Candace Carrabus - Dreamhorse 01 - On the Buckle (6 page)

Pen picked up on the third ring, and I could tell she’d been running.
 

“Where’d I get you from, the basement?”

“Just the other room.”

“Really? Are you okay?”

“It’s being pregnant. I’m out of breath all the time.”

All the time? She was only five months along, barely showing when I left, but she was a little chubby to begin with. Still, an alarm went off in my head.
 

“What does your doctor say?”

“I see him tomorrow. Don’t worry about me. How’s everything there, better?”

I’d drop it for now, check again later. “Today I learned MFA stands for Missouri Farmer’s Association,” I told her. “And an elevator is where they take the corn and wheat and soybeans after the harvest, and store it in big, round, metal buildings to dry before it gets shipped to Russia, or wherever.”

“We use some of that stuff in this country,” she said.
 

I knew that. Don’t I eat only whole-grain bread? And tofu? In fact, I’d thrown away what the well-intentioned Mr. Malcolm left in the fridge. White bread. Jesus. Okay, I don’t believe in wasting food. I gave it to the birds.

“Both the MFA and the elevator sell feed and supplies and stuff. I bought a straw fork. No wonder the stalls were such a mess. He didn’t even have the right equipment.” Another part of my brain suggested that his equipment was perfect.

“Well, that’s what you’re there for. So, it’s okay?”

Okay? Hell no it wasn’t okay. “The neighbor’s a great cook.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. Do you think you could feel at home there?”

Penny had a theory about “home” which was definitely tied to “where the heart is.” In my case, she said the root of all my problems was homesickness—not because I missed it, but because I’d never found my true home. I’m not big on theories.
 

“I guess it will be all right, except for Mr. Malcolm acting like a dick-head yesterday.” Not like I had a choice. Winterlight would be my address for a year, if not my home. “I’m getting the stalls clean, so things smell better. Hank says he’ll teach me to drive the tractor, and I can empty the manure spreader in one of the fields. I’ll be a goddamned farmer.”

“Sounds great. So, what does he look like?”

That’s Penny. Warn me off the guy one minute, then breathlessly insist on his vitals the next. She’d talked to Malcolm on the phone and no doubt formed a vivid opinion of him already.

“Didn’t you tell me to stay away from him?”

“You should. That doesn’t mean I can’t fantasize about him. Now, give it up.”

Penny is smart and funny and artistic—though she doesn’t do anything with her talent. She fell in love with a plumber. Not that there’s anything wrong with plumbers. Frank’s nice, a little short, going bald, growing a beer belly, and has no interests beyond football and pork rinds. He supports her, but not in any way that matters.
 

Anyway, Frank’s not exactly the hunk on the cover of the books she reads. She lives vicariously through the guys I know, some of whom could model for book covers. You couldn’t necessarily have a conversation with them, and some of them are gay, but I have known some very handsome men.
 

“He’s tall—over six foot, I’m sure.”

“Yeah. Go on.”

“He’s got longish light-brown hair with streaks of gold in it like a life guard.” I figured I might as well lay it on thick for her, not that I was exaggerating. “Blue eyes—with humor in them.”
When he’s not being a prick
. “You’ve heard his deep voice.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go on.”

I ticked off the rest. “Broad shoulders, flat stomach, strong jaw, high cheekbones, sexy when he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days. Looks great in breeches.”

Penny moaned. “Oh my God, Vi, how can you stand it?”

“I’ll manage. Pretty is as pretty does, you know. Anyway, he’s married.” But his wife wasn’t around, and I wondered what that meant. Somehow, I thought there was more to it than just visiting family. “Married’s off-limits, even for me.”
 

“I know. Anything else?”

“Well,” I said, drawing it out. “There is one thing.”

“Yeah?” Anticipation laced her voice.
 

I delivered the kicker. “He wears a kilt.”

She dropped the phone.

- 5 -

Later that day, another Midwestern-farm-grown example of male pulchritude strolled in, and the first thing I thought was, wait till I tell Pen.
 

He rolled up in a Ford pickup of indeterminate color—might have been green at one time, but it was mostly rust with dashes of primer. The right headlight hung down like a gouged-out eye, and the tailgate had gone missing. Half an antenna stuck up from the hood, duct tape criss-crossed the back window, and the roof looked like an elephant had danced on it. Baling wire held the driver’s-side door closed.
 

The guy who stepped out, after scooting across the bench seat to exit the passenger side, was tall and lanky with straight, dark hair and a smooth, well-trimmed beard. He was in much better shape than his truck.
 

I squeezed water from the sponge in my hand and rubbed at a persistent spot of sweat on Captain’s bridle. My visitor wore a green cap that said, “Nothing runs like a Deere,” a plain, white tee-shirt with an oil stain on one side and a tear on the other, and unlaced work boots crusted with mud. His jeans were so worn down the fronts of his thighs, they were white, and the knees were blown out. The faded blue fabric looked especially thin over the bulge at the base of his fly.

When he entered the barn, Noire lowered her tail and growled deep in her throat. I trust her instincts. If my dog thinks someone’s not quite right, then someone’s not quite right. She’s better at that than I, but sometimes I ignore her.
 

He acknowledged me with a sweeping gaze that landed on Noire. “Mac around?”
 

“Out of town. Can I help you?”

His eyebrows pushed his cap up, then he leaned one elbow on a rung of the ladder leading up to the loft and shook a cigarette out, started to light it.

“There’s no smoking in the barn.”

“Since when?”
 

I didn’t know him, and he looked great, so I decided not to bite. Noire planted herself between us, clearly less certain this was the right course of action. I smoothed her ears. She kept her eyes on the stranger. “Smoking is never allowed in horse barns,” I explained. “It’s dangerous.”

“Really,” he said. He glanced at the cigarette, up toward the loft, then shrugged and shoved the cig back in the pack. “Never thought about it, but I see your point.”

He dug a toothpick out of his pants pocket and stuck that in his mouth instead, rolling it with his tongue. Reminded me of a guy I saw careening down the Long Island Expressway once in a Cadillac Eldorado with a toothpick and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth at the same time.
 

“I’m JJ. You must be my replacement.”

I’d replaced two men. That appealed to me. Okay, maybe one and a half, since Norman was the other. JJ must be the non-horse person Malcolm referred to.

“JJ, nice to meet you.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m Vi.”

He hesitated, wiped his palm on his jeans, then crossed the aisle. Well-defined biceps bulged when he squeezed my hand, and a tingle went right to my belly.

Noire made a quick sideways movement to get out of his way. The sudden motion surprised JJ, and he jumped, jerking my arm.

“Brought your guard dog, huh?”

It was my turn to shrug. I’m not sure what she would do if pressed, but I wasn’t above using her image to my advantage. “I wouldn’t mess with her.”
 

He stepped back with a smile that amped my tingle to a warm hum.
 

“Cool,” he said with a nod, and added, “Vi.” He glanced around the barn, sliding the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. “You’ve done a lot of work since you got here. Place looks good. Mac’ll be pleased.”

“It’s getting there,” I said, trying to fight a feeling of gratification. Anything would have been an improvement. “Still plenty to do.”

JJ’s eyes moved from my face down to my toes and back. “I’ve some time this afternoon, especially since Mac’s not here. Need any help?”

Interesting question. If he hadn’t done his job before, why the sudden interest? The answer didn’t really matter since I’d be glad to let him do some heavy lifting—cleaning the stalls he’d let become such a mess in the first place. I wouldn’t mind watching those biceps in action for a little while.

“Sure,” I said. “I’d appreciate that.” I put the shovel in the wheelbarrow and pushed it where it needed to be, pointed to the mass of wet straw and manure. “Everything out. Down to the floor.”

His cap moved up again. Whatever he’d had in mind, this wasn’t it. Then, a wry smile creased one cheek, and the warm hum in my belly expanded into my chest.
 

“No problemo,” he said. He grabbed the shovel and went to work.

Twenty minutes and three trips to the ever-growing manure pile later, he had the one stall done. Sweat darkened his tee-shirt and glossed his skin. The indentation at the base of his throat had a tiny pool of moisture collected in it. The bicep action had been good. Not that I stood there staring. I found things to do that kept me walking past while he worked. Each time, he smiled that wry half-smile at me, and my internal motor revved.

JJ removed his cap and smoothed his short hair. “How’s that?” he asked.

I made a show of inspecting the stall. “Nice work,” I said, but I wasn’t looking at the stall. “Thanks.”

He tilted the wheelbarrow against the wall, hung up the shovel, and grabbed the broom. The aisle had been perfectly clean when he arrived. He swept his leavings out the back door, replaced the broom on its hook. Not bad. Maybe Malcolm hadn’t given him any instructions about how to keep the stalls clean.

“That’s all I got time for, today.”

“I appreciate it.”

“You had a chance to get out?”

“Hank took me to the MFA.”

JJ laughed. “Not what I meant.”

I knew what he meant.

“How ‘bout dinner?”

I hadn’t had a chance to grocery shop yet. Tomorrow was open. I would be schooling horses in the morning, and at some point I needed to finish digging out the stalls. I could shop later. For tonight, dinner out sounded good. Dinner with a good-looking…hang on a sec.

“Are you married?”
 

He looked startled, like I was proposing rather than gathering information. Then, the grin came on full blast. I suspected there were dimples hiding under his silky beard.

“No, ma’am,” he drawled.

~~~

JJ gave me directions to Mel’s tavern. We agreed to meet there later. JJ was definitely attractive, but I wasn’t ready for anything remotely resembling a date. Even if I was, taking my own truck made me feel safer, in control. Anyway, I could handle whatever JJ might dish out. Back home, I’d met some mighty squirrelly guys. He had nothing on them.
 

I strolled into the bar at seven. There were pool tables toward the back past a wheezy-looking jukebox and open space in the middle could have been a dance floor once, but was now occupied by a few square tables. A hand-written sign advertised karaoke on Thursday nights. Two women sitting at a table scanned me from the neck of my red tee-shirt down to my sandals and returned to their pizza. They wore dirty jeans and boots and looked like they’d just come from milking the cows. To them, I must’ve looked as out of place and useful as a fart in a mitten.

The skirt I’d chosen covered the bruises on my thighs, barely. If I were careful when I sat, no one would notice. I’d tested this before leaving. Should have worn pants, I know, but the skirt was cuter.
 

JJ was throwing darts at a board beyond the pool tables. When he saw me he waved, threw one more dart and sauntered toward me as I took a seat at the bar. He wore clean work boots and walked with long strides, confident. The sleeves of his faded blue tee-shirt grazed those lovely muscular arms of his. He smelled like cologne and filled out his jeans nicely and pulled a bar stool out for me before taking his own. So far, so good.
 

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.
 

He’d been leaning back against the cash register when I came in, sort of in shadow. In more direct light, he looked like he served as the bouncer as well. Burly. No—more like meaty. He had a pleasant round face and curly brown hair, fingers thick as a pitchfork handle and a belly that obscured his belt, but something about the way he held himself warned anyone paying attention not to underestimate him.

I caught JJ getting an eyeful of my legs when I crossed them. Okay, so that’s why I wore the skirt. “Water,” I said. He ordered a Budweiser.

“Kevie makes the best pizza in town,” JJ said.

No place has better pizza than New York, but given that Kevie probably made the
only
pizza in town, I figured this wasn’t really an overstatement. I decided to find out just how bad it was and ordered one with everything. We took a table.