T.R. swallowed. From the corner of his eye, he could see Duane watching him for a reaction. He’d never heard of an emasculator, but it didn’t take much imagination to figure out what was in store for Red Devil. He adopted the poker face that had served him so well as a deal maker. “Sounds interesting,” he said evenly. “Maybe I’ll be in time to watch.”
“Maybe you will,” Duane said, a slow grin spreading across his leathered face as he took the left fork in the road.
T.R. prayed the corrals were a long, long way down this winding road, and that Freddy had already finished the task.
Shortly, however, the corrals appeared. They didn’t look very much like the ones T.R. had seen in the movies. The fences were at least a foot thick and made with tree branches laid lengthwise inside upright braces to form a solid wall. The weathered nature of the branches indicated the corrals had been there a long time. One large enclosure containing a least thirty horses was surrounded by several smaller corrals, which were empty. Not far from the corrals stood a large tin barn with two wings, one of tin, and one of stone, looking much older than its counterpart. Across a small clearing was a long one-story building, also of stone, that looked as though it might be a bunkhouse.
A group of cowboys clustered around one of the small corrals. Laughter wafted across the clearing, as if the men were at a party.
“I’ll park here, so we don’t get no dust over there,” Duane said. “Come on,” he urged, climbing down from the driver’s seat. “We’ll get a little closer so you can see.”
T.R. took a deep breath and loosened his tie. “Okay.” He left his sport coat in the van, deciding a jacket wasn’t required at this particular event. Following Duane, he trudged through dust that coated his oxblood wing tips. It sure didn’t smell like the city, he thought. But he sort of liked the combined odor of horse manure and animal sweat that hung over the area.
Duane paused next to the fence and found a foothold in the meshed branches. “Just climb up here. You can see, then.”
T.R. put his hands on the rough bark, wedged his wing tips in a notch in the branches and hoisted himself up next to Duane. Inside the small corral where the cowboys had gathered, a cinnamon-colored horse lay on the ground, his back leg stretched away from his body with a rope. A blond woman crouched near the horse’s head, and a brunette was kneeling by his groin area. T.R. had a sudden uneasy suspicion. “Where’s Freddy?” he asked.
“Right there by the business end of the horse. The blonde is Leigh, her sister. She’s the head wrangler.”
“Oh.” He hated surprises. They threw him off his stride.
Duane looked at him. “Freddy’s the best boss I ever slung a rope for, mister. And a damned good vet. She took it in school, just so’s she could help out with animals around here.”
“I’m sure she’s very capable,” T.R.’s mind raced to assimilate this unexpected information. Freddy had her back to him, her snug-fitting jeans cupping a firm backside, her leather belt cinching in a small waist. Her rich brunette hair was caught with a silver-and-turquoise clip at her nape.
“Leigh calls herself a horse psychic,” Duane said. “Some folks laugh about it, but I’ve known people who could tell what horses are thinkin’. Seems like Leigh can. She’s gonna work on Red Devil’s self-esteem, I think is what she said.”
After that speech, T.R. realized that Duane wasn’t quiet at all. Probably, he just got that way in the unfriendly confines of the city. Out here on the ranch, conversation spewed from him like water from a broken fire hydrant.
But most of T.R.’s attention remained focused on Freddy. Her cooperation would be critical once the purchase went through, because he wanted to continue the guest ranch operation without sinking any more money into improvements. It would be a waste of resources, considering the ultimate fate of the property.
Freddy turned and asked for something and T.R. got a glimpse of her profile. Classic. So she had a face to match her figure, apparently. Now that he’d adjusted to the idea that the ranch foreman was a woman, he liked it. Women were just as good working companions as men. Who knew if Freddy might turn out to be more reasonable about his plans for the ranch than some macho guy protecting his turf. Sometimes women were better at the art of compromise.
“They‘ve sedated him, but they ain’t done the cutting’ yet,” Duane said, as if he felt obliged to provide color commentary on the event. “Ever seen anything’ like this before?”
“No.” T.R. wondered if this was the way Elizabethans used to react to beheadings in the public square—too horrified to watch and too curious to look away. He winced as Freddy began the procedure and fought the urge to put his hands over his own crotch.
“That there’s the emasculator,” Duane explained, pointing to an instrument in Freddy’s hands. “Looks sorta like a nutcracker, don’t it? No pun intended.”
T.R. wanted to turn his back on the whole thing, but he figured this might be a test, and for some stupid reason, he didn’t want Duane to think less of him.
As the operation continued, Duane shifted his weight uneasily. So he wasn’t as unperturbed about this as he let on, T.R. thought. “Kinda gets you in the—well, you know,” the cowboy said.
“Yeah, I know,” T.R. said. He found it interesting that Duane seemed reluctant to mention body parts. He’d heard that cowboys had a chivalrous side and avoided many of the four-letter words tossed out so often by city dwellers. Some of T.R.’s Wall Street friends might launch at the idea that a tobacco-spitting old cowpoke was a gentleman, but that’s exactly how T.R. would describe Duane.
At last, Freddy stood, signaling that the operation was over. T.R. realized his jaw hurt, and he relaxed his clenched teeth.
Duane climbed down. “That does it. Might as well take you over to meet the boss. Walk careful and don’t stir up no dust. We don’t want any on Red Devil’s...equipment.”
T.R. eased himself off the fence, wiped his sweaty palms on his slacks and started after Duane. As they approached, the blond sister named Leigh noticed them and spoke to Freddy.
The ranch foreman turned and stripped off her gloves. Striding toward them, she held out her hand to T.R. “Welcome to the True Love, Mr. McGuinnes. I’m Frederica Singleton. Please call me Freddy.”
T.R. looked into hazel eyes that assessed him with calm intelligence. Her grip was firm, although her skin was temptingly soft. He reminded himself these were the same hands that had just turned a stallion into a gelding. He’d be wise not to underestimate Freddy Singleton.
1
HE HAS NEW YORK written all over him, Freddy thought as she took in the pallor of his skin from being indoors too much, the sophisticated cut of his thick brown hair, the bold red-and-blue stripes of his power tie. But his blue-eyed gaze was direct, his smile friendly, even a little sexy. She almost regretted what she was about to do to him. Almost.
“I understand you want to inspect the ranch,” she said.
“That’s right.”
“The best way to see the True Love is from the back of a horse. Can you ride?”
“Yes.”
She could just imagine. A little tour around Central Park on a Sunday afternoon, perhaps. But she was glad he’d likely done that much. If he’d never ridden at all, she’d have a tougher time instituting her plan. She surveyed his pristine white shirt and gray herringbone slacks and tried to keep the smile from her voice. “Did you bring anything besides that sort of outfit?”
“No.”
Freddy had already anticipated this problem. She dismissed Duane as being too short, but Curtis, who was mending a fence a few yards away, was about T.R.’s height and build. She called him over. “Think you have a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt you could loan our guest? We’re going to take a ride around the ranch.”
“Around the ranch?” Curtis blinked.
“Yes.”
Curtis pushed back his hat and studied T.R. with new interest. “I reckon I have something’. What about boots?”
“No problem,” Freddy interrupted. “What size shoe do you wear?”
“Eleven.”
Freddy lifted an eyebrow in Curtis’s direction.
He shook his head. “Tens.”
“I wear an eleven,” Duane said, bending down to pull off one scuffed boot. With no apparent reluctance, he put his sock foot—with a large hole in the toe—on the ground and held the boot out toward T.R. “Try this.”
Freddy loved it. She’d bet no one had ever shoved used footwear in T. R. McGuinnes’s face, let alone expected him to put it on. He might not realize what a huge favor Duane was granting him, but he was obviously a polite guy. His natural big-city reticence carved grooves beside his mouth as he seemed to be struggling for a graceful way out of taking off his expensive wing tips and trying on the boot. He must have come up empty, because he accepted the boot, walked over to the fence and propped a foot against the rail to untie his shoe.
Freddy considered suggesting that if the boot fit, T.R. could just trade Duane the boots for the wing tips for a few days, but she decided that might be going a bit far. Besides, Duane wouldn’t be caught dead in city shoes like that, not even for a joke.
Duane spat a stream of tobacco in the dirt. “My folks always said I would a been taller if God hadn’t turned up so much for feet,” he said with a tobacco-stained grin. “You know he’s gonna need a hat,” he added in a lower voice. “I’m willin’to loan out my boots ‘cause I got the others back at the bunkhouse, but I ain’t givin’ up my hat, and I don’t know any of the hands who would.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll find something in that collection we keep for the dudes who don’t remember to bring their own.”
Duane made a face. “A man’s gotta have a decent hat.”
“Only if he decides to stay,” Freddy answered with a wink.
T.R. returned wearing Duane’s boot on one foot, his pant leg tucked inside, and his dusty wing tip on the other. “They fit fine, but I really think—”
“Perfect,” Freddy said, motioning for Duane to take off his other boot.
He complied and held the second boot out to T.R. Then he turned back to Freddy. “Curtis and I can go on up to the bunkhouse, pick up Curtis’s clothes for Mr. McGuinnes, here, and meet you at the ranch house in a few minutes.”
“Sounds good.” Freddy glanced back to where Leigh was standing guard over Red Devil until he came out of the anesthesia. “Let me make sure our patient is okay, Duane. Then I’ll bring Mr. McGuinnes up to the house in my truck.”
Duane looked at T.R., who was still holding the second boot. “Might as well put’em both on. You look kinda discombobulated like that.”
“All right.”
As Freddy watched him return to the rail to take off his other shoe, she felt another twinge of conscience. But how else was she supposed to save the ranch from this Easterner if she didn’t make him so miserable, he would never want to even think about a guest ranch in Arizona? The market was down, so maybe Eb Whitlock could buy the True Love, and life could go on undisturbed.
She walked back toward Leigh, careful not to stir up any dust. In a few days, Red Devil would be ready for use as a saddle horse again, and a much milder-tempered saddle horse he’d be, too.
She squatted next to Leigh, who was stroking Red Devil’s neck and murmuring to him. “How’s he taking it?” Freddy asked.
“He’s still in dreamland. I’m picking up something about a little palomino filly.”
“From now on, dreaming’s all he’ll be doing about that particular activity.”
Leigh glanced at her and angled her head toward T.R., who was pulling on Duane’s other boot. “So why’s Duane giving up his boots?”
“Mr. McGuinnes needs something to ride in if he’s going to survey the ranch.”
Leigh’s eyes widened. “All the ranch?”
“Sure. I figure we’ll take a little ride around the perimeter, ending with a trip up Rogue Canyon into the leased Forest Service land, so he can see where we summer the herd.”
A slow smile tilted the corners of Leigh’s mouth. “That’s a mighty long ride.”
“I know.”
“I doubt you could even finish it today.”
“Precisely.”
“And unless he’s spent a lot of time on a horse...”
Freddy reached down and stroked Red Devil’s velvet neck. “Do you think I’m being too cruel?”
“Not if you want to get rid of him.”
“I do. And not just for our sakes, either. Belinda and Dexter are too old to deal with an Easterner, and Duane doesn’t say much, but I can tell he’s worried about keeping his job. Losing it would be the end of the world for him.”
“It would,” Leigh agreed. “You have to do it, Freddy. But maybe you should take some horse liniment. You don’t want to have to call Search and Rescue to haul him out of the canyon.”
“Great idea. If he’s like most dudes, he’ll hate the smell of the stuff, which will suit my purpose nicely. So, can you handle things until tomorrow?”
“Yeah, but you could be back sooner, depending on how much of a wimp this guy is.”
Freddy thought of McGuinnes’s firm handshake and his clear blue gaze. “No, I think we’ll be out there for the duration. He may be in pain, but he’ll tough it out.”
“Sounds like he might not deserve his fate.”
“He probably doesn’t,” Freddy acknowledged. “If I could think of any other way to keep him from buying the ranch, I’d do that, instead.” She gave Red Devil one final pat. “See you tomorrow, big guy.”
* * *
T.R. FINISHED PULLING on the second boot, took off his tie and tucked it into one of his shoes. Duane and Curtis left, and he hoped Duane remembered the sport coat in the van. Not that he was worried. A guy who would give you the boots off his feet wasn’t about to steal a jacket. He chuckled, trying to imagine Duane wearing the navy blazer, even if he did make off with it. Duane would probably sooner be caught in a dress.
Freddy came toward him. “Ready?”
“Sure. How’s Red Devil doing?”
“Leigh says he’s dreaming of fillies.”
“Poor guy.”
Freddy smiled at him. “Unless we’re planning to stand them at stud, stallions are a liability at a guest ranch. They’re either after the mares or trying to pick a fight, which makes them too unpredictable for a guest to ride. The hands don’t much like putting up with their shenanigans, either. Around here, we refer to gelding as brain surgery.”
“Oh.” He tried to appreciate the operation from a business standpoint and failed.
“Let’s go,” she said. “My truck’s under the mesquite tree over there.”
T.R. looked at the battered white pickup with the ranch brand stenciled on the door panel. Didn’t seem like anyone was wasting money around here. He liked that. “What did you call this kind of tree?” he asked as they walked toward the truck.
“Mesquite.”
He surveyed the stand of mesquite, gnarled trunks branching out into a canopy bursting with small, delicate leaves. “Do you sell the wood to restaurants back East? Mesquite-grilled meat is very popular where I come from.”
Her glance was not friendly. “No, we don’t sell the wood.”
“Why not?” he persisted. “Seems like you have a lot of it around.”
“The trees protect our privacy. My ancestors used to clear the mesquite to give the cattle more room, but a lot of our guests are birders, and the mesquite bosques attract birds. Besides, I don’t much like the sound of a chain saw. It frightens the horses.”
“I see.” So economics wasn’t her top priority, after all. T.R.’s hope that a woman would be more willing to compromise on his plans for the ranch began to disappear. Once the developers finished with this land, there wouldn’t be a mesquite bosque to be found.
They reached the truck and he climbed in, dumpin
g his shoes on the floor.
“How are the boots?” Freddy asked as she started the engine.
“Great fit.” He’d discovered he liked the boots. With only one on, he’d felt stupid, but with both on, and his pant leg pulled over the shaft instead of tucked in, he felt like a cowboy. He’d always made fun of city people who wore Western clothing as a style statement. But something had happened when he’d put on the boots. He’d walked with more purpose in his stride and had felt more in command of his world. Maybe he’d take a taxi into town and buy some before he left.
Freddy steered the truck past the fork and down the road toward the main house.
“Your ancestors built this place?” T.R. asked, remembering something she’d said earlier.
“That’s right. Taddeus Singleton homesteaded the True Love in 1882.” After a moment of silence, she continued, “And if you wonder why a Singleton is now only the foreman, and not the owner, after my dad died, I ran into some financial problems and had to sell. The Westridge Corporation out of Denver bought it. Fortunately, I was allowed to stay on and run the place.”
“Considering what you must save them on vet bills alone, I’m sure the corporation is lucky you decided to stay.”
She glanced at him, her smile grim. “I’d have to be dragged off the True Love.”
He didn’t like the sound of that, didn’t like it at all. But she was obviously a very intelligent woman. Maybe, as time went by, he’d be able to appeal to her business sense. The True Love property was too valuable to use as a guest ranch. Surely there was other land out in the middle of nowhere that could be had for a pittance. She needed to take a page out of Thaddeus Singleton’s book and strike out on her own, carve a new ranch out of some remote wilderness. Maybe he could help her locate that piece of property, give her a business loan to start a new spread. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of being her financial adviser.
The dirt road curved and the main house appeared, surrounded by a low wall of whitewashed adobe that swooped into an arch over a flat stone walk. A border of blue, white and yellow Mexican tile decorated the archway. Cactus that reminded T.R. of giant artichokes stood on either side of the arch, and beyond the wall two large mesquite trees created a filigree of shade over a yard with patchy grass. T.R. noticed a couple of rabbits munching on the grass and wondered how golf courses handled the rabbit situation.
The Trailblazer Page 2