She wasn’t worried about Ranger. Though pain could make any man or beast unpredictable, he was a gentle soul. She suspected he was also confused by the change in his circumstances, as evidenced by the departure of the ranch’s former owner and the arrival of Patrick Stafford in his stead, and her heart went out to the animal.
“I can’t believe Gus left you behind,” she lamented aloud. “But maybe there aren’t a lot of places to stable a horse in a retirement community in Arizona. And a horse born and bred in Nevada probably wouldn’t like Arizona much, anyway.”
She’d heard rumors about the old rancher selling, but it was only when she’d turned into the gravel drive and saw the freshly painted barn bearing the new logo of Silver Star Ranch that she realized they were true. A couple of rough years had resulted in the Sterling Ranch teetering on the edge of bankruptcy and one more would have pushed it over, so she could hardly blame Gus for looking for a way out.
But she did blame him for selling to Patrick Stafford—and she definitely blamed the new owner for the horse’s nasty injury. The man obviously knew nothing about ranching and even less about caring for the animals that had apparently been entrusted to him as part of the deal.
A deal that would turn the failing ranch into a tourist attraction.
A dude ranch, for Christ’s sake.
As if she needed any more proof that Patrick Stafford was just a bored rich guy playing at being a cowboy and opening his doors to other bored rich guys who wanted to do the same thing.
It was only too bad he didn’t appear to have the soft, pale body of a man who’d spent his life behind a desk and under artificial light. Instead, he was tall with broad shoulders and lean hips, looking very much like the rancher he was pretending to be.
And if the checkered shirt with the polo pony embroidered on the chest pocket and distressed designer-label jeans detracted a little from the authenticity of the cowboy image, he was handsome enough to compensate, with sun-bleached sandy-brown hair, tanned skin, surprisingly green eyes, a straight nose, thin lips and a strong jaw shadowed with stubble. But aside from his hard body and striking good looks, he possessed an aura of confidence that added to his overall appeal.
Of course, Patrick Stafford had probably been born with swagger. Certainly he’d had it even in high school. Though she hadn’t known him back then, she’d known who he was, because his mother was a Blake and the Blakes were the wealthiest family in Haven, Nevada. And Blake Mining was the town’s single biggest employer—which made her wonder why he’d chosen to leave the family business to embark on this new venture. Not that she was going to ask. After all, his rationale had nothing to do with her reason for being at his ranch.
And though Brooke wasn’t ordinarily the type of woman who got all tongue-tied or weak-kneed in the presence of a handsome man, she’d definitely felt a quiver of something low in her belly when Patrick looked at her. It had been a long time since she’d experienced such an immediate attraction to a man—eight years, in fact—and she was unnerved by her response to this man now. Thankfully, she was a lot older and wiser than she’d been eight years earlier, and she had a much better understanding of what was at stake.
So she pushed her personal observations of the rancher aside to focus on her task. When she was done, Ranger gently bumped her shoulder with his nose, as if to say thank you.
She rubbed her palm over his cheek. “You’re very welcome. But try to remember—as tempting as unlatched gates might be, it’s not safe to wander off on your own.”
He blew out a breath, as if to sigh, and she smiled.
“Do you always talk to your patients?” Patrick asked curiously.
Brooke hadn’t heard him return and started now at the sound of his voice, but she responded to the question without missing a beat.
“Always,” she confirmed. “I mean, I’m no Doctor Dolittle, but I believe the animals understand my tone and intent if not the actual words.”
“Ranger certainly seems to,” he acknowledged. Then, offering the mug he carried, he added, “Your coffee.”
“Oh, um, thanks.”
She took the mug and lifted it to her lips. It was strong and hot, just the way she liked it, though she hadn’t wanted the drink so much as she’d wanted him not hovering while she tended to the injured horse.
“I was wondering about something you said earlier,” he commented now.
“I said a lot of things—and held a lot more back,” she admitted.
He smiled, and damn if that smile didn’t do funny things to her insides.
Older and wiser, she reminded herself.
And with so much more to lose.
“You said that you were more interested in Ranger than the man paying the bill,” he said, as if to prod her memory.
“You’re still going to get a bill,” she promised.
“I would expect so,” he said. “But are you at least a little bit interested?”
She frowned as she took another sip of coffee. “What?”
“Being ‘more interested’ in Ranger suggests you’re still interested in me. Doesn’t it?” he asked hopefully.
“I’m definitely interested in being paid,” she told him. “But Larissa—the clinic manager—will send you the bill.”
“You’re sidestepping my question,” he noted.
“Actually, I’m waiting for you to stop talking so I can give you instructions for Ranger’s follow-up care.”
He inclined his head, a silent invitation to her to continue.
“His dressing will need to be changed daily until the wound is healed,” she told him. “Do you have any ichthammol ointment?”
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“I’ll leave some and add it to the bill,” she decided.
“What about changing the dressing? Will you come back to do that?” he asked.
She shook her head. “That shouldn’t be necessary.”
“Let me rephrase,” he said. “Can you please come back to do that?”
She was surprised by the request. “Do you have any idea what it will cost to have me come back out here to change a bandage?”
“I don’t care what it costs,” he told her.
Of course he didn’t.
And because he didn’t, she shrugged. “In that case, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” His quick smile conveyed relief and gratitude. “And how about tonight?”
“He’ll be fine tonight,” she assured him.
“I wasn’t asking for Ranger,” he said. “I was asking if I could see you tonight.”
“No.”
“Just for a drink,” he cajoled.
Then he smiled again—this time a deliberately slow and sensual curve of his lips that had undoubtedly melted the resistance of many other women. Thankfully, experience had immunized Brooke against such obvious ploys.
She hoped.
“Or dinner, if you prefer,” he said, when she didn’t immediately respond.
“No and no,” she replied, wondering how it was possible that he didn’t already have a date lined up. Because it wasn’t only a Friday—it was Valentine’s Day.
Not that the occasion was a big deal to Brooke. It didn’t matter to her that she wouldn’t get chocolates or flowers, because she would be spending the night with the most important guy in her life.
“Tomorrow, then?” he suggested as an alternative.
She was flattered. And flustered.
But definitely not interested.
She shook her head. “No.”
Still, he wasn’t dissuaded. “Are you seeing someone?”
“How is that any of your business?”
“I’m curious about my competition,” he said.
“There’s no competition,” she told him. “I’m not dating anyone right now and I’m not interested in datin
g anyone, especially not a pretend cowboy who doesn’t have the sense to latch a paddock gate.”
“Ouch,” he said, feigning hurt.
Or maybe his pride really was wounded.
She didn’t imagine a man as handsome and wealthy as Patrick Stafford heard the word no very often.
And perhaps her response had been a little harsh, not to mention unprofessional.
Yes, it frustrated her that an innocent animal had paid the price for his mistake, and it annoyed her that even now he didn’t seem to realize there could be lasting repercussions for Ranger as a result of the injury. But she knew as well as anyone that busy people sometimes missed little details.
An unlatched gate.
A loose stirrup.
An expired condom.
Each one had repercussions.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was uncalled for and possibly unfair.”
“If you were really sorry, you’d offer to buy me a drink,” he said, adding a wink for good measure.
She was grateful he’d accepted her apology—and irritated by his inability to take a hint.
“I’m not going to do that,” she said. “But I will give you the ichthammol ointment at cost.”
“Of course, I have no idea what ‘cost’ is,” he acknowledged.
“About thirty percent less than you’d pay at the feed store,” she told him, as she returned her equipment to her pack and zipped it up.
“A bargain,” he decided. “Maybe I could put those savings toward a meal at The Home Station with you.”
“You really don’t understand the word no, do you?”
“I understand the word,” he assured her. “I just thought, since it’s getting close to dinnertime and we both have to eat, we might as well eat together.”
She glanced at her watch. “Actually, it is almost dinnertime, which means that I just might make it home in time to eat with Brendan for a change.”
He frowned at that. “Who’s Brendan?”
“My seven-year-old son.”
Copyright © 2020 by Brenda Harlen
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ISBN: 9781488069468
For the Twins’ Sake
Copyright © 2020 by Melissa Senate
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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