Christmas with My Cowboy

by Diana Palmer

  “And by the time he’s done watering, feeding and cleaning their stalls, most of the day is gone.” Shay gave him a worried look. “Actually, you could use two more hands plus a horse trainer.”

  “I can clean stalls,” Dair said quickly.

  “Well, what I’d like to do,” Noah said between bites of the tasty roll and sips of coffee, “is take you out to the arena and give you a sense of it all. And if you’re up to it, I have a nice, well-mannered horse I’m training for a ten-year-old little girl that I’d like to see you work with for a bit. I need to get an idea of how you are around a horse. That’s not something that you can put on your resume.”

  Dair knew Noah had refused to hire two earlier applicants for the position. “Sure, not a problem. I’ve brought my tool box, my gloves and working gear. It’s in the truck.”

  “Great,” he murmured, licking the last of the frosting off his fingers. He looked over at Shay. “I’ll drive her down to the arena and we’ll finish the interview there.”

  “That’s fine. But you need to know that everyone wants to hire her, Noah.”

  He managed to give her a sour look. “I’m listening, Shay.”

  “Good,” she said, standing and patting his broad shoulder.

  “It’s gonna take a few hours, maybe until four p.m.”

  “That’s fine,” Shay said.

  Noah was concerned about Dair’s performance. He remembered nine months earlier she had been unsteady walking on uneven ground. Yet, when he studied her beneath his lashes, Dair looked confident. Maybe it was her high cheekbones, her burnished skin, those incredibly beautiful eyes that he could lose himself in. At the same time, he cautioned himself. Their kiss had meant something to him. He wasn’t sure what it had meant to her. It had been a damned long time that he’d kissed a woman and her lips were like a soft welcome against his mouth as he tasted her fully.

  He nodded to Dair and stood up. Trying not to stare at her as she rose, he wanted to assess her balance. Knowing she was nervous, he understood better than most. “This should be a piece of cake for you,” he said, wanting to tamp down the sudden tension he saw in her body as she stood and squared her shoulders. Dair relaxed a bit, and that was good. He’d been around all ten of those military vets for a day and a half at Danbury Farm. And it struck him as never before how lucky he was to have his arms and legs.

  Leading the way down the hall to the mudroom, he saw her old Army jacket and picked it up, handing it to her.

  “Thanks,” she murmured.

  “It’s warming up out there,” he said. “But it’s about fifty-five out in the arena, a good temperature.”

  She shrugged on her coat and buttoned it, pulling the red knit muffler around her shoulders and neck. “How many people are down there riding right now?”

  If Noah didn’t know she was an amputee, he’d never have guessed it. Dair wore Levi’s and thick, rugged looking sneakers. She walked with balance and with ease. “Probably five or six.” He looked at his watch. “It’s getting close to lunch time, so most of them will be gone soon. We’ll probably have the arena for an hour or so to ourselves.” There was relief in her eyes. No one knew better than he that when some horses got around one another, territoriality ruled. Especially with stallions.

  Opening the front door for her, he said, “Let’s get your tack gear. We’ll take it down to the arena in my truck.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  There were steps to go down and Noah watched her from behind. She had a fine butt, of that there was no question. He watched her reach for the rail with her gloved hand, probably to balance herself. Otherwise, he’d never have suspected she didn’t have two good legs. At the bottom, he gestured to his truck that was parked next to hers. “Why don’t you climb in? Your gear on the seat of your truck?”

  “Yes, in a cardboard box. Nothing fancy,” and she managed a half smile.

  Noah opened up the door on his black Toyota truck. He started to cup her elbow, to help her climb in.

  “No . . . I can do this by myself,” she said.

  Stepping back, he gave her room. Noah remembered their conversation when they were together. Dair had been working to appear not to be an amputee. That had been her goal. She didn’t accept help or handouts as he’d found out at Danbury. She hauled herself up and although a bit awkward, she climbed into the truck just fine. He knew she had powerful upper body strength in order to compensate for that leg that wouldn’t always act like a real one would. He closed the door for her.

  Walking over to her parked red Dodge Ram truck, he opened up the passenger side door and pulled out the box that contained her gear. He set it in the back of his pickup and climbed in. The sky was getting less gray with more blue spots opening up the lowered cloud ceiling. The wind was brisk, off and on. But it smelled clean. Shutting the door, he started the engine, turning to her.

  “What time did you get here?”

  “0900,” she said, falling into familiar military time.

  He grinned. “Well, it’s 1030 now. Let me get you to work with Thunder, a nice five-year-old gray mixed breed mare. They want her trained for their ten-year-old daughter, who’s horse crazy.”

  “What’s the girl’s name?”

  Noah backed out and then turned down the muddy driveway, heading down a narrow graveled road between the wrangler housing area and a group of pipe corrals. “Lori. She’s a cute little red headed kid with huge freckles across her cheeks and nose. Her parents bought the mare and she named her Thunder.”

  “Oh? Is that because she is?”

  Noah tried to quell his sensitivity toward Dair. He wondered if she even remembered their kiss. She was a damn fine looking woman any man would be proud to have on his arm. He tucked that all away. “No. Lori loves storms. The mare is sweet, quiet, and she listens well. I don’t think you’ll have any problems with her.”

  “Where are you at within her training schedule?”

  “I’m longeing her daily, using voice commands right now at the walk, trot and canter. This is where I start the basic foundation work.”

  “It’s a solid plan,” Dair agreed.

  “Here’s the arena,” he said, gesturing with his gloved hand in that direction.

  “It’s huge.”

  “Only one in Wind River Valley. Shay struck it rich on this idea. It’s bringing us in badly needed money for the ranch as a whole. It’s going to allow her to probably hire two more wranglers before late spring. And we desperately need them.”

  He pulled into the asphalt parking lot next to the huge Quonset-hut looking building made out of aluminum and glass. The green tin roof was shaped to make the arena look like a loaf of French bread that had risen. The curved roof forced the heavy snow to automatically slide off it so the structure remained sound and sturdy.

  “Okay, here we are.” He pointed to a red door on the side. “That’s our office. We’ll go in there first.” And then he hesitated, realizing he’d used the word ‘our.’ It was probably just the team spirit that the Bar C wranglers had with one another, as well as with Shay and Reese. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe, Noah thought as he climbed out and pulled her cardboard box of gear into his arms, he’d already made up his mind to hire Dair even though he’d not seen her work with a horse. That flummoxed him because he was conservative and careful about people being around a horse he was training. Not all horse people knew everything they needed to know about a horse, how to ride it, how to care for it or train it. He needed to see that Dair was at that pinnacle where she had enough experience. Walking around the truck, he opened the door for her, noticing she had a bit of a slip on the icy area. But anyone would, not just her.

  In the next hour he would know whether he was going to hire Dair or not. And as much as he personally liked Dair, he wouldn’t put his horses at risk with anyone who didn’t know their horses a hundred percent. He hated having to be the teacher rating the student, but that is what this was all about. And judging from Dair’s unreadable expressio
n, she knew it too.

  How badly Noah wanted her to pass in flying colors.

  If you enjoyed

  HER OUTBACK HUSBAND

  by

  Margaret Way,

  be sure to watch for

  THE ROAD HOME.

  Coming to you in November 2017.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek!

  “Some place, bro!” the cabbie hooted, torn between envy and entrenched resentment of the Super Rich. “It’s a bloody disgrace, all them lights.” He spoke like a man committed to having the issue addressed a.s.a.p. “Looks like the Q.M.2 at sea, don’t it?”

  Bruno had to agree. The Lubrinski mansion was ablaze. Even he, close friend of the Lubrinskis, had to drop his eyes. He reached in his wallet, took out a couple of crisp fifty-dollar bills. “Keep the change.” He put the notes into the man’s outstretched hand. “You wouldn’t expect them to hold a big charity bash in the dark now, would you?”

  “That’s what it is then?” The cabbie acknowledged the size of the tip by landing a friendly punch on Bruno’s shoulder. “Thank you kindly for that, bro!”

  “That’s what it is most of the time,” Bruno said, stepping out of the cab without further damage to his person. “These people are among the biggest philanthropists in the country.”

  “Yeah?” The driver wasn’t about to let it rest. “All to do with their tax, I reckon. Okay, bro, enjoy yourself now. Me, I have to get back to the grind.”

  “Take care, bro!” He stood for a moment in the golden gleam of the street lights, watching the cab driver perform a perfect U turn, and then scoot off with a friendly wave. The guy was right. The house did look like a liner at sea.

  He was late. Couldn’t be helped. He’d got caught up with an old University friend he’d made a bundle for, allowing his friend to pay off his mortgage. There was satisfaction in that. He liked helping people. Just like his dad. As he made his way up the broad flight of stone steps he could see guests milling around the huge brilliantly lit entrance hall. They formed a living, moving kaleidoscope of multicoloured gowns, emerald, scarlet, amethyst, silver and gold, set off to perfection against the sea of black dinner suits. It all looked sensational. People had been known to fight for Marta Lubrinski’s invitations. Often it came down to hissy fits.

  Beautiful music was issuing from the living room, soaring above the hubbub of voices and laughter. It conveyed a broad spectrum of human emotions, joy, love, sorrow, hope. He hadn’t started out life as a classical music lover though he’d been fed a lot of Italian opera in the womb, Puccini, Verdi.

  He loved jazz. He had a big collection of the world’s greatest jazz musicians. It was Marta, his self-appointed honorary aunt, who had taken charge of his classical music education, starting with A for Albeniz, the great Spanish virtuoso pianist and composer. He was still working his way through the B’s. Bach. Beethoven. Brahms. Marta had unloaded one hundred CD’s on him, exhorting him “Play them, darlink. Listen, Listen. Give your soul wings!”

  Tonight was one of Marta’s famous “dos” with wonderful music and equally wonderful food and wine. It was taken for granted he would attend, especially as he had been, and still was to a certain extent, her husband, Ivor’s protégé. Ivor Lubrinski had started his new life in Australia, as a seventeen-year-old Lithuanian emigrant with ten pounds in his pocket, an unshakeable belief in his destiny and an incredibly astute business brain. Ivor was also notoriously society shy. He rarely attended his wife’s grand soirees. It was Marta who had control of that side of things, as brilliant in her fashion as Ivor was in his.

  Bruno was devoted to them both. Their philanthropy was legendary when he happened to know Ivor was as careful with a dollar as his own Scottish-born dad had been. Neither man ever forgot their roots. Hungarian Marta had to a mind-blowing extent. Marta had the craving for luxury lodged in her very being.

  As he stepped into the Rococo-on-steroids entrance hall with its glittering travertine floor, his eyes gravitated automatically to the magnificent Bohemian chandelier at its centre. The hundreds and hundreds of crystals bounced light off every surface. If it ever fell it would surely kill anyone directly beneath it and injure those in the vicinity. It had been his suggestion to place a large library table beneath it to bear the brunt in such an eventuality. Marta had come up with an extraordinary ebonized and parcel gilt centre table with really weird claws for feet.

  The table now held a great pyramid of flowers. It must have been arranged in situ. No one could have walked with it. He guessed it was the masses of Asian lilies, pink and white, showing off their beautiful dusky pink faces that gave off the heady perfume that tickled his nose.

  Eventually he was able to move through the throng into the voluminous living room as big as a football field. A series of open arched and shuttered French doors gave onto a brilliantly lit pool side terrace. It too was paved in travertine and beyond that a magnificent panoramic view of Sydney Harbour, the most beautiful harbour in the world and he had seen them all in his travels.

  Along his way he received choruses of hellos; claps on the shoulder, air kisses from the women, some grasping his hand with faintly glazed eyes. He had to know he was one of the most eligible bachelors around. It wasn’t a good position to be in. In fact, he hated it. Being a bachelor didn’t trouble him at all. He had turned thirty, was coming at thirty one. Being vigorously pursued by young women and determined cougars did his head in. He was in no hurry to get married. He hadn’t met the woman of his dreams. In truth he was beginning to wonder if he ever would. He did have dreams, but they were locked away somewhere inaccessible even to him. It was too damned hard for him to forget the disastrous breakup of his parents’ marriage and the way his staggeringly beautiful Italian mother had taken off and left him and his dad, an incredibly nice guy, to fend for themselves.

  He well remembered the waves of grief that had come crashing down on them. They had adored her. Even now he couldn’t think about his mother without feeling a deep, angry hurt. Those early years had been bad, missing his mother. It wasn’t until he turned twelve that he had really toughened up.

  He’d got the hang of cleaning the house, shopping and preparing meals for him and his dad. His mother had been a wonderful cook. He had watched her often enough, so he soon became a dab hand with pasta, al dente of course, matching the right pasta to the right sauce. It’d got to the point when one evening after a great dinner of spicy calamari followed by Linguini Al Frutti di Mare his dad sat him down asking very seriously. “Do you want to become a chef, son? You know whatever you want to do I’ll back you.”

  A chef! A great job certainly if one had a mind to it, but he was on course to secure a place at University. He wanted to finish with a double degree, Master of Laws and Bachelor of Commerce. He could do it in five years, working part time. He was smart. What a good laugh they’d had when he’d explained his ambition. His culinary skills had been inherited from his mother; Italian blood and the love of good food. That was it! Another area where he had shone, was organizing the household accounts. He saw they were paid on time. He even found better alternatives. He managed the budget far better than his dad. He had made his mark at school, both in the classroom and on the playing field. His father had told everyone who would listen he was meant for big things. Nothing had mattered more than his dad be proud of him. They were survivors. Mates.

  Taller than most, his eyes ranged easily over the heads of the usual crowd, the movers and shakers, the society crowd, the hob-nobbers and the fringe dwellers. He recognised the piece the quartet Marta had hired were playing. Borodin. The Polovtsian Dances. The reason he knew was the Polovtsian Dances had opened the Winter Games in Sochi. He, Ivor and a couple of Ivor’s cronies had been witness to the dazzling opening ceremony when a beautiful Russian girl had flow across a winter dreamscape to that music. He recalled how the works of Russia’s greatest classical composers had filled the stadium, rousing every heart, including his, with a highly emotional Ivor in unashamed floods of
tears. The same beautiful Russian music was now being generated in the Lubrinski living room. The musicians were very good as was expected.

  The work came to an end. The applause began. He moved further into the monumental room that certainly had the wow factor if you didn’t shy away from opulence. Sumptuous silk-taffeta gold curtains with tasselled tiebacks swept the floor, a pair of antique Italian chandeliers hung from the elaborately plastered ceiling, a huge portrait of a striking looking woman stood on a gilded easel. Marta allowed people to think it was a portrait of her great grandmother. Of course it wasn’t.

  Loads of Louis XVI furnishings were mixed in with the plush modern stuff. Not Louis-style, the real McCoy. Marta had a gimlet eye for such things. It made a praiseworthy balance, since Marta was as devoted to her charities as they were rightly devoted to her.

  He was getting his first clear view of the musicians of the group, first and second violins, viola and cello. He started to lift his hands to join in the wave of applause, only they fell back to his side as shock took over. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He probably would have given vent to a gasp only his breath was lodged in his throat.

  The focus of his attention was the cello player, a young woman in her early twenties. He knew the group from other occasions. An attractive, plump young woman showing a lot of bosom played viola. The second violin was a tall, earnest young gent with a mop of unruly black curls, a pronounced Adam’s apple and black rimmed glasses to lend a bit of gravitas.

  The cellist was new. A replacement for the evening. She could even be a graduate from the Con. She was that young. In a huge room, surrounded by many attractive even beautiful women, she stood out as a single red rose would be a standout in a bouquet of carnations. He had no interest in other members of the quartet. His sole focus was the girl. He was staring, when staring wasn’t his style. Not that he was the only male caught out looking his fill. He didn’t think he had seen anyone as sexy as this beautiful girl with a gleaming cello propped between her long slender legs. The length from the knees was tantalizingly on view as the sheer top layer of her long black skirt fell away. Not that she gave off any overtly sexy aura. She looked chaste. Absolutely. Ultra-refined, very romantic. The princess in a fairy tale. A magical creature.