The Sweetheart Secret (30 page)

Elizabeth took a deep breath, then got out of the car, using her notepad as a shield against the rain. She charged up the steps and raised her hand toward the doorbell. The door opened before she touched it.

A tall man filled the doorframe, literally. He was at least six-two, with broad shoulders and a commanding presence that charged the air, made Elizabeth draw in a breath. His brown hair curled a little at the ends, as if he'd gone too long between haircuts, softening the look of command his body wore. One lock of hair fell over his brow, emphasizing eyes so blue they could have been oceans all on their own. He had on worn, comfortable jeans, a thick cotton white button-down, and a glare colder than the biggest glacier in Alaska.

So this was Hunter McCoy.

“Sorry you've come all this way,” he said, “but I want to make one thing clear before we go any further. I don't know what Barbara Jean and Noralee told you, but I'm not interested in being in a magazine.”

That was a curveball Elizabeth hadn't expected. “I'm sorry, Mr. McCoy, but I thought my editor spoke to you—”

“She did. I told her the same thing I'm telling you. I'm sorry, but I don't want to be in the magazine. You can stay here tonight, especially since this storm isn't gonna lighten for at least another couple hours, then be gone in the morning.”

Elizabeth tucked her hair behind her ears, but the wind picked it up and plastered it against her cheek again. “But Barbara Jean said—”

“Barbara Jean means well, but she thinks our DNA allows her to make my decisions for me. I don't want to be in a magazine. I'm a private man, and that means I like my privacy.”

“But it's a wonderful opportunity for people to find out about your breeding operation and—”

“If people want to find me, they know how. It's a small town, and I'm the only quarter horse breeder in the county.” He gestured toward the open door behind her, and the wind whipping around them both, howling its anger at the world. “Are you done letting the storm into my house?”

She debated telling him good-bye, and just hitting the road again. But that would mean she had failed at her very first freelancing job on her very first day. Did she have it in her to send another three hundred and seven query letters, just to get a second chance? “I appreciate your honesty, Mr. McCoy,” she said with a smile, as if she had no problem with his refusing the interview, “and you know, you're right. It is a long drive back to New Jersey. So if it's okay with you, I'm going to take that offer of hospitality and stay here. I just need to grab my bag out of the trunk.” She started toward the car before he could change his mind.

“Wait.”

She turned back.

He put out his palm. “Give me your keys. You get inside, dry off, and I'll grab your bags.”

Elizabeth stared at him. Was this perfect stranger offering to do the chivalrous thing and get her overnight bag out of the car? In this Noah's Ark storm? She thought of all the men she had known in her life and couldn't list a single one who would do the same thing.

“Keys?” Hunter said again.

“Oh, oh, yes. Sorry.” She fished her keys out of her pocket and dropped them into his palm. “It's just . . . I didn't expect you to do that.”

“My momma raised me to be a gentleman, and not just when it's convenient or I'm trying to impress a pretty lady. Now you wait here, ma'am.” Then he gave her a grin that transformed his face and filled her gut like drizzling honey on toast.

Holy cow. Noralee had been right. The way that man said
ma'am
set off a riot of fireworks in Elizabeth's belly. She fanned at her face, suddenly feeling ten degrees hotter.

He ran outside, and a minute later, was back with her small overnight bag and her briefcase, shiny new leather, bought for this very occasion. He set them by the door, then turned back to her. His gaze dropped and lingered for a moment. “I . . . uh . . . should get you a towel or something. You're . . . soaked.”

She glanced down and realized that her shirt, which had been merely damp at the bookstore, had gotten so wet by her second run in the rain that it plastered the thin cotton to her chest, outlined the lacy scoops of her bra and soft peaks of her nipples. She yanked the briefcase up and pressed it to her chest and tried not to look disconcerted. “That would be great. Thank you.”

Hunter disappeared down the hall. Elizabeth leaned against the wall and let out a sigh. Great. So much for making a professional impression.

Her gaze landed on a small table to the left of the door. An empty crystal vase sat to one corner, behind a small framed photograph of Hunter and a pretty blond woman. She was leaning into him, one hand possessive and protective on his chest, and looking up at him with a smile so wide, it seemed to last forever. Hunter had a cowboy hat tugged down on his forehead, masking his expression, but Elizabeth could see that his attention was locked on the woman in his arms. He had his hand over hers, their wedding rings glinting in the sun.

It was a picture of love. Pure, unadulterated love. The kind Elizabeth had only seen in movies, and didn't believe really existed. Heck, maybe it didn't for Hunter and this mystery woman, either. For all Elizabeth knew, they could have had a big fight five minutes later over taking out the garbage or what to eat for dinner.

Hunter returned and Elizabeth jerked her gaze away from the photo. “Here's a towel. Guest bedroom is at the top of the stairs on the right. I don't get many guests, so it's clean, but probably a little dusty. Breakfast is at six, on the dot. You miss it, you're on your own. Goodnight.”

Then he turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall. Apparently, that was the extent of his hospitality to unwanted reporters camping in his guest room. For an easy, quick assignment, Elizabeth had a feeling she was in for a Herculean effort.

*   *   *

Hunter McCoy stood on the front porch of the small white farmhouse that sat at the edge of the Silver Spur, sipping a cup of coffee and watching the sun rise. He'd watched near every sunrise behind his property, for as long as he could remember. 'Course, when he was a boy, he'd watched the sunrise with a mug of chocolate milk, standing tall and straight next to his dad and his granddad, pretending he was holding a cup of coffee like the men he'd so admired. Now it was only him, running the Silver Spur. But that hadn't stopped the morning tradition. In Hunter's mind, it was a way to commune with his father and grandfather, maybe soak in a little of their wisdom as the sun crested over the trees at the far side of the land that had been in the McCoy family for as many generations as the state of Georgia had been in the union.

The sun started like a shy child, peeking between the trees, washing a slight gold over the long, squat stables, the smooth circle of the training corral, the old red barn, then finally reaching tentative fingers across the lawn, up to the steps of the porch. The birds chattered in the trees, rising in volume as the land went from dim to bright. The horses nickered in their stalls, and from far down the road, Joey Barrett's rooster crowed.

For years, this land, this place, had filled him with peace. But as he stood on the porch for the ten thousandth time, sipping another coffee he barely tasted, peace eluded him. He dumped out the coffee, then laid the cup on the railing and headed out to the stables. Work, that was his salvation. The only thing that kept him from drowning in a pit of his own misery.

He noticed the reporter's car still sitting in the driveway, caked with mud now that the rain had stopped. She was a tiny little thing, that Elizabeth Palmer, one of those take-charge women from up north who didn't take no for an answer. Hunter made a mental note to talk to Barbara Jean. He'd made it clear, hadn't he, that he wasn't interested in the magazine article? He wanted his peace, and by God, if he couldn't have that, he'd at least have his days uninterrupted, one after another following until they became a blur and his mind stopped whirring.

He greeted each of the horses in turn, running a hand along their velvety muzzles. He stopped at the last stall, and waited at the gate, but the mare inside didn't move from where she stood at the back of the stall. He clucked his tongue. “Hey, Dakota. Wanna come see me today?”

Diamond Heel Dakota's tail flicked left, right, and she shifted her hooves, but didn't move. The mare had been here for a week now, and had yet to warm up to anyone. Hunter never should have bought her—she was long past her best breeding days and according to Billy Ray, Dakota was long past her barrel racing days, too, especially since that accident last spring. But there'd been something about the horse, something that tugged at Hunter, and when Billy Ray said he was just going to send her off to the slaughterhouse, Hunter had pulled out his wallet and taken her home.

Hunter reached in his pocket and withdrew a small red apple. “Got a treat for you, Dakota.”

The horse didn't turn around. Her tail flicked, left, right. Hunter stood there a while longer, then set the apple on the gate. “I'll be back tomorrow, Dakota. And the day after that.”

The stable door opened, casting a shaft of light down the long wooden corridor. A single shadow followed, the long, thin figure of Carlos, who had been the right hand man at the Silver Spur for forty years. “Hey, boss. Our girl talking to us today?”

“Nope. Maybe tomorrow.”

Carlos cast a doubtful look toward the last stall on the right. “She's stubborn, that one. There's a reason Billy Ray unloaded her on you.”

“She's difficult. Not impossible.”

Carlos chuckled. “You're always the optimist.”

“I don't know about that. I just see talent in her. And I want to get my money's worth.”

Carlos shook his head and clapped a hand on Hunter's shoulder. “You can pretend all you like that this is about dollars and cents, but I've known you a long time, boss, and you run this business like it's a family.”

Maybe because it was pretty much all the family he had left now. The horses, the workers, the hay in the stalls, the beams above his head. It was what got him out of bed in the morning, what kept him putting one foot in front of the other. Without the Silver Spur, Hunter would have curled up into a corner a long damned time ago. “We got work to do,” he said to Carlos.

“We always do.” Carlos grinned, then headed off to feed the horses.

Hunter started toward the water troughs, then stopped when the front door opened and the reporter from yesterday stepped out onto the porch. She stood there, her face upturned to greet the sun, wearing a pair of black dress pants, high heels, and another of those silky shirts—this one dry and dark blue, which sent a ribbon of disappointment through Hunter.

He shook it off. He wasn't interested in her. Hell, he hadn't been interested in anyone for so long, he wondered if maybe he should add monk to his job title. He had his work, and that was all he wanted, all he needed. This little spit of a thing standing on his porch was another complication—and Hunter was going to handle her like he handled all other complications.

By shaking her off like a burr stuck under his saddle.