“The best.”
“Not lacking for confidence, are you?”
Ray caught another nonchalant shoulder shrug from Travis in his peripheral. “What’s your last name, Travis?”
“Morgan.”
Ray released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. This far too attractive hitchhiker was Travis Morgan. Headed to Ford Creek Ranch. What were the odds?
“
The
Travis Morgan?” He risked a glance at Travis and was once again trapped in that impossibly magnetic gaze. Travis nodded, a checked smile playing on his lips. Lush, kissable lips… “Well, shit.” Ray turned back to the road ahead of him, hands tightening on the wheel.
Travis Morgan’s reputation traveled far ahead of the man himself. A world-class trainer, Morgan was one of those people with a rare ability to draw the best out of even the most dangerous, untamable animal. Any ranch fortunate enough to have him cross their gates was left with champions in his wake. And having that trademark signature on your stock was akin to winning the lottery. Morgan chose the ranches he wanted to work on seemingly whimlike. He couldn’t be contacted or contracted. The man was elusive, an enigma, an apparition emerging from a swirling cloud of dust.
Ray distractedly lifted the top panel of the center console and reached in for a pouch of cinnamon sticks. He’d quit smoking years ago, but in chewing on cinnamon sticks to help break that habit, he’d gained another. At least the new one was healthier.
The Morgan name would catapult the price of Ford Creek’s already top-dollar working and performance horses substantially, further cementing his family’s legendary reputation.
Having the man on his ranch, working beside him day-in day-out, however, would be dangerous. He’d overheard the whispered rumors about Morgan having a penchant for the company of men. With the crazed reaction Ray was having to him already, “danger” wouldn’t even begin to describe the situation it could put them both in. The damage it would cause if he lost control of this sudden desire, the risk to his family’s reputation and livelihood—his own life—would be too great.
He’d never forget what had happened to Dwayne Harrelson all those years ago, and there was no way in hell he was going to suffer the same fate.
And despite all that he was going to anyway. It just wasn’t good business sense to pass on having the Travis Morgan name tagged onto Ford Creek’s horses.
He’d just have to make a few extra trips into Billings.
“Was that a good ‘shit,’ or a bad ‘shit’?” Travis asked, studying Ray as his thoughts played across a strong, angular face. He hadn’t missed the telltale flare in those dark, amber-flecked eyes, nor the hard-set jaw. A master of body language—in both horse and man—Travis could read every subtle nuance, shift, and sound, giving him the unique ability to anticipate and counter actions.
The man at the wheel would probably be shocked to know just how eloquent his unspoken language was.
Ray cleared his throat and shot Travis a quick, almost nervous glance. “No rancher in his right mind would turn down the opportunity.”
Travis nodded.
He’d noted the wary shift in other man’s expressive eyes. It was clear Ray had heard of more than Travis’s reputation with horses. The man had appeared interested but was obviously not about to act on it now. Not after hearing Travis’s full name. Even though Travis felt a thread of annoyance at that, he wasn’t surprised. No one was willing to play a role in the rumors that rode alongside him. No one dared take the risk.
Good for the ranch, bad for the rancher.
Just as well. With that last debacle in North Dakota, he wasn’t willing to risk letting the truth behind the rumors see the light of day. It had been three weeks, and the bruises had faded, but his ribs were still sore.
But damn if Ray didn’t make him think things, want things, he couldn’t have.
With a drawn-out sigh, he turned his attention from the driver with the soulful brown eyes and sexy five o’clock shadow to the untamed Montana landscape.
Wild arnica and Indian paintbrush colored waving pale green brome and sage grass with bright splashes of yellow and red. Sparse clusters of ponderosa pine followed snaking, unseen tributaries. The Pryor Mountains reached for the heavens on the eastern horizon, and the carpet of desert grasslands raced up its base.
The state’s famous big sky stretched far and wide above them, stirring a brief, unwanted memory of the massive Texas spread he’d grown up on. That sky had been as big as everything else Texan, but somehow the skies currently overhead seemed more immense, intimidating.
A reminder of how insignificant he was in the grand scheme.
Twenty minutes of silence passed before Ray slowed the big truck and turned onto a graded dirt road. From this vantage point, all Travis could see was wide-open land.
They bounced over a cattle guard and passed under a log archway with FORD CREEK RANCH burned into its smooth bark.
“I hadn’t expected a doorstop lift,” Travis said. “Much appreciated.”
Ray shrugged without looking at Travis. “Like I said, you’re in luck.”
Travis hadn’t expected to come across a man he wanted to run into again either.
An odd twist akin to disappointment pinched in Travis’s gut when a large homestead came into view over a small rise. It went against his better judgment, but he’d hoped the drive to the ranch would have been longer. Something about the driver had him wanting more, even though he couldn’t risk taking the chance. No matter the signs he’d read. His reputation wouldn’t survive much longer, and with his reputation, so went his only source of income.
He’d thank Ray for the ride, wish him well, and never see him again. Judging by Ray’s reaction, it would be best for the both of them.
Ray pulled up in front of the rambling log home with a burnt red roof and wraparound veranda like he owned the place. Not as splashy as some, but it didn’t need to be. The house felt comfortable; even looking through the bug-splattered windshield, he knew it was the kind of place he’d be happy to call home. Travis frowned.
Home
hadn’t entered his mind in eighteen years.
It had to be the comforting scents of leather and cinnamon that permeated the interior of the big cab.
Ray put the truck in Park, turned off the engine, and exited the cab without so much as a glance back. Travis reached into the backseat and grabbed his bag. Unfolding from the truck, he walked around to meet Ray in front of the near shoulder-high hood.
“Thanks for the lift, Ray,” Travis said as he hefted the duffel over his shoulder. “Don’t suppose you know the owner?”
Ray cast a long gaze over him, unmistakable desire flashing in those telling eyes. Then he shuttered his expression with a near audible thud and opened his mouth to speak.
“There you are, Raymond.” A strong female voice cut the man off. Travis turned to find an older woman with silver hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and piercing pale blue eyes. She wore faded jeans, a tan western shirt, and an unlaced pair of beat-up barn boots. She stood on the veranda, hands on her hips, scowling at Ray as though he were a disobedient child. “I hope you’ve sown your oats. We have a ranch to run here, young man.”
Ray sighed. “It’s Sunday, Dot.”
Travis slanted a glance at Ray, intrigued by the somewhat chastised tone of the man’s response.
“Stock doesn’t take a day off eating just because you take a day off working.”
Dot stepped down the three steps off the porch and shifted her sharp gaze to Travis. She was a good half foot shorter than he yet seemed to tower over him. He shifted his feet apart, attempting to balance himself under the weight of her stare. He felt exposed somehow and certain very little escaped the woman’s notice. Travis knew right then, without a doubt, she was one woman he’d be wise never to cross.
Ray’s response to her wasn’t quite so intriguing anymore.
“And who might you be, son?”
He removed his hat, held it against his chest, and stepped forward as he extended his hand. “Travis, ma’am. Travis Morgan.”
She eyed him as if deciding whether or not to believe he was who he said he was, and took his hand. Her grip was strong and sure as they shook. Then her eyes softened, and a smile lit them from behind, putting him immediately at ease. This one would no doubt keep him on his toes. He liked her already.
“What brings you to Ford Creek, Travis Morgan? Besides Raymond here?”
“Looking for work, ma’am. I train cattle horses.”
“Dot. Call me Dot, please.”
He smiled warmly. “Dot. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
She regarded him for a moment. “Travis Morgan, you say?”
“Yes’m.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of you. Well, you’re certainly welcome here.”
“Thank you, ma—Dot. Don’t suppose you could introduce me to the owner?”
Dot looked from Travis to Ray, laughter dancing in her sharp eyes, and chuckled. She shook her head and turned back for the house.
“You’re standing next to him, son,” Dot said over her shoulder as she opened the door and disappeared inside.
Travis turned to face Ray, the man’s expression locked down and unreadable.
Well, shit
was right. If he had any sense at all, he’d turn around and hightail it out of there right now.
Ray struck out his hand. “Ray Ford. Owner of Ford Creek Ranch.”
Travis reached for Ray’s hand, ignoring the need to run. The rancher’s grip was firm, confident, and the warmth of his skin tingled in Travis’s palm. They stood facing each other, gazes locked, hands clasped but no longer shaking. Ray let go after an extended beat. Travis felt the instant absence of the simple touch.
Ray cleared his throat, but his voice sounded rough when he spoke. “Just so happens I have a herd of green horses fresh off winter pasture in need of training.”
“Just so happens I train horses.” And shit if his voice didn’t sound the same.
“So it would seem.”
“You’ll be needing what I’m offering then.”
Ray paused, and the muscles in his clenched jaw twitched. “As I said. You’re—”
“I know,” Travis cut in with a half smile, “I’m in luck.”
Ray didn’t move, his eyes and body language once again giving his thoughts away. For a second—a drawn-out, charged second—Travis thought Ray would take a step forward, reach out, touch. Travis almost made the move to do so himself, but Ray took a step back. Shutters dropped firmly into place.
Ray cleared his throat and gave Travis a cool smile, but he wasn’t fooled. The man was just as affected as he was.
“I’ll introduce you to my foreman. He’ll get you sorted out.”
Travis tipped his head, tapping the brim of his hat with a forefinger. “Boss.”
Ray regarded him a moment longer, then nodded and turned toward the barns. Travis grinned as he hiked his duffel bag higher on his shoulder and followed Ray, enjoying the view of that tight ass wrapped in snug jeans.
Chapter Two
“I have about a dozen men on the ranch at any given time,” Ray began as he led Travis across the yard. “Being that it’s Sunday, most the hands are off-site. They’ll start rolling back in toward dinner time.”
Travis was only half listening. The words didn’t matter as much as the smooth, musical intonation that carried them. The low, thudding scuffle of their boot heels striking hard-packed dirt laid down a steady bass track.
He couldn’t deny how attracted he was to Ray and found himself regretting that they hadn’t met at a different time under different circumstance. But for all intents and purposes, this man was his boss for the next few months. Fucking around with nameless strangers picked up in nameless bars was one thing, but with a man like Ray Ford? Travis shook his head and ran his gaze over the length of Ray’s frame. Nope. Getting too close would only put both of their hard-earned and well-established reputations in jeopardy.
Attempting to deflect his visual imaginings of the man walking a step ahead of him, Travis turned his attention to the surroundings.
A small, inviting lake stretched out behind the ranch house. On its banks, a copse of tall pines huddled against the ever-present Montana winds that rustled harmoniously through their limbs—nature’s singsong. A long rope with two knotted handholds at the end hung from the thick branch of a tree that extended out over the water. An image played out in his mind of a young Ray, gangly and uncoordinated, laughing as he swung back and forth on the rope, gaining enough momentum to launch himself far into the lake.
It wasn’t too much of a stretch to imagine that the somewhat serious-looking adult Ray could have been a playful and carefree boy.
And like a bee drawn to honey, Travis found his gaze pulled back to the handsome rancher.
Beneath the band of Ray’s black cowboy hat, dark brown hair trimmed just above the collar rested neatly against his neck. He was of average height, a couple of inches shorter than Travis’s six feet. His build was stocky with broad shoulders and thick legs, complementing Travis’s longer, leaner frame. An image of that strong body shot through his mind, one not quite as innocent as kids playing on rope swings during the dog days of summer.
Mind on the surroundings, Travis. Mind on the surroundings.
The surroundings weren’t overmuch different from most working ranches: main barn flanked by two outbuildings, one of which revealed farm equipment and vehicles through an open bay door. Beat-up trucks covered with so much dust and dirt their original colors were indistinguishable, parked alongside the barn. Two gooseneck horse trailers sat on wood blocks beyond the trucks.
On the far side of the barn were two large corrals—one of which held a small herd of horses, a single horse in the other—a couple of round pens and cattle runs, and beyond that, open range as far as the eye could see.
Ray led Travis into the barn, down a double row of large box stalls separated by a tidy concrete hall. The stalls were empty, but the indigenous odors of an active stable—cedar shavings, timothy, leather and liniment, that unique salty-sweet scent of horse—were a soothing balm to his soul. There wasn’t anything else he’d rather do, could imagine doing, than working with horses. They were the only living creatures that truly accepted him as he was.