Can't Let Her Go

by Sandy James

  “I already told you, I used to have a horse. I’ve ridden plenty.”

  “Not in a long time. Plus, that doesn’t mean you can handle a green horse that’s barely broken.”

  Her eyes flashed as though she smelled a challenge. “Wanna bet?”

  Since he knew she was biting off more than she could chew, he shook his head. “I’m not letting you break your neck on my farm. Think of the press.”

  “You seem to have a habit of underestimating me.” She dipped a fry in ketchup and took a bite.

  “When did I underestimate you?”

  “How about when you abandoned me at the bar?”

  The memory made him grin. “You’re right. I didn’t think you could handle it.”

  “But I did. And I can ride a lot better than you think,” she said with a decisive nod.

  He shook his head in response. “I’m still not going to let you break your neck on that gelding.”

  “He has a name,” Chelsea said. “You don’t have to keep calling him ‘that gelding.’”

  “You want me to call him Keystone Meadowland Hamlet?” Ethan teased. “That’ll be fun to text whenever I need to tell you something about him.”

  He was rewarded with her beautiful smile. “How about we shorten that to Hamlet?”

  “Fine. That’ll save me time.”

  “Where did the Keystone Meadowland come from anyway?” she asked.

  “Keystone is the standardbred farm that bred him,” he replied. “They always put their farm in the name of any of their foals. Most likely, the Meadowlands came from where his sire raced a bunch.”

  Chelsea nodded and took her napkin from her lap and set it on her nearly empty plate. “I’m definitely full.”

  Finishing the last of his fries, he pushed his plate to the side. “Yeah, I’ve never gone away from this diner hungry. Guess you don’t want a piece of pie, huh?”

  “Tempting as that sounds, there’s no room left.”

  The waitress was there only a few moments later, gathering up the empty plates before plucking the bill from her apron pocket.

  Chelsea and Ethan reached for it at the same time, leaving them both holding one end of the paper.

  “My treat,” she said, tugging gently. “My way to thank you for helping find Hamlet.”

  He shook his head and pulled back. “My way to thank you for cleaning the stalls.”

  Neither would surrender the bill, and the waitress just stood there, her gaze shifting between the two. After a long period of silence, she cleared her throat, causing both of them to look at her. “Might I suggest you go Dutch?”

  Every time he saw Chelsea smile, Ethan wanted to smile in return. The woman was simply too lovely for his peace of mind.

  “Good idea,” she said, releasing her hold as she reached around to fish something out of her purse.

  While she was occupied, Ethan deftly took his wallet out of his pocket, grabbed three twenties to overtip as usual, and handled them to the waitress. “Keep the change.”

  Chelsea set her girlie wallet on the table. “Hey, no fair! I was going to pay my share.”

  Sliding out of his side of the booth, he held his hand out to her. “I’ll let you have the check next time.”

  After quickly putting her wallet back in her purse, she took his hand and stood. “Fine. I’ll hold you to that.”

  The waitress headed behind the counter with the dirty dishes. Her absence left Ethan and Chelsea alone in the empty diner.

  She slung her purse over her shoulder and turned only to run right into him because he hadn’t moved a step. “Sorry.” Instead of backing away, she tilted her head to stare up into his eyes as she laid her hands against his chest.

  He wondered if she knew exactly how tousled she looked. A large amount of her curly hair had escaped the braiding and there were smudges of dirt on her shirt and jeans. Any reporter finding her now would have a heyday getting pictures of the beautiful Chelsea Harris looking like she’d spent the day in a barn—which she had.

  He shouldn’t want to kiss her. But he did, and the fact she was less than perfect now made her even more attractive to him. She wasn’t some celebrity, some singing sensation. No, she was human, a woman who’d worked side by side with him and didn’t freak out over getting a little horse shit on her boots.

  Oh yes, he wanted to kiss her.

  His arm snaked around her waist and gently pulled her closer against him as he lowered his head and—

  The bell hanging on the diner door jingled, the sound as loud as a gong as it rang in Ethan’s brain, forcing him to release Chelsea and take a step back. There was no way he was getting involved with a celebrity. Ever.

  Her red brows knit and a frown bowed her lips.

  “I need to get back to the farm,” he said, turning his back to see two men walking into the diner. “It’s getting late.”

  “Fine,” she said.

  “I need to get up early to feed the horses.” Damn if his tone wasn’t defensive. He took a calming breath. “Are you coming to the farm tomorrow?”

  She shook her head and he was surprised how disappointed he felt.

  “Why not?”

  Her eyes widened at his demanding tone. “I’m rehearsing with Chuck Austin tomorrow. We’re singing his mother’s song ‘Can’t Let You Go’ for the charity album. He wanted to run through it a few times before we record in a couple weeks. Then I’ve got a show at Black Stallion. In fact I’m there the next two nights.”

  The album. He should’ve known. That, and she was singing on their biggest competitor’s stage. “So you won’t have time for Hamlet.”

  She fisted her hands against her hips. “I’ll be out as often as I can.”

  “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  * * *

  Although it was late, Chelsea called her mother as she drove home. Sure, she might be hovering a bit, but she wanted to help her mother through her loss as much as she could. Chelsea missed her father, and she knew what her mother was going through was even more devastating.

  It wasn’t like she could count on Tony or Josh to stay in touch. Her brothers were sweet guys, but both lived too far away to see the family much. She had no idea if they called their mom as often as she did, but she was the only daughter. She felt responsible for any nurturing that needed to be done.

  Betsy Maddox picked up on the first ring. “Hello, sweetheart.”

  “Sorry to call so late, I was just thinking about you. Did you have a good day?”

  “I’m better today. Sorry about being so needy yesterday.”

  This sweet, caring woman had lost her husband of thirty-four years, the love of her life, and she was apologizing because she’d called her daughter a couple of times to say she was lonely? “You can call whenever you want, Mom. I only wish there was something more I could do for you.”

  “You’re such a blessing.”

  “So are you. Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “I got a horse today,” Chelsea announced.

  “Oh, how wonderful,” her mother said, sounding as sincere as always. “I’m so glad you won’t be on the road so much for a while. I missed you so much.”

  What Chelsea couldn’t say in response was that she still nursed guilt for not being home more often when her father had been ill. Breaking stadium contracts was akin to financial suicide. Even though it had cost her, she’d found a way to be with her father those last precious weeks. But then she’d needed to finish her tour and she wished she hadn’t felt so bad about leaving her mother.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Betsy said.

  “I was just thinking about all the times you and Daddy came to watch me riding Biscuit when I was little.”

  “Well, then, I’ll have to get out to wherever you’re keeping that new horse and see if you remember how to ride.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “How are the plans for the charity album going?” her mom asked.

  �
��They’re going well,” Chelsea replied. “Except…I can’t get the Walkers’ son to sing with me.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  My question exactly. “He doesn’t like performing. I think he hates having been in the public eye when he grew up. He doesn’t want anything to do with recording.”

  “As sweet and charitable as those people were,” Betsy said, her disdain plain, “I can’t believe their son wouldn’t help you out.”

  “I need to talk to him more about why I’m doing the album,” Chelsea admitted. “Next time I go to the barn to see my horse, I’ll try to talk to him.”

  “Why would he be at the barn with your horse?”

  “Because he helped me buy it, and it’s stabled in his barn.”

  A moment passed before Betsy asked, “What aren’t you telling me, Chelsea Lorraine?”

  I like the guy. “Nothing, Mom. I just wanted to spend a little more time with him to try to talk him into the duet.”

  Her mother let out a disbelieving snort. “I think there’s more to it.”

  Chelsea wasn’t about to discuss her Ethan infatuation with her mother. The poor woman surely didn’t want to hear about relationships after all she’d been through. “If there ends up being more, I’ll be sure and let you know.”

  Another snort.

  “I’m glad you had a good day, Mom. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  Chapter Six

  Standing on his back porch, Ethan took another sip of his black coffee. It was particularly strong this morning because he’d had trouble sleeping the night before. A redheaded temptress haunted his dreams, making him feel like a hormonal adolescent. To get some shut-eye, he’d finally taken matters into his own hand and yet that had only sated his body. Nothing could calm his thoughts.

  Tendrils of steam rose from his cup and snaked from his nose every time he exhaled. Autumn was setting in hard this morning, and his backyard was a patchwork of frosted grass. At least the day would warm nicely, as it always did in Tennessee.

  About to head to the barn and get his day going, Ethan stopped when he heard the steady rhythm of a horse cantering. Weekends tended to bring owners out to check their horses and perhaps even give those horses a bit of exercise. They just didn’t tend to show up so early.

  Thinking Joe was starting turnouts or giving one of the animals a ride, Ethan quickly drained the rest of his coffee. Back in the house, he set the empty cup in the sink, grabbed his jacket, and headed to the barn.

  Joe wasn’t there, and a glance down the long aisle showed the door on the other end of the barn wide open and only one stall empty. Hamlet’s. Checking the board, there was no X next to the stall number to show that Joe had taken the gelding to turn out in one of the paddocks. Surely he wasn’t stupid enough to ride the new horse without knowing whether he was broken.

  Then the black appeared in the open door with a rider on his back. Even though the orange glow of the rising sun was behind them, he knew the person astride Hamlet was Chelsea. Not only was her shape easy to recognize, he knew no one else would have the guts to try to ride an unbroken horse, especially bareback.

  At a bouncy trot, she rode up the aisle toward Hamlet’s stall, where she slid off the black’s back and led him to the cross-ties. Dressed in a denim coat with fur trim, dark jeans, and a pair of tan leather gloves, she didn’t seem at all fazed by the October chill. Her nose was red, as were her ears, but she didn’t seem to mind. “Good morning,” she said sweetly.

  Ethan held the bridle as she slipped it off and deftly put on the halter. He slung it over his shoulder and then latched the left cross-tie to Hamlet’s halter while she attached the right.

  “I thought you said you weren’t coming today,” he said.

  “I changed my mind,” she replied with a smile as she doffed the gloves and shoved them in her coat pockets.

  “You took a big chance riding him, especially bareback,” he scolded.

  “I found out he was already broke to bareback.” She shrugged. “I don’t have a saddle yet anyway.”

  Hanging the bridle on the hook outside General’s stall, Ethan couldn’t help but point out, “That didn’t stop you from borrowing a bridle.”

  “Since General’s your horse, I didn’t think you’d mind. Saddles are another story. I have no idea what belongs to whom in the tack room. Besides, Shellie told me he wasn’t saddle broke.”

  “Who’s Shellie?”

  “The groom who took care of him at Keystone Farm.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Chelsea went to General’s tack trunk. “May I borrow your brush? I need to do some shopping for all his gear soon, if you can recommend a place.”

  “Why ask? You already helped yourself to his bridle,” Ethan replied. His temper had soured, but he wasn’t sure exactly why. Maybe he was mad because he couldn’t impress her with his machismo by breaking her horse.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But—”

  He waved away whatever she was going to say. “If you say ‘but’ after ‘I’m sorry,’ then you’re not really sorry.”

  The comment brought a smile to her lips. “You’re right. I’m not sorry. I borrowed a bridle for half an hour. It’s not like I committed a cardinal sin. Add ten bucks to my stall rent to make up for it.” She cocked her head to consider him as he sat himself down on one of the trunks. “Why are you so pissy this morning? Not enough coffee?”

  He put his hands on his hips. “You don’t even know me well enough to know if I drink coffee.”

  She flicked the brush over Hamlet’s haunches. “Lucky guess. I know without enough coffee I’m as mean as a bear whose hibernation was disturbed.”

  The sweet southern lilt to her voice charmed a grin from him, and he relaxed his stance. “That mean, huh?”

  “Probably worse.” She brushed her long braid over her shoulder. “In my case, the hair says it all. At least that’s what my parents always said.”

  “So the red’s natural?” he teased.

  All she did was keep smiling. “Do I look like I got it from a bottle?”

  What a ridiculous conversation, yet he loved talking to her. “I have to admit, if it’s not yours, it looks pretty damn natural.”

  “If I had my purse with me,” she said, “I’d show you pictures of my dad and my brothers. Then you wouldn’t have single doubt.”

  “All gingers?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “You still haven’t told me how you knew Hamlet was rideable,” he reminded her.

  “I posted that I’d bought him, and the groom recognized the name. Shellie messaged, and we talked about the things he likes and doesn’t like. Which reminds me, I need to get strawberries. According to her, he loves them.”

  “So she used to ride him?” he asked.

  “Yep. Said he loved to trot around at the farm all the time. She just never tried a saddle. She also said he couldn’t get the intensity he needed to be a racehorse, which means you were right about him. He’ll be a great pet.” Tossing the brush back into the trunk, she grabbed a comb and went about working through Hamlet’s thick tail. The horse was docile, even turning from time to time to watch her. Chelsea rewarded him often with friendly pats on his muscular rump. “So where’s the best place to get a decent saddle and some tack for my new guy?”

  “New or used?” Ethan asked, expecting her go diva and demand the best.

  “I’m not particular,” she replied. “As long as it’s in good condition, I honestly don’t care.” She ran her fingers along the tattered halter that Hamlet had worn when they’d picked the horse up after the auction. Since all animals were supposed to be provided one by their previous owners, most supplied one that wasn’t in the best shape. “Anything’s gotta be better than this.”

  The woman constantly surprised him. Most of his owners were wealthy, and they always bought the most expensive stuff around. A shame when broken-in saddles were often better for new riders. “I know of a friend who’s got a great saddle t
hat I think will suit you. Pretty sure she’s ready to sell it.”

  A red eyebrow cocked. “She?”

  The note of jealousy in the way she said the word made him happy. God only knew why, but it did.

  “Abigail Cameron. Lives down the road. I’ll ask her about it. I imagine you’ll get a decent price.”

  “Sounds good.” Finished with the tail and mane, she put the comb back in the trunk. “Can I mooch some fly spray? Sorry to be so needy.”

  Ethan went to the supply cart by the whiteboard and came back carrying the large bottle of spray that Joe mixed himself from vinegar and eucalyptus oil. “You’re not mooching. I’d be spraying him before I turned him out anyway. Besides”—he shrugged—“I don’t like the commercial brands around my animals. We use this instead.” He thrust the spray bottle at Chelsea.

  She gave a delicate sniff of the bottle. “Eucalyptus?”

  A grin bloomed as he nodded and admitted, if only to himself, he’d totally misjudged the woman. “Plus vinegar. How many horses did you have?”

  “Only one of my own.” She shielded Hamlet’s eyes and pumped the trigger a couple of times over his head, sending a light mist of fragrant protection over his face. “Do you have a stick for his eyes?”

  While she gave the animal a good coating of fly spray, he grabbed the waxy stick that Joe concocted to use around the horses’ eyes to keep flies from pestering them while they enjoyed the sunshine. After Chelsea used it gently around the horse’s big brown eyes, she gave the stick back to Ethan with her murmured thanks.

  “Which paddock?” she asked as he put the spray and stick away.

  “I’ll show you.”

  Leading her horse, she followed Ethan down the white gravel road to the grid of large turnout paddocks. He was especially proud of how much room he gave his horses to simply enjoy being horses. They were outside animals that relished their time out of their stall, and he made sure none of them lingered inside unnecessarily, especially on sunny days.

  Hamlet started sidestepping when he saw the open areas, clearly knowing he was going to get some free time to romp and was showing his excitement.