by Susan Fox
“Sounds good. Thanks.” He led his horse away, giving Sally the opportunity to enjoy a classic cowboy back: broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist belted in leather; lean hips, a firm butt, and long, strong legs clad in denim.
Again, she felt an unfamiliar, disconcerting pulse of awareness. Awareness of him as a man. Of herself as a woman.
She tore her gaze away. She needed to prepare for thirteen-year-old Jude’s barrel racing lesson.
Sally brought in the next two horses. The buckskin mare, Melody, which she’d ride herself, was her best horse. Puffin, a sturdy black-and-white gelding, was the horse Jude was learning on. The girl was keen on barrel racing and hoped to persuade her parents to buy her a horse of her own.
While Sally saddled Puffin, Ben came up to her. “The horses from the lesson,” he said. “You done with them? I can bring them in.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
He gave a rueful smile. “Got nothing better to do except feel sorry for myself.”
“In that case, thanks. The horses will appreciate it, too. But don’t strain your shoulder.”
Things sure did run more smoothly when she had an assistant. What a pity Ben wasn’t a single, strong, horse-loving female looking for a live-in job that paid minimum wage.
Of course it was impossible to imagine Ben being anything other than totally male.
Moving awkwardly and painfully, Ben got to work bringing the horses in, removing tack, and giving them a light grooming. He enjoyed being with the animals even though his shoulder ached something fierce.
He was finishing up when a middle-aged couple in casual Western clothing entered the barn. “Can I help you?” he asked them.
The pair gazed at him curiously. The man said, “We board our horses here and we’re going out for a ride.”
“Need help with anything?”
“No, we’re good,” he said.
“You’re Sally’s new assistant?” the woman asked.
Ah, that explained Sally’s air of tiredness and strain. She’d had an employee who’d quit on her. Ben shook his head. “Just an old friend, passing through.”
The couple gathered halters and left the barn. Ben gave the horses a little water. Unsure whether Sally wanted them turned out to pasture, he left them in stalls and went out to watch her lesson.
A smile lifted the corners of his mouth at the sight that met his eyes.
She’d set up three barrels in the cloverleaf pattern of a barrel racing course and she was urging a compact buckskin around the first barrel and on to the second. She looked intensely focused, yet vibrant and joyful—and years younger, like the old Sally. The horse wasn’t a patch on that striking silvery quarter horse she used to own, but Sally herself looked mighty fine.
When she finished, the sound of clapping drew Ben’s attention to the petite, ponytailed girl atop a black-and-white horse just outside the gate to the ring, and to the woman in the bleachers.
“You still got it, Pantages,” Ben called.
Sally swung the horse around, her gaze finding him where he stood near the barn. She shook her head, took off her hat, and ran a hand through tousled red-gold curls. “It’s been a long time since I was in shape to compete.” She glanced away from him to the girl. “But Jude here is a rising star. Come on into the ring, Jude, and you and Puffin give it a run.”
For the next ten minutes, Ben sat with the mom and enjoyed watching Sally work with her student, who did indeed show promise. Following the doc’s instructions, he let his left arm hang free in the sling rather than supporting it with his other arm, which could push the broken bones into the wrong position. And he kept the fingers and wrist on his left side moving, to help prevent stiffness and swelling.
By the time the lesson ended, two more riders, a middle-aged woman and a teenaged girl, had arrived in separate vehicles. Ben caught Sally for a moment, asking, “Anything I can do to help?”
Sitting atop the buckskin, she gazed down at him. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m good. I’m using the same horses for my lesson with Margaret, and it’s the last one of the day. The other rider, Chrissie, boards her horse here and she’s going to work her in the small ring. She’ll look after her own needs.” She rolled her shoulders, loosening them. “Once I’m finished, you can tell me about Penny, okay?”
“How about I take you for dinner in town? It’ll give us a chance to catch up.”
Her eyebrows pulled together. “I don’t go into town.”
“Huh? Why not?”
A quick, dismissive flick of her head. “Takes too long. I’m too busy.”
Wasn’t the town of Caribou Crossing only fifteen or twenty minutes away? Before he could ask, she had ridden away to join her new student, who was getting mounted.
As the lesson started in the ring, Ben watched for a few minutes. The teenaged student wasn’t a barrel racer, just working to improve her riding skills. Sally had her trot and lope the horse in a variety of patterns around the barrels. She lacked natural talent, but had a great attitude.
His stomach growled, reminding him that lunch had been too long ago. He went to the trailer to get a handful of cherries from the fridge. Sally hadn’t accepted his invitation. Nor had she invited him to stay for dinner, but it was getting late and they both needed to eat. Easy fix: he’d drive into town and pick something up. Takeout, some beer, and a bunch of flowers.
Easy, friendly stuff. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be offended.
He unhitched the trailer, then climbed into the old Dodge Ram. The truck was a dually, the double set of rear tires giving it the extra strength he and Dusty needed to haul the rig. He cranked the windows down to enjoy the fresh air, and drove off, avoiding using his left hand unless absolutely necessary. On the way from Williams Lake, he’d found the local country and western station, CXNG, on the radio. Now he hummed along to some vintage Merle Haggard: “Workin’ Man Blues.”
Damn pretty land around here, but then horse country always was scenic, he reflected. The kind of scenic that not only pleased his eyes, but sank deep into his soul. On either side of the two-lane road, ranch land rolled away in gentle curves. On the right, low, craggy hills formed a backdrop. Traffic was light on this Tuesday afternoon, no one in a hurry. He slowed to pass a couple of riders on the gravel shoulder. When they waved, he took his right hand off the wheel for a moment to return the salutation.
He saw the turnoff to the main highway, leading back the way he’d driven earlier. He passed by, staying on the country road, and soon was greeted by a WELCOME TO CARIBOU CROSSING sign with a stylized caribou illustration. A couple of minutes later, he was in the outskirts of town.
Cruising down the main street, he noted some nicely restored heritage buildings, fresh paint on most storefronts, and flowers in planter boxes. A cute little town and yeah, it wasn’t much more than fifteen minutes’ drive from Sally’s place. How odd that she never came here.
Seeing a parking spot across from the town square, he grabbed it.
He strolled a couple blocks. A restored old hotel called the Wild Rose Inn had a fine-looking dining room and Western-style bar; a coffee shop called Big & Small offered sandwiches, wraps, and salads; a Japanese restaurant called Arigata looked interesting. He wasn’t a sushi guy, but he liked teriyaki, tempura prawns, and a few other Japanese dishes.
He settled on the Gold Pan, a diner that was two-thirds full. It had Formica tables and red leatherette booths, a long counter and red-topped stools, even a jukebox. John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads” wove beneath the sound of customers chatting. On the walls hung black-and-white photos of gold miners, some looking haggard as all get-out, others beaming and holding up sizable nuggets.
Feeling right at home, Ben took a seat at the counter. The middle-aged, auburn-haired waitress gave him a plasticized menu and a big smile, which he returned. The air smelled of frying chicken and grilling beef, and everything on the menu sounded delicious.
Thinking about what would work b
est for takeout, he ordered meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and coleslaw for two. Normally, as part of his fitness regimen, he took it easy on the carbs, but women liked dessert—that was his excuse and he was sticking to it—so he also asked for a couple of slices of strawberry-rhubarb pie. “That’s to go,” he told the woman. Terry, her name tag said.
She clipped the order slip to one of those old-fashioned carousels that hung between the diner and the kitchen, then turned back to him. “How are you liking our fair town so far?”
He figured the population was small enough, she’d know he wasn’t a local. “Looks nice, but I haven’t seen much of it. I’ve been out at Ryland Riding, visiting Sally. She’s an old friend.”
Her dark eyebrows arched. “You’re a friend of Sally Ryland’s?” Her tone held disbelief.
He eyed her quizzically. “Yeah. From way back. Before she got married.”
“Huh. Didn’t know she had friends except for Dave and—” She broke off, flushing. “That sounded terrible. Sorry. It’s just, well . . . she keeps to herself, you know?”
No friends? The Sally he’d known had been so outgoing. But then, Pete’s death had probably messed her up, not to mention left her swamped with work. “Since her husband died?”
Terry shook her head. “I’ve never once met Sally, and she’s been here seven, eight years. I don’t know if she’s set foot in town more than a few times, and her husband wasn’t here much more often. They built Ryland Riding and it was, like, their own little world. Just the two of them.”
“You mean, except for students and people boarding horses, right?”
“Sure. But Sally and Pete didn’t socialize.” She took a lattice-topped fruit pie from the display case. “Seems they didn’t need anyone except each other. That’s true love for you. I guess. I mean, it’s not how me and my hubby, Jeff, back there in the kitchen, like things.” Slicing pie, she chuckled. “Well, obviously, eh, or we wouldn’t own a diner. We like being in the center of what’s going on in town.” She put two generous slices of pie into a take-out container.
“I remember when Sally and Pete first met. It was like, bam, neither of them had eyes for anyone else.”
“Well, I guess it stayed that way. I heard that the rare times he did come into town he’d buy flowers for Sally.” An order was up, and she went to deliver it.
Maybe Ben had better not take flowers tonight. He didn’t want Sally thinking he was trying to compete, or compare, with Pete.
Idly, he glanced at the write-up on the back of the menu. It said that the Gold Pan had been open for ten years, and its name was in honor of the town’s history. Caribou Crossing had its origins in the 1860s gold rush. When the gold ran out, it became a ranching community.
Terry returned. “Just a couple more minutes.”
“No rush.”
“It was such a tragedy,” she said, returning to their earlier conversation, “Pete dying that way. So young, and totally unexpected. Goes to show you never can tell, right?”
“That’s the truth.” He’d been riding bucking broncs for more than fifteen years and the worst he’d done was break some bones.
“It’s so sad, Sally out there all alone with a broken heart. For a while, folks thought she was dating Dave Cousins, though he denied it. But it seems he was telling the truth and they only ever were friends. Guess she’s got no room in her heart for another man.”
Maybe that was the reason she hadn’t been receptive to his flirting. Still, a woman had to move on at some point. His grandma had learned that, after his grandpa died.
Terry turned to get Ben’s order. She slipped take-out containers into a couple of string-handled paper bags with the diner’s name and logo. Eyeing his sling, she asked, “You gonna be okay with these, hon?”
“Sure. Thanks, Terry.” He paid, leaving a good-sized tip.
“Hope to see you again.”
“Thanks, but I’m just passing through.”
Unless Sally gave him a reason to stay. Which, he had to admit, didn’t seem likely. Still, he’d always been an optimist. Couldn’t survive long in the rodeo world if you weren’t.
Chapter Three
After turning Melody and Puffin out into the large paddock, Sally walked to the small foaling paddock at the back of the barn. The grassy pasture, with a half dozen cottonwoods for shade, was away from the other horses and the hustle and bustle of students and horse owners. The sole occupant, a heavily pregnant palomino, nickered and came over to the fence, head extended and ears cocked forward.
“Hey there, girl. Yes, I have your treat.” Sally pulled a carrot from her pocket and fed Sunshine Song. “You’re lonely, aren’t you? It won’t be much longer.” Song’s behavior was calm and normal, and there was no waxing on her teats, but the mare was due any day.
Sally went into the office in the barn to check e-mail. The farrier confirmed an appointment in two days to shoe Campion, now that the horse’s abscess had healed. That’d mean another bill, on top of the vet’s for treating the abscess.
There were no new requests for lessons or horse boarding, and no applications for the assistant’s position. Maybe she should pull the ad, but it was possible that the perfect person might see it and that somehow Sally’d be able to swing a meager paycheck. So far, she’d received two applications, but both were from men. Trusting a man wasn’t high on her agenda.
She stretched, thinking fondly of Dave Cousins, the one man who had won her trust. A couple of years back, one of her boarders, Karen Estevez, had mentioned to her friend Dave that Sally was struggling, running Ryland Riding on her own. He’d offered to help out. Sally’s need for independence said no, as did her mistrust of men. Karen, a Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer, had sworn that Dave was a genuine good guy with no ulterior motive.
Over time, Dave had proved Karen right. He’d been a godsend, and had slowly become a friend. When he started dating Cassidy Esperanza last summer, Cassidy had turned into a friend and helper, too. The pair kept coming around even after they convinced Sally to hire an assistant. She still found it hard to believe that, after years of social isolation, she actually had friends.
But now Dave and Cassidy were on their honeymoon, Corrie had quit due to a personal matter, and Sally was on her own again. Ben’s assistance this afternoon had been so welcome. She was tired now, but not totally exhausted.
And hours of waiting had sure made her anxious to hear news of her sister, and perhaps her parents. Ben had driven off a while back, though, and hadn’t returned. Likely he’d gone into town for a bite to eat.
Her kitchen didn’t hold much more than eggs and tinned soup and stew, though she was now getting fresh vegetables in the garden Corrie had planted in the spring. The old Sally would have invited Ben for dinner and found a way of preparing a decent meal. But she hadn’t been that woman in a long time.
She began to muck out stalls. Shortly after that, she heard a vehicle pull in and stop. A minute later, Ben’s voice called, “Sally?”
“In the barn,” she shouted back. She stepped out of the stall, pitchfork in hand.
He came through the door to the barn. “Hi. Still working?”
“Hi.” She’d seen him off and on all afternoon, and each time it was almost like a flashback to happier days. Normally, she paid little attention to a man’s looks, yet there was something about Ben that had her noticing. Now she found herself staring again. The man was born to wear Western clothing. Without that sling, he could’ve modeled for ads. A five o’clock shadow made his strong jaw even more masculine. Some folks might say his hair was too long, but she’d never thought a cowboy hat looked right on a man with short hair.
Forcing her gaze away from him, she gestured with her pitchfork. “I need to muck out stalls and clean tack. Why don’t you tell me about Penny while I work?”
“Take a dinner break, then I’ll help you.”
She deliberated. After Pete died, she had realized how dependent she’d been on him—or how dependent he’d mad
e her—and sworn she’d never rely on anyone again. It was hard accepting assistance, yet Ben had a way about him. Maybe it was a holdover from the rodeo days, when most competitors had helped each other. “I might accept some help, but I don’t need a break.” She was hungry, but she was also used to working late and not having a chance to grab a bite to eat until after eight. “You got dinner in town?”
“Brought back takeout for both of us. You haven’t eaten already, have you?”
He’d picked up dinner to share? That was thoughtful. Or presumptuous. How was a woman supposed to read a man’s motivation for doing anything? She could lie and say she’d already eaten. That was safer than letting him into her house and sitting down at the kitchen table with him. Her kitchen had been the scene of a lot of . . . unpleasantness.
A roast of beef that wasn’t rare enough for Pete, hurled across the room to drip blood down the wall . . . Her hand, pressed onto the hot stove when she’d forgotten to put on her flashy engagement ring before he got home . . . His fist—
“Meat loaf.”
She jumped, and returned to the present. To Ben. “Wh-what?” she stammered.
His eyebrows pulled together. “I brought meat loaf, with mashed potatoes and coleslaw.” He added in a wheedling, almost seductive tone, “And the prettiest strawberry-rhubarb pie you ever did see.”
Now he had her full attention. That was more food—delicious-sounding food—than she’d eaten in . . . she couldn’t remember when. “Meat loaf?” Comfort food that always reminded her of her mom, who’d made the best meat loaf in the world. Yes, she not only wanted news of her estranged family, but she did want a real meal. Maybe she even wanted Ben Traynor’s company, and the simple pleasure of looking at a handsome cowboy. They could eat on the deck; she didn’t have to invite him in. It’d only be an hour, tops.
She rested the pitchfork against the wall and walked toward him. “You persuaded me.”