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Authors: Kat Murray

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BOOK: Taking the Reins (Roped and Wrangled)
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As he passed by the M-Star Ranch, Peyton’s place, on the way to Three Trees where he was currently training, he thought again about Peyton and the scene from the feed store.
Sure as shit, she’d overheard him discouraging Pete Daugherty from using her stud ranch and training services. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it, either. And he refused to feel guilty about it. Pete was constantly late on paying up for anything, if he ever did. A nice enough guy, sure. But when business was business, bills had to be paid. Sure, if Peyton went into an agreement with Pete and he didn’t pay, Peyton would keep his horse. But she didn’t need another mouth to feed. She needed steady, dependable business to build up her reputation.
Other cowboys, he knew, only wanted to take advantage of her when she was down and knocking on the door of desperation. In the end, Peyton didn’t need that kind of millstone hanging ’round her neck. Not now, when she was trying so hard to get out of the debt her parents had left her.
Not that her efforts would do her any good, if she kept working at it the way she was. But that wasn’t his problem. That was Peyton’s bag of issues. Sad fact that she had to face it alone, and sadder still that the woman had serious skills with a horse that went unnoticed thanks to her gender. But sometimes life wasn’t fair.
Red pulled up to Three Trees thirty minutes later in his beat-up rig. He smiled as he heard the truck sigh, as if with relief, when he hopped down with the vitamins in hand. The vehicle was ancient, and ugly as sin. But it ran, and he had no need for anything nicer. His horse trailer, currently in the garage, was a tricked out piece of work. But that was a completely different story. A horse’s comforts were priority number one. He could drive anything, long as it ran well enough.
“Red. Took longer than I thought.”
He turned to see Chris Tanner striding his way. And the regret that he’d be leaving hit harder than he’d thought it would. Tucking his tongue in his cheek, he nodded. “Ran into a few folks at the store.” Nothing more needed to be said on that front.
“Well then. Ready to head over?” Tanner inclined his head toward one of the workout areas. “Boys have Fire all saddled up and ready to show off.”
“That’s the problem,” Red said mildly. “Y’all let Fire think he’s supposed to show off. Horse has a big head. He’s there to work. Do his job.”
“So you say. Repeatedly.”
“Because it’s true. You go back to that mind-set, you go back to the problems.”
Tanner just shook his head and took the shortcut through the stable, boot heels clicking on the clean cement floor.
Red didn’t bother explaining it again, as he had countless times before. There was no use. The man would either follow through with the training, or he wouldn’t. Nothing Red could say would change it at this point. Once his paycheck was cut, his work was done. Crying shame though, how some people refused to accept the help they paid for. Waste. They hired him for the name, the prestige. The ones that used his knowledge walked away with a good deal. The ones who didn’t, well . . . The best he could say was it didn’t hurt him any. It was their problem if they refused to follow through.
He headed for the barn himself, taking his time, saying hello to each pretty lady that stuck her head over the stall door in greeting. He couldn’t hold back a chuckle as he reached the end of the line and Daffodil, his favorite Three Trees mare, nudged him extra hard.
“No treats today. Sorry sweetheart.” He would have sworn she rolled her eyes in feminine disappointment before he scratched between her ears. That brought a sigh of contentment. “Maybe later, girl.” With a final pat, he headed on toward Tanner, who was standing in front of the workout pen. And he watched in silence as the cowboy led Fire through a series of exercises meant to work both man and horse to the limit.
“Looks good. Right? Looking better every day. I’d say he’s just about fixed now. Damn fine horse.”
“Nothing was ever wrong with the horse. Just the humans working with him.” As usual. Ninety percent of his job was spent fixing human error, not equine.
“Yeah, well, now we’ve got it all ironed out.”
Red just nodded and stayed silent.
“He’s gonna be ready for the Premium Rodeo this summer. Right?”
“I think that’s a fair assessment. Long as you keep up the work we’ve started.” Red watched as Fire responded to the leg commands, shifting quickly around the obstacle course of barrels and cones, not touching a one.
All it took was knowing the horse wouldn’t listen to jerking on the reins to turn the entire situation around. That and a little common sense had Fire on the right track to be a damn fine rodeo horse.
Tanner had also asked Red to take over the stable’s training operations, set them up for a successful future. All a part of the Red Callahan experience. But now . . .
“Time for me to move on.”
Tanner’s moustache quivered. “What the hell you talkin’ bout? We’re just getting started. With Fire here ready to take some top titles, we’re only just beginning. What’s this movin’ on crap all about?”
“It was always temporary. Said that from the start. That’s why we never had the long-term contract. We agreed going in that when I thought it was time, I’d head out. And I gave you the warning three weeks ago.” Red leaned back against the rails, hooked one heel over the bottom rung. Every time, they went through this. Same conversation, different owner. “Plus, you have a full-time trainer. I was only ever here for the temporary fixes.”
“Three weeks ago? Hell, I didn’t know you were serious. Thought you enjoyed it enough to stay. I’ll make it worth your while.” Clint fingered the tip of his mustache, a gesture Red knew meant the man was thinking too hard. “I’ll double what I’m paying ya. Hell, with your already-inflated rates, that’s a gold mine for a trainer!”
Red didn’t bother to say he’d been offered five times as much in the past. Never mattered. “Sorry, Tanner. I think you’ve got something good going on here. It’s time for me to move on.”
Tanner turned his head and spat in the other direction. “You move around too damn much. Don’t you ever get tired of not having a spread that’s home?”
Red unwound himself from the gate and started back through the barn, ready to collect his things. “Nope. Suits me just fine.”
The transient lifestyle was how he’d been raised. No mom. If it wasn’t written on his birth certificate, he wouldn’t have even known her name. Just followed his father—a rodeo groupie to the core—around from state to state. Never settled down for any length of time. Always had to be ready to pick up and move when the rodeo dried up. Or slip out in the middle of the night because one of his father’s infamous cons had blown up in his face. Again.
This lifestyle was his choice. He never took a permanent training position. He was a one-and-done guy. Moving from ranch to ranch, fixing problem horses or helping establish a more effective training regimen. Then moving on when things were back in order.
Finding his saddle and tack, he started to load up his trailer. Though he didn’t have a horse of his own—easier to pick up and move that way—he had his own equipment. Too important not to keep his own.
Always set on moving forward, his mind was busy thinking of where to go next. With a few phone calls and well-placed feelers, word would escape that he was back on the market, so to speak. And the offers would once again trickle in. He’d weigh each job, each location, the pay and the opportunities for growth. Didn’t matter what state it was in. He had no stakes holding him down.
He headed out, turning east from Tanner’s spread. No real reason why. Just sounded good. He’d find a decent motel and hole up for a few days while he figured out a new plan. No hurry. He had enough cash to last him a good long while. He wasn’t in a rush to find a new job. Just the right one. In the end, it came down to a gut feeling. Always the gut.
And why, just at that moment, did Peyton Muldoon’s ornery face, with those eyes blazing, slide into his mind? He’d said the right job. Not the
absolute, no way in hell, don’t even think about it, cowboy,
job. The woman had trouble written all over her . . . at least where he was looking.
And he shouldn’t be looking at all. That was the problem.
He resolutely kept the truck pointed east, away from the Muldoon spread. He’d head a few towns over before stopping, just to make sure he didn’t wander across Peyton’s path on not-so-accident.
Trouble was one thing he had no need of.
Chapter Two
“T
im. Tim, come on. There has to be some hole. Isn’t that what you people do all day? Find loopholes?”
“You people?” Tim, her family’s lawyer, slid his glasses off and gave her the
Watch yourself, missy
look.
Peyton felt the heat rise up the back of her neck. But dammit, this really wasn’t the time to play semantics and get caught on PC bull. “So you’re saying that even though I’ve been doing everything for years, even though I’m the only one who stayed . . . doesn’t mean a damn. The M-Star is no more mine than it’s my brother’s. Or my sister’s.”
“There’s a three-way split of the ranch, Peyton. Three siblings, three owners. That’s how the whole thing goes down.”
“Why didn’t I know about this until now? Mama’s car accident was two months ago.” Not that her absence was felt with anything but relief.
“At the time, you couldn’t make direct contact with your brother or sister. I warned you, if you recall, that you needed to get ahold of them. But you said you couldn’t.”
“Couldn’t,” she echoed dully.
“I see you’re wanting to make some changes, big ones, and that’s where the problem comes in.”
“Problem.” Her voice sounded hollow, even to her own ears.
Tim sighed and replaced his glasses, shuffling through papers until he found what he wanted. “As I said, it’s very cut and dry. Daily operations are still well within your control. But the overall responsibility—financial and legal—is split among the three of you. And any major decisions that need to be made must have all three owners in agreement.”
“Major decisions. What the hell constitutes a
major decision
? Hiring a new hand? Buying a new horse? Flushing the damn toilet?” Peyton felt the migraine coming a mile away. Already the pressure behind her eyes was building. Gently, she massaged her temples with her fingertips.
“Well, now, that’s up for debate. Of course, if your brother and sister agree with all your decisions, then there’s never going to be a problem. If they choose to contest it, however . . .”
“What? Then what?”
“Things get . . . well, we’ll just say messy.” His grim face reflected Peyton’s fears.
“They’re not even here, Tim.” She let her hands drop to the table, fingers curling into fists. “They haven’t come back for anything. Not for the funeral, not for birthdays or holidays. Hell, I’m not even sure I know where Trace is, or if he’s still riding the rodeo circuit. I know where Bea is . . . but I don’t really want to. And she never responded to my call, my e-mail, or my letter about Mama.”
“Verbal confirmation is all you’d require, truthfully. If you call them, explain the situation, and if they okay your decision, then it’s done. And you can continue running M-Star as you see fit. If I can get in contact with them, I can draw up some more suitable papers that outline exactly what requires a group consensus and what doesn’t. I’ll just need their contact info so I can send these papers. They’ll need to be signed and notarized. You know that is why they weren’t here for the will reading . . . we weren’t able to get ahold of them.”
“So I have to call them.”
“Unless you have a crystal ball that you’re not telling me about.” Tim chuckled, but sounded weary. He took one of her balled fists in his two bony hands. “I know it’s been hard. Your mother wasn’t exactly, shall we say, an expert rancher.”
Peyton snorted. “She wasn’t an expert anything, except a screw up.”
“Yes, well. That’s all in the past now. And as sorry as I am for her passing—”
Peyton snorted again.
“—she left behind quite a challenge. A ranch she’d been running with no real knowledge or experience, and more debt than should have been allowed. But she also left behind an opportunity. For you to spread your wings and take over like you’ve always wanted. It’s always been you anyway, Peyton, since your father died. You kept the ranch afloat despite your mother’s attempts to drive it into the ground. She’s not holding you back anymore.”
“Except for this stupid condition in the will. Sylvia was barely smart enough to open a box of cereal. How the hell would it occur to my mother to add in some perverse thing like this?”
“These are your father’s conditions, sweetheart.” Tim sighed and took his glasses off again to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Your mother didn’t have a will. When your father came to me for help with his, she simply said she wasn’t interested.”
Peyton rolled her eyes. “Sounds like Sylvia.”
“And she never corrected that oversight. So this was your father’s wish.”
“Course, when Daddy died, we were all still one big, happy family.” Her voice was drowning in sarcasm. It made her shudder to think of her teenage self, so naïve in thinking life would continue on as it had been, even with her father gone.
“It is what it is, Peyton. I can’t change it, much as I would like to. This is just something you have to push through.”
Peyton let her head fall to the table until her forehead pressed against cool wood. Unfortunately, the position did nothing to alleviate the overwhelming pain inside her skull that now throbbed in time with her heartbeat.
“Can I fix this? Is there something they could sign to . . . I don’t know. Waive their rights to the ranch? Or their right to the veto power? Something?”
“There is. Of course, that’d take a little more time. But either way you have to get in contact with them.” When she said nothing, he placed a hand on her forearm. “Call them. Just call your brother and sister. Who knows, it could go better than you think.”
Peyton seriously doubted that. But why disabuse helpful Tim of the hope? She walked out of the law office feeling worse than when she’d gone in, if that was at all possible. Hopping in the ranch rig, she started the long journey back to the Muldoon spread, thirty minutes outside town.
That morning had already been a rough start. Upon hearing of his loss of employment, her now-former trainer, Samuel Nylen, had thrown an impressive tantrum, trashing both the trainer quarters above the garage and the tack room in the stables, Peyton just felt lucky he’d left before setting fire to anything. She could have called the police—still wondered if she should have—but the ranch didn’t need any more negative press. Cleaning the mess up quietly seemed like the better choice, at least in the moment. She would spin it in public as an amicable splitting of ways. If Nylen wanted the chance to find another job, he’d go along.
She wasn’t sure which was worse. That he’d been dead weight all along, that he’d thrown a childish hissy fit upon his dismissal, or that he only had the training job in the first place because he had been screwing her mother.
Ah, Sylvia. Her mother dearest could always be counted on for total drama and zero common sense.
Peyton made a mental checklist as she drove. First things first: make sure the ranch hands had set the mess Nylen had made to rights again. Then she had to figure out exactly how to contact her brother and sister. Bea would probably be easy to find. But Trace . . . who knew. If the last cell phone number she had was still active, she’d be shocked. Living the life of a rodeo nomad left much to be desired by way of stability. So she’d have to start making contact with guys she knew from high school. See if they’d seen Trace around.
And then, it was on to finding a new trainer. The trainer could make or break an operation. Word of mouth was the biggest draw for any ranch, and if you had a good one, your ranch reputation would rise by association. Picking an unknown wasn’t a death sentence, it was just a slower build. Cheaper, though.
The wrong trainer could kill any hopes of rebuilding M-Star. They were already in a hole, both with reputation and cash, thanks to the horrible business decisions her mother had made over the years. The wrong move here could take years to fix. Years they didn’t have.
But there were more immediate issues at hand. Like making sure her brother and sister weren’t going to stand in the way of her running the ranch.
And the way this day was going, the odds of that happening were slim to none.
Peyton pulled up to the main stable and parked her Jeep. Hopping out, she stared for just a moment over the ranch. Her breeding and training operation—focusing on rodeo horses—was her life. From the time she’d first known what the land was used for as a toddler, she knew this was where she’d stay, to work and live. Some might have thought it was crazy that a three-year-old had known what she wanted in life. But Peyton had always known.
She walked around until she found her head hand, Arby, rubbing down a colt. She leaned a shoulder against the wall and watched him work.
Though he was fast approaching seventy, Arby knew almost everything there was to know about horses. Inside, outside, and everything in between, it was like he could read a horse’s mind and anticipate its moves before even the horse knew it. But never did he step into the role of trainer, though he likely would have made a first-class one. A simple hand, he always said, was what he was meant to be. All he wanted to be.
She watched his hands, stiff with age, as they smoothed over the restless colt’s back, soothing and relaxing the animal.
“How’d he do?”
“Well enough.” He continued his work without facing her. “He’s got spirit, got a real fire in him. But he needs a firm hand, a good rider, and a great trainer, or he’ll run roughshod over anyone we hand him over to.”
“Yeah, well, that’s something I need to address.” Right after the small problem of her siblings and their third interest apiece.
With a final pat, Arby moved out of the stall and closed the door behind him. “Any ideas on where to turn?”
Peyton shook her head and followed him back to the tack room. “No clue. I’ll have to start making some calls, I guess.” Calls that likely wouldn’t be returned. Because people either thought that she didn’t have what it took, because she lacked a dangling sex organ, or because they didn’t want to associate with a struggling operation.
None of those facts was in her favor. But she could change one, if only she had the chance.
Without looking up from the bridle he polished, Arby said, “Red Callahan’s free. Just left Three Trees the other day, according to word.”
Gossip, despite the distance between ranches and town, moved faster than a wildfire with a good wind.
Peyton glared at the brim of his hat. “You’re trying to kill me, right? You know what that bastard’s been doing to us.”
Arby hung the bridle up with meticulous care and grabbed another. “I know you overheard a single conversation that was private, and you have no context for it. And you’re more than a little emotional about the whole thing.”
“I’m not emotional!” she yelled, then took in a shuddering breath. Okay, so maybe a little emotional. Calmer, she went on. “He was telling Pete Daugherty to avoid our ranch. He all but said we were failing, didn’t know what we were doing. It’s not the first time I’ve heard of him discouraging people from using our operation.”
“Might have a reason for it,” was Arby’s calm response.
She shook her head. There wasn’t any reason for it that she could see.
“Does the man know horses?”
Peyton kicked the dirt with her boot. “Yes.” It was an inarguable fact. Red Callahan, despite her annoyance with his cocky attitude and know-it-all status, really did know his way around getting the best from a horse. She’d seen it in person, year after year at local and national rodeos. And more than that, people trusted him. If Red signed off on a horse, cowboys came running.
Okay, the more she thought about it . . .
“But I don’t like him.” At least, she didn’t care for his attitude. And even more than that, she hated her need for him. Hated being the one in need. She preferred an even playing field.
Arby tipped his hat up, raised a brow, and said, “More than one cowboy you know has an arrogant attitude. Never stopped you from mooning over cowboys in the past.” He went back to his polish.
“I do not moon.” She flushed at the memory of her younger self, infatuated with any cowboy who had a good seat and good hands. “Shouldn’t that be a qualification? That the trainer and the owner get along?”
BOOK: Taking the Reins (Roped and Wrangled)
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