Come On Over (10 page)

She had to stop staring and concentrate on what he was saying. The sudden knowledge that she'd been starved for that smile unnerved her. Gathering her wits, she thought for a moment. A flutter of excitement flickered in her tummy.

“Yes, I want to do it.” Her mind raced, collecting and cataloguing, as she started to pace. “I don't have too many pieces ready but I can— Wait. When is the fair? I can't remember. How long does it run?”

Trent was leaning against the counter, mug in hand, watching her with a curiously warm smile. Nothing like the slightly lopsided grin from a minute ago. His eyes had darkened so much they might've been brown instead of gray.

He straightened and sobered. “I should've said before getting your hopes up. It starts in a week, runs for three days but they might not have any booths left. Rent is cheap and people tend to snap 'em up. But I have a string or two I can pull.”

She nodded, digesting the information and thinking back to her trip to town. The fair had been the main topic of conversation. “Only if it's not too much trouble.” She kept her expression blank, not wanting any hint of disappointment to show. “Really. No big deal if it doesn't work out.”

“It'll be big to me. You're really excited.”

“I am,” she admitted, and grabbed her mug, mostly to have something to do with her hands. “It would take a lot of preparation, so if it doesn't fly, no harm, no foul. Okay?”

“Tomorrow I'm going to see a guy about a horse he wants trained and then go have a look at a colt I'm thinking of buying. If you're interested in going with me, we can stop in town on the way back and see about signing you up for a booth.”

“Tell me what time and I'll be ready.”

“How does nine sound?”

“I can be ready earlier.”

“No, nine is fine. It gives me plenty of time to feed the stock and hitch the trailer. I'll even buy you breakfast.”

Shelby let out a squeak of joy that sounded entirely too obnoxious and loud.

Trent reared back, frowning and chuckling at once. “What was that?”

“Eating out. Someone else cooking. I'm totally in.” She paused, hoping she hadn't given him the impression she resented making meals. It was only fair, after all. “Can I ask you something?”

He didn't look too keen on it. “Go ahead.”

“When I broke off my engagement, it wasn't on a whim or because I didn't get my way or—”

“None of my business,” he said, cutting her short and shaking his head. “I haven't given it a thought.”

“I know, it's just that you haven't been yourself and since you're divorced and that might be a touchy subject...” She watched him dump the rest of his coffee in the sink and rinse the mug. Dammit, she hadn't meant to chase him away. Why had she even... “I thought you were angry with me.”

“I'm not angry,” he said, pausing to look her in the eyes. Then walked out of the kitchen.

She'd give anything if she could take back what she'd said. She'd never been this clumsy and awkward around anyone. So why Trent?

* * *

T
HE
MORNINGS
WERE
cold enough for Trent to wear a jacket when he fed the horses at sunrise. Hard to believe when the daytime temperatures had been hovering well above normal. Since they'd be gone until late afternoon, he'd suggested to Shelby that she dress in layers. Not like she was going bobsledding.

He glanced at her, bundled up in a puffy down coat, sitting on the passenger side of his truck. “Didn't you say you lived in Denver most of your life?”

“All of it. Until a week ago.” She turned to look at him. “Why?”

She'd wrapped a blue scarf around her neck and over her head and ears so that all he could see were her eyes and nose.

He chuckled. “I can adjust the heater.”

“No, thanks. I'm very comfy.” She pulled off one mitten and picked up her to-go mug of coffee. She'd prepared one for each of them and filled a thermos, even though he'd assured her they were only driving a hundred miles, give or take.

“I don't get it,” he said. “I know for a fact Denver gets downright frigid at times.”

“Yes, it does.”

“It's still September, Shelby.” He divided his attention between her and the road. “Look at you.”

“What?” She glanced down. “I need an adjustment period between seasons,” she said with a defensive lift of her chin.

“Okay. I meant no offense.”

“I know.” She sighed. “This coat and the mittens came out of the emergency kit I keep in my trunk. I wasn't thinking clearly when I left,” she murmured and stared out the window.

He was more than happy to drop the subject. He didn't want to hear about her departure, or her engagement, or whether she was second-guessing herself. It was difficult enough thinking about his own situation. Now that he knew the ranch was his—according to Violet, at least—he'd been hard-pressed to think of anything else. The whole reason Shelby was coming along this morning was to get a booth at the fair. He didn't know what kind of money she expected to make selling her jewelry, but he figured either she'd earn enough to help her move on or she'd find out Blackfoot Falls wasn't a good place to set up shop.

Trent sure didn't want to regret bringing her along. The other day he'd learned too much about her, then said too much. Neither of them needed to forge a bond. It would make everything harder in the long run.

He was weirdly grateful they'd already agreed to the three-month grace period. Even so, he knew the news that she didn't own the ranch would crush her. He understood about last chances and chasing dreams.

Dammit, thoughts like those were exactly what he was supposed to avoid. If they were going to live together for three whole months, he had to stop thinking about her life and her dreams, and put all his energy into his own.

So what did he go and do? Put himself in a truck with her for a long drive. He'd like to think his offer was inspired by his good nature and had nothing to do with Jimmy chatting her up yesterday. The kid was too young for her. And even if he wasn't, Trent didn't care what she did.

“Oh, shoot.” Her gaze was fixed on the dashboard clock. “I forgot to call the movers.” She pulled off the other mitten and fumbled inside her coat pocket. “They called yesterday for a delivery appointment.”

“How much stuff do you have?”

“Not a lot. My apartment was small.”

He told himself to keep his mouth shut. Shelby was a grown woman. Let her figure out what to do. He checked the Exiss in the rearview mirror, mostly out of habit. The trailer was empty and it might well be returning empty. Deciding to bring it had been a tough call. He hoped it didn't make him seem too eager about buying the colt. Though this wasn't Dallas. He knew the Landers family and they'd ask a fair price.

Glancing over at Shelby, he saw the cell in her hand. She was staring at it and giving her lower lip a workout.

None of my business
, he reminded himself and went back to concentrating on the road ahead.

A few silent minutes passed.

“The spare bedroom,” he said wanting to kick himself. “And the equipment shed behind the barn. They both have extra room. The shed is solid, waterproof and airtight.”

She blinked at him, then frowned slightly. “How far away is Kalispell?”

“A little less than an hour from Blackfoot Falls. Tack on another twenty minutes from the Eager Beaver.”

She thumbed the small keyboard on her phone. A few minutes later she shook her head. “I still can't get online.”

“Service will be spotty for the next couple of hours. You should be able to make a call, though.”

“I need to know what I'm going to tell them first.”

Okay, so she didn't like the spare-room-and-shed idea. Good. Made things simpler.

“What about when we stop for breakfast? Can I get online then?”

“Probably not. The place I have in mind is ten minutes out. There's a diner and a gas station, that's it.”

“Well, that's just crazy,” she muttered. “How can anyplace not have decent internet in this day and age? Have people not heard of satellites?”

Trent grinned. “You're not in Kansas anymore, darlin'.”

She raised her brows at him. “Darlin'?”

“At least I didn't call you sweetheart.”

She let out a disgusted sigh. But he saw the small smile before she looked down at her phone. He thought she'd found a local cell tower, but she didn't call until they'd parked in front of the roadside diner. Instead of heading in, she told him she'd be along in a minute and wandered off to a private spot.

So she didn't want him to hear her conversation. Fine. As he'd told himself a hundred times, none of his business.

Let her have her secrets.

After all, Trent had one hell of a doozy of his own.

10

A
S
THE
TRUCK
bounced along the rough, pitted road Shelby stared at the ranch they were approaching. It looked like a small village. There were far more buildings than she could account for with her limited knowledge of ranching.

She was about to ask Trent what they were all for when he turned onto a paved driveway and drove under the elaborate wrought-iron archway announcing the Castle Ranch. Elm trees turning gold and red lined the seemingly endless driveway. The terrain was hillier than at the Eager Beaver and well-maintained.

“Wow, it's pretty out here.” She twisted around to watch a pair of beautiful white horses galloping, the epitome of grace and beauty. “Is this all one ranch?”

“Yep.”

She saw the main house. Who could miss the gorgeous, sprawling Tudor-style home with all the natural stone and glass? The sloping manicured lawn that surrounded it was impossibly green.

On the far right stood a long white structure that had to be the bunkhouse. Two men standing in front talking turned and lifted their hands in friendly waves, which Shelby returned.

The large rust-colored barns were easy to identify, all three of them. A few other scattered buildings were probably sheds, although five times the size by her definition.

“I think you're wrong about this being all one ranch,” she said, pointing to a cluster of four small houses each with its own yard and beds of faded flowers.

Trent glanced at them with a faint smile. “The married hired hands live in those.”

“Are you serious?” She stared at him, then got distracted by their surroundings again. “They have their own gas station?”

He laughed. “A place this size runs a lot of equipment. Those two gas pumps are more necessity than convenience.”

“Huh.” Closer to the house was an impressive building in both size and appearance. “What's that?”

“The stable,” he said, frowning at her as if she'd committed blasphemy by needing to ask.

“Right.” She noticed what had to be a racetrack but refrained from commenting.

A tall distinguished-looking man with white hair walked out of the stable and motioned for Trent to park under a large cottonwood tree.

Trent eased the truck into the spot and cut the engine. “Is this how you expected the Eager Beaver to look?”

“Oh, sure.” She scanned the front of the house. The stone work was awesome, and so was the aggregate circular drive sweeping around hundreds of yellow mums. The whole place was really something. “I didn't even know ranches like this existed outside of the movies.”

“You should see some of the spreads in Texas.” He grabbed his black Stetson from the backseat and put it on. “Ready?”

She nodded. “Don't worry. I won't ask any more stupid questions.”

“Ask anything you want,” he said, grinning as he got out of the truck.

She did a quick check in the visor mirror. She'd gotten rid of the scarf, mittens and her coat before going into the diner but her hair was still flat so she poufed it out some.

Her door opened. Trent stood there holding it for her. “You look great,” he said with a trace of amusement.

Accepting the hand he offered, she slid off the seat and touched ground. “So do you,” she said and winked.

His low sexy chuckle did a number on her nervous system. As if being confined to the truck's cab for two hours, sitting close enough to notice the spot he'd missed shaving and admiring his firm, chiseled jaw hadn't already left her a tad weak in the knees.

They headed toward the man who stood outside the stable, cleaning his sunglasses while waiting for them. He wore perfectly creased black jeans and a crisp long-sleeve blue shirt. Shelby didn't really know boots but she'd be willing to bet his cost as much as her entire shoe collection, which was nothing to sneeze at.

“Mr. Calhoun.” Trent approached with his hand extended.

“Trent Kimball.” The man folded his white handkerchief slowly and slipped it into his pocket, then put on his aviator-style sunglasses, adjusting them carefully. Finally, he shook Trent's hand. “Call me Hank. We're all friends here.” He smiled at Shelby. “And who's this?”

“Shel—”

“Shelby Foster,” she said, not meaning to cut Trent off, and automatically offered Mr. Calhoun her hand.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He picked up her hand and kissed the back.

Startled, she pressed her lips together and forced a smile. He was older, from a different generation, and was just being polite...

Like hell. While working for the Williamsons, she'd dealt with a wide range of wealthy clients, up to and including the obscenely rich. She'd found most of them to be pleasant and reasonable. But there had been a few, rude, arrogant men like Hank Calhoun. Though she'd never before experienced such a strong and instant dislike for someone.

Maybe she'd rushed to judgment. But she doubted it. His posturing was too obvious. First, he'd made no move to greet Trent, then left him standing with his hand out while the jerk wiped his glasses?

And then kissing her hand? Calhoun knew better. All she'd offered was a handshake.

Ew. Now she needed a shower.

But this was Trent's show so she kept a smile in place, calmly withdrew her hand.

“Quite a spread you have here,” Trent said, glancing around. “You raise cattle, too, don't you?”

Glad for the change of subject, she breathed out a sigh of relief that neither man appeared to have noticed her reaction.

“My sons handle that side of the business,” Calhoun said with a dismissive wave. “I have a much greater interest in horses. Arabians in particular.”

Trent gave him an odd look, frowned for a moment, then said, “Mind showing me inside your stable?” His gaze followed the high pitch of the roof. “I'm already green with envy.”

Calhoun laughed. “Sure, I'll give you a tour. A little later, though.” Trent didn't seem pleased. “Have you folks eaten yet? I have a terrific cook. Ruth will whip up anything you want.”

“No, thanks.” Trent patted his flat belly, drawing Shelby's attention. “We stopped on the way.”

Her gaze lingered on his narrow waist and hips. Today he wore a blue chambray shirt tucked into his jeans. They weren't very worn but still fit him nice and snug.

“Shelby?” Trent touched her arm.

She blinked.

Both men were looking at her.

Her mind had been wiped clean. She couldn't come up with a blessed thing to say.

“Would you like something to drink?” Trent asked, a gleam of amusement in his gray eyes.

“I'm good. Thanks. Would you excuse me a moment?” She took a step back. “Don't wait. I'll catch up,” she said, then turned and walked to the truck as quickly as she could manage without tripping, keeping her head down and taking deep breaths.

She'd been staring at Trent's fly.

Of course he'd noticed. And in case he'd chalked it up to his imagination, she'd just provided confirmation by stalking off like a two-year-old. Her cheeks had to be flaming every shade of red.

She climbed into the truck and slid down in the seat. There had to be good internet here. She couldn't see Hank Calhoun tolerating spotty service. Reaching for her coat, which was on the backseat, she pulled her cell from the pocket. A quick glance assured her the men had continued their discussion and showed no interest in her. She focused on her cell. Busy morning. Texts from Donald and the movers. A voice mail from her mom. And one from Mrs. Williamson, Donald's mother. That was a first. And it presented a tricky problem. The woman had been Shelby's employer for five years. It could be a business call.

After all, Shelby had left without much notice, something that would haunt her conscience for a long time. Although she had tried to tough out a week, just to tie up loose ends if nothing else. But Donald had refused to leave her alone. And if Mrs. Williamson could've killed her with a look, Shelby would be dead by now. The hostile work environment hadn't inspired creativity so instead of finishing the week Shelby had left the next day.

She scrolled through texts—the movers needed to hear from her ASAP. So did Donald. She felt badly about not setting up a delivery appointment last night so she called the movers before listening to messages. And was sent straight to voice mail. Okay with her since she was still iffy about what to tell them.

Bracing herself for Mrs. Williamson's message, Shelby hit Speaker and let her gaze wander toward Trent and Hank standing at the fence surrounding the racetrack. The men were too far away to make out Trent's expression. But she recognized his body language. Arms folded, shoulders back, jaw angled up. He looked pissed.

Hank gestured with his hands, clearly talking about the horse and rider running around the track. She would've never guessed he could be so animated.

Her cell beeped signaling the end of the voice mail. She hadn't heard a word of it. Quickly she replayed the message while opening the truck door. Mrs. Williamson's sickeningly sweet tone was a complete surprise, and enough to make Shelby nauseous. The woman usually reserved the syrupy voice for rich clients. Shelby listened a bit, then disconnected. Pleading on behalf of her grown son...for God's sake. But then the overbearing woman had become a big part of the problem between Shelby and Donald. Everything had to be his mother's way, and Donald didn't seem to care. He just took the easy path to keep the peace. But so had Shelby. Until she'd realized Donald would never be on her side. He'd never appreciate her need to be her own person. His mother would always rule.

Because Shelby didn't want to be rude, she would eventually return Mrs. Williamson's call. But for now she slipped the phone into her jeans pocket, more interested in Trent and whether he needed reinforcements. As she got closer, she saw Hank hold up a stopwatch just as the horse, the rider crouched forward in jockey position, ran past them.

“Look at that.” He motioned to someone inside the fence. The young man was bent forward, hands on his thighs, squinting at the horse's legs, but he waved an acknowledgement. “Tell me that isn't a damn fine-looking animal,” Hank said and clapped Trent on the back.

“No argument from me,” Trent said, unsmiling.

“People have underestimated Arabians. The racing world started to wake up in the nineties, but the breed still has too few tracks available to them. But you wait. In the next five years, these beauties will win higher purses than any quarter horse could dream of.”

Shelby stood on Trent's left, not sure if he'd seen her yet. She brushed her arm against his.

He turned and gave her a smile. “Everything okay?” he asked quietly.

“Service is great here,” she said, holding up the phone. “So yay.”

Hank glanced at her, then swung his attention back to the track. “You'll appreciate this next stallion. I bought Thor a few months ago. He's four years old and he's already won his first race. With the right trainer, I think he could be a real money maker. I got him for a steal. The idiots who owned him had no idea what they were doing.”

Shelby reminded herself that horseracing, ranching and horse trading, or whatever they called it, were businesses. A difficult concept to grasp when the commodity was a gorgeous gray horse with an impressive mane that looked like silk. But obviously Hank had brokered a good deal. She shouldn't dislike him more than she already did because of it. Yet she did.

The silver-gray stallion pranced onto the track as if the whole world were watching. He flicked his tail, arched his neck slightly. With his gleaming coat, Thor was really that breathtaking.

“He's beautiful,” she whispered, unable to tear her gaze away. “Isn't he?”

Trent heaved a sigh.

She felt his breath on her face. Felt the heat from his body, startled to discover that she was leaning into him. And with a fair amount of her weight. She immediately straightened.

He slid an arm around her and lightly squeezed her left shoulder. “Yes, he is.”

“What was that?” Hank asked her, then proved he'd heard by adding, “The lady has excellent taste. Watch him, Kimball. You'll be impressed.”

Trent kept his eyes on the horse, his hand on her shoulder. She could still feel his tension and wished she understood what was wrong.

For the next twenty minutes they watched Thor beat his last recorded time. Then Hank showed them another horse, a bay mare, who apparently needed a lot of training. Hank continued to communicate with hand signals, though sometimes using his cell to give curt orders to the men running the horses. The whole time Trent remained silent.

Finally, he spoke. “You have a nice setup here, Hank. Some impressive horses. Glad I got to see it. But at this point, there's no sense wasting any more of each other's time.”

As he turned to Trent, the other man's mouth tightened. “You don't want the job?”

“Like I told you, I don't work with Thoroughbreds or Arabians. I've got nothing against them. But I only train quarter horses.”

Hank removed his sunglasses and narrowed his dark eyes. “I know for a fact you trained a winning Thoroughbred for Tucker Lawson.”

“Hell, that was over seven years ago, and I only did it as a favor.”

Hank studied him with a critical eye. “After what happened in Texas, I figured you wouldn't be so picky.”

Trent stared at the man until Hank looked away. “Guess you thought wrong.”

“Is it the money?” Hank asked, taking a hundred-and-eighty degree swing with a kiss-ass tone that seemed to irritate Trent even more. “Look, whatever they were paying you in Texas, I'll double.”

“Nice meeting you, Mr. Calhoun. I wish you well.” Trent extended his hand.

Hank ignored it. “All right,” he said, sounding petulant again. “You can take Thor and Aces to your place. I've never allowed any of my horses to be trained anywhere but Castle Ranch. This is a damn big concession for me.”