by Robyn Carr
Lilly had moved from her position behind the fence to a seat on top of the uppermost rail. She lifted her hand, beckoned, kissed the air and hummed, and damned if Streak didn’t turn toward her. Clay relaxed his control of the reins; he wanted to see what the horse would do. Streak moved toward her. When he was near enough, he let Lilly touch him without pulling him away.
“Be careful, Lilly,” Clay warned. “This guy is unpredictable.”
“So you say,” she said softly. “Let me have a turn. Come on.”
“You’re not serious…. I haven’t even seen you on a horse yet.”
“You’re about to. Off,” she demanded. “He’d rather have me anyway.”
“I can’t take that kind of chance. I—”
“I’ve been on unbroke colts before,” she said. “It’s been a long time, but I know what I’m doing.”
“You could land on your ass, break your back.”
“I’m not going to let him do that,” she said. “Can’t you see he doesn’t want to do that to me?”
“Bad idea,” he muttered to himself. “Bad, bad, bad idea,” he said while he dismounted.
He had barely cleared the horse’s back, his feet hardly on the ground a second when the heel of Lilly’s boot boosted her from the top rung up onto the horse. She grabbed the reins and seated herself securely on the blanket. She clicked, barely moved the reins, gave a gentle nudge with her thighs and Streak was in motion. He was trotting around the pen in a neat circle. His cadence was perfect. He was balanced, level, his gait stunning!
Clay perched himself on the top rail and watched. She didn’t pull on the reins, barely touched them; her boot heels didn’t even nudge the horse, but he could see the hard muscles of her thighs and the pressure from her knees working to direct him. She shifted her weight to guide him in a flawless dressage. She was brilliant. There was one perfect tear in each knee of her jeans and something about that turned him on. Her lips were moving, but he couldn’t hear anything. Streak moved in a perfect, obedient trot around the pen, commanded by this small woman’s sheer will.
Clay jumped off the fence and into the pen, but Streak didn’t even seem to notice. The horse was completely under Lilly’s spell. Clay moved stealthily toward horse and rider, let them pass and finally stood in the center of the pen. He let her go around a couple more times, then held up his hand.
Lilly brought the horse up easily, stopping him on a dime. For someone not into riding, she was an expert. Gifted. He wondered if Annie was even aware of her skills.
She stroked the horse’s mane. “You’re the best,” she told Streak. “The best.”
The horse? Clay thought. She was magnificent. No relationship or training with this troubled animal and she worked him like he was her lapdog! The damn horse would walk off a cliff for her! She had chemistry with him, an intimacy that Clay had only seen in special relationships between horse and rider.
Lilly threw her left leg over just as Clay reached up to help her down. She didn’t need his assistance, but he wanted to touch her, however briefly. He had his hands on her waist as she slid off the horse, but he held her in place. Then he slid her very, very slowly down the length of his body. When her face was even with his, he stopped her descent for a moment, just long enough to look deeply into those blue eyes. Their faces were close and he wanted to kiss her, but he didn’t dare. He had no idea how she’d react.
He let her down the rest of the way. “All right,” he said. “Either you’re lying and you’ve been on a horse every day for the past ten years or you’ve made a terrible mistake in being away from it.”
“I used to ride every day,” she said with a shrug. “Then everything changed and we moved and… I think this horse and I have a thing going on.”
“Is that the true meaning of Winning Streak?” he asked hoarsely.
“It is what it is,” she whispered. “I sure didn’t plan it.”
He couldn’t help himself. “You and I should have a thing going on and you know it. Tomorrow night, Lilly. You and me. Dinner. Or something…anything. We really have to talk about horses and other things.”
She shook her head. “Sorry,” she said, wriggling free of his hands. “I have plans.” Then she pulled the blanket off Streak’s back, handed it to Clay and walked the horse into the barn.
This restlessness was not good, Lilly thought as she led Streak back into the stable. She’d been so content with her life, with her friends and her grandpa and no confusion about the opposite sex. Dane had so often warned her that someone would come along to shake her up eventually, but Lilly hadn’t been worried. She frankly never believed it for a second.
Being lifted off the horse by Clay had weakened her, left her all wobbly, and she honestly couldn’t remember feeling like that since… Oh, God, since her first love, so long ago—arrogant, sexy, Native boy who’d made her crazy, made her hurt, took her virginity and dumped her. She had been so young, and she’d vowed to never again be involved with his kind—young Navajo men full of hormones trying to prove how virile they were.
Clay made her feel unsafe. Vulnerable. Something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel since she was thirteen! And even though she was older and supposedly wiser, feelings like that still had the power to overcome her.
She secured the horse and grabbed a brush; when you ride, you take care of your horse. He hadn’t been worked hard; he didn’t need much. But Clay had said he was getting used to the brush and…
“You don’t have to do that, Lilly,” Clay said. “You said you didn’t have a lot of time today.”
Well, of course he followed her into the stable. Where else was he going to go? She was the one a bit out of place; this was where he belonged. She began brushing the horse. “How old are you?” she asked him.
“Thirty-four,” he said, staying on the other side of the horse. “And you?”
Rather than answering the question, she asked, “Is there a woman somewhere? Women?”
“Why would you ask that?”
She put the brush aside and walked around the horse, ducking under his secured lead, until she was on the same side as Clay. “Because you flirt and try to make a date with me in spite of the fact you’ve been told I’m committed elsewhere. So, who are you cheating on? Because you Navajo men have a sense of entitlement that I experienced growing up and I really don’t feel like playing these games with you. I like the horse. I know your kind and I—”
He had a patient smile on his lips as he gripped her upper arm with one large hand. He lifted her chin with a finger and planted a quick kiss on her mouth. She didn’t fight him. He knew he was supposed to be insulted by her little tirade, but he also sensed it was all an act, meant to keep him at a distance. “We might have grown up around all the same canyons, Lilly, and you might have known your share of Navajos, but I think you’re talking about boys, not men. The idiocy of boys supersedes all tribe and race connections. I know this from experience, believe me. Boys of all races are universally stupid about women. And you obviously didn’t know any Tahoma men. We don’t treat women that way. My mother would come out here and beat me if she caught wind of me using or disrespecting a woman. Now, are you over twenty-one?”
Shock settled over her face for a moment, then she burst into laughter. “Over twenty-one? For God’s sake,” she said, shaking her head. “I have a degree! I’m twenty-seven.”
He lifted one black brow and peered at her. Then he pulled her hands toward his chest, placed them there and lowered his lips to hers a second time. But this time it was not a little peck; this time he had a much more serious kiss in mind. He put his arms around her waist, pulled her closer and leaned way down—she was so small—and moved over her lips.
She tasted like berries. Or her lip gloss tasted like berries. Her hair smelled like Ivory soap, a clean, pure smell. And even after moving hay and feed all day, her skin smelled like fresh, sweet grass. He tightened his arms around her and could have stayed that way all day. But she pushed him aw
ay and Streak began to get restless. He let her go and smiled at her. “Twenty-seven is good,” he said.
“Get a grip,” she snapped. “Not gonna happen!”
“Oh, I hope you’re wrong,” he said, unable to hide a little laughter from his voice.
“I might have to tell my grandfather to have one of the guys from the store deliver here.”
“And not check on the horses?” he asked.
“It’s a sacrifice I’d be willing to make.”
But she hadn’t pushed him away immediately. She’d given it some thought and indulged for a while. He’d definitely felt her kissing him back. So he said, “That would be a tragedy.”
“Never do that again,” she warned. She picked up the brush and put it in his hand. “I mean it.”
“If that’s what you want,” he said with a nod.
“It is.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
It seemed as though she thought through her words before speaking. “Listen to me carefully. We have some things in common. A culture, for one thing. A couple of horses, for another. Nathaniel wouldn’t be going to all this trouble if Streak was an ordinary horse. If you do things like this—grabbing and kissing me—we can’t even be friends. Do you hear me?”
He gave his head a tilt. “Can we be friends?”
“If I can trust you.”
He put his hands up, palms toward her. “You can trust me. And I want to be friends. I want you to come back, mix it up with the horses. I think you have something important to offer. I want to watch and learn.”
A silent huff of laughter escaped her. She put her hands on her hips. “Learn from me? You’re the one with all the experience.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” he said. “So—I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again. And you can trust me. Come back as soon as you can.”
“I’ll think about it.” And with that, she left the stable. But she was immediately back. “Tell Nathaniel I’m going to pay for Blue’s board until I can find someone for her. Tell him not to move her out of Club Med. I’ll bring a check.” Then she disappeared again.
Clay began to brush Streak and very soon he heard her truck engine start and leave the area.
“Well,” he said to the horse, “I certainly can’t blame you for making me look like a fool.”
Six
Jack Sheridan used stencils to create a couple of signs announcing a town meeting. He’d hang one on the bar door, the other on the church door. The meeting was set to take place in the church in a few days. He had the pages laid out on the bar and lettered with colored markers. Mel sat across from him, leaning her chin on her palm, watching.
“You don’t have to do it this way,” Mel said.
“I know it,” he replied. “But I’m not much of an autocrat.”
Preacher stood beside Jack, leaning one hand on the bar, watching as he stenciled. “He was a helluva autocrat when we were in the Marines,” Preacher pointed out.
“A different situation entirely,” Jack said. “Hope left everything she had to the town. I’m just the custodian. I owe it to her to find out what the town wants and needs.”
“You’re going to get six hundred opinions,” Mel said. “Besides, Hope never asked anyone. I doubt she expected you to.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jack said, filling in letters with colorful markers. “That was her money. Now it’s the town’s money. Shouldn’t the town have a say in how it’s used?”
“No,” Mel and Preacher said together. Then they looked at each other in surprise.
“You know the saying—too many cooks in the kitchen,” Mel said. “And also, there’s nothing in her will saying it has to be dealt with right away, or used at all. It can be invested, saved for a real emergency.”
“I’ll suggest that option at the meeting,” Jack said.
Jack had gone to visit the lawyer who had drawn up the will and trust; it turned out there was a lot of money invested in long-term stocks and bonds, in addition to the house, its contents and land—several million. Now, to a man like Jack, that was a fortune. But as the lawyer quickly pointed out, the budget to run a town, even a very small town, was usually considerably higher. This would at least partially explain why Hope had always kept a firm hand on the bottom line, invested cautiously and conservatively, and when she did spend money—like on hiring Mel as the town midwife or Mike Valenzuela as the town cop—the salaries she offered were not exactly impressive. Of course, also important to remember, Hope had done this out of the goodness of her bank account and no one in town held a meeting or contributed to those salaries. Doc Mullins had worked Mel into his practice then bequeathed the practice to her, relieving Hope of the expense. But as far as Jack could tell, Mike’s modest salary was still being paid out of the Virgin River Trust.
“I hope I’m not spoiling a surprise,” Mel said, “but Noah’s going to make you an offer on behalf of the Presbyterian Women. If you can see your way clear to cut us in on some of the profits, the women’s group could volunteer to get in that old house and sort, clean, pitch and restore items. We could hold an estate sale, and the town and the Presbyterian Women would both benefit. And since our women’s group serves both the church and the town, it probably works into your plan.”
He looked up from his work. He tilted his head and his eyes were large. “That’s a very good idea,” Jack said. “But, Melinda, it’s a monumental job. How soon do you think the women can get to it?”
“Right away, I imagine.”
“It could take forever,” Jack pointed out.
“Nah,” Mel said, shaking her head. “Not only are we a highly motivated group we expect some help from the Presbyterian Husbands.” Then she grinned at him.
“I don’t recall signing up for that group,” Jack said.
“Comes with the territory, sweetheart. The Presbyterian Women are kinda busy with the Presbyterian Children and various jobs. Plus, it’s bound to be heavy work and we’ll be in need of some muscle.” She reached across the bar and gave his biceps a pinch. “We’ll be needing our big, strong, handsome partners.”
“Why don’t you ever flirt with me like that when you don’t want something?”
“I’m monitoring the size of your head,” she explained patiently. “This town meeting thing, Jack, I don’t know…”
“What’s the alternative? Just sit on the house, land and bankbook like some king, doling it out as I like? What’s to prevent me from just giving Valenzuela a big raise and adding on to the bar and calling it a town hall?”
“Well, besides your ethics, nothing. But Hope was very realistic in choosing you for this job—she knew you wouldn’t do anything like that unless it was in the best interest of the town. And a good option would be a small board of directors to assist—one member who’s good with finances, one with legal experience, one who knows town management, et cetera. It doesn’t have to be a voting board, but more of a planning committee to assist you, because she really did give you a big job.”
“Hope and everyone else. I used to be a bartender. Now I’m a church deacon who practically never went to church, an unelected mayor who never had an interest in running for office, a banker and soon-to-be renovator and real estate mogul. This town needs to delegate responsibility a little better.”
She laughed at him, knowing he loved all the attention. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“But see, I don’t want to be king of the town purse.”
“Well, you will. As soon as you’re faced with six hundred wannabe kings and queens trying to jump on your throne with some far-out ideas of how to spend that money. Speaking of money, Hope very cleverly never told anyone how much there was. I’m sure it was so that she wasn’t overwhelmed with requests. Are you planning to tell?”
“Don’t I have to? If it’s the town’s money?”
“I’d talk to a lawyer with estate experience about that. Hey—Erin Foley! She’s an estate attorney and the family has that renovated cabin now. Plu
s she’s hooked up to Aiden Riordan, who has family nearby, so they’ll be spending enough time here to have a vested interest!” She leaned toward him. “Jack, don’t tell what the bottom line is before you know whether you absolutely have to. People get very strange when they think they have money burning a hole in their pockets.”
“But it’s not their money!” Jack insisted.
“That’s not going to matter,” said Preacher, who had been pretty quiet until now. “Haven’t you ever read about those Lotto winners whose lives are destroyed by their windfall?”
“You really think that could happen here?” Jack asked. “This is a good little town!”
“Goodness and opportunity don’t always meet on level ground,” Mel said.
Both Jack and Preacher straightened suddenly. “Whoa,” Jack said. “Is that like from the Dalai Lama or something?”
“No, that’s an original Melinda Sheridan. Or, you could try this one on for size, since I bet it fits you to a T. No good deed shall go unpunished.” She took a last sip of her diet cola. “I gotta go. We have patients this afternoon. Good luck with this.” She whirled off her stool and headed out the door.
Jack stared after her. “Why didn’t Hope make her the custodian?”
“Executor and administrator,” Preacher corrected. “Personally, I think Hope’s watching and getting a big laugh out of it.” And with that, Preacher went back to the kitchen and Jack was left alone.
Alone with one final thought: We still haven’t decided what to do with Hope’s ashes. Don’t we have to scatter her ashes before we start spending her money?
He thought he heard a distant, gravelly laugh.
Jack struggled with his dilemma for a few days. He tried not to talk about it too much, but if the bar was quiet and someone he knew to be a trusted friend happened upon his path, he was susceptible to spilling his guts. But the last person he expected walked in the door—Luke Riordan.