Rodeo Sweetheart

by Betsy St. Amant

  “Meeting, or date?” Daniel grinned, and then squinted outside. “Is the sun even up?”

  “Meeting. Definitely just a meeting.” Ethan slid into his loafers, thought better of it and grabbed his running shoes instead, the ones he’d ridden in two days ago. He hadn’t packed cowboy boots—at the time, he hadn’t imagined ever using them. Looked like he’d have to find a pair if he was going to be doing ranch work. At least these tennis shoes could get dirty with little consequence. He wrestled them on without untying the laces.

  “What kind of meeting is worth a dawn appointment?” Daniel yawned and flopped back against his pillow. “You’ve got it bad, dude.”

  “You’re dreaming—literally. Go back to sleep.” Ethan automatically grabbed his watch, then realized there was no point in wearing it, not to do stable work. What exactly had he gotten himself into? This idea seemed much smarter in the middle of the night, staring at Sam’s desperate blue eyes.

  Sam didn’t even bother to hide her smile as she watched Ethan grapple with the pitchfork inside Piper’s stall. “You have to scoop it, Ethan. Not stab it.” Across the pen, Piper flicked his tail as if agreeing.

  “This is disgusting.” Ethan swiped his hair off his forehead with one shirtsleeve. Sweat glistened on his hairline.

  Sam couldn’t help the bubble of satisfaction fizzing in her stomach. She leaned back against the stall wall and let it hold her weight. Served Ethan right. If ranching was so easy, every city slicker would hustle down from the North and give it a whirl. Ethan deserved a good dose of reality. And if that came by pitchfork and manure, then all the better.

  “You do this for every stall in the barn?” Ethan dropped a load from his pitchfork into the wheelbarrow and wrinkled his nose.

  “Every single day. Cole helps, usually. But this morning I told him we’d handle it.” Sam grinned.

  “We?” Ethan stopped shoveling and stared, resting one arm atop the long wooden handle of the fork. “You’ve done nothing but point.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who wanted to learn about ranching.” Sam adjusted the rim of her cowboy hat in an exaggerated air of indifference. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Quit the sarcasm. It’s too early in the morning.” He went back to scooping, watching Piper as warily as Piper watched him. “Couldn’t you have taken her out of the stall for this?”

  “Him. And there’s no reason to. He only uses this one corner.”

  “Who teaches them that?”

  “It’s a natural instinct that most animals have.” Sam watched Ethan work a moment longer, than sighed. “All right, fine. I’ll shovel the next one.” She didn’t feel guilty, exactly—just wasn’t used to standing around without purpose. She reached for the pitchfork.

  “No way. I asked for this, remember?” Ethan refused to relinquish the handle.

  She tugged back on it. “I can manage—apparently better than you can.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” He pulled harder.

  “It means I’m used to hard work.”

  “And I’m not?” Ethan’s expression tightened.

  Sam gripped the handle with both hands. “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you thought it.” Ethan let go and Sam stumbled backward several steps. “You sure do lose your balance a lot.”

  She quickly regained her stance and pointed the pitchfork at him. “At least I’m not afraid to try.”

  “Look, I know what you’re thinking.” Ethan waved both hands in the air. “The rich city boy never had to do anything but learn how to feed himself with a silver spoon. Right?”

  Sam opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. He was dead-on—and why should she think differently? He flaunted his self-importance. Kate had warned her the Ameses’ first day at the ranch to watch out for tourists. She’d been joking, of course, but Sam would be better off taking the remark seriously. Ethan was the exact image of the stereotypical, heartless guy, searching for a new hobby that he would inevitably tire of. But what if he tired of it before his vacation ended and broke his end of their deal? Angie would be devastated, Sam would have to quit the competition, and there went any chance of buying Noble Star or bringing back the breeding business. Sam’s home would forever be a tourist trap.

  No, as much as she wanted to throw the pitchfork at Ethan and walk away, she had to keep him happy. There was too much at stake. She gritted her teeth. “Why don’t we start over?”

  “With the stall?” Ethan’s eyes widened in alarm.

  “No, not with mucking out the stable. With us. With this.” She gestured between them.

  “What’s the catch?” Ethan’s caramel-brown gaze turned cautious.

  Sam rested the pitchfork against the gate. “No catch. I just think if we’re going to be around each other, the least we can do is be civil about it.”

  “Civil, as in, no more sarcasm?”

  “I make no promises.” The corners of Sam’s mouth twitched into a grin.

  Ethan’s eyes shimmered in amusement as he held out his hand. “Fair enough. Truce?”

  “Truce.” Sam slipped her palm against his and a spark ignited at contact. She quickly pulled it back, wondering if he felt it, too. From the way Ethan wrung his hand once before reaching to pick up the wheelbarrow, she could only assume he had.

  “Which way?” He gripped the handles and maneuvered the full barrow toward the door.

  Sam opened the gate and pointed toward the far end of the barn. “Outside and to the right is a compost pile. You can’t miss it.”

  Ethan squeezed past Sam through the opening. The lingering look he shot over his shoulder before he headed down the barn aisle made her breath hitch.

  Sam secured the gate and paused a moment to give Ethan a much-needed head start.

  Couldn’t miss it, indeed.

  Never in his life had Ethan imagined he’d be dumping horse manure into a compost pile. Even more than that, he had never imagined he’d be doing it with a ridiculous smile on his face that wouldn’t quit. Good thing Sam stayed in the barn or else she’d think he was nuts.

  Ethan turned the empty wheelbarrow away from the compost pile and back toward the stable. That electric spark he felt when Sam shook his hand wasn’t imaginary—it was real. Which meant he was either losing his mind—or falling for the enemy. His dad would panic for sure if he knew Ethan had felt something, really felt something, at that contact.

  Truce. He snorted. Making that kind of agreement with Sam was more dangerous than continuing the sarcastic battle of wills they’d had before. He’d much rather shoot barbs than sparks.

  Ethan straightened his shoulders as he pushed the wheelbarrow down the stable aisle. It didn’t matter whether Sam’s touch made his entire arm feel as if he’d been struck by lightning. It didn’t matter if she was intriguing, sweet and spicy all at the same time. It didn’t matter, because she was an obstacle, the barrier to navigate on the way to his dreams. If he’d learned anything worthwhile from Jeffrey Ames, it was that goals on the road of life were never reached by stopping to pick wildflowers along the way.

  Ethan cracked his neck in one quick motion and schooled his features as he handed over the wheelbarrow handles to Sam. Her eyes, wide and luminous beneath the brim of her hat, made his stomach flip—eyes the exact color of the periwinkle wildflowers in the meadow behind the barn. He drew a steadying breath. This was ridiculous. He was Ethan Ames. No way would he be bested by some tomboy in boots.

  Even if she had him thinking about wildflowers.

  Chapter Eight

  Sam shut the dishwasher with a clank and turned it on. She straightened, pressing her hands into the small of her back. Nothing worse than completing a day of outside chores just to come in and work equally hard in the kitchen. But she’d taken one look at Clara buried under a mountain of dishes, and couldn’t let the older woman handle it by herself. Besides, Angie was paying bills in the computer nook off the den, and the kitchen was the farthest room away from the bitter mutterings
and frustrated pen clicks.

  Clara tossed a sponge in the sink and untied her apron from around her ample waist. “I think that does it. Thank you for helping me with the dishes.”

  “No problem. After that meal, how could I let you do them alone?” Sam patted her stomach with a smile. “Good thing I work so hard, huh? I think I had three helpings of mashed potatoes.”

  Clara tsked as she hung her apron on a peg by the industrial-sized refrigerator. “You could stand a few more pounds, if you asked me. I’ve never seen such skinny women like you and your mother.”

  “We burn a lot of calories.”

  “Ain’t right for a woman to be skin and bones.” Clara winked as she shouldered her purse and draped her navy sweater over one arm. “I’ll fatten you both up yet.”

  “I have no problem letting you try.” Sam patted Clara on the arm as she walked with her to the door. “Thanks again for the pot roast.”

  “Just doing my job. You all have a good night.” Clara shut the door behind her and once again, the Jenson household was silent.

  Sam turned off the kitchen light and released a heavy sigh. She needed a hot bath—would maybe even throw some bubbles, a book and a soda into the mix. Working so hard every day did have at least one silver lining—Sam had basically become immune to caffeine. She could drink coffee in bed if she wanted and still sleep soundly.

  She wiped her tired eyes with the back of her hand. On second thought, maybe she’d skip the bath and the drink and head straight to her room. She could use a solid eight hours of sleep—too bad she’d only get three at best before having to sneak out for her midnight ride with Cole and Lucy. Maybe this time Ethan wouldn’t crash the practice session. Even with Ethan shadowing her around the stable all day, Sam had still successfully avoided telling him why she was determined to ride the steer in the first place. That was one more complication she just didn’t need.

  Sam tiptoed past the computer nook. Hopefully her mom wouldn’t hear her on that squeaky bottom step—

  “Sam? Is that you?” Angie’s voice sounded more exhausted than Sam felt.

  Sam hesitated on the staircase. Then guilt took precedence over exhaustion and she shuffled into the den. “How’s it going?”

  “Same as always.” Angie pushed her short, sandy-colored hair back from her face. The light from the desk lamp shone on her tanned skin and she rested her elbows on the tabletop.

  Sam swallowed the pride lingering in her throat and forced the words she’d hoped to never utter from her mouth. “Do you need me to get a second job again?” She held her breath.

  Angie sighed. “That’s thoughtful, but we’d be worse off losing the work you do around here.”

  Relief crowded Sam’s already full stomach. She couldn’t handle an outside job, not among her other daily chores on the ranch and her new hours of training for the upcoming competition.

  Sam studied her mother’s scribbled notes in the margins of the ledger book. If only she could tell her mom her plan to save the ranch she would, but the timing was more than a little off. As soon as Angie heard the words bull and rodeo, she’d go berserk—even under the best of circumstances. Bill paying was probably the worst timing of all. Until Sam was positive her mom would understand that the end result was well worth the risk, she’d have to stick to her original plan of keeping the secret. Sam peered over her mom’s shoulder to better read the bottom line. “Are we going to be okay?”

  “We’ll make it.” Angie shoved up the sleeves of her shirt and bent over the pile of envelopes and the ledger book, shielding it from Sam’s view. “We always do, somehow. But if we considered selling…”

  “Things will get better soon.” The promise rolled off Sam’s tongue before she could stop it, desperate to ease the stress lines tainting Angie’s once-young face. Sam hoped she’d be able to make the assurance true and keep the farm where it belonged—with the Jensons.

  “I know. God always provides, doesn’t He? Your optimism is contagious.” Angie’s smile appeared slightly more sincere this time and she squeezed Sam’s hand. “Go to bed. You’ve done enough for tonight.”

  Sam squeezed back before turning and heading silently up the stairs to her room. She hadn’t done anything yet, not anything that mattered, at least—but she was about to, starting with round two on Lucy.

  Would it be enough?

  Ethan’s muscles ached, his head throbbed, and his eyes felt sticky from lack of sleep—yet he’d never felt so good in his life. Who knew hard manual labor carried even more endorphins than his logged treadmill miles?

  He glanced at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. Only fifteen minutes until Sam would be at the north paddock with Cole and that crazy bull—no, steer. The scariest part of the whole experience was that he hadn’t minded the chores nearly as much as he’d expected. Mucking out the stables wasn’t exactly fun—especially after the sparks with Sam when they touched hands—but grooming the horses, learning how to saddle them for trail rides, and helping distribute fresh hay to all the stalls hadn’t been bad. Pleasant, even, once he and Sam kept to their no-more-arguing truce.

  Now if only his emotions could stick to the pact he made with himself.

  Ethan tapped his watch with his finger. Ten minutes until practice time. He hadn’t told Sam he was coming, but it should be assumed. They were in it together. He just still didn’t know what this “it” was. Sam had yet to tell him why she was on that steer last night—a fact Ethan planned to remedy in a few short minutes.

  He eased out of bed and slipped into his running shoes, careful not to disturb Daniel. His cousin had returned to the cabin earlier in the evening, griping about how the girls he’d been flirting with earlier in the week had already gone back home, their vacation over. Daniel had crashed in his bed and immediately started snoring.

  Ethan shook his head at Daniel’s sleeping form and crept out the front door, wincing at the loud click. He waited, but Daniel didn’t make a sound from inside. With a relieved sigh, he turned—and bumped straight into Jeffrey’s broad chest.

  “Dad!” Ethan gulped, hoping his surprise didn’t show on his face. To Jeffrey Ames, being unprepared was an indicator of weakness. No matter that his dad was skulking around the cabin porch in the dark—it’d still be Ethan’s fault for being startled. He straightened his shoulders and lowered his voice. “What are you doing?”

  “Coming to wake you up to talk.” Jeffrey gripped Ethan’s elbow and led him down the stairs and around the corner of the cabin. The grass squished under their shoes. “What progress have you made with the Jenson girl?”

  “Sam?” Ethan’s heart raced and again, he hoped his dad wouldn’t notice. He’d definitely have to work on his poker face when it came to Sam—at least until logic overtook his emotions.

  “Sam, Pam, whatever. I haven’t seen you all day. What do you know? What have you been doing?” Jeffrey crossed his arms.

  Ethan recognized the pose—the businesslike, get-it-done posture that Jeffrey took on regardless of the cost. His dad wanted answers, and he wanted them now. “I’ve been with Sam all day. Like you wanted me to be.”

  “Has she mentioned anything that could be useful for our cause?”

  Ethan winced, remembering the ignited handshake in the barn, Sam’s melodic laugh and the way his eyes stayed drawn to her all day as if they’d been taken over by a magnetic force. “Not yet.”

  “Well, you need to step it up. We’re running out of time.”

  “Already? We’ve only been here three days.”

  Jeffrey shook his head impatiently. “Business waits for no man, you know that. Your mother is afraid Ms. Jenson will hear about that highway relocation before we can make our offer. If she does, she’s more likely to discover our intentions of building the strip mall—and then she’d never sell to us. We’re having enough trouble convincing her to sell under the pretense of keeping the property exactly as it is. We have to move fast—before Sam realizes why we’re here, and before Ms. Jenson d
ecides not to take an offer. She’s wavering because of her daughter.” Jeffrey scoffed. “Something about so many memories here.”

  “What do you want me to do? I can’t make up reasons to offer less money.” Ethan quickly replayed the events of the past two days for his father, omitting the details of Sam’s secret riding plans. No use in sharing private, personal matters with Jeffrey. The man didn’t have a personal bone in his body. “Maybe we should just offer them a fair price. We’d still make money off the deal when the highway comes.”

  “Are you crazy? After spending time on this ramshackle place, the last thing I’m going to do is offer more money.” Jeffrey brushed at his forehead and the moonlight caught in the reflective face of his watch. “We’re going to have to go a step further.”

  “What now? You want me to date Sam instead of just trying to be her friend?” Some tiny, twisted part of Ethan’s psyche hoped his father would say yes. Not that Sam would ever agree. She probably only fell for real cowboys—men who smelled like sweat and earth instead of expensive cologne. Ethan brushed away the pinch of rejection at the idea. This was business. He didn’t need romance.

  Especially with a woman with eyes like periwinkle wildflowers.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Jeffrey’s harsh laugh jerked Ethan back to the conversation. “If I wanted someone to romance the girl, I’d ask Daniel.” He scoffed and Ethan tried to ignore the way the barb pierced the same, worn dent in his emotional armor. “Maybe you can find proof that the ranch is failing, specific proof. If she has to sell, she won’t worry as much about her daughter’s feelings.”

  “What if there isn’t any?” Ethan adjusted his stance to mirror his dad’s.

  “Then make some.”

  Ethan flinched.

  “Keep on befriending the girl. She needs to trust you.” Jeffrey looked over his shoulder and lowered his gruff voice to a near whisper. “But in the meantime, look for ways to sabotage the property. Cut fences. Destroy feed. Poison it, for all I care. We need Angie to accept our offer, and we need her to do it now.”