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Authors: Kat Murray

Taking the Reins (Roped and Wrangled) (8 page)

BOOK: Taking the Reins (Roped and Wrangled)
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He walked around under the stairs, where they were completely cut off from the rest of the ranch. He waited until she stepped back and tugged on her shirt to straighten it, taking more time than necessary to fuss with the thing. “I need to know why you were in my rooms.”
“Huh?” An owlish look passed over her face. “When?”
“Today. Sometime this afternoon, I guess. Why? What were you looking for?”
She blinked once, twice. “Nothing.”
“You found nothing?”
“No, I mean I wasn’t looking for anything. Because I wasn’t in your apartment. I didn’t go up there. I never go in there. I don’t have time to snoop. In case you missed it, I’m always around here doing work. Not to mention, it’s rude.”
“Damn right it is,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. Sure, she could be lying, but he really didn’t think she had it in her to lie convincingly. Which was a good thing for him. But if she hadn’t been in his place, then who the hell had?
Sensing his confusion, she pounced. “You want to falsely accuse me of something else while you’re at it?”
“Who else has access to the keys?”
“Nobody. They’re on my key ring, and it’s always with me. I guess if Arby came to me saying something needed fixing, I’d trust him with them. But he hasn’t.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry you think someone was in there, but it’s just not the case.”
“What about the old trainer? Nylen?”
“He turned in his keys when he left. Threw them at me, actually,” she ended with a mutter, rubbing at her arm as if that’s where the metal had struck her.
Red fought back his temper, both at his privacy being violated, and the new, burning anger from thinking about Nylen hurting Peyton. He wanted to kick something for sounding like an idiot. Could it really be so simple as him looking for something to attack over, and finding it? “I’ll apologize then, for accusing you.”
She nodded. “Next time, maybe you could just wait a little bit first, think it through and make sure the hill you’re standing on is worth dying for.” She smiled a bit, looked over his shoulder into the distance. “Wow, my dad always used to say that, and it just slipped out completely by accident.”
The transformation from tough-minded boss to soft, thoughtful woman punched him in the gut. It was clear the memory of her father superseded any anger she might have felt toward him. She looked almost worthy of a painting, with the fading light hitting her messy braids and framing her face like a halo. He stepped forward, not even aware of what he was doing until he crowded her space. She glanced up and looked startled, backing up until she bumped into the side of the garage.
“Guess I need a lesson of my own in trust, huh?” he asked. Was that his own voice? Lower than normal, a little husky around the edges like he’d had too much whisky and was feeling fine.
“Guess so,” she answered, looking a little less like a cornered deer and more like a woman making an important decision. The sort of decision he hoped ended with
Yes, take me home.
Would she yield if he pressed against her? Open up, make room for his body in the shelter of her own? Or would she push, fight back, act like there was nothing going on and she wanted no part of it?
He’d be crazy to find out.
Just call him Crazy Callahan.
 
He was advancing too fast for her to think clearly. Her brain knew a quick sidestep and a shuffle to the right would have her away as fast as she wanted.
Her body didn’t take the opportunity. No, instead it was trying to figure out whether it’d be better to stay where it was or lift her arms for better access.
“Crazy,” he murmured.
“Hmm?” She tipped her head back, cursing the brim of her hat for blocking a good portion of her view. But she saw enough. Saw the intent telegraphed by those cool silver-gray eyes as easily as if he’d spoken his wants out loud.
And felt a quick burst of shock to realize their intensity was equaled by the tightening of her own nerves, the quickening of her own breath.
She took a chance and lifted her arms and—
Her phone rang.
Stepping back from her faster than if she were a rearing horse, Red gave her space to grab for her cell in her pocket. The realization that she’d almost made a huge, irreversible decision thanks to a healthy moment of lust had her fumbling with the phone, fighting to flip it open without dropping the thing.
“What?” she snapped.
There was a pause, then Emma’s dry voice filled her ear. “Thought you might wanna know that fella you spoke to earlier this week, that Mr. Schneider, is on the phone. I’ve got him on hold. Figured you’d want to take it.”
She growled deep in her throat at the timing of it all.
“Or I could tell him to call back later,” Emma tried again.
“No.” She bit the word off quickly. Dammit, she had no business even giving that a moment’s thought. No way could she put off a potential client to stay behind the garage with Red and . . . what? Neck like teenagers? Hardly. “Don’t. Tell him I’m coming right now.” Closing the phone with a snap, she squeezed her eyes shut a moment to rid herself of the last feeling of hazy anticipation. Not the right time, and definitely not the right guy. When she opened up again, she saw Red standing a good ten feet away, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed. Not at all affected by what might have just happened.
Or maybe you imagined the whole damn thing and he never even considered making a move on you.
“I need to . . .” She pointed toward the direction of the main house, like that was going to tell him anything. But he seemed to get the hint because he nodded and fell in step with her.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly as they came to the stairs that led up to his apartment.
Apologizing for the almost-seduction? Maybe she hadn’t imagined it after all . . .
“I had no right to accuse you like that.”
Or not. She waved it off. “Don’t worry about it. We’re all a little on edge right now. I think after Trace gets back from a successful showing next weekend, we’ll have a better rhythm down.” In more ways than one.
“Agreed.”
“It’s Schneider on the phone. If he needs to talk to you, are you—”
“Just text me, I’ll hustle over or call him right back.” Red held up his cell to indicate he’d have it with him. He patted the railing of the stairs. “This is my stop.”
“Goodnight, then.”
“Peyton.” He laid a hand on her arm when she would have continued on past him.
She cursed her skin that prickled under his completely innocent touch. “Yeah?”
“Schneider’s an easy sell. Breathe.”
Peyton realized her breath was still coming in fast pants, not from stress over the phone call, but leftover nerves from their almost-moment around the corner. But he’d given her an easy out. “Thanks. I’ve got it.”
She turned and walked away, applauding herself when she made it halfway across the yard toward the house before indulging in a quick glance over her shoulder.
He was gone.
And that was good. Because she didn’t have the time or the patience to deal with an infatuation. Where was her head? How could she possibly forget for even one minute that her entire life revolved around the ranch and keeping things afloat?
So what if being that close to Red had sent her body into a spin so intense she’d been ready to forget everything she’d worked for.
So what.
Chapter Seven
T
he morning after what Red privately thought of as the Stupid Almost Mistake with Peyton behind the garage, he finished in the stables and headed out to where he knew Lad and Trace were waiting in the arena. He’d asked them to work for a bit on their own without him watching, trying out the partnership with no outside interference. Building confidence in both rider and horse. Afterward, they’d work out the bugs together.
But when he approached, he noticed a stable hand holding Lad’s bridle and Trace standing on the side, his back to Red.
“We’ll just wait a few more minutes for Red to get here,” Trace told the hand, who nodded.
“No waiting necessary. Taking a break?”
It was then Red realized Trace was wearing a harness or something that strapped over his shoulders. But when Trace turned around, that was no harness he’d ever seen before. Resting against Trace’s chest, strapped down tight, was a sleeping baby.
“What the hell?”
Trace glanced down, then gave a shrug. “Emma’s sick as a dog and can’t keep him.”
“Where’s your sister then?” He didn’t want to treat Peyton like a babysitter, and he knew she had important work to do. But this work was just as important, and without it, they’d
all
look like jackasses at the rodeo. Not to mention, it’d be easier for her to keep an eye on the munchkin in the house while she did paperwork than while Trace was riding, for cripes’ sake.
“She’s in town running errands.”
“Convenient, that,” he muttered. “Well . . .” He stared at the black harness that cradled the boy. It actually looked pretty ingenious, though he’d never admit that out loud. “What the hell kind of contraption is that?”
“A Bjorn.” When Red gave him a look, he shrugged. “That’s what Emma called it. She wears it when she’s doing work around the house and he doesn’t want to be put down. Suggested I use it while I get stuff done.”
“That’s all well and good, but you can’t ride a horse wearing that thing.” He glanced around, saw nobody else nearby but the ranch hand holding Lad’s reins. “Can’t we hand him over to someone else for now? Or put him down somewhere?”
Trace looked mildly horrified. “Put him down? He’s not a sack of potatoes.”
“Calm yourself down, Daddy. Lord,” he muttered, taking his hat off and beating his leg with it. “What do you suggest, then?”
Trace started the complex process of unhooking the carrier thing and sliding it off his chest without so much as jostling the baby. Red bit back a smile. Trace might look like a rough cowboy, might have the rumored past to back it up. A buckle bunny at every rodeo, all that. But he loved his son in a way Red hadn’t seen before, especially while doing it all on his own. Lot of men might take up a serious resentment toward their child for having to go it alone. He would know. His father’d been one of them. But Trace took to fatherhood like a duck to water, from what Red could see.
Trace muttered a soft oath and twisted his left arm until it was caught behind him, the right still supporting the child’s weight against his chest. “Uh. Okay. I think I’m stuck. Little help here?”
A slightly awkward duck, then.
Chuckling, Red helped him slip the harness off from the back so Trace could keep a grip on the kid in front.
“So what’s the plan?” Red frowned. “You can’t afford to give up practice time. The two of you aren’t entirely in sync yet. And you’ve only got a few days before you leave.”
“Oh, I know that much. I figured it all out.” He walked over to the side where a set of old aluminum bleachers were tucked against the wall, out of the way. A few more maneuvers and the child was out of the sling entirely. He set the harness down on a bench and cradled his son against his shoulder. “I’ll ride. You hold him.”
“You ride and I’ll—oh no. Hell no.” Red took a step back, bumping into the metal gate and wincing at the shriek it made. “You don’t want me holding him. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Understatement. Complete understatement.
“You’ll be fine. You’ve got steady hands. It’s easy. Look, he’s asleep.” Trace took another step toward him, smiling when Red countered with a step back. “You can’t seriously be afraid of a tiny kid, right? You take on thousand pound animals all day.”
“Any day of the week,” he agreed easily. “But I know what I’m doing there. I’m a horse trainer, not a kid trainer.”
“Good, cause he doesn’t need training. Just holding.” He paused. “You want to explain to Peyton why we showed shit this weekend? All because you were scared to hold a baby that was fast asleep the whole time?”
Damn. Dammit all to hell and back. “I’m not explaining crap. Show me how to not break him.”
Trace transferred the lightweight bundle into his own arms—Jesus, humans actually started out this small?—explaining the few different ways to hold the kid without losing support of his head. “Use one of those holds and you’ll be good.” He peered at the sleeping infant cradled in his arms. “Just think of him like a football.”
A perverse thought came over him. “Like a football? Somehow I’m thinking you don’t want me to punt the kid.” When Trace looked uneasy, he rolled his eyes. “Just go get on your horse, Muldoon,” he said dryly, not moving a muscle. If he moved, he might jostle the kid and wake him up. And then, only God knew what came next.
“Loosen up,” Trace advised, putting one boot in the stirrup and hauling himself up, settling into the saddle with the ease of someone who was born for it. He grinned down, showing some humor about the situation now. “Kids are like animals. They sense fear.”
“Then this kid’s gonna be sensing a lot,” he muttered to himself. To Trace, he said, “Start your warm-up. And pay attention. The faster you get through this circuit without screwing up, the faster you’re done.”
“Yes, sir.” With a mock tip of his hat, Trace turned Lad around to begin their warm-up.
Red watched for a bit, stiff and unsure. Then, when the kid didn’t seem to realize someone besides his father was holding him, he grew bolder and started to walk a little, pacing the length of the short side of the arena, checking for better angles to watch the action. When that didn’t disturb the child, he went all out and shifted him to his shoulder, settling with slow, steady movements until he found a position that was comfortable for both of them.
“He likes movement. Walking will keep him happier than standing still,” Trace called as he made a quick turn, bringing Lad to a full stop, dust flying around the horse’s legs.
“Works for me.” Red wondered how the hell Trace would handle single fatherhood while working on the ranch. Great place to raise kids, sure. Wide open space to roam, lots of fresh air. Safe and secure. But most ranchers had wives. Someone who stayed home with the kids full-time. He had a sister, naturally, but she had a job of her own and couldn’t always drop what she was doing.
No, he had two sisters, he corrected himself. Not that the other one was much help, living out in California.
And for reasons he didn’t want to contemplate, that rankled him. That Peyton was carrying the whole load herself. Yes, Trace was helping now, but the majority of the business rested solely on her shoulders. Though she seemed comfortable with the responsibility, it was still a weight she carried alone. Where had her siblings been when she fought against her mama so hard for the right thing? After her mother’s death, when she was dealing with grief and anger and a crooked trainer all at once?
Alone. And he hated that knowledge.
He heard the crunch of tires on the packed dirt and looked behind him. From the opened hanger-style doors, he could see Peyton’s Jeep pull up. He turned back quickly to watch how Lad handled the extra distraction, but the horse was too busy playing to Trace’s signals to even notice.
Excellent.
Peyton’s door shut quietly and she approached. He didn’t have to turn and watch to know it. He was as tuned in to her presence as Lad was to Trace’s, humiliating as that was to admit.
“Aren’t you just the sweetest picture,” she purred, hopping up to stand on the lowest rung of the gate near him. “The perfect image of domesticity.”
“Thank God you’re here.” Almost as if he realized there was a way out, the fear he’d originally felt when Trace handed over the precious bundle of baby boy bubbled back to the surface. He wasn’t about to pretend any longer. It wasn’t about showing he was capable of handling the kid. It was about getting the use of his arms back. “Here, take him.”
Peyton shook her head and made no move to reach for the kid. “Nope. You’re doing just fine. Getting the hang of it.”
“I’m not getting the hang of anything.” As if sensing his discomfort, the child shifted in his arms, a slow stretch, the way Red always felt in the morning as he woke up. “Okay, not funny anymore. He’s waking up.”
“Oh no.” Peyton grinned at him. “Whatever will we do?”
“This isn’t funny,” he shot back. “I don’t know what to do. Should I put him down?”
She sighed and smiled, rubbing a hand gently over the child’s bald head. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. You’re fine.” She gave him a questioning look. “Have you never held a baby before?”
“No. Never. Why should I start now?” Nearly hysterical, he edged toward her. “Just take him.”
“But I think you look so cute,” she teased, her voice rising a few octaves in what mimicked baby talk. “The baby is a great accessory. Really smoothes out those rough edges. Who’s the cutest pretend daddy ever?”
Red’s face and neck flushed. “Peyton . . .” Wait, she thought he had rough edges? “I think it’s time for this kid to head to his favorite aunt.”
“I have paperwork. And phone calls.” Her brows lowered. “Where’s Emma?”
“Sick.” Which was what Red was about to be if this bundle woke up completely and realized he wasn’t dear old dad.
Peyton sighed, then apparently decided to take pity on him. She took another step up and swung easily over the gate despite her height disadvantage, slipping a hand between the baby and his chest and retrieving the kid. The moment he was gone, Red’s chest felt cool, like it was missing something. But that was just the loss of heat, he rationalized.
He watched as Peyton cradled the child expertly. She touched a finger to his nose and he opened his eyes, giving her a gummy smile and grabbing for her hand. She smiled back and cooed a nonsense word, which delighted the kid into a giggle.
“Yes, you love your auntie, don’t you? Who’s your favorite? Me? I think so, too,” she sang to him softly.
The coolness faded and warmth spread through his chest, swirling down into his gut the way a shot of good Jack did.
She was meant for this. All of it. Peyton Muldoon was a woman meant to have it all. The ranch she loved, and a family, too. If there was a woman alive who could keep the two running like a well-oiled John Deere, it was she.
For just a moment, he regretted he wasn’t a family man. That his life had always been about being as loose and free as possible, from the moment he was born. He’d been destined to live the life of a wanderer. And it was the first time he could ever remember considering any other way.
“Red, quick question,” Trace called from behind him.
He turned toward Trace, holding Lad at attention in the center of the ring, waiting for him.
“Yeah. Coming.”
 
Peyton sat still on her bed, book open and ignored in her lap. The night was so quiet without Trace. She almost missed hearing the dull hum of the TV he left on after he passed out, sprawled over the couch like he had when he was a teen.
Funny how she’d gone from loving her solitude and privacy to missing her brother so ferociously in the span of a few weeks.
It was only one night. But she realized she wanted him back home. Which only served as a reminder that they were still one sibling short of a full house. Without thought, she reached for her cell phone and tried once again to reach Bea. Not surprising, she was sent straight to voicemail. But this time, she tried a different tact.
“Bea, it’s me. I’ve asked you to come back so many times, I’ve lost count. I asked you to come back for Mama. For the ranch. For business. None of that worked. So I’ll ask you to come back for me. I miss my sister. Plus, you have a nephew that is dying to meet his Auntie Bea. So come home, please? We need you.”
She clicked the end call button, set the phone on the bed in front of her, and stared at it. Why, she had no clue. It wasn’t like she expected Bea to hear the voicemail and immediately call back.
Okay, maybe she had. Just a little. But clearly that wasn’t going to happen. She set the phone back on her nightstand, then heard Seth start to wake. Peyton checked the nightstand clock. Yup, midnight bottle time. Stuffing the cell in her sweatshirt pocket, she made her way to the mini-fridge in the family living area where they kept the overnight bottles pre-made. She retrieved Seth, changed his diaper, then settled down in the rocking chair Emma had found in the attic along with the crib and waited for him to finish eating.
Which he did, in ten minutes flat. “Greedy as your daddy when it comes to food, aren’t you?” she teased softly, putting the child over her shoulder for a burp before laying him back down. But when he proved he wasn’t ready to sleep just yet, she sat back in the rocker and gave up on the idea of heading to her room anytime soon.
BOOK: Taking the Reins (Roped and Wrangled)
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