The Wrangler

“Not before you shake hands,” she said.

Fine, he told his grandmother with his eyes, the rowels of his spurs suddenly muffled when his muddy feet hit the area rug. She’d kill him later when she saw the brown spots.

“Clinton McAlister,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Clint is my—”

“Ranch manager,” he interrupted Gigi before she could say “grandson,” which caused Gigi to draw back. For some reason, he didn’t want this woman knowing who he was, although he wondered if she hadn’t guessed already. This was a small town and people talked. Fact is, he owned the Baer Mountain Ranch. His grandmother had deeded it over to him a few years ago.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, keeping their eye contact to a minimum.

Damn, but she was beautiful.

And warm. Her fingers were soft, her flesh so hot he nearly hissed.

“Clinton is actually—”

“Really cold,” he interrupted his grandmother again, reluctantly releasing her hand. “As you can tell.”

“Clinton,” Gigi said, “whatever is the matter with you?”

If he admitted he was the owner of the Baer Mountain Ranch, he might be obligated to sit down and speak to this stranger—and that he didn’t want to do. He had a feeling spending time with her would be…troublesome.

“I’m freezing, Gigi,” he said. And then with his eyes he pleaded, just humor me, would you?

His grandmother might be pushing seventy, but she was no fool. She could smell something in the air…and it wasn’t just brownies.

“Fine,” she said. “Off with you. Go change.” She waved her hands. “You smell like horse.”

“Actually,” their guest said before he could turn away, “I like the smell of horse.”

Clint had no idea why the words sent a stab of warmth right through his gut. All she’d done was admit to something he understood—he liked the smell of horse, too. But hearing her softly feminine voice say the words like and smell in a sentence in connection to him, well, it made him think about stuff that he probably shouldn’t, especially given that she’d been talking about horses.

“Well, I smell like wet horse,” he said, more sternly than he meant to.

He caught his grandmother’s gaze. She was leaning back now, her gray eyebrows lifted, and it was obvious she was trying not to smile.

“I’ll be upstairs,” he grumbled, turning.

“You’ll go upstairs and change and then come right back downstairs,” Gigi said.

“Gigi, I have work to do.”

“That work can wait. It’s still pouring outside.”

It was, though it’d probably pass quickly. Storms this time of year always did.

“Go on,” Gigi ordered, waving her hands again. “Mr. Ranch Foreman,” she tacked on.

“Fine,” he snapped.

Chapter Three

Samantha watched him go. Frankly, she was unable to tear her eyes away from him. The rain had turned his white shirt damn near transparent, and though her eyesight was failing, she could still make out every sinewy cord of muscle that rippled down his back.

“He’s a real handful, that one,” Eugenia Baer proclaimed.

Sam faced the woman she’d traveled two thousand miles to see. She hadn’t expected to meet her. Everyone she’d ever talked to about Mrs. Baer had painted her a recluse. Although to be honest, the entire family was something of an enigma. If she’d had money to spare she could have hired a P.I. Instead she’d been forced to research on the Internet. Eugenia Baer appeared to be the last living descendant of William Baer, the man who’d founded the ranch.

“I don’t think he wants me here,” Samantha said, running her fingers through her brown hair, but there was hardly any hair there. She hadn’t gotten used to having it all buzzed off in the hospital.

“Nonsense, dear. He’s just wet and cold and miserable.”

He wasn’t wet and cold and miserable when they’d first met. Frankly, he’d been hard and sweaty and hot…

Sam!

At some point in the future she would have no idea if a man was good-looking or not. She better enjoy it while she could.

“Has he worked for you long?” Sam asked, hearing footsteps above her head. It was a weird question to ask given that she suspected Clinton had worked for the ranch his entire life. He was this woman’s grandson. But Sam wasn’t thinking clearly. Up there, somewhere on the second floor, a man was stripping out of his clothes.

She swallowed, forced herself to meet Eugenia’s eyes.

“Who, Clinton?” she asked, looking uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Well, uh. Yes. I guess you could say he has worked for me a long time. Practically his whole life.”

There was something about the way the woman said the words that alerted Sam to the fact that Eugena Baer thought Sam was clueless about Clinton’s true identity. Interesting.

“Does he help with the Baer Mountain Mustangs?” she boldly asked, hoping to startle a confession. She had broached the subject of the horses just before Clint had walked in and she’d yet to discover if Mrs. Baer would admit to the wild herd.

“Um, yeah,” Eugenia said, bending forward and grabbing her cup of tea off the table, “about those mustangs.”

And here it was, Sam thought. This was when Eugenia Baer would deny the Baer Mountain Mustangs were still alive. Although to be honest, Sam felt fortunate to have gotten this far. Telling Eugenia she’d driven two thousand miles because the dream of seeing the horses had been the one thing to help her through the loss of her mom and dad had touched the rancher. As it happened she, too, had suffered a loss: her son-in-law and daughter had passed away a few years back.

“I’ve heard the rumors about them, of course,” Eugenia said now. “Most people in these parts have.” She held a porcelain cup with tiny violets painted on the side and it somehow suited the woman whose gray hair and ivory skin appeared almost too delicate to belong to a rancher. “But whatever makes you think these mustangs even exist?”

And Samantha caught her breath. Not the brush-off she’d expected.

“My mother,” she said.

“Your mother?” the woman asked.

Sam nodded. “Before she died, when I was a child, she would tell me bedtime stories about them.”

Eugenia raised her eyebrows.

“My grandmother lived outside of Billings.”

“I see,” Eugenia said.

Sam almost added more, but how could she explain to this stranger how important this was to her? Horses has always been such a huge part of her life. Before her mom and dad had died, she’d shown on the American quarter horse circuit, coming close to winning a world title or two, despite her parents’ limited budget. They’d supported her riding into adulthood—if not financially, then emotionally—and then the accident had brought her whole world crashing down. Now, here she was, on the Baer Mountain Ranch, determined to do something she and her mom had always pledged to do together. Track down those horses. Sure it was a long way to drive in the hopes of convincing someone to help her dream come true, but she was determined to try.

“Look, dear,” Eugenia said, taking a sip of her tea before setting her cup back down with a near-silent clink. “I can’t tell you how many people have come to our ranch for the same reason.”

Sam grew motionless.

“Most people come here seeking answers for commercial reasons. But I don’t think I’ve ever had someone show up here asking to see the horses because their mom told them bedtime stories.”

Sam didn’t say anything. Frankly, she was on the verge of tears. The accident was fresh in her memory, and she still hurt every time she thought about that day. Still missed her mom and dad more than anything else in the world. Missed their daily phone calls. Missed updating them on her horse’s progress. Missed calling them just to talk. Still wished things had been different that day and that they hadn’t…

No!

That was a dangerous direction to take, her psychologist had warned her. There was a reason she’d been left behind. She had to believe that.

“Tell me, dear, how did they die?”

Sam cleared her throat. It took a second or two for her to gather her composure enough to talk. Above, the sounds had stopped. She hoped that didn’t mean Clint McAlister was on his way back down.

“Car accident,” she said. “We were on our way back from watching The Nutcracker last December. We did that every year, you see, ever since I was a little girl. It was icy. And, well…”

She couldn’t finish her sentence, didn’t need to. Eugenia reached out and clasped her hands. Sam looked into her eyes, saw compassion there and the deep, deep understanding that only someone who’d lost a loved one could ever understand.

“I was…out of it for a while,” Sam admitted, though she never talked about the wreck. Not to anyone. Not to her former coworkers. Not even to her friends. And yet here she was confessing all to this perfect stranger. “When I woke up I was told my parents were dead.”

Hot tears seared her cheek. “They were all I had, though I was closest to my mom. She shared my love of horses. Went to almost all of my horse shows…” She swallowed back more tears. “That’s why this is so important to me.”

Eugenia nodded. “I see,” she said with another squeeze.

“You don’t have to tell me about the mustangs if you don’t want to,” Sam said. “I respect your family’s desire to keep them to yourself. I mean, if they really are a wild herd running free on your land, you managed to keep them a secret all these years. I don’t think I’d want to share them with the outside world, either.”

Eugenia didn’t say anything, just stared at her, probing the very depth of Sam’s soul.

“You know what? Forget that I ever came here. I’m so sorry I intruded. I realize now what a terrible imposition this is.”

She got up.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Eugenia asked.

And Samantha’s heart stopped.

“You sit down, young lady.”

Sam sank onto the couch.

“You drive a hard bargain, though,” Eugenia said.

“I do?” Sam asked.

“And I might have gotten crotchety in my old age, my grandson will tell you that, but even I’m not proof against such a request.”

“Are they real?” she asked, her voice close to a whisper.

Eugenia’s smile lit up the room. “What would you say if I told you they just might be?”

“I would say that’s all I needed to hear.” She started to stand again. But before she could turn away, Eugenia caught her hand.

“They’re real,” she said softly.

Samantha started to cry.

Oh, Mom. They really do exist.

She wished her mother was with her.

HE WALKED INTO A DAMN THERAPY session—at least that’s what it felt like what with everyone looking misty-eyed.

“What the hell happened?” Clinton burst out.

The two women glanced up. Samantha slowly sank back down to the couch. And then they were holding hands. Worse, he recognized the expression on his grandmother’s face: she wanted to pull Samantha Davies into her arms.

“Go on with you,” his grandmother said, releasing one of Samantha’s hands and wiping her own eyes. “We were just having a little heart-to-heart.”

“About what?” he asked.

“Our mustangs.”

And if Clinton had been near that damn couch, he’d have sank into it, too. Never. Not once. Not in all the years that he’d been alive, had his grandmother ever admitted to a stranger that their mustangs were more than local legend.

“Gigi,” he said gently.

“Sit down, Mr. McAlister,” she said, patting the couch. “We need to talk.”

“About what?” he asked, preferring to move forward and sit in one of two armchairs across from them.

“Don’t play stupid, young man. You’ll be gathering our horses next week. I want you to take Samantha here along.”

Samantha gasped. “Oh, Mrs. Baer. I can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“It’s too much of an imposition.”

Well, at least one of them was acting sensibly. “Gigi, please,” he said. “She’s right. It’s not feasible, not to mention that it’s highly dangerous. Why, can she even ride?”

She could be a reporter, he thought to himself. Or some kind of damn animal rights activist. Lord. The possibilities were endless.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” his grandmother said. “Of course she can ride. She’s from the east coast.” She said it as if everyone in that part of the country rode horses.

“What the blazes does that have to do with whether she can ride or not?”

“But I can ride,” Samantha said in a small voice.

Clinton leaned back. He stared at the two women in front of him. Somehow, Samantha Davies had managed to wrap his grandmother around her little finger…and he wished he could figure out how she’d done it in such a short amount of time.

“I won’t do it,” he said. “I won’t bring her along. It’s too dangerous.”

“Poppycock,” Gigi said.

“Gigi, think about this. We don’t even know this woman.”

“She has a big heart,” Gigi said, taking the woman’s hand. “I can see it in her eyes.”

“Thank you,” Samantha said.

Clint released a sigh of frustration. “I’m telling you, Gigi, she might end up getting hurt. The spring gathering is tough. The weather’s unpredictable.” He motioned outside where the sun had started to pop through the clouds, the unsettled pattern typical for this time of year. “It’s a long ride. She’d have blisters on her bottom in two hours flat.”

“Excuse me,” Sam said. “I’m right here in the room with you and I assure you, I can ride. I can ride really, really well,” she punctuated. “No blisters would be sprouting on this bottom.” She smiled.

He ignored it. “Oh, yeah? Should we just take your word for that?”

“Of course not,” she said. “You have horses here, right? Test me. Right now, if you like.”

“Excellent idea,” Gigi said, standing. “Let’s go.”

“Gigi,” Clint said, “this is crazy.”

“It’s not crazy,” his grandmother said. “At least no more crazier than anything you’ve done in recent days, Mr. Ranch Manager. I want to do this.” She glanced in Samantha Davies’s direction. “For her.”

Clinton didn’t have a choice. “Hell’s fires,” he muttered. This day just got better and better.

Chapter Four

Clinton stormed out of the house, so upset he nearly slammed the door.

“Damn, foolish women.”

Gigi had insisted Samantha go and change, which meant Clint had been left with the task of fetching her suitcase. “Of all the stupid, ridiculous ideas. Probably wants me to go saddle up a horse, too,” he grumbled under his breath.

As it turned out, that’s exactly what his grandmother asked him to do.

“Please,” Gigi added with a smile. Clint stared between his grandmother and his “guest” and envisioned a cartoon character of himself—one with an angry red light shooting up his face like a thermometer.

“Sure,” he said sarcastically, having to resist the urge to slam the door a second time.

The rainstorm had passed—gone as quickly as it’d come. He paused for a second in the barn’s aisle. He wanted to saddle up the rankest bronc he could find, but as much as he was tempted, he wouldn’t do that. He didn’t want to kill the woman, no matter that she’d seriously pissed him off by batting her big green eyes at his grandmother. It didn’t matter that he owned the ranch, either, and that he had every right to tell Samantha Davies to get lost. He wouldn’t do that, either, because the plain and simple truth was, he loved his grandmother. He would do anything for her. She knew it, too. Gigi Baer had been a rock in his life and if she wanted Miss Samantha Davies to go along on the spring gathering, he’d let her go along.

If she could ride.

He wouldn’t compromise her safety, the safety of his men and the safety of his livestock just because some city slicker had a wild hair up her you-know-what.

“Oh!” he heard his grandmother say when less than ten minutes later, the two of them, Samantha and his grandmother, entered the barn, their footfalls clearly audible on the packed dirt. “You’ve saddled Red.”

Clint was tightening the girth—Red on cross ties in the middle of the aisle—the smooth leather strap Clint held gliding through the metal ring. Samantha now wore jeans, he saw, and a light green shirt.

“She said she could ride.” Red was at least sixteen hands, and about as wide as he was tall, too. Lots of power.

When he glanced up, Samantha was staring at him. Horses chomped on the midafternoon snack he’d given them, their softly muffled snorts breaking the silence, and he thought to himself that she didn’t seem afraid of Red at all. She came right up to him, offering the palm of her hand for the horse to sniff.

“Hey there, Red,” she said softly.

The horse started to nibble at her palm—as if trying to eat an invisible treat.

“Do you happen to have an English saddle?” she asked, green eyes shifting in his direction.

“Excuse me?” he asked, leather girth forgotten.

She was backlit, her short brown hair blond around the edges. “I usually ride English,” she said with a wide I-know-that-might-sound-strange smile. “The truth is, I can count on one hand how many times I’ve ridden western.”

He dropped the strap, rested his arm on the chestnut horse’s withers and met his grandmother’s gaze. “You hear that, Gigi? The woman wants to ride in an English saddle.”

His grandmother just shook her head. It was cool inside the barn, a gentle breeze blowing up the aisle. Gigi had tossed a tan jacket over her white blouse and jeans.

“Just finish saddling that horse, Clint. If she’s been riding English, a western saddle ought to be a piece of cake.”

Clint shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, and went back to girthing up the horse, wrapping the strap in and out of the metal loop before giving it a final tug. He’d hung the left stirrup over the saddle horn to keep it out of his way while he worked, but he released it quickly—too quickly—the thing slapping against Red’s wide body. The horse pinned his ears.

“Maybe I can send for my own saddle if things work out,” she told his grandmother, smiling sheepishly.

Only if she managed to control the horse beneath this saddle. But he found himself snorting nonetheless. The ranch hands would laugh themselves silly if they caught sight of someone riding one of his cow ponies in an English saddle.

Over his dead body.

“Excuse me,” he said, eyeing the tack room behind her. “I need to get Red’s bridle.”

“Oh,” she said, taking a step back.

But it wasn’t enough.

He brushed past her, Samantha’s gaze darting to his body like a foam bullet from a Nerf gun. “Sorry,” she said.

He paused for a heartbeat. Their arms had touched. That was all. It wasn’t as if his crotch had accidentally crossed one of her no-fly zones. Yet it felt as if that’s exactly what happened. Worse, he felt a familiar buzz in that same region.

Crap.

He didn’t look at her, but he couldn’t deny that he fought the urge to glance back as he stepped into the tack room. The smell of leather filled his nostrils, it was such a familiar scent that it instantly soothed him.

“Just been without a woman too long,” he muttered to himself. “Nothing to it.”

He grabbed the bridle from the rack, turned.

Gigi stood there.

“What was that you were saying?” she asked. The look on her face was the same one he recognized from years of stepping in cow patties—and then entering her house afterward.

“I said it’s been too long since I’ve cleaned this bridle.”

That’s not what you said, his grandmother silently told him.

That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it, he told her right back on his way out.

The snaffle bit was the only piece of English tack he owned. Thing was, old Red wasn’t very responsive to the jointed piece of metal. But if she knew how to ride…

Red stood still as he slipped the leather halter off his head, the big horse opening his mouth obediently. The metal mouthpiece clinked against his teeth, but it didn’t bug the sorrel gelding. They were used to that kind of thing, just as they were used to the leather headstall being tugged over their ears. Once he buckled the throatlatch, he stepped back.

“He’s all yours,” he said with a smile as false as their ancient ranch hand Elliot’s fake teeth.

“Thanks,” she said, reaching for the reins. She stepped up to Red’s left side, the correct side to lead a horse from, but not something a greenhorn would know. Clint had his first inkling that she might know a thing or two.

“I saw an arena out behind the barn. Should I take him there?”

“Sure,” Gigi said.

Clint glanced at his grandmother, who shot Clint an I-told-you-so grin. This time it was Clint who shook his head.

There was at least an inch of water on the ground, the horse’s hooves sucking at the earth in rhythmic plop-plop-plops. But it was still cool outside and that might present a problem, too. Cool weather was like a drug to horses—uppers. They could be slightly rambunctious after a cooldown like they’d just had.

But Samantha Davies opened the arena gate without the slightest hesitation, yet another clue that she knew her way around a ranch. Most gates were made with the same type of latch. Someone who wasn’t familiar with them wouldn’t know how they worked, but she flipped the latch and then slid it loose with an expert turn of the wrist.

Maybe he should have come up with another test. Like trick riding or calf roping or something.

She closed the gate behind her as easily as she opened it. There was no fear on her face as she turned to Red, just obvious determination as she lifted her foot into the stirrup. Her jeans pulled tight across her bottom, and Clint found himself staring at the shape of her rear until Gigi nudged him in the side.

“What?” he asked as Samantha Davies expertly pulled herself into the saddle.

“I think you really have been without a woman for too long,” Gigi said with a wicked smile, and then—God help him—a wink.

“WHERE TO?” SAMANTHA ASKED, picking up the slack on the reins and turning Red toward the rail. “You want me to do some figure eights or something?”

Eugenia Bear had a grin on her face about as wide as the snow-capped mountains behind her. “Can you do a reining pattern?” she asked.

“Gigi,” her grandson said. “She said she rides English. She doesn’t know what a reining pattern is.”

“Actually, I do,” Sam said, trying to keep the wattage of her grin down. “I’ve watched more than my fair share at horse shows. I bet if you ran some of those cows over there into the arena, I could do some cutting for you, too.”

Eugenia’s pleasure appeared to grow—if possible. “There,” she said to Clinton, “you see? She’s an expert.”

“So she claims,” he said. “But I’d like to actually see her do the pattern before we move on to cows—if we move on to cows.”

“Well, I don’t know the pattern, exactly,” Sam said, “but I have a pretty clear idea what to do. Let’s see what I can get this little cow pony to do.”

“Little?” she heard Clint huff.

“Most of the horses I ride are closer to seventeen hands,” she said. “They breed them big on the quarter horse circuit.”

She pulled Red away before she could gauge Clint’s reaction. A reigning pattern was meant to showcase a rider’s ability to control a horse. Those patterns were always performed in a western saddle, but that wouldn’t matter. Patterns had been a big part of her training, and that gave her confidence as she guided Red toward the rail.

“Come on,” she told the horse. “You gotta make me look good.”

But Red didn’t like to go. That became apparent the instant she tried to squeeze him into a canter—or a lope—as the western people labeled it. He didn’t even want to trot, much less jog—or God forbid—gallop. But she hadn’t ridden over fences for nothing. Holding on over three-foot obstacles, sometimes higher, had given her the legs of a linebacker. She ground her heels into Red and made him behave.