She broke off the sentence as his gaze caught her eyes.
“What’s your outing? Not bowling, I hope.” She tried to bite her tongue, but the words spilled out.
“Not bowling, I promise.” A sly grin slid to his face. “Horse-back riding.”
That did it. She flung her palm forward like a policeman stopping traffic. “Not me. No way. Not on a horse. Carousel, maybe. But not a live horse that gallops and snorts.”
“Have you ever been horseback riding? These horses lumber and plod. Trust me.” He patted her arm. “Please, I’m desperate. I’m new at this job. I can’t take a mixed group of teens on an outing without at least one adult woman chaperone. You know that. And if I cancel, the kids will be so disappointed, not to mention their parents. I hate to start out on the wrong foot.”
“I’m sure you can find someone else. Another parent or. . . someone.” When she looked at his face, a sinking feeling washed over her.
“I don’t know that many parents yet, and I hate to show defeat and bother Pastor Phil with this.” He rested his hand on her arm. “Be a pal. I know you don’t owe me anything. You’ve paid your debt.” He sent her a beguiling smile. “Please come along. It’s only a few hours.”
Lana understood he was in a spot. But horseback riding? She and horses didn’t speak the same language—or move in the same rhythm for that matter. She’d watched Westerns for years and noticed the smooth, elegant gate attained by horse and rider. The two times she’d had enough courage to climb—and she really meant climb—on a horse’s back, she’d felt like the old Scottish folk song, “You take the high road, and I’ll take the low road. And I’ll get to Scotland afore ye.” She went up and the horse went down, and the pain caused when they met in the middle was something she didn’t want to remember.
But she looked into Mark’s pleading eyes, and her mouth spoke without her brain participating. “All right, but this is the last time.”
“Thanks a million,” he said, drawing her into a bear hug. “We’re leaving about nine. I’ll stop by, and you can ride over with me.”
“Okay,” she said, feeling her cheek quiver like someone facing a firing squad.
“Now what can I do to repay you? Name it. I’m yours.”
His spirited smile sent her heart flying, but her inner beast came out of hiding. She had a plan. “You’re mine? Do you mean that?”
“Sure.”
“How do you like to paint?”
“Paint? You mean—” He studied her face, his enthusiasm fading.
“Not by numbers; that’s for sure” she said, enjoying his agony. “Walls. Lots of walls. Maybe even ceilings.”
“Walls and ceilings,” he repeated.
“That’s right, and thanks,” she said, allowing her finger to ramble playfully up his arm in the same way he’d captivated hers. “I’m so pleased you’ve volunteered for my project.”
❧
Mark stepped from the car but didn’t have to go far. Lana came out the side door dressed in jeans and a knit top. He noticed her sturdy hiking shoes and felt gratified that she at least knew how to dress for horseback riding.
“Good morning,” he said, expecting her to respond, “What’s good about it?”
Instead she yawned. “Good morning.”
He grinned, pleased at her attitude. “I’m sure it feels nice being on vacation.”
She sent him one of her looks. “My first day off, and I had to get up at the same time I always do.”
“Sorry,” he said, opening her door and watching her climb in. “But think of the good deed you’re doing.”
She arched one of her eyebrows and remained silent.
Relieved, Mark saw the hint of a smile flash for a heartbeat and knew she was teasing.
Leaning against the headrest, she closed her eyes, and Mark let her relax. She’d have a workout, he knew, but he appreciated her pinch-hitting. He’d wanted to ask her to come along from the beginning, but he’d watched her misery bowling and had decided to give her a break. Instead, Mrs. Dolan had experienced a break. . .a real one.
At the church, Lana stayed in the car while Mark made sure his fourteen charges were seat belted up with licensed drivers. He set the ground rules, prayed with the teens, and climbed back into his car, relieved that he had enough teens to drive so he could make the trip with only Lana in his car.
They drove like a caravan, Mark leading the way, and when they parked at the stable, he steered them toward the building where men were saddling horses.
“I’m Mark Branson,” he said to the dude in the cowboy hat. “I called last week. Fourteen teenagers and two adults.” He eyed Lana and realized she looked as young as the kids.
The ranch hand only grunted and waved his arm toward the horses waiting to be mounted.
“This way.” Mark beckoned to the group, and they followed, each attaching themselves to a horse as the stable crew gave them the animal’s name and helped them mount.
Mark returned to Lana, hoping he could encourage a little enthusiasm. “I’ll tell them to make sure they give you a mild-mannered mare.” He slipped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze.
“Mild-mannered? Listen to that guy,” she said. “Those plow horses have names. Charger, Buck, Titan, Cyclone, Gringo. Let me know when he comes to Sleepy, Dopey, or Bashful. That’s my kind of horse.”
“Don’t worry,” Mark said, patting her shoulder. “They give them spirited names to give the riders a thrill. They can go home and tell their friends they spent the day riding Avenger. Sounds more exciting than Daisy.”
“You think so? Give me Daisy or Dandelion any day.”
“Notice I said it sounds exciting.” Mark tried to read her expression. At this point he wasn’t sure if she were joking or serious, but either way he should have been more thoughtful and asked Pastor Phil to help him find a volunteer. If he really cared about her, he’d been stupid to force her to come along. . . even though he enjoyed her company. Why couldn’t he stop being like his father, trying to push everyone into doing what he wanted?
Mark looked at Lana’s tense face and hoped to ease her worry. “These poor animals have been up and down these paths so often they don’t have to think. But it’s fun for the kids. So here we are.”
When the time came for her to mount, he followed Lana to the horse. “This one’s docile, I hope,” he murmured to the stable hand.
The man with the cowboy hat gave him a peculiar look and nodded.
Mark felt foolish asking the question, but he wanted Lana to feel secure. He boosted her up, and she managed to swing her short leg over the horse’s rear. She grabbed the reins looking like he’d asked her to ride a bucking bronco. She towered above him, and he tipped his imaginary hat. “I’ll be up on your level in a jiffy,” he said, slipping his foot into his saddle’s stirrup and swinging his leg over the saddle. “Nice weather up here.”
“Are you kidding? Nothing’s nice up here.” She sent him a faint grin.
He patted the horse’s mane. “Howdy, Fancy. You and I are going to be pals for an hour or so.”
“Fancy?” Lana gave him and the horse a dubious look. “What kind of a name is that? Did you hear what they called my horse? If I need to plead with him, I’d like to address him by his first name.
Mark chuckled and tried to remember what the cowboy had mumbled. “Furry, I think. Sounds tame.”
“Furry? That sounds like something they’d name a gerbil.”
He grinned and looked ahead at the other riders. “Looks like they’re moving out,” Mark said, watching the dude with the cowboy hat wave them onto the trail. “Hang on.”
Six
Hang on? Lana sent Mark a look with the power to turn a dew-glistening grape into a raisin. Hang on! That’s what she had been doing. And tight.
Feeling the shift and sway of the horse’s back, Lana watched the teens ahead of her as they plodded toward the wooded path. Fat-rumped horses lumbered along, their reeking odor growing stro
nger in the morning sunlight.
Mark rode beside her, looking comfortable and tall in the saddle. His blond hair glinted like gold in the sunlight, and his friendly eyes sparkled even brighter.
With the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves, a peculiar urge rose in Lana to sing some sentimental western song, like “Get Along Little Doggies” or “Tumbling Tumbleweed.” Instead the words, “Don’t bury me on the lone prairie,” intruded into her thoughts, barging through her mind like a guitar-strumming posse.
The teens had moved ahead down the shadowed path, and though she’d moaned about the horseback riding, she enjoyed the quiet of the woods. Bird songs and the snap of twigs beneath the horse’s hooves sounded crisp and friendly in the dappled sunlight.
“We’d better catch up,” Mark said, coaxing his steed into a trot.
As he bounced forward, Lana stayed behind, clinging to the reins and avoiding giving even the flick of motivation against her horse’s back. Her caution was unwarranted. Furry and Fancy must have had a thing for each other, because Furry didn’t want to be left behind. He shifted into passing gear, and the horse and Lana flew past Mark at a ragged clip—her up, the horse down, and then the painful meeting in the middle.
As she tugged on the reins, Mark caught up with her. “Sorry, Lana. Usually these old nags barely move.”
“Furry’s spurred on by the smell of my perfume, I think,” she said, grasping for any comic relief she could muster. “And I’d give a lot for one whiff of eau d’cologne instead of the whiff I’m getting.”
A grin stretched across Mark’s face. “Just know that you’re a lifesaver. The kids are having fun, and I think these first outings will bring them closer together so we have a friendly, cohesive group for summer camp.”
“Summer camp?” Her chest vibrated with each step as she smacked against the ironclad leather beneath her and felt the chafing of the horse’s ballooned sides against her legs.
“Church camp. It’s the first time our church will have camp for the youth. I think it’s a great way for teens to learn about nature, themselves, and God. Camping knits people together. They’ll have memories they’ll never forget.”
She understood exactly what he meant. Her experience on this horse’s back would cling to her memory like chewed gum to a shoe. Her bones rattled with each clop. “This horse and I aren’t in sync. I think I’ve jarred my teeth loose,” Lana said, wishing for a bathtub filled with warm, soothing, bubbly water.
“Gallops are natural and easier. Let’s try.”
Before she could protest, Mark dug his heels into Fancy’s sides, and with the flick of the reins, he was off. Lana grabbed hold, knowing that Furry wasn’t about to be outdone.
Sure enough, Furry gave a snort, and Lana sailed past Mark, clinging to the reins with one hand and the saddle horn with the other, but Mark had been right. She and the animal moved with the same up-down motion, and the ride would have been exhilarating except Lana realized that somehow the saddle hadn’t been tightened properly. She felt herself slipping sideways. Seeing the woods from a vantage point parallel to the ground had not been part of the deal. She clung to the horse’s scruffy mane for dear life, praying the saddle would stay put.
She’d caught up with the teens, but Furry had the zeal of a winner and had no plans to let another horse get in the way of the winner’s circle.
With the thud of hooves and her beating heart, Lana galloped past a group of teens.
“Look at her go,” Dennis called out.
“No fair,” Susan grumbled. “How come she gets the best horse?”
An old adage with a new twist careened through Lana’s thoughts. “Best is in the eye of the beholder,” she yelled into the air. She would have willingly traded horses with the girl and thrown in a twenty-dollar bill to boot.
No more complaints met her ears, only a pitiful titter as she struggled to stay mounted. For the first time in her life, she understood the true meaning of sidesaddle.
About the time she thought she could bear no more, the path turned, and to her relief, the stables loomed straight ahead. But as Lana uttered a grateful sigh, Furry spotted the stable too. Apparently ready for lunch and a nap, the horse gave a resounding snort and whinny, then seemingly sprouted wings and bolted forward with momentum just short of a Concorde’s.
“Look at Miss West,” Gary echoed behind her. “I wish I was riding Fury.”
Fury? Her heart rose to her throat. She distinctly remembered Mark calling the brute Furry. And forget the well-worn path. Whether Furry or Fury, she and the steed left the others eating dust. As they flew across the field, her life ripped past in fast-forward.
The horse stopped before she did, and when woman and beast finally focused on each other, face-to-face, Lana found herself sprawled in his dinner on the floor of a stall.
Mark tore in behind her, waving his arms in panic. “Are you okay?” He stood over her, his face pale and pinched with concern. When he saw she had survived, his fear shifted gears to the familiar laugh that she’d grown to know too well.
“Put a muzzle on it,” she said, rising to her feet and pulling straw from her hair. “Or you’ll be eating this stuff.”
She lifted an eyebrow, but the picture was too much even for her. Lana’s laughter joined Mark’s, and as she walked away from the stable, she had to admit her backside hurt much worse than her pride.
❧
By Monday, Lana could move her stiff, sore legs with greater agility. The “horse-side” ride, an apt name, lingered in her thoughts like an abscessed tooth. Yet if she were to admit it, the time spent with Mark gave the outing its pleasurable moments.
When the doorbell rang after dinner, she eased herself off the chair and went to the door. Mark stood on the porch with a sheepish grin and a bouquet of flowers.
“I should have gotten these to you earlier.” He thrust his flower-laden hand toward her. “Accept these with my deep thanks and condolences.” He made a gallant bow.
Lana grinned and swung the screen door open. “You look too humble. It doesn’t suit you at all. Come on in.”
He stepped past her into the foyer, and she swung the front door closed against the hot sunlight. Turning, she eyed his broad chest and recalled how handsome he looked on horseback. And how tender he’d been after his laughter had subsided.
She buried her nose in the bouquet, then looked into his eyes. The sparkle gave her heart a flutter, and she turned away before admiration rose to her face. “Let me get these in water.”
“Good idea.” His voice rang with playfulness behind her.
“You can have a seat.” She motioned toward the living room and continued her journey to the kitchen.
Opening a cabinet, she pulled out a vase and filled it with water. She unwrapped the florist paper and drew out the baby’s breath from the bouquet. Touched by Mark’s lovely gift, she nested their stems into water, then added the miniature carnations, daisies, and lilies.
“Looks good,” he said.
She turned and found him standing in the doorway. “Thanks. They’re beautiful.”
“Not as pretty as you, though,” he said, his gaze riveted to hers.
Startled by his comment, she faltered for a moment before finding something to say. “Now I know you’re trying to wheedle me into something.”
He smiled, but she feared she saw disappointment in his eyes. Trying to repair the damage, Lana carried the bouquet to him and tiptoed to kiss his cheek. “Thanks. I haven’t had anyone give me flowers since. . . See? I can’t even remember the last time.”
He rested his palm on her arm. “You’re more than welcome.”
“I’ll put them on the table,” she said, beckoning him into the living room.
He followed her and plopped his tall frame into an easy chair, then stretched his legs out in front of him. “How are you feeling? I notice the limp is fading.”
She sank onto the sofa. “My hobble’s disappearing but not the memory. I’ve ended my cowgirl career
. Not even your pleading tears will ever move me to agree to a venture like that again.”
He squirmed with a grin. “How are you with canoes?”
Her head zoomed upward. “Why?” She narrowed her eyes, hoping the look pinned him to the chair.
“Just making conversation.” A wry look filtered across his face.
Her stomach tightened. “Like pig’s wings. Tell me the truth.” Gazing into his face, she felt herself weakening—with or without his pleading.
“I’m teasing.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m working on the Christian camp activities. I think it will be fun.”
“Some people’s idea of fun isn’t healthy,” she said, enjoying his puzzled expression.
“But camping is. Fresh air, nature, exercise, and God.”
“Great. I had my rebuttal planned, but you ruined it. How can I say anything negative when you included the Lord in your list?” She folded her arms across her chest.
“I know you can’t. That was my plan.”
She unfolded her arms and sent him a sweet smile. “Want to know my plan? What I’ve been thinking about—while sitting here wounded and in misery?”
“Okay. What?” he asked, rising and sliding next to her on the sofa. “Tell me. Maybe it’s the same thing that’s on my mind.”
She caught an innuendo in his comment, and it rattled her. She liked him—a lot. But Mark seemed too perfect for her. Too optimistic. Too expecting. He presumed she experienced his enthusiasm for life and his penchant for helping others. On the other hand, life did seem more exciting when he was around.
“Why so quiet?” he asked.
“I’m thinking about what might be on your mind, because I doubt if it’s paint and wallpaper.”
He collapsed against the sofa back and groaned. “You mean you haven’t forgotten that project?”
“I haven’t forgotten the project or your offer.” She moved her face closer to his and looked him straight in the eyes. “I believe it went something like, ‘Name it. I’m yours.’ ”
He inhaled, and the zesty scent of mint filled the space between them.
“I recall hearing someone say that.” He pressed his palm against her cheek. “You don’t really want me to paint. I’ll drip the stuff all over the place.”
Over Her Head (Truly Yours Digital Editions Book 489) Page 7