"That it is," Renn answered, his chest spontaneously puffing with pride.
She looked him in the eye. "An American made breed in a medieval times setting. A bit anachronistic isn't it?"
He'd have been impressed with her knowledge. But everybody in Texas knew quarter horses were American made. Then again, no wench before this one had ever bothered to point out the fact. Even though her comment deflated him a bit, he had to admit he was at least a little impressed.
She raised one finely arched eyebrow at him, reminding him she waited for an answer. Add assertive to the budding list of reasons to be impressed by this woman.
He grinned. "You haven't seen a quarter horse run the joust yet, have you?"
"That's not the point," she said, not a hint of a smile on her full lips.
"Ah, but it is," he said, oddly tempted to kiss some of the sternness from those ripe lips glossed a deep shade of red. "A quarter horse is faster off the mark than any other breed; and, being they can outdistance a Thoroughbred race horse in the quarter mile—" He smiled crookedly. "Makes for quite a show."
Bracing her tray of dinnerware with both hands to her midsection, she faced him full on. "I know how speedy a quarter horse is in the short run. That doesn't make him any more suitable a mount for a medieval knight than would a Shetland pony."
Going for humor, he retorted, "Actually, as old a breed as Shetland ponies are, who's to say they weren't used by a medieval knight or two?"
With what could only be described as an exasperated sigh, she turned back to her task of laying out plates and cups.
"Some of those knights of old could be rather small," he called after her as he rose and strode along the ledge of the divider after her, determined to get at least a smile out of her.
"If you're trying to impress me with your wit," she tossed over her shoulder, "save it for some naïve girl."
"I'm not trying to impress you, just get a smile out of you."
"I'll smile at the patrons I serve tonight during the performance," she said, efficiently laying out dinnerware along the long tables.
"That'd be my performance," he said in a bemused tone. "The one where I dazzle our patrons with a lightning fast ride toward the point of lance…astride a quarter horse."
She huffed and moved to the second tier of tables.
"They won't give a fig what I'm riding," he pressed, pivoting on the narrow ledge to keep up with her path.
"Quarter horses are anachronistic," she repeated, slapping down a mug a little too hard.
What was this woman's problem? Was she some history teacher who'd lost her job due to budget cuts? Maybe an historian unable to find a job in her field?
"Look, lady," he called up to her. "We're just about having fun here."
She wheeled at him, her skirt swirling against the backs of the first row of bench seats, the mugs on her tray swaying. "Fun. That's the be all and end all with you guys, isn't it?"
The vehemence of her question drew him up. "You got a problem with fun?"
"When it gets in the way of responsibility, I do."
He hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets and cocked his head to one side, studying her. He wanted to ask her why she thought fun and responsibility were mutually exclusive. What came out was, "Maybe The Joust isn't a good fit for you."
The corners of her mouth lifted into something more akin to smugness than a smile. "Are threatening to have me fired?"
He held her gaze, noting a glint in her eyes that matched the smug line of her mouth. He didn't know who'd hired her. But, clearly, she didn't know that he had the power to fire her.
Good thing for her he wasn't a man given to rash decisions. Besides, something about this obstinate, raven-haired beauty intrigued him—made him want to prove to her fun and responsibility could go hand-in-hand.
Giving her a courtly bow, he turned and hopped off the rail back into the sands of the arena, the fun area of his job.
About the Author
An obsessive writer who'd rather write than breathe, Barbara Raffin wrote her first novel at age twelve in retaliation to the lack of female leads in the adventure stories she loved reading. But it was a love of playing with words, exploring the human psyche, and telling stories that kept her writing.
This award-winning author lives on the Michigan-Wisconsin border with her Keeshond dogs Katie and Slippers and her avid outdoorsman husband who has always supported her love affair with reading and writing. Learn more about Barbara Raffin and her books, or contact her through her web site: www.BarbaraRaffin.com
LINK TO MY WEB SITE: http://barbararaffin.com/
LINK TO MY BLOG: http://barbararaffin.com/barbsblog/
FIND MY PUBLISHED BOOKS AT AMAZON
Bonus: an excerpt from New York Times Best Seller: Stacey Joy Netzel's
Evidence of Trust: Colorado Trust Series
Review quote: “This book grabbed me from the beginning and I couldn't put it down. I loved Britt and Joel! I loved the action and the suspense and of course the romance!!” ~ Angie, Amazon reviewer
Blurb: Sparks fly when a headstrong wrangler and an alpha park ranger are thrown together while he’s searching for evidence to stop the poacher killing animals in RMNP. When the monster turns his sights on Brittany, Joel discovers he’ll do whatever it takes to protect her—even give his own life.
Trust makes all the difference when love and danger collide.
Excerpt:
By the time Joel Morgan hiked back to where he’d tied his gelding, he concluded Ms. Brittany Lucas was either one hell of an actress, or she really was just camping. Unfortunately, he didn’t think she could’ve fabricated the surprise in those wide green eyes. Not to mention, the genuine relief that had softened her resistance when she’d spotted his badge spoke volumes.
A thief could’ve faked the words, but not the involuntary physical reaction.
Still, he needed to keep an eye on her and make sure she left the area. Not only because she was in a restricted area, but for the precise reason she’d given for running from him. A camper alone in the backcountry wasn’t a good idea to begin with. A woman as pretty as her by herself with a poacher stalking the area put the situation from bad to worse.
He’d felt the stirring of physical reaction as she lay beneath him, all soft curves and a thick mass of blond curls fanned out on the grass. The sick bastard who was responsible for murdering and decapitating the bighorn sheep likely wouldn’t have any issues assaulting her as she’d feared he might.
Yeah, she was right to be afraid—he just wished she’d have considered that before hitting the trail. He may be new to the Rocky Mountain National Park, but the responsibility of keeping visitors safe weighed on his shoulders, no matter how much the woman’s blatant disregard for the rules irked him.
The ghosts of his past tried to sneak up from behind. Joel shrugged them away. People in his past may not have needed him, but these mountains did, and so did the animals. That’s all that mattered.
He radioed into headquarters to report his location for the night as he swung into the saddle. One of the rangers who’d been assisting with his investigation answered the call.
“Find anything interesting up there?” Randy Gifford asked.
“Just a camper in a restricted area.”
“You think it could be the guy you’re looking for?”
“It’s a woman. Camping where she shouldn’t be. I’m going to make sure she leaves in the morning, then return to my original route.”
“You may want to reconsider. That storm front I mentioned earlier is moving a lot faster than expected. It’s over the Never Summer Mountain Range and will reach your area tonight. Temperature’s dropping, too, so be prepared.”
Joel surveyed the heavy, gray clouds he’d noticed earlier. “What are they forecasting?”
“If it keeps moving, a couple inches. If it stalls, up to a foot.”
He muttered a curse. That would be a problem. “If that happens, we could be up here
for a few days, so yeah, scrap the original route. The closest trailhead is Longs Peak, can you get someone to drop off my truck and trailer over there in the morning?”
“Will do.”
Five minutes later, he rode back into Brittany Lucas’s camp as she threw a couple pieces of wood on the campfire that’d been nothing but banked coals when he left. She brushed off her hands before bracing them on her hips.
“Now what?”
He dismounted to unpack his gear. “I’ll be camping here with you tonight.”
“Ranger Morgan, let me assure you, I have every intention of leaving in the morning.”
“And until then, I’ll make sure you stay safe.”
“I don’t need you to babysit me,” she insisted, irritation flooding her voice as she sat by the fire.
Ignoring the fact she’d heard him earlier, he met her stare over the top of Nobel’s saddle. “You got a gun?”
Her gaze faltered. “No.”
“Well, the poacher does, so I’m staying.” That shut her up, until he tossed his sleeping bag inside her tent.
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Otherwise, just: See all of Stacey Joy Netzel's books at www.StaceyJoyNetzel.com
Saving Andi: St. John Sibling Series: FRIENDS Page 17