Montana Hearts: Her Weekend Wrangler

by Darlene Panzera

  “Is he ever?” Delaney countered.

  No. Their father had never been supportive of any of his children’s ideas if they didn’t align with his own. Bree shared a brief smile with her sister and sighed. She dreamed that one day . . . just once . . . her father would look at her with pride.

  And tell her he believed in her.

  ON TUESDAY, RYAN stood outside the corral at a distance agreeable to the man-­hating mare, and watched as Bree played around with the mare’s baby.

  Bree used the tiny halter and brushed the filly’s back, down one side, over the filly’s other side, around the neck, around the ears, nose, and mouth. Morning Glory tried to nibble the halter with her lips, but Bree pulled back just in time.

  “Good girl,” Bree said, her voice soft, gentle, and confident as she ran the halter over the filly’s body once again. “This isn’t so scary, is it?”

  Bree brought the halter up to the filly’s head again and this time she was able to slip the nylon hoop right over the nose. Then Bree slid the straps over the ears and secured the buckle along the side of the filly’s head. The filly didn’t like that too much. The young one let out a high-­pitched squeal and pranced around her mother, trying to shake the thing off. When the filly drew toward Bree again, she patted her neck. “Good girl, Morning Glory. I know you’re a little confused right now, but you’re doing such a wonderful job, yes, you are.”

  After receiving a few more minutes of Bree’s attention, the filly finally calmed down. Ryan didn’t blame the filly for trusting her. Bree could lull him into believing all kinds of things he didn’t think possible just with the tone of her soft, silky voice.

  “You look great out there,” he called, giving her a nod of approval.

  “Do you mean me or the filly?” she teased, flashing him a grin.

  “Both,” he said, smiling. Then he turned his head at the sound of footsteps behind him. His aunt approached, walking beside Cody, who must have just gotten home from school.

  “Good afternoon, Aunt Mary,” Ryan greeted as she and Cody joined him by the fence. “We got the halter on for the first time.”

  Aunt Mary’s gaze flew toward Bree, then she scowled. “Why aren’t you in there?”

  “Bree’s helping us train,” Cody informed her. “The mare likes her.”

  “Ryan,” his aunt said, lowering her voice. “I wanted you to train the filly, not some . . .” Her voice hardened. “Not someone else.”

  Bree cast them a nervous glance and Ryan wondered if she’d overheard. Probably not, but Bree could read body language. It was part of her skill as a horse trainer.

  “Bree’s the best,” Ryan assured his aunt. “And I can’t do it, because the mare won’t let me near her or the filly.”

  “Tsh,” his aunt protested. “That’s crazy talk. The mare’s a sweetheart.”

  “She hates me,” Ryan said. “Watch.”

  He opened the gate to the corral and slowly walked in. When he got within fifteen feet of the mare, the horse’s eyes widened, she flattened her ears, and began to twitch her tail back and forth in an agitated motion. Returning to his aunt, he asked, “See?”

  Aunt Mary frowned. “What did you do to her?”

  “Nothing. The day she arrived, she took one look at me and my brothers and pitched a fit.”

  “Ryan, females of every species adore you. Can’t you find a way to—­”

  “Not without Bree.”

  “I didn’t hire Bree, I hired you.” Aunt Mary’s forehead creased and her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you understand? I want the foal of my Apollo trained by a Tanner, someone to carry on the family tradition.”

  Ryan watched Bree crook her finger toward Cody and motion him into the round pen. “What do you want me to do, Aunt Mary? Fire her?”

  Aunt Mary hesitated, and Ryan realized her raw emotion must mean his aunt was feeling worse. He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry I—­”

  “What’s she doing now?” his aunt said, cutting him off.

  Ryan glanced toward the corral. Bree had clipped a lead rope to the halter and wrapped it around the filly’s body so that the pressure on her rear would push the horse forward. Next, Bree instructed Cody to set out a series of bright orange cones and proceeded to lead Morning Glory in a pattern between them. The filly’s back end zigzagged this way and that, and the foal bounced around with a series of little bunny hops, but all in all, the rest of the training session went well. When Bree finished, she returned Morning Glory to her mother, cast Ryan and his aunt a quick glance, and walked toward them.

  Cody ran ahead of her. “Did you see me, Aunt Mary? Bree said I can help train.”

  “Behind the scenes, of course,” Bree interjected. “I’d never do anything to put Cody in harm’s way.” She took Aunt Mary’s hand in hers. “Hi. I’m Bree Collins. Thank you so much for allowing me to teach your grandnephew how to train. You see, the mare doesn’t mind boys. It’s just the big men like Ryan she’s worried about. I’m hoping Cody can help me desensitize the filly to the noises the crowd might make at the halter show by popping balloons, ringing bells, blowing whistles, and waving flags. I’ll also explain everything I’m doing and why so he can train horses himself when he’s older.”

  Aunt Mary’s face softened. “My grandnephew. Yes, that . . . would mean so much to me.”

  Ryan grinned as he met Bree’s gaze. She had been in tune with what his aunt had been thinking, and she was cunning and charming and smart.

  “Bree held the lead rope,” Cody told them. “But I led the way and the filly followed me wherever I went.”

  Aunt Mary nodded, her pale face beaming with pride. “I saw you and I think you’ll make a marvelous horse trainer, like your dad.”

  “And like Bree,” Cody added. “Bree’s the best.”

  “Yes, she is,” Ryan agreed, glancing at Bree again. She’d given them each a nod and slipped back into the corral with the horses. When he turned back toward his aunt he found her studying him with a smile and an amazed look on her face. And since she was now in such a good mood it seemed the perfect time to ask her about using her field.

  “The Owenses won’t be too happy,” Aunt Mary said after he’d finished explaining the situation, “but family comes first. Of course you can use my field to replant your hay.” She gave him another smile. “Under one condition.”

  His aunt was laying out conditions? Ryan held his breath as he waited for his aunt to continue.

  “I want you to ask Bree Collins out on a date.”

  What? Ryan stared at her, his throat running dry. “First you want me to fire her and now you want me to date her?”

  Aunt Mary nodded. “I was wrong about her.”

  “Yeah?” Ryan wondered briefly if his aunt’s sickness had addled her brain. “What made you change your mind?”

  Her smile broadened. “The look in your eye when you look at her.”

  “It’s not what you think. Bree and I are just working together. I made her a deal that if I helped her with—­” He broke off as Bree came back toward them carrying the stack of orange cones through the gate.

  “Do you know how to make apple cobbler?” Aunt Mary asked her.

  Bree nodded. “Yes, I do. In fact, I helped my grandma make some for our guests the other day.”

  Aunt Mary continued to smile, wider and wider, then gave him a direct look and said, “She’s perfect.”

  Oh, no. Ryan’s stomach clenched tight. Did his aunt really plan to play matchmaker? His parents claimed if it wasn’t for her they would have never met. His father’s cousin claimed the same. And his cousin’s cousin.

  After his aunt got into her truck and left, Bree approached him and asked, “What did she mean, exactly, when your aunt asked me about cobbler and said, ‘She’s perfect’?”

  Ryan couldn’t help but look deep into those dark sapphire eyes o
ne more time. “Perfect for training the filly.”

  “Really? She said that?” Bree’s face lit up with her smile. “I’m so glad I have her approval.”

  Ignoring the heat traveling up his neck, Ryan nodded. “Me, too.”

  BREE ADDED ONE cup of oatmeal, one cup of lavender buds, and several drops of lavender fragrance to the pot of goat milk soap base her grandmother was stirring on the stove.

  “Are you sure homemade soap is cheaper than store-­bought?” Bree asked, her nose wrinkling at the strong scent of lavender filling the entire kitchen.

  “It is the way I make it,” Grandma said, gesturing for her to get the molds ready. “Besides, no one needs all those extra chemicals and additives manufacturers put into their products. It’s not healthy and doesn’t smell half so pretty. The guests love it because oatmeal softens the skin and the scent of lavender helps them relax.”

  Bree gasped as a new idea hit her. “I could rub the soap on Ryan’s horses. Then maybe they will relax enough to let him come near them.”

  Grandma laughed. “It might be better if you rub the lavender on Ryan.”

  “It’s worth a try,” she agreed.

  Using two pot holders, Bree lifted the large, heavy pot off the stove and poured half the speckled, cream-­colored mixture into the wooden, rectangle tray with twenty-­four dividers for individual bars. Then she poured the rest into a cardboard tube with a four-­inch diameter. After the soap hardened they’d peel off the cardboard and slice the soap into rounds.

  “Oooh-­eey! That lavender sure is strong,” Ma said, coming into the kitchen. “At least we’ll have plenty of guest soaps for the cabins. And now that Luke got the insurance renewed we can start taking ­people on trail rides and let them sign up for the mini-­roundups.”

  Bree placed the pot in the stainless steel sink to cool off and Grandma had just begun to gather up the thermometers, measuring cups, and utensils when a loud knock sounded on the front door.

  “I’ll get it,” Ma said, and when she returned to the kitchen, a man in tan trousers and a dressy brown leather jacket accompanied her.

  “Shane McGrath from Fox Creek Realty,” he said, introducing himself. He held out his hand toward Bree to shake, but Ma pulled it back.

  “You don’t want to do that,” she told him. “They’ve been handling lye.”

  Roy scrunched up his nose. “Making perfume?”

  Bree shook her head. “No. We’re making homemade oatmeal and lavender guest soaps.”

  “Maybe I could save you the trouble,” Shane stated boldly. “I heard the ranch was in trouble and was wondering if you were interested in selling. I made some inquiries and I know at least two clients who might be interested in taking this place off your hands.”

  Bree pulled the yellow rubber gloves off her hands and slapped them into the sink with the pot. “And who might they be? Susan and Wade Randall?”

  He gave her an apologetic look. “My clients wish to remain anonymous for now.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We’re not interested in selling,” Bree told him. “Right, Grandma?”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Grandma declared, tearing off her apron. “So you can get right on out of our house. You have no business here.”

  “Wait,” Ma protested. “Don’t you think we should at least consider what he has to say?”

  “No,” Bree said, scowling at her mother.

  “But with your father laid up and the mounting hospital bills—­”

  “Loretta,” Grandma ground out in her gravelly voice. “How could you even think we’d want to sell now that Bree, Luke, and Delaney have come home?”

  “I just thought—­” She looked from Grandma to Bree and shook her head. “Never mind.”

  “Let me give you my number,” Shane said, handing her a business card. “In case you have a change of heart.”

  “Thank you,” Bree said, taking the card before her mother could get her hands on it. “But someone would have to rip our hearts out before we’d ever consider selling this place.”

  After the realtor left, Bree tore up the card and threw it in the trash. Then she transferred the soap mold trays from the kitchen table to an upper pantry shelf. “Grandma, I think we need to hire a P.I. to find our embezzling ranch managers.”

  “Private investigators cost money,” Grandma reminded her.

  “And we can’t be sure Susan and Wade Randall were the ones who tipped off the insurance agency or who spoke to the realtor,” Ma added. “For all we know it could be Mr. Owens. You know how he is. Or maybe it was Ryan Tanner who tipped them off. He knows what sorry shape we’re in.”

  “It wasn’t Ryan,” Bree said, taking a towel and wiping the table clean. “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “Well, who would?” her mother demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Bree admitted, and thought of her upcoming party just two days away. To lighten the mood, she joked, “Someone who wants to ruin my birthday?”

  “Or one of the guests who doesn’t like my cooking?” Grandma offered.

  Bree smiled. “Whoever it is, we’ll find them. I’ll hire a private investigator as soon as Chelsea, Katelyn, and Rebecca give us the deposit for the corporate retreat.”

  “If only they would book the retreat,” her mother said, and sighed.

  Yes. Bree nodded. If only.

  Chapter Seven

  “YOU WANT ME to do what?” Ryan asked, staring at the speckled bar of soap in Bree’s hand.

  She nodded toward the mare in the end stall. “Rub the soap over your clothes and let the mare smell you.”

  “You think she’ll like me if I smell like lavender?”

  “It’s worth a shot. Lavender relaxes and so . . . yes. I hope she’ll let you come closer.”

  “Like this?” he asked, grinning as he stepped toward her.

  Bree placed her hands on his chest to push him away. “Not closer to me.”

  “Why not?” Ryan challenged. “If the mare sees that you allow me close to you, maybe the mare will allow me to get close to her.”

  Bree smiled. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!”

  “No more ridiculous than rubbing me down with lavender.”

  “C’mon, Ryan,” she pleaded. “At least try it.”

  Ryan grinned. “Only if you do.”

  Bree frowned. “I already smell like lavender. I washed with my grandma’s soap this morning.”

  “I meant . . . I’ll put on the soap if you take my hand when we walk toward the mare.”

  “Oh.” Color rose up into Bree’s cheeks, but she met his gaze. “Okay.”

  She handed him the soap and he rubbed the bar down his bare arms. The temperature in the middle of the day rose to seventy-­five degrees now that the calendar had flipped over to June, allowing him to shed his flannel and get by with a T-­shirt. Next he rubbed the soap down his chest and down the front side of his jeans. “Okay, you’ll have to get the rest,” he said, handing the soap back to her. “I can’t reach my back.”

  Bree hesitated, then nodded. “Turn around.”

  She brushed the bar over his shoulders, down his spine, along each side to his waist. She didn’t go below his waist. She wasn’t as bold as some other ladies would have been. He let out another grin and spun back around. “Am I good?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, you’re good.”

  “The lavender must work,” he teased. “Even you like me now.”

  Bree laughed and gave him a playful swat. “I meant . . . I’m finished with you.”

  Ryan raised his brows. “Whoa. I sure hope that line didn’t have a double meaning.”

  She laughed again and her eyes sparkled as she nodded toward the mare. “You can practice your flirting on her.”

  Ryan reached for Bree’s hand and tucked it into the crook of his
arm. “Shall we?”

  They approached the mare, side by side. They’d take one step. Stop. Take another step. Stop. It was a slow walk down the aisle, but Ryan didn’t mind because it reminded him of dancing back and forth to a slow country tune . . . with Bree as his partner.

  Bree tried to loosen her fingers ever so slightly from his. He tightened his hold instead, relishing the warmth between them. She cast him a wary glance and Ryan whispered, “What are you afraid of?”

  “The same thing as the mare,” she whispered back. “Trusting the wrong person.”

  “Then I’ll make you both the same promise,” he said, dipping his head to catch her full attention. “I won’t hurt you.”

  The mare stuck her head over the half door of the stall and eyed them suspiciously. Ryan expected to see the horse toss her head and kick against the stall door, but as they drew closer the mare curled her lip upward and then snorted at the strong, lavender scent.

  “That’s my good girl,” Bree said in a sweet singsong voice. “Doesn’t Ryan smell pretty?” Bree glanced at him and smiled. “I think Angel likes you. Talk to her.”

  “That’s my good girl,” Ryan said, imitating Bree but using a lower tone. He would not raise his voice like a girl. That would be going too far. Besides, the mare needed to get to know who he really was. So did Bree.

  He squeezed Bree’s hand and took another step with her, thinking it was time he told her a few things about himself that he should have told her long ago.

  “Say something,” Bree whispered.

  A few steps farther and Ryan was standing directly in front of the mare. While Angel didn’t take her eyes off him, the horse didn’t protest his presence either. “Isn’t Bree smart?” Ryan said, careful to keep his voice friendly, the way he did when trying to win over hard-­nosed women. “It was her idea to rub lavender all over me and I didn’t believe it would work, but here we are, you and me.”

  “Actually, it was my grandmother’s idea,” Bree corrected.

  Angel sniffed his arm and then pulled her head back and curled her upper lip again, showing him all her teeth—­in a curious but nonthreatening way.