by Brenda Mott
His gaze had strayed to the woman with the golden-brown hair, long curvy legs and a name that rolled off his tongue like cream over strawberries. Bailey Chancellor.
She caught him staring and flashed him a smile. He swallowed hard and turned away.
Your hometown friendly bank.
The only one he had any thoughts about getting hometown friendly with was Bailey.
A woman with violet eyes.
A woman who scared the hell out of him.
“DO YOU HAVE a headache, Bailey? Can I get you some aspirin?”
Bailey looked up into the concerned face of her young secretary. Quickly, she unfolded her hands and lowered them from her forehead. “No, Jenny, thanks. I was just thinking.”
“All right.” Jenny started to leave.
“Uh, Jenny?”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering something. You mentioned my neighbor this morning, Trent Murdock?”
Jenny nodded.
In the two weeks since she’d hired her, Bailey had quickly discovered that her secretary was a font of information. Jenny had lived in Ferguson all her twenty-five years, and knew everything about everybody. She loved to talk, and when Bailey had said this morning that she was in search of a good horse, Jenny had told her about Windsong. Jenny had bought a horse from Windsong two years ago, and gave the ranch and its owner, Trent Murdock, a good recommendation.
As soon as Jenny had called Trent by name, Bailey realized he was probably the man she’d seen at the cemetery, since Murdock was the name on the little girl’s headstone. Normally she wasn’t the nosy type, but she couldn’t seem to get Trent Murdock off her mind, especially since he’d walked into the bank an hour ago.
“What happened to Trent’s little girl?” Bailey asked.
Jenny’s pretty face clouded over, and she stepped closer to Bailey’s desk, her long blond ponytail swishing. “She had stomach cancer. It was so sad. And that Christmas tree on her grave…have you seen it? God, it just tears your heart out. No one knows why Trent put it there, but he did it the day after she was buried, and he hangs a new ornament on it every now and then.”
She shuddered and leaned on the desk. “I can hardly bear to talk about it. No one does. Trent’s wife left him after little Sarah died. She just couldn’t take it, I guess. It was really awful, though—him grieving and then Amy leaving him that way. A lot of ladies around here tried to comfort him, if you know what I mean, but he wasn’t having any part of it. Guess he just wants to be left alone in his grief.
“Those horses are his whole life, and the only time a person can get him to open up is when he’s discussing them. You really ought to go see them. I’m sure you’ll find one you like. But don’t mention Sarah. Her death’s just too much for him to cope with. Like I said, no one talks about it.”
Jenny paused for air and Bailey blinked. For a subject that was allegedly taboo, her secretary certainly hadn’t held back much. But then, that was Jenny, and Bailey was quickly learning that in a small town gossiping was highly rated.
“Thank you, Jenny. I’ll keep that in mind.”
BAILEY WORKED through her lunch hour and left the bank at two o’clock. Her furniture and other belongings were due to arrive at her house at two-thirty. She drove to the bed-and-breakfast where she’d been staying, changed into jeans and a T-shirt then headed for the farm. As she passed the cemetery, she glanced over at Sarah’s tree.
Why had Trent put a Christmas tree on his little girl’s grave in the middle of August? And why did he continue to keep it decorated? She couldn’t shake the picture of him kneeling beside the grave yesterday, hanging a new ornament. Maybe he’d done it because yesterday had been the one-year anniversary of Sarah’s death. Jenny had said he hung a new one from time to time. It tugged at Bailey’s heart to ponder what occasions made him do so. The remembrance of a special day once shared with Sarah? Her birthday? The day she took her first step? God, how it must hurt to lose a child.
She couldn’t begin to imagine the pain Trent suffered. She wished she could have somehow comforted him. Until yesterday morning when Camille Kendall, the owner of the bed-and-breakfast, had told her about the shortcut road that ran past Roth Hill Cemetery, she’d taken the long way around to get to her farm. That was why she hadn’t seen the cemetery and the tree sooner. Odd that she’d happened by on the day Trent visited Sarah’s grave—a day that surely caused him great sorrow.
Maybe fate had thrown him in her path.
Bailey shook off the thought. It was ridiculous. When she got involved with a man, it wouldn’t be Trent Murdock. Clearly, he carried a lot of baggage. She didn’t need that, no matter how much she sympathized with his loss. And he most certainly didn’t need her to comfort him. He obviously was a loner, just the type of man she’d vowed to avoid. She’d seen enough of men focused on their careers, men who didn’t want children. From what Jenny had said, the loss of his daughter had made Trent into just that kind of man.
No, Bailey couldn’t let her feelings override good sense. The only thing Trent had to offer her was a horse, and she’d do well to remember that.
She pulled onto County Road 311 and minutes later turned into her driveway. The farmhouse had been remodeled in years past and was in good shape for the most part, but it still needed a few little repairs here and there, some paint, a loving touch. She had nearly finished painting the inside. The repair work would come as she made time for it.
The moving van arrived punctually, and Bailey spent the remainder of the afternoon directing the movers where to put the heaviest pieces of furniture. By six o’clock, she was hot, dusty and tired. But she was happy. She wandered from room to room, through rows of boxes, loving the way her furniture looked in the place. The big house seemed to swallow her possessions. She would have to accumulate things to fill it. The four bedrooms, living room, family room, dining room and spacious kitchen were a far cry from the two-bedroom apartment she’d rented in Denver.
One day, Bailey promised herself, all the rooms would be filled, not just with furniture but with her family. She planned to have it all. The house with the white picket fence, a dog, a cat, a horse…and kids. Lots of kids. Whether she could find the right man to share her dream had yet to be seen. That was where her version of the all-American family often fell apart. She’d witnessed so many empty marriages, met so many shallow men, that she’d begun to wonder if real love and romance existed. The businesswoman in her said no. But that didn’t stop her from wanting children.
Growing up, she’d lived in enough foster homes to know that thousands of kids out there needed parents and didn’t have them. She’d been one, and she longed to give a child what she’d never had, to complete the circle she’d traveled and close the empty space that had claimed a part of her life for so long. If she never found the right guy to marry, she would simply adopt children and raise them on her own. Her kids would never lack for love or for a true parent. They would have roots, and this wonderful farmhouse to call home.
Bailey’s stomach growled, reminding her she’d skipped lunch. She ambled to the kitchen, where she grabbed a sandwich, then headed for the porch swing.
The sound of hoofbeats reached her ears as she pushed open the screen door. Her mouth dropped at the sight of half a dozen horses galloping across her pasture. Heads held high, necks arched, they raced in a semicircle. Hot on their heels was the stray dog she’d been feeding for the past two weeks, and right behind the dog ran a figure in a ball cap and faded jeans.
Quickly, Bailey set her sandwich plate on the porch railing and rushed down the steps. A jumble of thoughts filled her mind as she pushed through the pasture gate. From their dished faces, fine-boned heads and flowing tails lifted high in the air, she could tell the horses were Arabians, which could mean only one thing. The man in the ball cap, who continued to let out a steady stream of curses at the blue heeler-mix, could be none other than Trent Murdock.
Her experience with horses went no further than the rese
arch she’d done in preparing to buy one. Still, it seemed to her that the most sensible thing to do to get the Arabians calmed down and under control was to first contain the dog.
Considering that the animal was leery of humans and had yet to let her close enough to touch him, the task might be easier said than done. How could she get a dog that had obviously been abused, and therefore trusted no one, to come to her? Especially when he didn’t even have a name. Rolling her eyes, Bailey headed toward the barn. The bag of dog food she’d stored in the feed room stood against one wall. She scooped some into a stainless-steel dish and hurried outside.
Putting her fingers to her lips, she let out a shrill whistle that immediately snagged the attention of both man and dog. Bailey ignored Trent and focused on the dog. “Here, boy!” She rattled the food inside the dish. “Come and get it.” The dog had slowed his step and now glanced from the horses, which still raced in circles, to her, then back to the horses. He gave chase once more, and Bailey moved toward him, willing herself to walk. She didn’t want to scare him, yet the angry posture of Trent’s shoulders warned her she’d better reach the dog before he did.
She called to the animal again. This time he looked warily over his shoulder at Trent and immediately made a beeline for her. “That’s it! Come on.” She rattled the food, and the dog slowed to a trot and halted several feet away, tongue lolling over black lips. He pinned his upright ears, the black-and-white speckled tip of his tail drooping behind him, his stance indicating that he was ready to bolt at the first sign of a suspicious move on her part. She crooned reassuringly to him, and he flicked his ears forward and cocked his head.
Bailey bent over at the waist, trying to make herself appear smaller and less threatening. “Here, boy. I’ve got some dinner for you.” The dog took a hesitant step forward. “That’s right. Come on.” Walking half backward, she began a slow retreat toward the barn, holding the dish out before her. “It’s okay.”
The dog shot Trent another glance and seemed to decide his best option was the safety of Bailey’s company. He loped after her, and she walked a little faster. Reaching the open doorway of the barn, she set the food dish down in the aisle. The dog stopped and stared at her. His ribs showed through his black coat, and her heart went out to him. She couldn’t stand to see an animal hungry. “Go on, boy. Dinner’s waiting.”
He edged toward the doorway, nose quivering as he sniffed the air. Scenting the food, he darted inside and thrust his muzzle into the dish. Bailey crept forward, whispering an apology to the animal. She’d planned to tame him gradually, and had tried not to do anything to scare him or betray his trust. But shutting him in the barn seemed to be in his best interest at the moment. After sliding the heavy door closed on its track, she slipped the latch into place, heaved a sigh of relief and turned around.
Trent Murdock stood behind her, so close she could make out every murderous frown line that creased his forehead.
“Lady,” he snapped, “if that’s your dog, you’re in more trouble than you ever bargained for.”
Bailey set her jaw.
She didn’t doubt it for a minute.
But if Trent wanted to fight, she was game.
CHAPTER TWO
TRENT FOUGHT the urge to throttle both the dog and the woman. He pushed his cap back on his head, crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Bailey Chancellor.
“He’s not my dog,” she said. “Well—not exactly. But anyway, he didn’t hurt anything.” She folded her arms and stared defiantly at him.
Trent stared back, unable to believe his ears. “He ran my horses through the fence!”
The expression in Bailey’s violet eyes flickered, and Trent’s heart gave the smallest jump—just enough to make him wary. He was furious with her. He refused to feel anything else.
“They didn’t get cut, did they?” Bailey asked uncertainly. “They seem all right—the way they’re running around.” She looked at the horses, and Trent did, too. They’d calmed down some, now that the dog was out of sight, and moved in slower circles around the pasture.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll have to catch them and see.”
“All right, then.” Bailey unfolded her arms and walked away, looking at him over her shoulder. “Coming?”
Surely she didn’t mean to help him. But that was exactly her intention. “I don’t have a halter yet,” she said. “We’ll have to get a couple from your place.” She paused long enough to grace him with a firm stare. “Well, don’t just stand there with your mouth open. We’ve got horses to catch.”
Trent shook his head, not sure what to make of Bailey Chancellor. Maybe he’d misjudged her. She hadn’t struck him as the type to know a damn thing about horses. President of the bank, here from Denver, she’d caused a stir of gossip in town not matched since Jed Sanders had shot his brother in the leg for sleeping with Jed’s girlfriend. Rumor had it she planned to create a day care right at Colorado Western National for the children of the bank’s employees. Rumor also had it that the tough-as-nails woman just about everyone in town resented was behind the bank’s new policy that had led to the rejection of more than one farmer’s loan.
But Trent had seen a different Bailey Chancellor. The woman in a pink T-shirt and faded jeans, with tears in her eyes.
Shaking off the memory of Bailey in the cemetery, he followed her. She strode across the pasture, speaking soothingly to the horses, and headed for the downed fence. There she stopped, hands on hips, to survey the damage. “I’m glad to see it’s barbless wire,” she said. “Otherwise your horses could’ve been cut to ribbons.”
Temper bubbled anew within Trent as he halted beside her. Resting one hand on his hip, he gave her a humorless smile. “Really? Why, thanks for sharing that information with me, Ms. Chancellor. I’m much obliged.”
She frowned at him. “Don’t be sarcastic. I’m trying to help.”
“By telling me how to fence in my horses as though I don’t have a clue?”
She raised an eyebrow. “I was merely making an observation.” Coolly, she brushed his attitude aside. “So, where are the halters?”
“In the tack room.” He enunciated each word, stating the obvious. “I’ll get them. Think you can make sure those mares don’t run back through the downed wire?”
Bailey’s slight hesitation made Trent wonder if his original instincts were right. She appeared confident, yet something about her demeanor left him thinking she was a little wary of the horses.
“Fine,” Bailey said, turning to watch the mares. They now trotted around the pasture, ears alert, nostrils flared as they snorted loudly.
“You sure?” Trent asked.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Trent decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Okay, then. Be right back.” From the tack room in his barn, he took two halters and lead ropes, then returned to where Bailey waited.
He handed her a purple halter and rope, and for some stupid reason noted that it was damn near the same color as her eyes. Maybe his cap was on too tight. Bailey held the halter a bit awkwardly and fumbled with the buckle.
Amused, Trent watched. “You’ve got it backward,” he said, not sure what to make of the entire situation. Did she or did she not know how to handle a horse?
Bailey flushed and promptly turned the halter around, this time opening the buckle and holding it in the proper position. “I see that now,” she said. “Which horse do you want me to catch?”
“Dokina and Shafana are both alpha mares,” he said. “If we get them, the others should follow.” He produced a pair of wire cutters from his back pocket and snipped the downed strands of wire from the wooden post they’d been stapled to. Removing the wire was the only way to bring the horses safely back through the fence, since there was no gate in this section.
With Bailey’s help, Trent set aside the wire, disgusted that he’d have to restring it, thanks to the dog.
As though reading his mind, Bailey spoke. “I’ll help you put the
fence back up later.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Yes, it is. My dog caused this.” With a sweep of her hand, she indicated the downed wire and the loose horses.
“I thought you said he wasn’t your dog.”
“He’s not exactly, but I hope he will be sooner or later. He’s a stray,” she clarified when he looked at her, curious. “I’ve been feeding him.”
“No wonder he seems familiar,” Trent said. “I’ve seen him around here before, several weeks ago, as a matter of fact, though he’s never chased my horses until now. I’m pretty sure he was dumped.”
“I can relate,” Bailey mumbled.
“How’s that?”
“Nothing. Which one is Dokina?” She walked toward the horses.
He followed. “The chestnut with the blaze and no stockings.” He fumbled in his pocket. “Here. You’ll need these.”
Bailey faced him, and he placed four horse cookies in her hand, trying not to notice how soft her skin was as his fingers brushed her palm. Come to think of it, she smelled good, too. She’d caught her hair up in a ponytail, and golden-brown wisps strayed around her face as the hint of a breeze stirred the air. Today, she wore a yellow T-shirt with her jeans, and the same sneakers she’d had on yesterday. She reminded him of sunshine and a fresh breath of air.
He didn’t want to notice that about her, didn’t want to experience the desire to touch her. Amy had left him, Sarah was gone, and he didn’t plan on feeling anything for anyone ever again.
“They’re cookies,” Trent said as Bailey stared down at the flat, rectangular alfalfa pellets.
“Not chocolate chip, I’d wager,” Bailey quipped.
He fought a smile. “Some people call them cake. Take your pick, but you’ll need them to get close enough to catch any of the horses.”
Bailey crooked her mouth and arched one eyebrow. “Spoiled, huh?” Her words should have sounded accusatory, but somehow they didn’t. Her whiskey voice seemed to carry indulgence.