Chance Meeting

by Laura Moore

  Never could Ty have imagined such glorious passion. Nor could she ever have imagined that they would be interrupted at a time like this.

  By a man, leaning against the pasture’s wooden fence, yelling Steve’s name, making the two of them jump the proverbial mile apart—as if, instead of heated flesh, they had grasped live wires. After the sweet inferno of Steve’s embrace, the air around Ty seemed arctic, slicing through flesh right to the bone. Too shaken by the intensity of their kiss and her response, it took her several seconds before she realized that one of the reasons she felt the cold so acutely was that Steve had made quick work of the buttons on her sweater. She was standing in a pasture, her sweater hanging from her elbows. Cheeks flaming, Ty tucked her chin, her fingers fumbling with the bone buttons on her cardigan, her eyes darting nervously between her fingers’ clumsy effort and the stranger who approached, eating up the distance from the barn to the grave with a long-legged stride.

  Panicked at the thought that he’d be upon them with her sweater half undone, Ty gave a strangled sound of distress. Then Steve was there, standing before her, screening the man’s approach.

  “Here, let me help,” he offered, covering her hands with his own. She could hear the smile in his voice. As if of their own volition, Ty’s hands dropped away, and her eyes lifted, locking with his. Calmly, deftly, Steve restored the sweater to rights.

  “You’re awfully good at this.” A touch resentful that he appeared so unaffected by their kiss, so unfazed by the fact someone was practically upon them. Though, of course, it wasn’t he who was half undressed.

  “You should be grateful I inherited my pop’s hands. Best hands in the country,” Steve boasted with a grin that would have caused an eighty-year-old granny to blush. Ty was no less unaffected.

  “It’s too bad Bubba couldn’t have timed his visit a little-better,” Steve murmured as his mouth dropped to nuzzle the soft, subtly perfumed flesh just below her ear. “Things were just getting interesting.” He moved his lips down, pressing against the thin silver chain around her neck, enjoying the contrasting textures of metal and warm skin, wanting nothing more than to resume his previous exploration. Undo all those buttons, one by one, slip his hands beneath that provocative camisole Ty was wearing, and treat himself to what he’d find underneath. Breasts gently rounded. And braless. Just thinking about it nearly destroying him.

  When he heard Bubba call out, “Yo, Shepp, you still running a horse farm?” far too near to where he and Ty were standing, Steve groaned softly, forced to settle for one last chaste kiss on Ty’s brow. Reluctantly, he stepped back, creating a respectable, wholly unwelcome, distance between Ty and himself.

  “Bubba, great to see you.” Only wish you could have shown up an hour later.

  “Shepp, looking good, man.” A huge grin split his dark complexion, and his eyes moved back and forth between Steve and Ty. Steve couldn’t blame Bubba for being curious. He and Steve went way back, and Steve previously had always been the soul of discretion when it came to women.

  “You weren’t BS-ing me, were you, Shepp, when you said my old job was waiting?”

  “Hell, no, Bubba. Damn, I’m glad you decided to come back!” Steve extended his hand and shook the other man’s heartily, his left one clasping Bubba’s muscular shoulder. Steve turned to Ty. A flush still colored her cheeks, and her eyes were so large, Steve could discern the fine black ring at the edge of her irises, encircling paler, light-flecked gray, reminding him of a storm-tossed ocean at dusk. Turbulent and wild. The traces of passion lingering on Ty’s face made a vivid contrast to the sweater once more demurely buttoned, hiding skin he knew was smooth as silk. Steve fought the impulse to get rid of Bubba fast and drag Ty off somewhere they could be blessedly alone once more. No, he decided regretfully, this thing between them would have to wait. Bubba was key, absolutely essential to Southwind’s smooth operation. There were few men Steve trusted as he did Bubba around his horses. He was the best.

  “Ty, meet Bubba Rollins, my newly rehired stable manager. Took a thirty-percent raise, six games of pool, and an unlimited supply of Rolling Rock during the negotiations to get him to come back to Southwind. I even sweetened the deal a bit and let him win the last two games,” Steve said, grinning at Bubba’s immediate and noisy protest. “Bubba, this is Ty Stannard. My new partner, your new boss.”

  Ty’s hand disappeared into the huge grip of the man standing before her. His size dwarfed her, too, easily topping six foot four. Bubba’s head was shaved, revealing a dark, shiny dome, emphasizing the strong bone structure of his face. A small gold hoop pierced his right ear. A black denim jacket covered his wide shoulders; underneath that a dark green hooded sweatshirt. Blue jeans and big (Ty would guess size fourteen), well-worn workboots accompanied the attire.

  Ty’s eyes lifted to find his had been inspecting her equally closely. Her shoulder blades snapped back as she met Bubba’s gaze, painfully aware of how she must look: covered from head to toe in a thick layer of dirt, hair falling in straggly strands about her face. Unlike Bubba Rollins, not terribly impressive.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Rollins.”

  “Bubba,” he corrected her with an easy smile. “We don’t stand on formality here, do we, Shepp?” He hadn’t missed the deep blush coloring her high cheekbones nor her swollen lips, stained a darker rose. Yes sir, Ty Stannard had just been well and truly kissed. And from the glaze of shock darkening those gray eyes, Bubba guessed it wasn’t something that happened frequently. Had to be a story behind that one, he thought. She was too fine-looking a woman not to have men buzzing about her, bees on honeysuckle.

  “So, Shepp; so, Ty,” Bubba added deliberately, waiting the space of several heartbeats for her to protest, waiting to see if she was one of those stuck-up ones, another Allegra Palmer perhaps. Pleased when Ty didn’t object to a black man from the wrong side of the tracks calling her by her first name. That was ten points in her favor right there.

  They didn’t need the likes of Allegra Palmer around here anymore. She’d always thought a mite too much of herself, insisting Bubba address her as “Ms. Palmer” when everyone else at Southwind was on a first-name basis. What a spoiled thirty-year-old brat she’d been.

  In Bubba’s opinion, the only good thing that had come out of the tragedy of Fancy Free’s death was that Allegra Palmer and her family had left the barn, her parents too blind, too hypocritical, to admit that Allegra’s antics, her messing around with Jason Belmar, had been one of the key factors that caused the whole stinking mess.

  “Well, now, you two planning on getting this stable up and running so I got more to do than twiddle my thumbs?”

  “Yeah, we’re working on it,” Steve replied, not needing to look over at Ty to know her expression would be one of comical disbelief.

  Okay, so they hadn’t exactly been working on it together, but that could change. Steve was willing to admit that his belligerent attitude of the past few days was as clever, and useful, as shooting himself in the foot. Ty was too strong a woman to be put off either by hostility or by hard work. And he’d begun to like her too damn much to continue being the jerk of the millennium.

  If he wanted to regain control of Southwind, he’d have to come up with a better game plan. Right now, however, they might as well see just what they could accomplish working together instead of against each other. Steve steadfastly ignored how much the white-hot passion with which Ty had responded to his kisses influenced this sudden change of heart.

  Well, wasn’t this an interesting piece of news? So now she and Steve were a team, working together. Of course, had that truly been the case, then she undoubtedly would have been aware of Steve’s decision to rehire Bubba Rollins—not that Ty didn’t approve wholeheartedly. Southwind needed a stable manager, as well as at least a half dozen grooms, to ensure smooth operation once the barn was again filled to capacity. Wealthy owners expected nothing less than the best for their horses: pristine grounds, immaculate stalls, gleaming tack, horses ca
red for like pampered royalty. For Southwind to offer that kind of deluxe environment, capable and responsible manpower was required. If Bubba Rollins represented the first step, then great.

  But to believe Steve’s smooth talk, that he might truly be prepared to work productively with Ty, well, she’d reserve judgment on that. She needed further proof of just how much Steve was willing to share with her.

  Sharing. She would not think about the kiss. Not now. Its intensity had rocked Ty profoundly. In its wake, she was left unsettled and confused. Not knowing how to act, how to think, not fully comfortable with or even trusting Steve’s abrupt change of attitude.

  She needed to get away, regroup and regain her sense of balance, her sense of self. “I’m sure you and Bubba need time to discuss ‘our’ plans,” Ty offered, stressing the last. Steve wasn’t going to get the satisfaction of thinking his kisses had turned her head to total mush— though they had. She bent down, intending to grab the handles of the wheelbarrow, but Steve intercepted her. “Here, I’ll

  get that,” he said, gently but firmly moving her aside. “You’ve got a real thing about shouldering responsibilities, don’t you? Bubba, you’ll have to watch her on that.”

  “That’ll be a nice change,” Bubba replied as the three of them began walking toward the barn.

  “By the way, Bubba, we got a saddle around here that could fit Ty?”

  “A saddle for me?” Ty’s voice squeaked in surprise.

  “Yeah. I was thinking you could warm up Macintosh for me while I ride Cantata. I’m running late, what with one thing and another, and I’ve got an appointment with the insurance agent this afternoon.”

  “But I couldn’t possibly . . .”

  “Sure you could. You told me you’ve ridden before.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Did you show?” Steve asked, not giving her a chance to finish.

  “Yes, I was competing in Junior Jumper before I gave up riding. But that doesn’t mean . . .”

  “Means you can’t be too awful, or else you’d have quit the sport much sooner. You get to that level, and you’ve got to be pretty good. Too easy to wind up with a broken neck otherwise. Nothing to worry about, anyway. Macintosh is super-forgiving, and I’ll be keeping a real close eye on you.” He gave a quick grin as though that was all the reassurance she needed, but when he turned to ask Bubba a question, he missed Ty’s finger involuntarily tracing the scar on the side of her eyebrow. “So, Bubba, you think you can find one?”

  “Yup.” Bubba nodded. “I seem to remember one left here a while back.” Man, did he remember. Damned hard to forget the temper tantrum Allegra Palmer threw the day after she left her three-thousand-dollar Herm?s saddle out in the pouring rain and was told in no uncertain terms by Steve that she’d have to re-oil it herself; Bubba had better things to do with his time than salvage equipment ruined through gross negligence. The noise that woman had made! The way Allegra had practically screamed the barn down, you’d have thought Steve was forcing her to clean every scrap of leather at Southwind. Bubba was certain Allegra’s saddle was still in some corner of the tack room, still sporting discoloring water stains. For when Steve hadn’t relented, Allegra had simply driven into the city and purchased a brand new Herm?s at Miller’s. All so she wouldn’t have to spend an hour or so oiling her own saddle.

  Terrific, Ty thought, when Bubba nodded his head and said he’d get right on it. A cold knot of anxiety settled like a weight in the pit of her stomach at the prospect of getting back on a horse for the first time in eight years, her every move—correct that, her every blunder—noted by Steve’s expert eye. Kind of like playing a round of golf with Tiger Woods. Or stepping out on the dance floor with Gene Kelly. She could refuse, but mulish stubbornness kept her quiet.

  So much for having a chance to regroup, to recover her emotional equilibrium after the tumult of Steve’s kisses.

  19

  A t least she’d gotten to run back to the house, change into her breeches, grab a cinnamon raisin bagel, and guzzle down a cup of lukewarm coffee before facing the music—Macintosh, that is. Steve had hustled her off to the house, saying that he and Bubba would get the horses ready while she changed. Breathe! Ty commanded herself repeatedly, whenever she felt close to hyperventilating. True, Macintosh wasn’t some old hack that would plod around a ring in a semicomatose state, indifferent to the rider on its back. But she’d ridden before, owned a horse for years. For Pete’s sake, she’d even shown in hunter, equitation, and junior jumper classes. Surely she’d be able to pull this off and ride adequately enough not to make a complete fool of herself.

  Sure, a nasty voice inside her head sneered back, but it would be a whole lot easier to impress Steve with your riding skills if you hadn’t been so darned stubborn these past eight years. Well, she’d heard that riding after a long break was basically just like the old adage about getting back on a bicycle: one never forgot.

  Oh, of course, that persistent voice mocked. A bike and a thousand pounds of horse with a mind of its own? Sure thing, the similarities are endless!

  Forgetting to breathe again, Ty choked on a mouthful of bagel, feeling it scrape its way down her throat, all the while praying that Macintosh was indeed as forgiving as Steve promised.

  “So Shepp, you going to fill me in on my new boss? Like where you found her?” Bubba had rooted around the tack room and finally unearthed Allegra Palmer’s old saddle. He’d propped it up on the lower half of a stall door and was carefully rubbing conditioner into the abused leather. This was the best he could do right now. Later on, he’d oil the entire saddle thoroughly, coaxing the leather back to life. Next to him, Macintosh was hooked to the cross ties, standing patiently while Steve went over the horse’s shiny chestnut coat with a bristle brush.

  “I didn’t. She found me. Ty’s father is this big real estate guy. Ever heard of Stannard Limited? Yeah, just about everyone has. Anyway, she came to me with this idea of helping me get Southwind back in business if I agreed to a partnership. She was convinced her father was about to buy up the property and develop it.”

  “Develop it? Turn Southwind into lots of rich city creeps’ houses? I like this woman already.”

  “Yeah, it would have killed me, too, Bubba.” Steve bent over and ran his hand down Mac’s foreleg and fished a hoof pick from the back of his pocket. Two careful strokes along the frog of the hoof, and it was clean.

  “Bubba, we need to get the farrier out here before New York. I hate the footing at the Garden.”

  “Will do,” Bubba answered. Then, refusing to abandon their previous topic of conversation, he asked in a bland voice, “So, was that why you were acting so grateful to her out in the pasture?”

  Steve shot him a dirty look before ducking underneath Macintosh’s neck to pick out the second hoof.

  “Hell, no. Nothing to do with it. She’d gone and picked up two apple trees at a nursery this morning. Wanted to plant them for Fancy.”

  “Nice idea.” Bubba paused, his sponge suspended over the saddle’s pommel, thinking it over. “Real nice.”

  “Yeah. Kind of floored me, to tell you the truth. Then one thing led to another . . .”

  “Uh-huh.” Bubba’s voice rumbled. “Well, that explains it, then.”

  “What explains what?” Steve asked, positioning the chestnut’s rear leg against the top of his thigh.

  “Why you can’t keep your eyes off her. Never seen that look in your eye around a woman before.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? I don’t look at her in any particular way at all. And you’ve been here how long, half an hour? Kind of jumping to conclusions, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t think so, boss man. You and I go back close to eleven years. You’re looking at her, all right, real speciallike. Surprises the heck out of me. I swear, I thought you only looked at TBs that way.”

  “Thoroughbreds?” Steve clarified dryly. Finished with Macintosh’s hooves, Steve grabbed the bridle hanging on a nearby hook
and walked over to the cross ties. Unsnapping them, he slipped the reins over Mac’s head, and unbuckled the horse’s leather halter.

  Bubba came up beside him, placed a snow-white saddle pad on Macintosh’s withers, then lightly deposited the Herm?s saddle on top of it. The leather conditioner he’d used had already soaked into the fine grain of the saddle, like rain in the desert.

  “Yeah, thoroughbreds, TBs,” he repeated, picking up the thread of their conversation. Reaching underneath Macintosh’s belly, he grabbed the girth that Steve normally used on the gelding and slipped it through the looped end of the martingale before fastening it. Macintosh gave a quick toss of his huge head at the sensation of the girth tightening around him.

  “And what have thoroughbreds got to do with it?” Steve asked, despite the fact that he wasn’t sure he really wanted to hear Bubba’s answer.

  “See, that’s what makes it interesting.’Cause it means you’re definitely broadening your horizons, Shepp. This is the first time I’ve ever seen you salivating over a TFB. In case you don’t know it, that stands for

  ‘trust fund baby.’ ”

  A sudden, dangerous blue, Steve’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not suggesting I’m after her money, are you, Bubba?” he asked softly, holding the other man’s gaze.

  “Hell, no.” Bubba shook his head calmly, unperturbed. “ ’Course not. If you’d been interested in rich chicks, you could have had your pick long before now. Allegra was ready to hop in the sack with you any day, any time, all you had to do was say the word. Her family could have kept you in million-dollar horses for the rest of your life. This Ty Stannard must have something extra special—other than looks and money,” Bubba mused. His mouth widened in a crafty smile. “You figured out what it is yet?”