by Amy Jarecki
But today, Logan decided it was time to try something new. Olivia sat in one of the old wicker chairs reading on the porch instead of her room. Even a duchess couldn’t resist the sultry Montana summer air. He’d saddled an old gelding along with his horse, Casey. Leading the gelding, he rode out of the barn and up to the porch.
“Good morning.” He grinned, tipping back the brim of his hat.
Olivia looked up, her eyes wary. “Hiya.”
“Want to ride?”
“No.”
He leaned forward on the pommel. “I saddled a gentle old fella for you.”
“Jesus Christ, you sound like John Wayne.” She turned the page of her book. “I said no.”
Logan’s fingers clamped around the reins. “Suit yourself, princess.”
He rode off at an easy walk, sauntering back to the barn like he couldn’t care less. But all the while, a black hole spread in his chest. What had he done to make her so angry? She acted as if she hated him. Sure, she might be upset because he’d taken her to Montana, but a good tongue lashing would be a lot easier to take than the silent treatment she’d been dishing out.
After dismounting, he removed the saddles and threw them into the tack room. He managed to hold in his anger while he turned the horses out, then he marched back to the barn willing someone to get in his way so he could lay them flat.
But it was Sunday and Jason had the day off. He grabbed a pitchfork and started in on the stalls. The damned things needed cleaning anyway. He worked fast, loading the wheelbarrow and hauling it out to the compost heap. Hard labor was the best way he knew to burn off steam.
He dumped the barrow and shook it far harder than necessary.
What else could he do? Taking Olivia back to Iceland right now just didn’t seem like the right move. She was bottled up like a time bomb ticking away inside that pretty head of hers. Anyone in the same room with her could feel the tension. An explosion was inevitable.
He pushed the wheelbarrow back down on its supports.
How can I break through?
On his return trip to the barn, movement in the corral caught his eye. He should have known. Olivia might not be ready for home on the range, she needed something familiar. Wearing her leggings and the striped t-shirt, she went through the motions of a black belt form, moving stealthily on the smooth dirt surface he’d grated that morning.
He dropped the barrow handles, removed his gloves and walked to the rails.
She worked barefoot, her hands slicing through the air like hissing whips, her kicks lightning fast. The woman was long and lithe. Art in motion. Watching her stirred a fire in his blood as it stirred the smoldering embers deep in his groin.
Logan kicked off his boots and crept into the ring. He moved behind her and assumed a defensive stance. “Want to spar a round?”
She spun and faced him, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight and reflecting a look of defiance—a gorgeous expression he’d grown to love. “I figured there had to be a good use for an arena this size.” She mirrored his pose. “I won’t be so easy on you this time, cowboy.”
Logan chuckled. During their training, he’d learned her moves. But she’d learned his as well. “Give it your best shot.”
This time, her eyes didn’t betray her as she lunged for his legs. Logan had no chance. He crashed to the ground on his backside, but rolled away and swung a roundhouse from his butt. Olivia skittered back just enough to give him leeway to spring to his feet.
They circled, her breathing deeper than his, her eyes wild. She needed a win, but he couldn’t hand it to her. She needed to earn it. Needed to think she’d beat him. She threw a jumping round. He ducked, catching her leg and knocking her off balance. From her knees, her right jab went for the groin. Twisting, Logan moved enough to take the hit to his inner thigh. No question, the woman had improved…or else she was pissed enough to nail him.
By the time they were both sucking in air, she got him in a choke hold—not so tight that he’d pass out, but close enough.
“First round to me?” she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.
“Yes, ma’am.” He took a deep breath when she released her arm. “But don’t get too cocky.”
She shook her legs and arms, preparing for another bout. “Best of three?”
Logan liked that. Why the hell hadn’t he thought of sparring before? It had been a sure-fire way to connect at ICE. He waggled his eyebrows. “Let’s put some skin in the game—if I win, you’ll help me finish cleaning the stalls and agree to going on a picnic with me tomorrow.”
Pursing her lips, she scowled. “A wager? In that case,” she spoke slowly, “If I win, you’ll take me back to ICE.”
He dropped his hands to his sides, the smolder from earlier turning to lead. “Holy hell. That’s a whole lot different than a picnic. Besides, Garth gave us a month’s leave.”
“All right.” Her chin ticked up indignantly. “I’ve seen your ranch. The least you can do is agree to see my townhouse in London.”
Better.
He looked her in the eye. She hadn’t given him a timeline—something he could manipulate after…If she won. “Agreed.”
Logan barely won the next round with a takedown and a hip lock.
Round three was a different game altogether. They were both winded, hurting and fighting like street gang members. Nothing was sacred. Olivia attacked with a series of kicks and Logan countered, throwing punches that would kill an untrained man, but she defended every one. His muscles burned as the sun grew hotter and his breath shorter.
Olivia spun, the sweat from her forehead splattering him in the face. His vision blurred. He fended off her strikes while blinking furiously to regain his sight. Acting fast, she took advantage of his temporary handicap, grabbed his arm and went for a hip throw. Logan bared his teeth and rolled with her momentum. Only through shreds of brute strength did he hold on and spin her into the same choke hold she’d used on him in the first round. “Third round to me,” he growled through clenched teeth.
“Fuck you,” she croaked.
“Not the right answer.” He tightened his grip, well aware she’d be unconscious in less than twenty seconds.
She coughed out a snort, her legs ineffectively kicking. “Yes, you goddamned ape.”
He released his grip and dropped to the dirt.
She collapsed beside him, coughing and breathing like she’d just run a marathon.
“You’ve improved,” he said.
“So have you.”
Catching his breath, he rolled to his side. “I wouldn’t want to meet you in a dark alley, that’s for sure.”
“I’m just glad we’re on the same team.”
Logan sat up grinning. Same team. “You can say that again.”
***
After a tall glass of ice water, Olivia followed Logan to the barn. He handed her a pitchfork, the lout. She gave it an aghast stare. “People still use these things?”
“Best way to muck out a stall.”
She cringed when they stepped into the aisleway. Though the pall wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be, there was a distinctive smell to the barn. And Logan looked so at home. He had a lazy swagger to his gait she hadn’t noticed before. Maybe it was the cowboy boots he’d put back on when they’d left the arena. Maybe it was the way his jeans hugged his bum. Maybe it was his shoulders—relaxed but sculpted by pure masculine muscle power.
He showed her the basics of stall cleaning and then worked alongside her, filling the wheelbarrow and hauling it out. Mucking was a workout in itself. Had she known that, she might have been a more willing participant in the first place. But then, she’d been madder than a magpie guarding her chicks. Olivia’s temper had a way of taking over when missions failed…well, at least they’d found the harem and got the girls out before al-Umari decided to execute them. Regardless, in her mind, she’d failed.
Indeed, she’d had to work through her anger first. Anger at her own failure. The anger she felt toward Logan for absconding
with her had passed after the first day. She leaned against a stall when it was his turn to take out the barrow. A horse with a white blaze down its nose stuck its head out and gave her a nudge.
“I beg your pardon?”
The beast snorted. Loudly.
She gave him a sideways glance before raising her hand to give his neck a pat. She touched him gingerly at first, then smoothed her hand down his fur. The horse shook his head with another snort.
“Did you like that?” she asked.
He nodded as if he did.
She ran her fingers through his mane. “Your hair is courser than I would have thought.”
Logan wheeled the barrow back inside and came up beside her. “That’s Chicken. He’s buttering you up to give him a treat.”
“Chicken? Now that’s an oxymoron...and he eats treats? Like a dog?”
“What animal doesn’t like a treat?” He grinned, teal eyes, dark beard that hadn’t been shaved in a few days, looking as handsome as the devil. “Hold out your hand.” He dropped a brownish nugget in her palm.
“What is it?”
“An apple and oat treat—good for horses.” He pointed to Chicken. “Offer it to him with your fingers flat.”
“Why?”
“He wouldn’t intend to bite you but, nonetheless, those teeth can crunch your fingers if they get caught between the treat and his mouth.”
She swallowed. “I see.” She kept her hand flat and velvety lips snatched it up. But Chicken didn’t think the treat was anywhere near enough. The snorting grew louder, his head bobbing like he was demanding an entire bucket full of apple and oat treats.
Logan pushed on the big fella’s nose making an S sound.
The horse pulled his head back into the stall and stood obediently.
“He listens to you.”
Logan grinned. “He knows what’s good for him.”
“What was that stick and string you used the other day? It wasn’t a whip was it?”
“Nope. It’s called a carrot stick—used for training, kinda like a horse whisperer.”
“Had you ridden that horse before?”
“No. That was his first ride.”
“And no bucking?”
“That’s old-school training. Not very humane either.”
“I see.”
Logan handed her the pitchfork. “One more stall to go, your grace.”
She chuckled. “A duchess would never stoop so low.”
“I think you’re pretty good at mucking out stalls.”
“Well, don’t grow accustomed to it. We’ll be returning to Iceland before long.”
“Yeah, but I’m not thinking about going back just yet. I’ve got a picnic to plan.”
“You are a sadist.” Olivia didn’t want him thinking she’d suddenly turned a corner. Oh no, there was still a great deal of sass she needed to issue before she let on that she might be enjoying anything.
Chapter Thirty-Five
When Logan heard Olivia stir upstairs, he left a note by the coffee maker then hastened out the back door. He didn’t want to give her any opportunity to weasel out of their bargain, and needed to saddle the horses.
He’d be taking Casey, his favorite twelve-year-old gelding. Casey was born when Logan had been on summer break when he was attending Annapolis. He spent the entire month with the foal, rubbing him down for hours to ensure he didn’t fear humans. He was trying something new at the time and it had paid off. Whenever he was home, Casey followed Logan around the pasture and it never mattered how long Logan was away, the horse always greeted him with snorts and nickers.
Olivia’s horse was the same twenty-year-old sorrel gelding she’d met yesterday, Chicken. The name didn’t fit, because Chicken wasn’t skittish in the least. He ambled along, rarely ever broke into a jog, and it took a seasoned rider to convince him to step up to a lope. Yep, Chicken was the best beginner’s horse in the herd.
Logan took his time brushing the two, picking their hooves and saddling them. He wanted this day to be perfect. Olivia had given him her all when they were sparring. Though his flame for her had never flickered, it wasn’t until she was aiming deadly kicks at his head that he realized she still liked him. If he’d been a terrorist, she wouldn’t have missed. And if she’d been serious about returning to London, she wouldn’t have let him win. Well, she didn’t exactly let him win, but her defense to his choke hold had been a millisecond late. And that’s when his spirits rose.
When he rode out of the barn with Chicken in tow, Olivia was waiting on the porch, just as his note had instructed. She wore tight-fitting jeans, the flannel shirt untucked, one of Logan’s Navy ballcaps with her hair pulled back and, best of all, she looked like dynamite in the cowboy boots Sylvia had bought. Leggy, curves in the right places.
He pulled Casey to a stop in front of the hitching post. “You look like a mighty fine wrangler in that getup.”
She gave him a sober blink. “Is that so, cowboy?” No, given her accent, the whole wrangler fantasy fizzled, but still didn’t detract from her allure.
He casually slung his leg over Casey’s withers and slid to the ground. “Come on. I’ll give you a leg up and adjust your stirrups.”
She ambled down the stairs. “Chicken looks a lot bigger when he’s not in a stall.”
“He’s a pussy cat.” Logan took her hand and led her to the horse’s nose. “Let him smell your palm and give him a pat so he knows who’s riding him.”
“You don’t just jump on?”
“The horse likes it better if you introduce yourself first.”
“Who knew?” She let Chicken sniff, then smoothed her hand down his neck while a smile spread across her lips. “You’re a handsome fella, aren’t you?”
Logan gulped, wishing she was talking to him. A wisp of hair from her ponytail blew across his nose. He caught the knee-weakening scent of fresh rain and nearly groaned. God, he had it bad, and he was still in the doghouse. Ignoring his urge to pull her into an embrace, he showed her how to hold the reins and mount. Once she was securely in the saddle, he adjusted her stirrups and gave her thigh a pat. “You’re all set.”
“I know you’re laughing right down to your toes.”
“Laughing? Not at all. I’ve wanted to show you my spread since we arrived.”
“Is that what’s this is about? Showing me the backwoods of the wild west?”
He threw a leg over Casey’s back and took up his reins. “I wanted to share something I love with you.” The words came out low with an edge. No matter how much he tried, she just didn’t get it. She was just too citified. Olivia didn’t want to ride horses and she didn’t want to be in Montana. Dammit, he should stop trying to make her like it. Maybe she was right. They ought to head back to ICE and pick up where they left off—not the work-spouse thing, but the hunting terrorists thing.
He wasn’t the duchess’ type. She’d made that imminently clear a dozen times since they’d met.
A knot formed between his shoulder blades. She agreed to a goddamned picnic, and they were going to enjoy the hell out of the day if it killed him.
***
Olivia rode behind Logan, half-expecting him to point to every rock and tell a story, but he just rode in silence.
And she felt wretched.
He’d been keen to show her his place and she’d done nothing but act like a highbrow, wallowing in her own misery. There’d been great deal of emotion in his last words. Resignation and frustration were there for certain. But the worst was disappointment. She’d pushed him away, and pushed too far.
Her gut twisted.
It was just as well. Neither one of them could engage in a relationship.
No matter how much I’d like to.
She rode along, watching his back, worrying about him. What was he thinking? Had she deeply hurt his feelings? Was he angry? He’d been nothing but kind to her. The man had bent over backward to be accommodating. And she’d spat in his face every chance she got, blaming him for lett
ing al-Umari slip through their fingers. Again.
But it wasn’t his fault.
Nothing was his fault, especially Olivia’s ever present self-loathing.
She liked Logan a lot. More than any guy she’d dated as of late. Damn. She had to admit it. She liked him more than any guy ever. And he’d always acted the gentleman. She took in a long breath. “I’m sorry if I was short with you.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Olivia blinked, a tad rebuffed. She didn’t much care for it when the roles reversed and he started playing the masochist.
But that was her fault, too.
She pointed to a peak that rose above the forest. “What mountain is that?”
“Broken Leg Mountain.”
“Are we heading up there?”
“Not your first time out. I thought we might go to Horseshoe Lake. It’s nearby and secluded.”
“Is that the big fishing lake you told me about?”
“No.” A bit of command returned to his voice. “People come from miles around to fish Flathead Lake. It’s world famous.”
She smoothed the reins through her fingers. “Does Chicken trot?”
“You think you’re ready to step it up?”
“He’s not going to rear or anything?”
“Not Chicken.” Logan tapped his heels and, as soon as Casey took up a trot, Chicken followed. Olivia didn’t even have to do anything. But she flopped in the saddle, her bum slapping the leather like a bag of grain.
Logan glanced back. “Press your heels down. Move with the horse. He’s got a smooth gait.”
Olivia did as told and the jostling stopped. “There’s a lot to this, isn’t there?”
He shrugged. “I suppose anything worth doing well takes practice. You didn’t earn your black belt overnight, did you?”
“No. I did not.”
“Me, neither. In fact, being a quick study isn’t my strong suit.”
“No? Then what is?” she asked.
“Being tenacious.”
He can say that again.
By the time they reached a grassy point jutting into Horseshoe Lake, Logan seemed more like his old self, and the fresh air had made Olivia’s head clear. She felt human for the first time in weeks.