Stabled (The Stables Trilogy #1) (2 page)

So she broke down the phone call, weighing it with the anxiety of trying to leave home again.

In her dissection, she wasn’t simply terrified of the past that haunted her; she was trembling with the sudden, hungry need her body felt after just a short, gruff conversation over the phone. J.B. Deyton meant money, power, and authority. She was shamefully, horribly, and only interested in the last of those things.

Her mother helped her pack. He'd said bring everything she'd need if she was moving in with him. How many other people had he interviewed? Was she the only one? Did she want to work for someone who hired the very first applicant?

More worrisome, though, was the thought that other applicants
might
be there already. That he'd bring her up to his home and then pit her against others. A contest. Survival of the fittest.

Maple wasn’t the kind of person who won those sorts of things.

She stood in front of her simple, floor-length mirror. Having lived most her life on a ranch, she didn’t have fancy clothes. Maple brushed her long, honey brown hair. It dusted the tops of her breasts, small though they were. She wore a black v-neck t-shirt and some skinny jeans. Of course, her hips and ass were a little on the larger side, so ‘skinny jeans’ was relative, but the close-fitting denim made it easy to pull on her nice boots.

All in all she liked what looked back at her. Not one for much makeup, Maple put some mascara on and a quick slick of a nude lipstick. The mascara made her already thick eyelashes dramatic, a dark frame for her hazel eyes. It would have to be good enough.

Her suitcase was easy to carry. College had taught her that owning things only held you back; it's easier to run if you pack light.

A couple of button down work shirts. Some jeans. Two pairs of boots. A tea set her grandmother had given her, the yellow roses fading on old porcelain. It was the nicest thing she owned. She packed her underwear and socks, her toiletries, and her favorite novel,  its pages worn to velvet from the many times she'd thumbed through it.

Maple rolled her eyes when her mom packed a Bible. "Just in case, Honey," was all the answer she got. Her mother hadn’t liked how Maple left God behind, too, when she’d left for college.

They didn't have a doorbell, but Maple knew when the driver pulled up. After all, their farm was only approachable by a two mile long gravel drive. The grind of gravel and kicked up dust announced all visitors just before they pulled up to park in front. She watched a large, black SUV drive up and park.

All of the windows were black. The tires large and shiny. From the driver’s side a man in sunglasses and a suit stepped out. The car, the man… they looked out of place at the ranch, like pictures from fashion magazines pasted on old cardboard.

Maple grabbed her suitcase and went out to meet him. She’d already said ‘goodbye’ to her folks. Besides, they didn’t know how much of a goodbye it was, seeing as she hadn’t fully interviewed yet.

“I’ll take that, Miss Maple,” the man said. She noticed his fingernails were manicured as he gripped the handle of her suitcase. In all her life, she’d only seen a handful of manicures and they’d all been on women. When you work hard, your nails tend to get bumped down on the list of priorities.

She let him take her bag. She let him open her door. Before she stepped in, she looked at her home that didn’t feel like home any longer. Badly in need of repainting and the sun glaring off the tin roof, it was large and comfortable. This home had meant the smell of cattle and coffee, and the sound of her Paw’s shuffle past her door every morning at four as he got ready for the day. It had meant hard work and harder, though genuine, love.

Now it just meant she needed to, as her father often said, “shit or get off the pot.”

Maple got in and shut the door. The only person reluctant for her to leave was her. She couldn’t hide from the world forever. The farm had merely been a bandaid, and it was time to replace it. She said nothing as they drove away, and the driver respected that.

She slouched in her seat and pawed through her bag, looking for her book. Something delicate slinked against her fingers. Pulling it out slowly, she realized it was a fragile gold chain. Hanging from it was a tiny pearl pendant.

The necklace was her great, great grandmother’s. She’d worn it as a mail order bride, bought and sent out west before the west was more than dirt and sky. Maple thought her mother meant it as a symbol of her leaving home on an adventure. Maybe that’s what this could be. A smaller, more controlled adventure.

Clasping it at the nape of her neck, she did find the delicate weight reassuring. Also terrifying.

She’d have to ace her interview with Mr. Deyton. The further she was from her parents’ home, the more she realized she couldn’t return. Her mother didn’t just want her to have a sense of adventure; she wanted her to grow up.

What her mother didn’t know was Maple
had
grown up, fast and hard and miserable in college. Maple left school a semester before she would have graduated because of it, unable to face the gritty reality of being a grown up. A bad breakup had left her hollow and devastated, needing the comfort of the familiar. Some things are just too hard to bear. For Maple, those things weren’t just a burden; the very core of her character was on trial. Constantly.

You deserve to be on trial, Maple Parsons. You know what you did.

The thought, black as pitch and just as sticky, plastered itself in her mind before she could think about something else. She wanted to cower from it and all the swampy memories it dredged up. Her boyfriend leaving her hadn’t just left her hollow; it had left her scarred and volatile. The problem with volatility was it struck when you were least prepared to deal with it.

Maple hadn’t been prepared for it, and she’d done something she wasn’t proud of. It was a good thing she’d left God behind on the ranch, because she’d be damned for the things she’d done. In her mind she heard tires squeal before the sickening bump-bump.

Shaking her head, she picked at her fingernails, scratching away the memory. 

Maple couldn’t hide forever, though. Instead, she could bury her secrets and pain deeper, and try her hardest to move on. Hopefully at Mr. Deyton’s ranch. It wasn’t like he gave her much of a choice. Did she even want a choice? Or did she want someone to take the reins and steer her, taking away her choices? The thought made her so nervous she yelped at the driver, her stomach rolling.

He pulled to the side just in time for her to lose her breakfast outside of the car. It was not a promising start.

Chapter Two

The ranch was marked by marble. Two huge pillars of cool, colored marble were at odds with the arid landscape around them. The fancy, swirling, decorative wrought-iron arch between the pillars was a mockery of the spiky, sharp flora that penetrated the fence around the property.

The fence was taller than usual, the space between barbed wire tighter. It was typical to leave a little room so a person could hold the wire apart and squeeze between. No person was getting on Mr. Deyton’s property.

Of course, as the gates slammed shut behind them and the driver locked them in place, that meant no person was getting off the property, either.

Maple twisted her hands, apprehensive, as the car drove up a winding gravel road.

"Would you like a better view?" The driver asked.

“Yes, please.” Her palms were sweating and she wiped them on her jeans. What had she been thinking? Why was she here? The window hummed as it was rolled down by the driver. The whip of the wind felt cool on Maple's hot face, and she leaned out a bit so she could see ahead more clearly.

Her mouth opened. Deyton's house wasn't huge in the way she'd expected. She'd imagined three stories, wrought iron balconies, and ornate front doors. The front gate had only reinforced that. Instead, she saw a ranch-style home. Which, of course, made sense. Sort of. Maple had a difficult time reconciling the expectations she'd had with the house she was seeing.

Oh, it was still large. Massive, really, for what it was. She couldn't see the back of it, but it sprawled, more like a complex than a home. And the windows! The whole front of the house was glass. She could see inside of it from the car. White walls, huge splashes of color from pieces of art. This particularly piqued her interest. She’d been an art history major and now wondered what his pieces would say about him.

Standing in front was a silhouette. “That’s Mr. Deyton, Miss. I’m sure he’ll want to show you around.”

As they drove closer, she saw the cowboy hat tipped low, shielding the face. Her first surprise was that Mr. Deyton was taller than she'd expected. Extra tall, towering a few inches over six feet at a glance. His shoulders were wide and strong. He was in a dirty chambray button-down shirt. The top two buttons were undone. It hung on his well-muscled frame with the softness of a favorite, much-worn shirt.

He was in jeans. Not fancy jeans. Wranglers, maybe? But he wore them fitted, like the cowboys she knew; after all, no one wanted the chafing that came from a baggy piece of clothing.

Her eyes watered a little from the wind blowing in them, but it was dawning on her, slow and steady, that this man still worked on his ranch. Most of the ranchers she knew worked a little after their ranch got to be a certain size, but they spent most of the time in offices, taking care of paperwork and selling their product.

Mr. Deyton--J.B.--was waiting. For her.

Maple brought her thumb to her mouth and worried the nail with her teeth. Nothing about this was as she expected. The phone interview, the chauffeur, the house... or the man. They pulled to a stop in front of him and he lifted his gaze, the low brim of his hat finally revealing his face.

Oh
.

She’d once read the phrase "devastatingly handsome" in a novel, and it had seemed like overkill. How could something as basic as looks be 'devastating?'

Now she understood. Because with his tanned, weather-worn face, J.B. Deyton was a threat. His eyes were sharp. The kind of eyes that made her feel as if he'd see everything she'd ever done wrong in her life in a single glance. And she'd done more than just some wrong. His mouth was grim, but his lips sensual despite it. He was younger, too, than she'd expected. Maybe early to mid thirties. With his sun-worn skin it was hard to tell. He had that same ageless appeal of lifelong cowboys.

Yes, he was devastating, beautiful to the point of pain. Just the right kind of handsome to chip at the careful walls she’d placed inside herself. What little calm she'd mustered was quickly unraveling. He'd demanded that she come interview on the phone, and she hadn't been able to argue. With just his voice, he'd commanded her. Now that she saw him in person, she felt herself splitting into two people.

One Maple wanted to tell the driver to take her home, take her home, take her home. She wasn't ready for this. She wasn't ready for
him
.

The other Maple, the one with the secrets, opened the door with a shaky hand and slid out of the car, ready to do anything he asked. Ready to beg for him.

Damn. It was too late to turn back.

"Maple." There is was again. That rough voice, owning the very air it rode out on. Maple shut her eyes, trying to find some thread of herself to grab a hold of. It was too late, because it was that exact moment an idea took root; this man could, and probably would, destroy what was left of her.

"Yessir?" She looked at him and hesitated, unsure of what to do.

Shake his hand, Maple. This is an interview, for Christ’s sake!

Every ounce of her didn’t want to touch him. Touch made things real. She didn’t want the threat J.B. posed to her control to be made real.

It didn’t matter. Maple went through the motions, shuffling forward and holding out a hand. He took it and shook once. His hands were dry and rough. Worker's hands. She was so overwhelmed by the moment that she forgot to squeeze to "put herself in it," as her Paw liked to say. His grip tightened on hers, though, and she wanted to crumple at his feet.

Just as quickly as he'd shaken her hand, he dropped his into his front pockets. "It's--" she stumbled, desperate to remember formalities, words, anything, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Deyton."

Her cheeks burned at the way she'd breathed
pleasure
.

Maple thought she might vomit again.

Hooded eyes speared her, gaze fixed pointedly on hers. Exposing her. This close she noticed something was off about them. Disconcerting. But the shade thrown from the wide brim of his hat made it difficult to discern just what was off.

The moment dragged on for enough time that Maple was aware of her rapid breathing. She wanted to shut her eyes and hide from him. She wanted to go back in time, to the moment she picked up the phone, and tell her past self
you aren't ready for this. He'll swallow you whole.

“Reckon I better show you the stable.” He walked away.

Maple hovered, watching his strong back under the thin chambray shirt. That was it? Just a quick handshake? He didn’t want to know about her? Ask her questions?

Her feet dragged as her mind raced. It was hot, but not as bad as it had been. West Texas summers consisted of a tolerable dry heat. Sure, she felt it. But it didn’t stick or cling to her skin. When Maple had been at college in Louisiana she’d felt humidity for the first real time in her life.
That
had made the heat intolerable.

The stable wasn’t close to the house. It’s barn doors were thrown wide open. J.B. went in and Maple followed. It was a large inside, and quite nice. Maple noticed the wood for the stalls was beautiful; smooth and treated with a cherry stain. It made the inside look warm, the cherry creating an almost womb-like feel. She wondered if the horses liked it, or if they could even see the color as she saw it.

There were twelve stalls in all, six on each side. At the far end were spaces for tack, grooming, and supplies. She could hear the soft swish of tails and the slow stomp of a hoof here and there. It smelled... like home. A mix of hay and manure and animal sweat. Sunlight filtered in through the open doors and through small windows along the top of the stable, but it only provided enough light to work.

He walked through the stall, naming each horse. Not all of the stalls had occupants. There was Red, J.B.'s primary horse. She was nineteen years old, fifteen hands tall with a bay coat that started dark at her ears, then brightened to a deep mahogany. There was a white stripe on her nose and her hooves were capped in white. She was beautiful, well-paired with her rider.

Next was Justice. Standing tall at sixteen hands, he was black at his head and neck, then faded to a smoky chestnut. J.B. said that Justice was usually ridden by one of his ranch hands when their own horse was sick or out of commission. Maple liked the star of white on his nose; it was like a sheriff's badge, making his name apropos.

Then there was Mesa, dark chocolate all over and a petite fourteen hands tall, and next to her was Bonnie. Maple fell in love with Bonne immediately. She was older, twenty-seven years. Her muzzle was graying. Her body, still strong and tall at fifteen hands, was colored a soft, golden brown. Her mane was turning gray along her crest. Her eyes were a gorgeous, soulful black. The other horses had ignored her as J.B. introduced them, but Bonnie sidled up to the door immediately.

Maple lifted her hand, stroking a warm cheek. It might be imagination, but it felt as if Bonnie leaned into her touch a little. She stood there, stroking and murmuring to the old horse. Telling Bonnie her name. Light brushes along the horse's neck.

"Do you have any carrots?" she asked J.B..

"I do, but I reckon we need to keep movin'. Carrots can come later, if yer a good girl."

She felt a tug in her stomach at that, her head swimming.
If yer a good girl
. Was he speaking to Bonnie or to her?  It felt as if the reward was being offered to Maple, like she was just another horse in his stable. She chewed her lip, mad that she wasn't more upset about it.

You just misheard.

"There's one more you should meet," J.B. murmured as he walked away. This horse was kept at the end, many stalls away from the other horses. As they approached Maple heard the warning neigh and the stamping of hooves. Their presence was making the horse nervous.

Immediately, she shared its anxiety. She hadn't seen the horse yet. But like when she’d encountered J.B., there was a twisting trepidation in her heart as she approached the stall. Again she was struck with the impression that her demise might lie in that stall. Drawn to it none the less, she peered in.

A beast thundered his hooves, stomping and snorting at her. At least sixteen and a half hands tall, the horse tossed his black head back and forth, being sure to pin her with both dark eyes. The massive chest and shoulders were attached to a formidable flank. The horse's coat was midnight; a black so dark it appeared blue in the spotted light of the stable.

She gasped.

"This would be Bane," J.B. said testily. Even his voice and composure changed around the jumpy horse. "Bane, because he's the bane of my existence. Won't let anyone ride him. Hell to clean out his stall. He's clipped three ranch hands with his hooves. He--” J.B.’s voice caught, startling Maple, “He’s done more than his fair share of hurt. 'Supposed to be trained when I bought him." J.B. spat in the dirt. "Obviously, he ain’t. Don't go in there on your own. Once a day someone’ll come out and help you with the bastard."

Her blood thundered in her ears, and Maple couldn't take her eyes off the horse. She would have stayed there, locked in place, had a shovel not been shoved into her hands. A pair of work gloves followed.

"Um?" Maple looked stupidly at the gear.

"The day's almost gone, Maple. Let's get this place cleaned up." J.B. was already shoving his hands into gloves. They were large hands, and their grip on the wheelbarrow was sure.

"Where should I put the horses?" She asked.

"All but Bane can go into the pasture behind the barn. Be sure to lock the gate."

She slipped the work gloves on and leaned the shovel next to Red's stall. One by one she went in, letting them smell her, stroking their necks. Each had a loose rope harness hanging in their stall. With tender care, Maple slipped them on and led the horses to pasture one by one.

Bonnie took the longest, poking around until Maple gave her flank a gentle slap to get moving. Once the horses were moseying around the grass, she shut the gate and locked it. The sun still burned, fighting against the tug of the horizon, but they had plenty of grass and seemed content.