Waiting For Yes

by Claire Ashgrove

  She turned a defiant look on him, as if the suggestion bordered on insane. “I’ll get him.” Extending the long whip out in front of her, she casually swayed it back and forth, a gentle movement meant to gain the horse’s attention. Jake surmised her effort included swinging the stallion’s haunches around, away from her.

  It worked. In triplicate.

  The horse wheeled around. He backed up with the precision of a champion reiner until his butt collided with the sliding metal door. In less time than it took to blink, he startled forward, heading directly for Jake.

  “Son of a bitch,” Jake muttered as he leapt to the side.

  Trapped in the small feed enclosure, wedged between stacked square bales of hay and heavy bins of what must hold grain, the horse danced uneasily, his hooves slipping on the concrete floor.

  Jake stood at his rear, gauging his options. Let Gabrielle try again, as he knew she would, and let that horse hurt her, or step in and handle the situation before it became a disaster. No way would he stand by and watch her get injured. Not when he possessed the ability to prevent it.

  He snatched a long lead rope off the wall and moved in front of the narrow opening, blocking Gabrielle’s entrance. Cautiously, he set a booted foot on the concrete pad and eased around the stallion’s hind end and atop a low row of hay.

  “Easy, eeeasy.” As she’d done, he spoke in a low, soothing voice.

  Aligned with the horse’s haunches, he set his hand on his flank and applied gentle pressure.

  As expected, the stallion pushed forward, trying to escape the contact. But with nowhere to go, no way to turn around, he could only prance in place.

  Using the distraction to his advantage, Jake looped the rope around the horse’s hind end, like he would have to guide a colt. A butt rope, of sorts. Makeshift, but his only real option.

  He tightened the loose loop until it lay taut just above the horse’s hocks and took the clamp end in his other hand. Facing the horse sideways, Jake waited until the horse settled. He made no effort to move any closer to his head until those white hooves stopped drilling a nervous beat. All the while, he crooned softly. His right hand held the butt rope steady. His left hand worked a slow, steady motion across the stallion’s hide.

  When the horse dropped his head and pressed that wide blaze into the wall, Jake inched forward. He slid his hand along the stallion’s back, creeping steadily toward his withers, his neck. He let out small lengths of rope, giving himself room to advance, but kept the pressure on the rope, forbidding the creature to back out of the narrow area.

  At the stallion’s withers, Jake slid his hand beneath the long silky mane. Beneath his fingertips, sleek muscles tensed. The stallion lifted his head a fraction, his weight ever-so-slightly shifting to his hindquarters.

  Holding his breath, praying for the best, Jake tightened the butt rope.

  The horse’s front hooves tap-danced over the concrete as he sat back on his haunches.

  Damn! Jake ground his teeth together as he strained against the animal’s weight. He used his strength to forbid the stallion from moving even a fraction backward. His arm burned with the effort, his muscles protested by twitching.

  “Whoa.” He forced his voice to remain level and calm.

  Clasp end in his free hand, Jake did the only thing possible. He couldn’t fight the horse, and the harder he pulled on the loop imprisoning him, the more the animal struggled. With a quick upward glance for divine assistance, he thrust his arm beneath the stallion’s head and snapped the lead onto the gold loop beneath his chin.

  Beast now caught, Jake let up the pressure and grabbed the end of the lead with both hands.

  The stallion scuttled backward, rushing out of the feed room in obvious terror.

  Jake sank his weight into his legs to brace against the inevitable pull. When it came, he held the lead fast, forbidding the creature to jerk the rope through his hands, to break free, to even turn around.

  In defiant protest, the stallion swung his head side to side. His forelock whipped over his eyes wildly.

  Behind the horse, Jake glimpsed Gabrielle. Hands on her hips, she glared at him.

  “Open his stall,” he barked.

  “It’s open,” she answered in a clipped, bitter tone.

  What the hell was her problem?

  A fierce tug on the rope refused to let him ponder the question further. Giving the stallion an annoyed look, Jake grabbed another fistful of lead rope and brought himself closer to the horse. “Listen here, asshole. You’re going in your stall, and I’m leading you there. Not the other way around.”

  With each step, he collected more rope and shortened the distance between himself and the horse. Every time he moved closer, the stallion took a step backward, and his head rose a little higher into the air. When Jake stood at the horse’s shoulder, the animal protested violently. He reared, elongating himself in near-perfect vertical alignment. His hooves struck at the air above Jake’s head.

  “Whoa,” Jake bellowed. He gave the rope a strong jerk and brought the animal’s hooves back to the ground in one swift motion. Allowing the horse no time to think about reacting, he pulled him around so he faced the aisle.

  The beast tried to lunge forward, but Jake pushed his weight into the horse’s shoulder. The closer the better. As long as he could control the rear, he could get the stupid thing inside a stall.

  Step by step, they fought each other, a clash of wills as well as strength. In the end, reason outmaneuvered instinct, and Jake gained the upper hand. Through a combination of sideways steps and forward tugs, he managed to escort the horse to the center stall that stood open and ready.

  But at the doorway, a whole new fight broke out. Nothing Jake tried would coerce the horse to set even one foot inside the freshly bedded enclosure. At his limits, and exhausted, Jake glanced over his shoulder at Gabrielle.

  “Touch him in the butt with that whip, would you?”

  Looking none to happy to assist, she did as he requested. The horse went up, instead of forward, pulling an angry oath from Jake’s throat as he rose to tiptoe to keep a hold of the creature.

  “Christ, just smack him,” he growled.

  Gabrielle did as instructed, targeting the stallion’s hocks, not his rump.

  Goosed forward, the horse bolted into the stall. When he hit the end of the lead, he swung around to face Jake.

  With a grunt, Gabrielle slid the door shut, leaving it open only far enough so Jake could reel the horse close to the opening, slide his hand inside, and unsnap the lead. She pushed the door the rest of the way closed and dropped the latch into place.

  In less time than it took to exhale in relief, the stallion erupted inside the stall. He reared and bucked, his whinnies violent protests that ricocheted off the walls.

  “He’s going to kill himself in there,” she murmured.

  “No, he won’t. And if he does, it’s probably better off that way.” Jake couldn’t keep his venom at bay. Crazy fucking horse. Gabrielle had no business trying to do anything with that stallion.

  But the look she shot him said in no uncertain terms, she didn’t appreciate his remark. He groaned inwardly. Damn it. Bleeding heart horsewomen. Exactly what he’d expected.

  “You could thank me, you know.”

  She let out a snort. “For jumping in when you could have gotten yourself killed? Just because you worked with a few horses in your youth doesn’t mean you know everything, Jake Sullivan. You got lucky.”

  He blinked. Lucky? Luck didn’t have anything to do with it. Well, maybe a little, but not like she meant it.

  “Listen here, Gabby, that horse is dangerous. The best thing you can do with him is put him down. Fetch me a gun, and I’ll save you the trouble of calling out the vet.”

  Her eyes glittered like ice as she leveled him with a deadly stare. “Keep your hands off my horses. Got it?”

  Without another word, she spun on her heel and stomped out of the barn.

  Fighting down absol
ute fury, Jake leaned his shoulder against the stall and stared at the horse. What the hell was it about women and nutty horses? Why couldn’t they just listen to reason? His mother had paid the ultimate price for not heeding his advice. And Gabrielle lugged home the same sort of psychotic thing.

  The stallion tossed his head, flinging his mane to the opposite side of his neck. Jake’s head snapped up. His gaze riveted on the horse’s shoulder, his chest suddenly too tight to let his lungs expand.

  Glinting in the faint light from the overhead row of windows, a long, jagged scar ran from the point of his withers across the triangular portion of his neck, just above his shoulder. The hair grew in white, a stark contrast to the otherwise golden-fringed sheen of his dark chestnut coat.

  He’d earned that scar while committing murder.

  Jesus Christ, Gabrielle had brought home Mamoon.

  Chapter Eleven

  In one felling blow, memories dropped Jake to his knees. He sank to his elbows, his head in his hands, as he fought a rolling wave of nausea. A long-ago conversation pounded through his mind.

  “Send that maniac back, Mother!”

  “No, I won’t. You know the future he’ll face if we don’t work through this attitude.”

  “We? There’s no we to this. I’m not touching Mamoon. You want the liability, you handle it yourself. Alone.”

  She’d done exactly that, never again approaching him for help. As sure as he’d held firm on the matter, he’d sentenced his mother to death. He’d killed her long before Mamoon’s hooves struck her in the head.

  Three years of running from the memories and guilt—and he stared at the same damn horse he’d done everything to forget. The same stallion who should be in the ground.

  Biting back the bitter taste of bile, Jake clawed at the stall door and hauled himself upright.

  Pull yourself together!

  He couldn’t let Gabrielle see him like this. He’d have to explain…to confess…

  With a fierce shake of his head, he cleared the ringing in his ears. Careful to avoid looking at the murderous beast, he used the stalls for support and pulled himself toward the exit off the feed room.

  Mamoon alive…

  Christ, he had to get out of here. Out of the barn, out of Ransom—away from Gabrielle.

  At the door, he gulped down lungfuls of frigid air. The cold washed over his perspiring body, a welcome chill that combated the churning in his gut. He closed his eyes, braced one hand on the doorframe, and willed his heart to stop its erratic hammering.

  The goddamn horse was alive, and Jake would bet money the Sheffields had sold him to Gabrielle. That would explain the shady disclosures, the carefully coordinated references. She’d been suckered, and she was lucky her attempt at capturing Mamoon hadn’t turned out worse.

  He had to talk sense into her. One way or the other, he had to convince her no amount of training would kick that horse into shape. His mind was too far damaged. It might even be genetic. A tumor or something she wouldn’t want to reproduce. And that sort of temperament wouldn’t gain her any clients either. She’d listen to reason. She wasn’t stupid. Of all the arguments he could present, that would be the strongest.

  And at last, he’d see that damn horse underground.

  Squaring his shoulders, he yanked the barn door shut and stomped through the thick snow to her back door. He pushed it open with determination, his jaw set.

  He found her sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of cold black coffee. She glanced up long enough to make eye contact, then quickly returned her gaze to her mug.

  Not bothering to remove his coat, he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest. “You have that horse’s papers?”

  “Yes.” She turned the mug around, put the handle in her other hand.

  “I want to see them.”

  Flashing him a look of incredulity, she asked, “Why?”

  Jake opened his mouth to answer, then quickly snapped it shut. Good question. He couldn’t very well tell her he wanted to make sure his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. That would mean explaining how he knew the horse. It would also mean revealing who he was. And that was out of the question.

  His gaze narrowed, he stared at the back of her head as he contemplated the futility of his position. He couldn’t explain what he knew about Mamoon without revealing how he knew. And without solid evidence, she wouldn’t listen to a damn thing he had to say.

  Still, he had to see those papers. Had to see with his own eyes the undeniable proof George Sheffield had deliberately signed off on Mamoon’s registration papers. Or whether Sheffield had done something even worse, like altered the papers to reflect a different horse. He wouldn’t put something that deceitful past the slimy bastard.

  The idea sent a fresh burst of anger coursing through his system.

  He took a deep breath and ground out between clenched teeth, “Because I intend to call the bastard who swindled you and get your damn money back.”

  Gabrielle shot to her feet, knocking her chair over backward. She whipped around, fury turning her eyes into brittle shards of glass. “Like hell you will.”

  What the hell was this woman’s problem? Why was she so pissed off at him? All he’d done was help her out of a bad situation. “Gabrielle,” he began, measuring his tone.

  “Don’t Gabrielle me. This is my farm. My horses. I’ll do whatever I damn well please with them. I didn’t ask for your help, and I don’t want it.”

  Jake blinked. Want it or not, she’d needed it.

  She stomped to the sink and set her coffee cup inside. “Just because we slept together, you don’t have the right to step in and take control.”

  He blinked again. What in the hell did the horse have to do with sex? Speechless, he stared, searching for a logical response.

  “I’ve got chores to do, horses to water, and no pump. Excuse me, Jake, but I don’t have time to debate my stallion with you right now.”

  She didn’t look at him as she stalked out of the kitchen toward the hallway off the bathroom.

  Wow. That hadn’t gone like he’d expected it to. How did catching her damn horse for her put him on the receiving end of a sharp tongue and illogical anger? It made no sense.

  Aw hell, he couldn’t deal with her spoiled-little-rich-girl attitude right now. He needed answers to Sheffield’s involvement. When he obtained them, he’d tackle Gabrielle’s unexplainable venom.

  He followed her to the doorway and called to her retreating back, “Let me see the papers, Gabby.”

  ****

  Gabrielle resisted the overwhelming urge to turn around and tell Jake where exactly he could stuff that nickname. The possibility she’d tell him to take himself to the same place was entirely too great, however, and she merely pursed her lips.

  Besides, it wasn’t his fault all she wanted to do was strangle him. He’d taken a huge risk in the barn by getting that close to a stallion he didn’t know. One she could only offer the barest of insight on too. He was right—she should thank him.

  And she would have, probably, if he hadn’t turned into her father the minute Mamoon rushed into the feed room. Jake had taken control of the situation and neatly pushed her aside. No, he hadn’t used the same condescending voice to explain why she couldn’t accomplish what she planned, but his actions said enough.

  The arrogant man actually believed he knew more about handling horses after a couple years work in his youth, when she’d been born around them. Absurd!

  His offer to reclaim the money she paid for the stallion pissed her off as well. Deep down, she realized he sincerely wanted to assist. But his method conflicted so greatly with hers, she couldn’t even think about entertaining a discussion on that level about her new stallion.

  Psychotic animal or not.

  No, if there would be any discussion of returning the money she’d paid for that horse, she’d handle it herself. But that too was out of the realm of consideration. She’d purchased the horse. She’d ma
de a poor decision. Now, she’d make the best of it—if for no other reason than to prove to Jake, her father, and anyone else who tried to say it wouldn’t work out, that it would.

  It would. Mamoon would come around. He just needed time.

  Although time wasn’t exactly in her corner. Already January ninth, less than a month remained to accomplish that daunting feat. Scottsdale took up most of February, and, where she needed six months at least, she had little less than one.

  Waiting was out of the question also. She hadn’t spent eight thousand dollars on a stallion to push back an entire breeding season. Sure, she could use her junior stallion—who was really a senior—but as nice as Rajiv was, he wouldn’t draw the mares necessary to build her business.

  Besides, Rajiv wasn’t straight Egyptian. The one-eighth Polish in him ruined him for that market.

  Too frustrated to think on a solution to her immediate problems in the barn, she shoved her way through her partly open bedroom door and flopped down on her bed. Last night was not supposed to lead to this. She and Jake should be laughing, bantering, making the best of being cooped up together in a snowstorm with no electricity. Instead, what had been blissful in the wee hours of morning turned into a nightmare.

  So much for believing he might be special enough to stick around. At this rate, he’d hightail it out of Ransom, and away from her, as soon as possible. Crap, she’d made a mess of things. And it hadn’t even required effort.

  Maybe, if she let him see the papers, he’d take it as a peace offering.

  She let out a heavy sigh and draped her elbow over her eyes. What a mess.

  “Hey.” Low and warm, his voice washed over her.

  She peeled her arm away from her face and peeked beneath her elbow. One shoulder braced against her doorframe, he offered her a half-smile. He’d shed his jacket, and the long-sleeved Henley she’d lent him stretched tight over his wide shoulders. A tad too small, her brother’s clothes didn’t look half-bad on him. Her gaze skimmed quickly down his chest, noting the defined contours of his torso, the way the shirt hung loose over his flat abdomen. Last night, that washboard belly had rippled beneath her fingertips. He’d been so warm, his body cradling hers just right.