Fuck. What the hell is wrong with me?
I shove away from my desk, which is basically just a table in the back stall of the barn with a fan to supplement the air conditioner. I stalk over to the nearest stall and offer up an oat cookie to Mama’s favorite mare, Briarbelle.
“You up for a ride today, girl? We’ll get going here soon.” She snorts like she can hear the lie in my voice as much as I can, because three o’clock can’t come fast enough, but she takes the cookie delicately before chomping down. I give her few scratches and brush along her flanks, more for something to do to kill time than because she needs it.
My phone rings in my pocket, and I have a momentary surge of hope that it’s Shayanne calling me, which is ridiculous. She doesn’t have my number, I think.
I glare at the phone like it’s responsible for the offense until I see who’s calling. Talk about an important call. My heart leaps into my throat as I push the Talk button, my mouth suddenly dry.
“Hello?”
“Luke, it’s Russell Quinlan.” The voice sounds like exactly what Rusty is, a pack-a-day, sixty-year-old cowboy who could chew nails and hit a bullseye when he spits out the crumbs.
“Rusty, how’s it going?” I say, my breath making my lungs tight.
“Not good, unfortunately, Luke. Sad to say, it didn’t take and my Apie ain’t got a foal in her.”
Rusty’s Appaloosa horse is a stunner, sure to create a genetic line of superior horses. But not this time, it seems.
I research the matches I make to an obsessive degree, checking pedigrees and genetic lines. The work I do is important, to breed for desired traits but also to do it safely and ensure the resulting animals are healthy, strong stock.
“I’m so sorry to hear that. She’s a good one, though. We’ll try again when she’s ready.” It’s true, but it’s a pitiful promise when we’re talking the thousands of dollars my clients invest in this process. There’s great joy when it succeeds, but when it fails, it feels like a personal failure. Like I let my client and the horse down.
“We will,” Rusty vows. “Probably won’t get a chance for another try this year, but add us to your rotation for spring and we’ll cross our fingers.”
“Will do,” I say, making a mental note to do just that.
I like Rusty. He’s authentic, a straight shooter, but not one for small talk, so once the business conversation is done, he says his goodbye and we hang up.
Well, shit. I thought that was going to be a good match. I recently used the same stallion for another mare in Colorado, so I really hope this was just a one-off.
I glance back to the phone, realizing that Rusty’s call was just the distraction I needed and that I can head out to the tree to meet Shayanne without being too early or looking eager. Nothing worse than showing up looking like it’s the first time I’ve ever talked to a girl before.
I saddle up Briarbelle and take her out, letting her go in a casual loping ramble across the fields. I make it a point to whistle before I come over the ridge by the spring-fed pond, just in case. Sophie should be at work, so it’s likely clear, but since she and James have claimed the spot as their own, we’re always better safe than sorry.
Mark and Katelyn have the courtesy of doing it at his house, at least. Most of the time.
But the pond is empty save for some ducks that should be flying south any day now. I encourage Briarbelle to pick up the pace to run her a little bit, stretch her underused legs out, and to get to the tree faster. The anticipation is killing me.
But when the tree comes into sight, Shayanne’s not there. She might be hiding up in the canopy again, but I don’t see her horse either, and my gut drops as disappointment winds through my veins.
I ride on over to the tree, though, hoping she’ll somehow magically appear. I wouldn’t put it past her to have some sort of parlor trick the way she surprised me the other day, her disembodied voice scaring the bejesus out of me.
I hop down and look up into the leaves, and a white piece of paper catches my eye. It’s sitting on a branch, a rock holding it down.
I can’t remember the last time someone wrote me an actual letter or even a scribbled note, but she did.
Alone, with no one to tattle on me but Briarbelle, I let my smile loose as I grab for the paper.
Running late but got a good reason. See you at four. I’ll bring dinner. – S
Her handwriting is round and bubbly, cursive but bits of print mixed in so it’s unique, like her. There’s a smiley face and a messy heart by her initial, and I try not to read too much into them. Maybe she signs everything that way, for all I know?
Dinner, though? We definitely hadn’t planned on that, but now that she’s suggested it, I’m excited to share a meal with her.
I send Mama a quick text that I won’t be at her dinner table tonight, and thankfully, she doesn’t ask questions.
But she does send an emoji back, a silly looking face with one big eye, one little eye, and its tongue sticking out of a smile. What the hell does that mean? She rarely texts us anyway, usually preferring to call us on the carpet in person, so maybe she just picked the first one that appealed to her?
But I don’t question her choice of emoji lest she question my evening plans. Give me a choice between angering God or Mama . . . well, the Almighty had better get ready.
I climb back in the saddle and ride Briarbelle around the pasture for a bit, working with her on responses to the reins and then getting down to walk her, judging her ability to be gently led.
One part of my specialty is breeding premium horses, but the other just as important part is training them. Briarbelle is still pretty young. Her first foal, Polka Dottie, is barely a yearling. But she’s doing well and will likely be able to take a rider among the cattle soon, which is a big step for a horse and makes me feel a bit like a proud father.
But even as I work with her, I don’t lose sight of the tree or my watch. At 3:57, I hear hoofbeats running hard right before I see Shayanne come over the ridge.
Shayanne is in her element as she directs her horse my way. She’s a natural, clearly as easy in the saddle as any of my brothers. I can see the flush in her cheeks, her hair flying behind her like a banner, and her eyes lit up like diamonds. Unfortunately, that look also has me thinking of other things she can ride . . . but I stay under control for now.
“Hey, Luke! Guess what? The boys took advantage of Daddy being gone and went into town too. Dinner’s on me!”
Her voice carries across the air between us, but it hits more than just my ears. Between the image of her riding and her innocent words, my jeans get just a little tight, my mind conjuring images of eating her for dinner, tasting the sweetness of her lips, nibbling the candy peaks of her breasts, drinking her like a fine wine.
Fuck. No. Down, boy.
I remind myself again of her last name, and when that doesn’t seem like such an important hurdle, just how young she is does the trick.
She’s twenty, I remember Sophie saying, and I’m twenty-eight. Not much, by adult standards. It’s not like back in the day when I was in high school and she was still running around in her My Little Pony T-shirts. But the difference comes in the type of lives we’ve led and the experiences we’ve had, and I’d do well to remember that when I’m imagining rolling around in the grass with her.
I swallow that image down and force my mouth to stretch into a smile I know doesn’t reach my eyes.
Most folks would let it pass, polite manners requiring you to not call people on their shit when they’re putting up a nice front. Shayanne must not follow the rules of civilized society because she hops down from Ember and struts right over to me, poking at the corner of my lip with a finger and a wrinkled nose.
“What’s wrong?”
I chuckle, gently pushing her finger away. “Nothing. I’m happy to see you. Dinner sounds great. What’d you bring?” I hope the redirection will stick.
“Sandwiches. What’s wrong?” she repeats.
“Got some bad news this afternoon. One of my breedings was unsuccessful. Good Appaloosa, quality stud . . . it should’ve taken.”
She looks at me, her eyes narrowed like she’s looking into my mind. Lord help her if she sees some of the thoughts I’ve just had in there. A good girl like her would run screaming for her daddy and there’d be a shotgun in my immediate future for thinking such impure thoughts.
“Ain’t your fault, but you take it personal, don’tcha?”
Perceptive thing, that one. “Well, yeah. It’s my job, and my clients pay me a helluva lotta money to do it well. So when it doesn’t work, I need to figure out why and do better.”
“You do all you can, but you’re not God, Luke. You can do all the studying, time everything just right, but at some point, nature takes over and it’s out of your hands. I mean, it does come down to two horses making babies. Doesn’t always happen.”
A bark of laughter bursts free from inside me and Shay jumps in surprise. “Believe it or not, you’re not the first person to tell me that. Mark has accused me more than once of having a god complex when it comes to my horses. He likens what I do to a mad scientist mixed with a proud father, with a little bit of art and a dash of science thrown in for good measure.”
I rub my thumb and fingers together like I’m sprinkling salt, no, fairy dust or something magical like that, because that’s what I sometimes feel like.
I shrug, tucking my hands into my pockets. “He’s not wrong. Actually, that’s pretty accurate.”
Her lips purse prettily, and she looks at me with full respect while at the same time, she’s amused. “And nowhere in that description does it say Luke Bennett, Horse God. So quit thinking you’re the shit and admit that sometimes, you can’t pull a miracle out of your ass on command.”
Why did I think this girl needed my protection again? She’s an absolute ball buster, in more ways than one. But damn if that doesn’t make her sexier and more exciting.
Giving up, I hold my hands wide, dipping down in a semi-approximation of a bow. “When the lady’s right, she’s right.”
She preens at my lighthearted praise, regal except for the button nose she thrusts up in the air haughtily. Her voice is full of fancy English-sounding tones as she reminds me, “And don’t you forget it.” The persona drops away and the real Shayanne returns. “Now sit your ass down and let’s eat.”
Roller coaster, party of one.
I look down at our booted feet, the long line of her denim-covered legs leading me to the green grass, and I need to get the upper hand back, not that I ever had it to begin with.
“You planned dinner but didn’t bring a blanket?” I tease, clicking my tongue in a tsk-tsk sound. “How . . . gauche.”
She huffs a growl of frustration, but I can hear the humor in her voice. “No, I didn’t bring a blanket. Didn’t take you for a pansy who couldn’t sit his ass in the grass. But by all means, if you’re worried about a little dirt on your Wranglers, feel free to stand.”
She says it sweet as pie with a saccharin smile and then promptly plops down in the grass beneath the tree, zero fucks given to grace. Her legs crisscrossed in front of her, she starts digging in the bag I hadn’t even noticed she was holding.
I can’t help but grin as I lower down to the grass next to her, measuring the distance between our hips carefully to find the proper Goldilocks distance. Not too much, not too little, but just right.
Still . . . was it just sass, or did she really notice that I’m a Wranglers man? And if so, how closely was she checking out my backside?
“Whatcha got in that bag of tricks?” I lean forward, trying to get a finger in the corner of the bag like I’m going to peek, but she swats me away, laughing.
“Fancy French dip sandwiches.”
I lift one brow, slightly worried. French dips? That takes prep, and if that’s the case, I could be in trouble. “What makes them fancy?”
Admittedly, it’s not a word I’m used to hearing or saying in this side of my world. Sure, with some of the horse breeders, the jodhpur wearing crowd who don’t consider their riding gear complete without a frock coat, they talk ‘fancy,’ although they rarely use the word. And their food is most certainly fancy, considering they wrap a perfectly good piece of beef in biscuit dough, calling it a ‘beef Wellington’ that can’t hold a candle to Mama’s roast and biscuits. But here at home in the country? That’s more of an insult than a descriptor we’d use on purpose.
So for Shayanne to use the word to describe her food makes me a little nervous.
It’s just not a word that fits Shayanne in any way. But I think I like that about her, like she doesn’t give a rat’s ass about what a lady should do or what people will think of her. She’s just herself, and everyone else can take it or leave it.
Take it. Take it double, if I can.
Shit. To distract myself, I look at the sandwich she’s handed me, examining it with squinted eyes like it holds the meaning of life.
“Horseradish,” she says with a big grin. “Get it? Because you like horses? I thought it was kinda funny.”
But she blushes slightly, her chin dropping, and I can see that she’s schooling herself on making the silly joke.
“I do like horses, but I’ve never had horseradish on a sandwich. What am I getting myself into here?” I mean that in more ways than just about this sandwich, which honestly smells delicious.
“Just roast beef on crusty bread. Usually, you dip it in the au jus, but that’s too messy for a picnic, so I drizzled it on the bread to make it to-go. But the horseradish is the secret ingredient. It’s kinda . . . twangy. You’ll see.” She looks at me encouragingly.
“I think you mean tangy,” I correct and then take a big bite of sandwich. Spicy, bright, sour . . . she’s done something to sass up this horseradish, maybe pickled it with some vinegar or something? “Mmm, okay, maybe twangy is right,” I say as I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to get the too-big but tasty bite down.
I think for a moment, deciding whether I like it or not. Kind of like a sour candy, it’s a love-hate thing. So I go in for another chomp. “Really good, Shay. This meat is awesome, fall apart tender. Needs lettuce, I think. Like the crunch and coolness would balance it out.”
Listen to me, sounding like a damn chef or something. Hey, Gordon Ramsay, let me tell you what’s up.
I pull a slice of the roast beef from between the bread, tilting my head back to get it down in one gulp. If she ain’t about manners, then I’m not going to worry about them either. As long as Mama doesn’t see.
She tilts her head, looking at own sandwich like she’s imagining that. “Never heard of putting lettuce on a dip, but I don’t see why you couldn’t. Then it’d be extra-fancy.”
“Just like us,” I reply, smiling with a mouth full of food. She returns the smile, but it’s a small one because she’s got a bite hidden behind her teeth too. “Fancy as dirty Wranglers sitting in the grass, at least.”
She laughs, thankfully having just swallowed so she doesn’t choke. But I force my bite down, swallowing hard before laughing too.
We sit, talking and laughing about everything and nothing, watching the sun sink lower into the sky. I don’t want to go home, don’t want her to go home. I don’t want this meal to end.
It feels like we’ve fallen into this perfect pocket of time and space where she can be her, I can be me, and nothing else matters.
In here, the world doesn’t exist beyond the green around us.
In here, our names are just Luke and Shayanne, no surnames to complicate things.
In here, how many years we’ve been on this Earth, swinging around the sun that’s turning to orange fire before our very eyes, doesn’t mean a damn thing.
Honestly, the more Shayanne talks, the older sh
e sounds. She’s not worldly, but that doesn’t mean she’s immature. I’ve met plenty of ‘worldly’ people in my travels who seem to think their bank accounts matter more than their maturity. Hell, I’d venture to say that she’s more responsible than I am, given how many balls she’s juggling at any given moment.
Regardless, I want to let my fingers trace up the legs she’s stretched out beside me, trace every inch of her skin, tease higher until we get to a place where even the cool moon that’s rising over the horizon can’t put out the flames that would spark between us. I want to swallow her unfiltered words, hear her gasp and taste my name on her breath.
Inwardly, I feel my guts twist.
I am so fucked. Majorly. Royally. Epically.
Knowing I’m reaching my limit, I push up from the ground, letting myself indulge in the gift of grabbing her hand to pull her up too. It feels small in mine, but she’s no dainty lady. Shayanne’s hand is strong, a working hand. I bet this girl can give as good as she can take.
I inhale sharply, not letting that idea blossom.
“Better get home before your brothers,” I warn, though I’m feeling reckless and careless. Right now, I think I’d take one of Brutal’s hard right fists to the gut in exchange for Shayanne’s soft kiss.
She bites her lip like she’s trying to test out the possibilities of what might happen here. Or maybe I’m reading into an innocent gesture because my mind’s in the gutter.
“Luke,” she says huskily. And my name on her lips, especially in that sexy tone, hits me low and hard. She . . . she wants me, too. I know it as sure as I know the sun’s gonna rise up in the morning.
I can’t let her say whatever’s about to come out of that mouth, but this time, instead of spinning her on the dance floor to disorient her, I pull her in for a hug that’ll have to be enough for us both.
Her head hits my chest, her arms instinctively going around my waist and her mouth clacking shut, thankfully. The length of her presses against me in the barest hint of what I want.
Racing Hearts: Bennett Boys Ranch Page 5