire.” The reason for which, of course, was being soothed to sleep by the housekeeper upstairs. But neither of them mentioned that. “I have to do it, don’t I?”
They might have been apart for the majority of a decade, but he could still read her mind. “Yeah. You do. He’s the one for the job, Peyton. You know I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can,” she argued back. More from wanting to defend her brother—even against himself—than anything. But when he raised a brow and shook his head, she let her shoulders slump. “Well, you could. If you wanted to. You owe me.”
“Could,” he admitted, “but shouldn’t. Training isn’t my style and I don’t have the clout to raise the M-Star’s reputation. I’ll help. You know I will. Breaking, working, doing what needs to be done. But the official spot of trainer is not mine to grab. And I told you before, we’re not going into what I owe you. I had to go. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. I couldn’t be here with our mother. I’m sorry that hurt, leaving you behind. But what was I supposed to do, drag a teenager behind me when I left?”
She gritted her teeth at the reminder.
“Not to mention, I’ve got as much say in the running of this place as you do.”
Her blood started to boil, but she kept her mouth shut.
“So I could try getting ahold of Bea. And convince her to go in with me on it. And I’d just end up hiring him without your say so.”
It was a sharp slap of a reminder that, while she carried the emotional weight of the ranch on her shoulders, she only had so much power in the actual running of it. For now, anyway.
Peyton nodded tightly, battling back resentment.
“So what do you propose to do to earn your keep?”
He grinned at the reminder of their childhood. One of Emma’s Emma-isms was “Earn your keep.”
“I figure I’ll be heading up the personal relations and marketing department.”
Peyton’s eyebrows shot up. “Personal relations and marketing department?” she repeated. “We have one of those?” She rolled the chair back a foot and looked under the desk. “Where have they been hiding?”
“It’s a small department,” he said with a smile. “Department of one.”
“We don’t need marketing and PR. We need—”
“Customers.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, that’s typically how businesses stay in business. Customers.”
“And where are you expecting to find these customers?” Trace leaned forward, forearms on his knees, hands dangling loosely. “What kind of rider would you say the majority of our horses are being sold to?”
“Right now?” She did quick calculations. “Probably hand horses. Or to weekend riders. Kids with their first horse.”
“Exactly. A weekend rider is great and all. Easy sales, probably. But they’re not paying the bills. Are they?”
She shrugged. “Not completely, no.” And it burned her to admit that.
“But who will pay the bills? Think about it, Pey. Who pays top dollar for their ride? Who goes for the quality and doesn’t mind paying the price?”
“Rodeo cowboys.” She knew it. But how did Trace know what a kid pony would go for instead of . . . damn. “He talked to you, didn’t he?”
Trace slid an innocent mask over his face. “He who?”
She sighed. “If Red put this in your mind, I know he’s right. I just don’t have to like that he’s right.”
“What are your plans?”
She ran her tongue over her teeth. “I like the business we do now. It’s safe. And my thought was getting more of it, so we could get our feet back under us before making any changes . . .”
“But?”
She sighed. “But I know we need to go big. Take the chance. I want to expand and capture more cowboys. I want to breed rodeo stock. The horses that come from long lines of buckle winners. A ranch that trains the champions. But we don’t have the reputation yet—”
“Yet.” With a coy smile, he sat back, crossed his left boot over his right knee. “But you’ll have Red, and you’ve got me.”
“And you are . . .”
He held up his hands. “Word of mouth.”
“You’re a mouth, all right.” She threw a pen at him, but the idea was already starting to take root. “Exactly what are you proposing?”
“I have contacts. I wasn’t the biggest, baddest mo’fo on the circuit. But I knew people. They knew me. I wasn’t a top winner, but I was consistently in the money. And people know that. They see that consistency and they like it. They envy it. You can have a lucky weekend and take home the belt. But if that’s all you have to show for your career . . .”
“Then it wasn’t worth much,” she finished for him. She knew. Though competing wasn’t where she’d set her sights, she was more than aware of the rodeo. Its pull on a young man. The competition. The fame. The glory. The girls.
“So maybe I call up a few friends, tell them I’m settling down to work on the stud ranch. Mention a few horses that have potential. Drop some lines here, pull a few interested strings there. Work the phone lines. Maybe even take one of our horses to shows somewhere nearby for a weekend and show what we’ve got.”
“And with Trace Muldoon on an M-Star horse, that gives us the advertising.” Yes. She was seeing it now.
A low whimper sounded nearby, quickly hushed by Emma. She glanced at the office door that led to the main floor living area. “And while you’re gone, what are we going to do with Seth?”
Trace’s face morphed into a mask even she couldn’t read. “I’ll figure it out. I’m not here for free babysitting, Peyton.”
“I know that. I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant either.” She instantly regretted bringing it up. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Curiosity burned in her. “Are you going to tell us about his mom?”
“No.” Just one word, sharply bitten off.
She ignored the not-so-subtle warning. “Is she around somewhere? Should we expect her to pop by for—”
“She’s not coming. Let it go.” With that, he stood up and left her alone in the office.
That went well. Taking a deep breath, she reached for the handset, dialing the phone in the stables. When one of her day guys picked up, she asked him to find Red, who was likely still out in the training ring.
As she hung up the phone, she let her forehead thump down on the desk. Might as well ask Emma to bake her a nice heaping plate of crow for lunch.
 
Red strolled into the main house, not sure which way to turn. The place was bigger than he was used to; most ranches that he worked on only had a business office on the property. But from what he could gather from the men, this was also where the family lived. He stood on the entry mat and took in the first floor.
A set of double staircases were situated directly in front of him, one curving off in each direction. Upstairs, he’d no doubt find the actual family living areas and bedrooms. A quick step to the left showed him the rest of the main floor. The place was a showroom, clean as a whistle, and almost startling in its sterile, museum-style. Not the sort of place where a guy could prop his feet up at the end of the day. Nothing about it appeared to say “A family lives and loves here.”
He took another step forward and nearly jumped out of his boots when something squeaked. Looking down, he saw some sort of blue plush stuffed animal under the arch of his boot. He bent down and scooped it up. Definitely not a dog toy. No teeth marks, no ripped stitches or slobber. A little worn in places, but more likely from the constant loving of little hands than some animal gnawing on it.
Peyton had a kid? How did he not know that? Was she involved with someone? Had the father left her and the child behind? Unexplained anger had his hands balling into fists until the toy squeaked in protest. He took another two steps before a tiny woman, barely five feet if he had to guess, bustled out of what appeared to be the kitchen.
“Don’t you dare take another step without removing your boots, young man.”
On the other side of sixty, at least, she barreled at him, using one hand to untie the apron wrapped around her waist, and holding what looked like a cucumber in the other. She waved the vegetable in his direction. “I just mopped this floor and I will not have mud on it. You hear me?”
Frail his ass. She was about to whoop him good. He smiled at the thought. “Yes, ma’am.” Contritely, he toed off his boots and pushed them to the side where a mat extended along the baseboard; a whole host of other boots were lined up there already.
“You just remember that rule from now on. I won’t have . . . oh.” Her face softened and she reached one hand out. “You found Danny.”
“I found who?” When she gently took the stuffed dragon from his hand, he realized she meant the toy and chuckled. “Scared the dickens out of me when I stepped on him. Not too bad, for a guard dragon.”
She tucked the toy in the crook of her arm. “Thank the Lord. I’ve been looking everywhere for this thing. He’s been so fussy, and I know he wants his Danny.”
“Who’s he belong to?” he asked, though it was obvious she was talking about a child. He wanted more info. A name. A hint of who the
child
belonged to.
She stroked the dragon’s tail for a moment, then snapped back to her former militant posture. “I expect she’ll be waiting. I won’t keep you.”
He nodded, understanding the topic of Danny’s owner was now closed for discussion. “Could you point me in the right direction?”
She waved a hand toward a closed door off of the sitting area which boasted fine leather couches, oversized armchairs that invited you to sink in, and a fireplace. Oh, and an infant swing designed to look like an elephant. He chuckled at that. All the fancier surroundings, the posh furniture, the large watercolors, and abstract art hanging on the walls . . . and a child’s toy. The two seemed in contrast, but he appreciated it. Made the area seem more approachable.
BOOK: Taking the Reins (Roped and Wrangled)
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