The Wrangler Page 2

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

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

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

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

  She was going toward the ranch.

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

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

  He just about rode in the other direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She wasn’t gone.

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

  “Double damn.” Guess he was stuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Come meet Samantha Davies.”

  “Already did,” he said.

  “Clinton!” his grandmother cried.

  He about skidded to a stop.

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

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

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

  “Not before you shake hands,” she said.

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

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

  “Clint is my—”

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

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

  Damn, but she was beautiful.

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

  “Clinton is actually—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Gigi, I have work to do.”

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

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

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

  “Fine,” he snapped.

  Chapter Three

  Samantha watched him go. Frankly, she was unable to tear her eyes away from him. The rain had turned his white shirt damn near transparent, and though her eyesight was failing, she could still make out every sinewy cord of muscle that rippled down his back.

  “He’s a real handful, that one,” Eugenia Baer proclaimed.

  Sam faced the woman she’d traveled two thousand miles to see. She hadn’t expected to meet her. Everyone she’d ever talked to about Mrs. Baer had painted her a recluse. Although to be honest, the entire family was something of an enigma. If she’d had money to spare she could have hired a P.I. Instead she’d been forced to research on the Internet. Eugenia Baer appeared to be the last living descendant of William Baer, the man who’d founded the ranch.

  “I don’t think he wants me here,” Samantha said, running her fingers through her brown hair, but there was hardly any hair there. She hadn’t gotten used to having it all buzzed off in the hospital.

  “Nonsense, dear. He’s just wet and cold and miserable.”

  He wasn’t wet and cold and miserable when they’d first met. Frankly, he’d been hard and sweaty and hot…

  Sam!

  At some point in the future she would have no idea if a man was good-looking or not. She better enjoy it while she could.

  “Has he worked for you long?” Sam asked, hearing footsteps above her head. It was a weird question to ask given that she suspected Clinton had worked for the ranch his entire life. He was this woman’s grandson. But Sam wasn’t thinking clearly. Up there, somewhere on the second floor, a man was stripping out of his clothes.

  She swallowed, forced herself to meet Eugenia’s eyes.

  “Who, Clinton?” she asked, looking uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Well, uh. Yes. I guess you could say he has worked for me a long time. Practically his whole life.”

  There was something about the way the woman said the words that alerted Sam to the fact that Eugena Baer thought Sam was clueless about Clinton’s true identity. Interesting.

  “Does he help with the Baer Mountain Mustangs?” she boldly asked, hoping to startle a confession. She had broached the subject of the horses just before Clint had walked in and she’d yet to discover if Mrs. Baer would admit to the wild herd.

  “Um, yeah,” Eugenia said, bending forward and grabbing her cup of tea off the table, “about those mustangs.”

  And here it was, Sam thought. This was when Eugenia Baer would deny the Baer Mountain Mustangs were still alive. Although to be honest, Sam felt fortunate to have gotten this far. Telling Eugenia she’d driven two thousand miles because the dream of seeing the horses had been the one thing to help her through the loss of her mom and dad had touched the rancher. As it happened she, too, had suffered a loss: her son-in-law and daughter had passed away a few years back.

  “I’ve heard the rumors about them, of course,” Eugenia said now. “Most people in these parts have.” She held a porcelain cup with tiny violets painted on the side and it somehow suited the woman whose gray hair and ivory skin appeared almost too delicate to belong to a rancher. “But whatever makes you think these mustangs even exist?”

  And Samantha caught her breath. Not the brush-off she’d expected.

  “My mother,” she said.

  “Your mother?” the woman asked.

  Sam nodded. “Before she died, when I was a child, she would tell me bedtime stories about them.”

  Eugenia raised her eyebrows.

  “My grandmother lived outside of Billings.”

  “I see,” Eugenia said.

  Sam almost added more, but how could she explain to this stranger how important this was to her? Horses has always been such a huge part of her life. Before her mom and dad had died, she’d shown on the American quarter horse circuit, coming close to winning a world title or two, despite her parents’ limited budget. They’d supported her riding into adulthood—if not financially, then emotionally—and then the accident had brought her whole world crashing down. Now, here she was, on the Baer Mountain Ranch, determined to do something she and her mom had always pledged to do together. Track down those horses. Sure it was a long way to drive in the hopes of convincing someone to help her dream come true, but she was determined to try.

  “Look, dear,” Eugenia said, taking a sip of her tea before setting her cup back down with a near-silent clink. “I can’t tell you how many people have come to our ranch for the same reason.”

  Sam grew motionless.

  “Most people come here seeking answers for commercial reasons. But I don’t think I’ve ever had someone show up here asking to see the horses because their mom told them bedtime stories.”

  Sam didn’t say anything. Frankly, she was on the verge of tears. The accident was fresh in her memory, and she still hurt every time she thought about that day. Still missed her mom and dad more than anything else in the world. Missed their daily phone calls. Missed updating them on her horse’s progress. Missed calling them just to talk. Still wished things had been different that day and that they hadn’t…

  No!

  That was a dangerous direction to take, her psychologist had warned her. There was a reason she’d been left behind. She had to believe that.

  “Tell me, dear, how did they die?”

  Sam cleared her throat. It took a second or two for her to gather her composure enough to talk. Above, the sounds had stopped. She hoped that didn’t mean Clint McAlister was on his way back down.

  “Car accident,” she said. “We were on our way back from watching The Nutcracker last December. We did that every year, you see, ever since I was a little girl. It was icy. And, well…”

  She couldn’t finish her sentence, didn’t need to. Eugenia reached out and clasped her hands. Sam looked into her eyes, saw compassion there and the deep, deep understanding that only someone who’d lost a loved one could ever understand.

  “I was…out of it for a while,” Sam admitted, though she never talked about the wreck. Not to anyone. Not to her former coworkers. Not even to her friends. And yet here she was confessing all to this perfect stranger. “When I woke up I was told my parents were dead.”

  Hot tears seared h
er cheek. “They were all I had, though I was closest to my mom. She shared my love of horses. Went to almost all of my horse shows…” She swallowed back more tears. “That’s why this is so important to me.”

  Eugenia nodded. “I see,” she said with another squeeze.

  “You don’t have to tell me about the mustangs if you don’t want to,” Sam said. “I respect your family’s desire to keep them to yourself. I mean, if they really are a wild herd running free on your land, you managed to keep them a secret all these years. I don’t think I’d want to share them with the outside world, either.”

  Eugenia didn’t say anything, just stared at her, probing the very depth of Sam’s soul.

  “You know what? Forget that I ever came here. I’m so sorry I intruded. I realize now what a terrible imposition this is.”

  She got up.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Eugenia asked.

  And Samantha’s heart stopped.

  “You sit down, young lady.”

  Sam sank onto the couch.

  “You drive a hard bargain, though,” Eugenia said.

  “I do?” Sam asked.

  “And I might have gotten crotchety in my old age, my grandson will tell you that, but even I’m not proof against such a request.”

  “Are they real?” she asked, her voice close to a whisper.

  Eugenia’s smile lit up the room. “What would you say if I told you they just might be?”

  “I would say that’s all I needed to hear.” She started to stand again. But before she could turn away, Eugenia caught her hand.

  “They’re real,” she said softly.

  Samantha started to cry.

  Oh, Mom. They really do exist.

  She wished her mother was with her.

  HE WALKED INTO A DAMN THERAPY session—at least that’s what it felt like what with everyone looking misty-eyed.

  “What the hell happened?” Clinton burst out.

  The two women glanced up. Samantha slowly sank back down to the couch. And then they were holding hands. Worse, he recognized the expression on his grandmother’s face: she wanted to pull Samantha Davies into her arms.