Spellfire (31 page)

Heat rose as the kiss continued, tightening his skin and making him think they should slip away for a half hour or so and nobody would notice. But when he started to urge her off toward the shadows, she twisted away, shot him a sidelong look and headed for one of the coolers to snag a couple of beers, then skipped toward where a game of touch football was forming up, cocking a “come hither” finger at him as she went.

He laughed aloud and followed, joining her in the huddle, grabbing his beer and letting his body bump against hers, amping the anticipation that was growing steadily between them.

The night was young, after all, and they didn’t need to rush. There was a whole world of trouble for them to get into . . . and they were going to have a lifetime together to do it.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A series of childhood trips to the Yucatán left
Jessica Andersen
with an enduring love of Mayan myths and legends. Since leaving academic science for a career as a novelist, she has written more than twenty science-based romantic suspense novels. Now she’s thrilled to bring her research background to bear on one of her earliest fascinations, the Mayan 2012 doomsday. Jessica is a lifelong New Englander; she and her critters currently live in eastern Connecticut, on the border where Yankee country intersects with Red Sox nation (go, Sox!).

Connect Online

www.jessicaandersen.com

facebook.com/docjess

Don’t miss the brand-new contemporary series by Jessica Andersen, writing as Jesse Hayworth, beginning with

Summer at Mustang Ridge

Available in summer 2013 from Signet Eclipse!

Read on for a special preview.

Foster grinned as he led Brutus in from the geldings’ pen, where a dozen or so mustangs were munching hay and snoozing in the sun.

The chestnut snaked his head around, feinting for a nip.

“Quit that.” He nudged the horse out of his space, reminding him how the pecking order went: without Brutus at the top, despite his delusions of grandeur. The mustang had been at the ranch since last fall’s gather and had been under saddle for nearly six months. He’d been in the working string for only a few weeks, though, and was still reserved for the wranglers’ use because his better-than-average smarts were paired with an unpredictable streak wider than the stripe running down his nose. He wasn’t dangerous, but Foster wouldn’t exactly call him reliable, either. And given his quick mind, big feet and smooth gaits, he was worth putting some time into.

Annoyed that his nap had been interrupted, the gelding rolled an eye back at Foster.

“Yeah, yeah, life’s tough. You think this is hard work, try being a real cow horse. Compared to them, you’re just a glorified trail pony.”

Then again, what did that make him? Head trail-pony wrangler? Executive greenhorn herder? Overlord of make-sure-the-dudes-don’t-kill-themselves?

It made him employed—that was what. And saving for better days.

He gave the gelding a nudge as they reached the barn, where the bright sun turned to murky shadows at the doorway and a nervous horse—or one with a questionable sense of humor—could spook. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned conversationally. “This is supposed to be my day off, and I’m not in the mood to deal with your—”

Movement flashed in his peripheral vision as they stepped from light into dark, and Brutus gave a sudden elephant snort and exploded in a spook that was part pent-up energy, part
Aieeeee, mountain lion!
The big gelding’s shoes struck sparks on the cement as he tried to wheel and bolt, dragging Foster around with a thousand pounds of momentum and a cement-strong neck. Vader got in front of him and splayed all four feet, barking, trying to head off the runaway.

Foster hauled back on the lead. “Whoa, dang it! And, Vader, git!”

As the dog scurried out the back, Foster caught a flash of brown hair and wide, scared hazel eyes in a triangular face. He had only a split second to think
Oh crap
at the realization that the little girl was about to get flattened. Then Brutus swung his haunches around and bumped her hard, and she went flying across the aisle.

She hit the wall and went down in a pink-and-denim heap.

Oh crap
turned into an inner
nine-one-one
, but Foster’s body kept reacting, using thirty-some years of experience to juggle the gelding away from the kid and down to the other end of the aisle.

“Knock it off!” he growled, getting right up near one of Brutus’s white-rimmed eyes. Where normally he would’ve soothed, now he muscled the blockheaded chestnut under some semblance of control, then kicked open a nearby stall and sent him into it still wearing his halter. “Don’t you dare get tangled in that lead,” he ordered, then ran the door shut and latched it tight.

He spun back, expecting to find the little girl still down. She wasn’t, though. She was on her feet, plastered in the corner where the tack stall jutted out a few feet into the aisle. Her pink T-shirt and jeans were streaked with dust, her face sheet white. All arms and legs, with a long torso and those big hazel eyes, she reminded him of a long yearling in the middle of a growth spurt, when all the pieces didn’t go together quite right.

She hadn’t made a sound, wasn’t crying now, just stood there staring at him.

“You okay?” When she didn’t say anything, he took a step toward her and reached out a hand. “Are you hurt?”

“Lizzie!”

Foster’s head whipped around as a dark-haired woman in a ridiculous black pantsuit raced into the barn wearing the same sort of look he’d seen before in a half-wild heifer’s eyes when he’d made the mistake of getting between her and her newborn calf. The kind of look that said she didn’t care what happened to her or anything around her as long as she got up close and personal with the little one, pronto.

He did what he should’ve done back then, which would have saved him a whole bunch of black-and-blues. He got the heck out of the way.

*    *    *

“Are you okay?” Shelby dropped to her knees, hitting so hard that the cement grated through her pants. Not seeing any blood or obvious injuries on her daughter, she whipped a look over her shoulder at the stranger. “What happened?”

“She spooked one of the horses, zigged when she should’ve zagged and took a tumble. By the time I got Brutus in a stall, she was up and moving.” He was straight out of central casting, filed under “cowboy, circa twenty-first century” in worn jeans, scarred brown boots and a black felt hat that was flecked with hay and dirt and sat low on his forehead. Compared to the guys in the dining hall, he looked faded and authentic. And concerned. Points there.

Focusing on Lizzie, she brushed at the dirt smudges on her daughter’s clothes and tried to remember how to breathe.
She’s okay. It’s okay
. But it wasn’t, not when Lizzie could’ve gotten seriously hurt because her idiot mother had stopped paying attention for a few minutes. “Why did you leave the dining hall? I
told
you not to go near the horses without a grown-up!”

Lizzie didn’t answer, didn’t meet her eyes, didn’t give her any sign to indicate that she’d heard or understood.

“Is she okay?” He sounded dubious. “I didn’t see her hit her head, but she seems kind of out of it.”

Shelby stood and faced him, tucking her daughter behind her. “She’s fine.”

“Maybe somebody should take a look at her. It’s Stace’s day off, but Gran has doctored more banged-up riders than your average ER.”

She’s seen plenty of doctors
. “We don’t need anybody, but thanks. And thanks for containing the situation.” She had some idea of how fast things could get out of control when horses were involved and shuddered to think how much worse it could’ve been. “I’m very sorry she got underfoot. It won’t happen again.” She tightened her grip on Lizzie’s shoulder. “That’s a promise.”

“But she’s—”

“Perfectly okay just the way she is.”

His eyes snapped up to hers, as if she’d just said more than that. “Oh. Sorry. I, ah . . . Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not.”
Don’t you dare pity us
.

He frowned at her instead and then looked at Lizzie. “What is she, seven? Eight? And you brought her to singles week? There isn’t going to be our usual family-vacation vibe, you know.”

It wouldn’t have irritated her so much if she hadn’t already been thinking the same thing. “She’s nine. Not that it matters, because we’re not here for guest activities. I’ll be working in the kitchen.”

“You’re . . .” He trailed off.

“The new assistant cook,” she filled in.

“What happened to Bertie?”

“The doctor wants her on bed rest until she has her baby.” Which was why she and Lizzie had hit the road a week ahead of schedule, arriving in the middle of speed dates rather than next week’s thirty-person family reunion.

“You’re a chef?”

“Nope. I’m in advertising, but a friend of mine knows Krista and the ranch. When she found out I wanted to get Lizzie away from the city for the summer, she set things up. The next thing I knew, I had a summer job and a place for us to stay.” It was such a simple summary for what had been in reality a really tough choice involving dire warnings from both her boss and Lizzie’s doctor, and the inner fear that she’d come into September with Lizzie no better and her clients having forgotten who she was. In her line of work, you were only as good as your last campaign.

“A summer job.” His face was deadpan.

“Yep. Now through Labor Day. Three months, give or take.” She tipped her head. “Problem?”

He gave her an up and down just like the guys in the dining hall, only he didn’t look nearly so appreciative of her round-toed shoes and clingy pants. “Nope. No problem at all. I mostly do my own cooking anyway. What Krista does up at the main house is her business. What happens in the barn is mine.”

Shelby wasn’t sure which annoyed her more: the way he’d zeroed right in on Lizzie’s issues, the implication that she wouldn’t be able to handle herself as a ranch cook . . . or how she was way too sensitive on both fronts. Points-wise, it was a draw.

Refusing to dwell on it—or on him—she snagged Lizzie around the neck in a fake headlock they’d learned from watching too much TV wrestling for a pitch that hadn’t gone anywhere—
Women’s Xtreme Wrestling. Fight like a girl!
—and tugged her toward the door. “Come on, kiddo, it’s back to orientation for us. And consider yourself lucky if I don’t tattoo a couple of those rules on the insides of your eyelids.”

*    *    *

Foster watched them leave, telling himself it was because he wanted to be sure the little girl was moving okay. He wasn’t sure whether she’d been shell-shocked or if there was something else going on, but it seemed like her mother had it covered either way. Still, though, he’d had a fall or two that he’d walked away from, only to feel it later.

“Kid’s fine,” he muttered, and it didn’t take Brutus’s snort to tell him that his eyes had wandered. Okay, so little Lizzie’s mama had a fine rear view, with nice curves and a feminine wiggle. And the front view was just as good, all sleek and pretty.

So, that was Bertie’s fill-in? Huh. Wouldn’t have been his choice . . . but then again, it wasn’t his choice, was it? And while Krista was whip smart, she had a soft heart and a penchant for good deeds. He should know; he’d been one of them. He only hoped she didn’t get burned by this one.

“Ah, well. Not my problem.” Besides, Gran might be a little nutty around the edges, but she was plenty sharp when it came to her kitchen, and she had Tipper, Topper and Krista to back her up. They’d be okay, even if Ms. Fancypants flaked on them.

Whistling softly, he bent to pick up Brutus’s chipped-up foot, determined to enjoy the rest of his so-called day off. Because starting tomorrow, he’d spend the next six days being the cowboy the guests wanted to see, the wrangler they’d
ooh
and
ahh
over, the horseman they needed to have making sure they didn’t kill themselves or any innocent bystanders. They would ride, laugh, drink, dance, pair off—some of them two or three times—and have a good time, thinking they were living the Wild West experience, when really they were getting the Disney version. In this case, the R-rated version. And then next week Mustang Ridge would do it all over again, starting fresh with a whole new cast of characters and a different theme.

Rinse, repeat and be grateful for the work,
he thought, casting another look up toward the main house. He wasn’t looking after the new assistant cook and her daughter this time, though. No, his eyes were on the house itself, and everything it represented, reminding him that fancy females were a distraction he couldn’t afford when he had his sights set on more important things.

Also Available in the Nightkeepers Series

Nightkeepers

Dawnkeepers

Skykeepers

Demonkeepers

Blood Spells

Storm Kissed

Magic Unchained