The Cowboy's Second Chance

by Jean Oram

  She shivered, realizing this tiny insight had made him seem much more human and much more intriguing. And much more dangerous to her plan of keeping him out of her life.

  3

  As Ryan unloaded his three horses into Carly’s stable the next day, he decided it was time to stop thinking about her. Even though nobody could confirm the existence of a husband, she wore a wedding band on her left ring finger. To him that was a blatant Off Limits signal.

  And yet the way she looked at him sometimes, her gaze lingering, suggested she might not be married. But what did she think of him, if she’d called his admiring perusal of her silhouetted form “visual groping”? No wonder she’d shot out her own light. He would have, too. Then knocked out his own proverbial lights.

  Ryan settled the last horse, unable to help wondering if he would see Carly before he left the Lucky Horse Ranch. She’d slipped into his thoughts yesterday while he’d helped Brant move back to the Sweet Meadows Ranch. Then again when he’d been helping the pregnant teenager, Robyn, move her few belongings into Brant’s furnished apartment an hour later. His brothers had found his absentmindedness annoying, and he’d taken a good ribbing for his distraction.

  After ensuring his horses had adequate feed and water, he turned toward the open door at the end of the small stable.

  Tomorrow Lucinda, his horse-crazy math student, would come over after school to train two of his recent recruits for barrel racing. Her parents, living in town, refused to support her horse addiction. Yet the teen consistently scrounged up enough money to buy riding time at local stables as well as the entrance fee for a few rodeos. So far she’d earned a few ribbons. Lucinda had just about pierced his eardrums with her excited scream when he’d asked if she wanted the use of his horses in exchange for giving them a bit of training.

  Some animals would be a gamble, but a winning horse could fetch a higher price than what he’d paid at auction. And its offspring would be potentially valuable, too. He was playing the long game, though, and might not see profit for years.

  That was why he’d invested a bit more in purchasing a young American Quarter Horse to develop as a cutting horse. A well-trained cutter was a valuable asset in Hill Country, and he had the patience to get the animal where it needed to be.

  Either way, his horses could become part of a passive income stream, hopefully with minor work on his part, in case someone decided to sweep in and take his nest egg again.

  Ryan closed the stable doors behind him, double-checking the latch. His eyes naturally turned toward the house, only the roof of which was visible this far back on the property. On his way through the yard earlier he’d noticed a fresh patch of upturned garden behind the house. A rusty old push cultivator had been abandoned after churning up a few rows of soil. Hard work. That’s what that job was. Carly needed some serious machinery.

  Ryan shook his head, knowing what she’d say if he offered to lend her the cultivator from the ranch. That woman had an independent streak lined with a stubbornness that rivaled his own.

  As he secured the horse trailer’s doors, he grinned, thinking about how she had refused to let him push his way into getting what he wanted from her. He liked a woman who didn’t bend to a smile, give up her plans, her thoughts or beliefs just because he wanted or thought something different.

  There was no doubt about it. He might have a growing infatuation for Carly Clarke. Which meant he needed to find out more about the mysterious Mr. Clarke.

  No. What was he thinking? He needed to focus on football right now. The team was heading into some big games and he needed to remove all distractions. And Carly definitely had potential to be a big one.

  “That’s cocky of you,” said a hard female voice. Carly. He fought the way the corners of his mouth tried to turn upward as he turned to face her.

  Man, she was just as stunning today as she had been yesterday.

  “Cocky?” he said, trying to hide his amusement. He spread his hands. “But that’s how you know it’s me.”

  A massive, shaggy sheepdog that could hardly see past the hair hanging over his eyes came out from around Ryan’s truck, planting its feet solidly as it took in Ryan while giving one loud bark of warning. Carly herself looked stern as she stated, “I haven’t received a rental check, and yet here you are, putting your horses in my stable.”

  “I left the check stuck to your front door with an arrow.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I’m so glad to hear it wasn’t Cupid.”

  “Wrong month for that monkey business.” He reached into his back pocket, then held out an envelope. The dog growled. Ryan had planned to wedge the first and last month’s payment under the front door when he drove past her house again on his way out.

  Carly moved toward him, her shoulders relaxing, her hips swaying—a picture he had to look away from before it drew him in and she verbally lashed him for another “visual groping.”

  She pushed up the sleeves on her black sweater and opened the envelope. She glanced at the check before sliding it into her own back pocket. Inhaling, she looked up at him. “So I’m renting to the Sweet Meadows Ranch, not to you?”

  “This is an expense that runs through the ranch. They’re my horses.”

  The dog, deciding Ryan was okay, came to his side, giving a snuffling inhalation before sitting his giant behind down and looking up expectantly. Ryan patted his head while Carly opened the doors to the stable, one eye on him as though challenging him to stop her.

  “My brother brought you a dog?” he asked.

  She gave a brief grunt of confirmation.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Sergeant Riggs.”

  “From Lethal Weapon?” Ryan asked, fighting a smile. The name was out of character if Brant had chosen it. His brother always named the dogs based on where or how he’d rescued them. The owner of a local Trader Joe’s had found Ryan’s dog, Joe. Brant’s dog, Dodge, had been abandoned outside a dealership. “How’d he get his name?”

  “I liked the movies. More than the TV show,” Carly said, walking into the building. Ryan followed, allowing his eyes to adjust from the sunshine to the dark interior. She stopped at the horse pens, looking over his stock. One of the slim quarter horses he’d selected to train for barrel racing ambled up to her, and she reached out to stroke its nose. It huffed and nuzzled in.

  “Brant was going to call him Ditch,” she said drily.

  “Sergeant Riggs is a better name.”

  She made a humming sound of agreement, then asked, “What makes you think this one will be good for rodeo?” Her tone was testing and Ryan wanted to pass. He felt like he had in the sixth grade, when a new girl had moved to town and all the boys had gone crazy over her. He’d been prepared to do just about anything to stand out from the crowd. And he had, even in his slightly too small hand-me-down clothes from his brothers. The girl had toted him around like a trophy for a week and a half before dumping him in the middle of math class, announcing that he hadn’t bought her an ice cream at the lunchtime fundraiser. Greg had. Ryan hadn’t even known she’d wanted ice cream. Then she’d told everyone who would listen that he was just a poor farm boy who didn’t have enough money for an ice cream cone.

  “It’s a friendly fellow,” Carly said, stroking the horse affectionately.

  Ryan leaned over the wood stall door to study the horse. It was his. Bought and paid for. Much better than an ice cream cone for a girl who’d moved away that following summer, her name forgotten.

  Marcie.

  Her name had been Marcie. If he ever bought a surly, fat mare that’s what he’d call her.

  But he’d splurged on this fast-looking quarter horse on a whim. Kind of like when you saw a Corvette in the used lot and before you knew it, it was sitting in your garage beside your still perfectly good Jeep.

  The horse had seemed like something that might bring him luck, and so when the auctioneer had started his spiel Ryan had raised his hand.

  Carly’s eyebrows arched as she
glanced at him. She seemed amused, but he was too distracted by his own thoughts to figure out why.

  “Did you buy this guy on a hunch?” she prompted.

  Ryan’s attention darted to her, but he didn’t answer.

  Carly continued to stare at him, her eyes moving over his biceps, then his jaw. It felt as though she was stealing images to savor later.

  He liked that idea and allowed his own gaze to trail over her before slowly meeting her eyes again. It wasn’t a visual groping, but contained some heat and a lot of smoldering appreciation to let her know he found her attractive.

  Her cheeks flushed, and he wondered if she was struggling with a feeling of attraction.

  If so, he wasn’t sure what that said about Mr. Clarke.

  “I bet this guy could make a decent barrel racer,” she said, stepping back to admire the caramel-colored horse with the splash of white high on his forehead. “Better than the red roan on the end.” She gestured toward the far end of the stable where the chubbier horse—one she hadn’t looked over yet—was kept.

  “You saw me bring them in?”

  “I was out taking soil samples.”

  And she’d done so while watching him and the horses, and had drawn conclusions. Interesting.

  “Well, I guess we’ll see what Lucinda, the rodeo trainer, says about Old Red.”

  Carly sucked her cheeks in, making her face even more angular, like an Egyptian goddess. How was it she looked different with every mood? And always beautiful. He bet she could be covered in mud and as angry as a swarm of hornets and still have the power to take his breath away.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “Am I ever going to meet Mr. Clarke?” Ryan’s eyes drifted to her left hand, which was resting on the stall door. That wedding band was like a wall. A wall to keep others out; he was sure of it. She was skittish, hiding tender wounds under a false front of bravado and confidence.

  Who was Carly Clarke, and how had she ended up here? Would she still be at the Lucky Horse Ranch in five years time?

  He got the feeling she was hiding out. He could ask, but sensed the details of her life were as off-limits as his own.

  “I assume Mr. Clarke is fine with you renting out your stable to a handsome, single man,” he said, edging closer when she didn’t reply.

  Carly didn’t look his way, simply moved to the next horse as though he hadn’t spoken. She shook the gate that kept the pen secured, testing its strength. “Does Brant know anything about getting goat’s milk certified for market?”

  “Maybe. Why?” She was edging around something. Ryan guessed she had a project and knew if she shared it with others they might hone in, take it over, shame her, laugh at her or worse.

  He’d been there, done that. He knew it was best to keep new projects and dreams close to your chest until everything was established, so the best intentions of others couldn’t muck it up.

  “I’m going to run an organic farm. Eat local and all that.” Her tone was too casual, telling him the idea meant a great deal to her. She ran a hand down the blue nylon lead he’d hung on a hook near the stall.

  She’d said “I.” Not “we.”

  This ranch was all Carly. There was no husband at the helm or at her beck and call.

  “You might want to move this,” she said, referring to the lead.

  It was fine where it was, hanging close to where he’d need it should he want to lead a horse somewhere.

  “I bet your barrel racer eats it. You’re welcome to make use of the tack room at the other end.” She drifted away, light on her feet. She wore cowboy boots as though they were slippers, and it served as just one more layer to the mystery of Carly Clarke.

  Ryan swiftly hung the lead out of the horse’s reach and hurried to catch up with her. “Where did you grow up?”

  “Montana.”

  “Do you know Alexa McTavish?”

  “Your cousin?” she asked, her dark eyes turning to meet his.

  So she wasn’t completely new to the area. Or had Alexa and Carly known each other back in Montana, as they’d both been raised there?

  “How long have you been a cowgirl?”

  “How long have you been a cowboy?”

  He shook his head. She was implying all her life? “No, you haven’t.” There was something sophisticated about her that spoke of time spent in the city, wearing heels and sharp suits and silk blouses.

  Carly glided closer, her eyes meeting his in the dim light of the stable. It smelled like old wood, fresh air, horses and sweet hay. Like home. Like a place that would always be there for him, whether or not he wanted it to be.

  “What else have I been doing with my life then?” she asked.

  Something. Something that made her want to invent a fake husband and hide away from the world. Something that had toughened her in a way that ranch life wouldn’t have.

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  She ran a finger down the front of his shirt, and it was all he could do not to take her hand, pull her in and give her a searing kiss. She was sexy. Difficult. Combative. A tease. A pain in the butt.

  She was everything a man like him might want in a woman.

  “I have a feeling you’re well on your way to becoming an expert on Carly Clarke,” she said, her dark eyes shifting to lock on his.

  “I do plan on becoming one very soon.”

  “There is no Mr. Clarke, is there?” Ryan asked as they moved toward the stable entrance, and Carly felt a prick of panic. She hadn’t planned to correct anyone’s assumption that she had a husband hiding out on the ranch. Having one was the perfect shield against the blast of heat she often found in Ryan’s gaze, and the idea of a husband could keep her from tricky moments like this one. Times when she could inhale the scent of hay and animals, and believe she was someone different. When she could allow herself to see what would happen if she let herself experience a delicious cowboy who kept looking at her as though she was at the top of his Most Wanted list.

  If the illusion of Mr. Clarke shattered she could be in for a landslide of poor decisions. And where bad decisions were concerned, each new day meant another opportunity to make better choices. She was tired of being left high and dry, crawling back to her family to admit defeat once again. She was getting too old for foolishness, and anything to do with Ryan Wylder would likely be branded with its very essence.

  But it was difficult to remain preoccupied with haunting thoughts of her past failures, and all the reasons to remain cautious, when faced with this man’s vibrant presence.

  “Did he leave you?” Ryan asked. His tone surprised her. It was almost demanding, as though he was planning retribution should she say yes.

  “In a way,” she admitted slowly. She ran her left hand up and down the sleeve of her sweater and shivered in the November chill that seeped through the stable’s open door. Peter had died unexpectedly, leaving her with a stunning amount of debts. She’d been heartbroken and confused. The life they’d built and the future they’d planned had been quickly swept away by bill collectors. She’d been faced with an eviction as well as his angry, grieving mistress, forcing her to face the full depth of Peter’s betrayal while in the midst of her own grief. It had taken her weeks to sort out the truth about her husband, his secrets, and their tattered finances.

  How could she have loved a man capable of betraying her trust in such a heartrending way?

  “He died, didn’t he?” Ryan asked.

  Carly instantly reacted to the sympathy in his hushed voice, revealing the truth. Ryan inhaled sharply and stepped back, putting space between them. She could see through his pained realization that he felt she was wounded, not as strong as he’d believed.

  It was exactly what she didn’t want from him. She didn’t want pity. She didn’t want him to step back or treat her as if she was precious goods. She didn’t want him to stop challenging her.

  She wanted him to believe she was strong and feisty, someone who could handle him. Someone who could ma
ke it through the rest of her life without being blindsided once again by poorly placed trust.

  Carly Clarke could stand on her own two feet. Could act on instinct and pursue the things she was most curious about.

  And she did just that. She stepped forward, knocking into him as she gripped his face between the palms of her hands and rolled onto her toes, to lock her lips on his.

  The man tensed in surprise, grasping her waist to balance them. She continued to kiss him, desperate that he not freak out, but reciprocate. She needed to know he wouldn’t change, wouldn’t think of her any differently now that he knew she was a widow. She needed him to keep that heat that distracted her from hating herself.

  She was a superb kisser. She knew that. She had a generous, soft mouth, and knew Ryan couldn’t deny the sparks flaring and exploding between them.

  Almost immediately he responded, his mouth sweeping hers, exploring, discovering, and learning the things you can only find out about another person by kissing them.

  His arms slowly wrapped around her, holding her as he deepened the contact. The horse beside them released a whinny of approval and Carly broke the kiss that had been meant only as a distraction. She caught Ryan’s heated gaze and went in for another one.

  Ryan Wylder was most definitely a hitch in Carly’s good-decisions-only plan. She also knew that in the moments between now and her inevitable self-destruction she would enjoy every single second.

  Ryan was holding Carly in his arms, his shock ebbing as a pleasant realization awoke within him. Holding her felt right. Really right. And he didn’t want to let go of her until he figured out why she felt so good.

  “So there’s no Mr. Clarke?” he asked, trying to adjust his thinking, which wasn’t an easy feat after being kissed by Carly. Her wide mouth and plump lips had been like a whole other universe, sending him rocketing off to the stars. Thinking straight was not a skill he could rely on at the moment.

  She gave a slight shake of her head, not elaborating.

  “Why do you wear a ring?”