No. She was not going to feel sorry for this poor little rich boy. She’d come from nothing, managed to nearly destroy her own life and actually managed to make good all by herself.
“He’s a good horse—I know he is.” Phillip didn’t even glance in her direction. He sounded different now that the ladies were gone. It was almost as if she could see his mask slip. What was left was a man who was tired and worried. “I know Richard thinks he should be put out of his misery, but I can’t do it. I can’t—I can’t give up on him. If he could just...” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, which, damn it, only made it look better. He turned to her. “Can you fix him?”
“No,” she told him. What was left of his playboy mask fell completely away at this pronouncement.
In that moment, Jo saw something else in Phillip Beaumont’s eyes—something that she didn’t just recognize, but that she understood.
He was so lost. Just like she’d been once.
“I can’t fix him—but I can save him.”
He looked at her. “There’s a difference?”
“Trust me—all the difference in the world.”
Jo looked back at Sun, who was quickly working through his energy. Soon, he’d calm down. Maybe he’d even drink some water and sleep. That’d be good. She wanted to save him in a way that went beyond the satisfaction of a job well done or the fees that Phillip Beaumont could afford to pay her.
She wanted to save this horse because once, she’d hurt as much as he did right now. And no one—no horse—should hurt that much. Not when she could make it better.
She wasn’t here for Phillip Beaumont. He might be a scarred man in a tempting package, but she’d avoided temptation before and she’d do it again.
“Don’t give up on him,” he said in a voice that she wasn’t sure was meant for her.
“Don’t worry,” she told the horse as much as she told Phillip. “I won’t.”
She would not give up on the horse.
She wasn’t sure she had such high hopes for the man.
Two
Light. Too much light.
God, his head.
Phillip rolled away from the sunlight but moving his head did not improve the situation. In fact, it only made things worse.
Finally, he sat up, which had the benefit of getting the light out of his face but also made his stomach roll. He managed to get his eyes cracked open. He wasn’t in his downtown apartment and he wasn’t in his bedroom at the Beaumont Mansion.
The walls of the room were rough-cut logs, the fireplace was stone and a massive painting showing a pair of Percherons pulling a covered wagon across the prairie hung over the mantle.
Ah. He was at the farm. Immediately, his stomach unclenched. There were a lot worse places to wake up. He knew that from experience. Back when his grandfather had built it, it’d been little more than a cabin set far away from the world of beer. John Beaumont hadn’t wasted money on opulence where no one would see it. That’s why the Beaumont Mansion was a work of art and the farm was...not.
Phillip liked it out here. Over the years, the original cabin had been expanded, but always with the rough-hewn logs. His room was a part he’d added himself, mostly because he wanted a view and a deck to look at it from. The hot tub outside didn’t hurt, either, but unlike the hot tub at his bachelor pad, this one was mostly for soaking.
Mostly. He was Phillip Beaumont, after all.
Phillip sat in bed for a while, rubbing his temples and trying to sift through the random memories from the last few days. He knew he’d had an event in Las Vegas on...Thursday. That’d been a hell of a night.
He was pretty sure he’d had a club party in L.A. on Friday, hadn’t he? No, that wasn’t right. Beaumont Brewery had a big party tent at a music festival and Phillip had been there for the Friday festivities. Lots of music people. Lots of beer.
And Saturday...he’d been back in Denver for a private party for some guy’s twenty-first birthday. But, no matter how hard he tried to remember the party, his brain wouldn’t supply any details.
So, did that mean today was Sunday or Monday? Hell, he didn’t know. That was the downside of his job. Phillip was vice president of Marketing in charge of special events for Beaumont Brewery, which loosely translated into making sure everyone had a good time at a Beaumont-sponsored event and talked about it on social media.
Phillip was very good at his job.
He found the clock. It was 11:49. He needed to get up. The sun was only getting brighter. Why didn’t he have room-darkening blinds in here?
Oh, yeah. Because the windows opened up on to a beautiful vista, full of lush grass, tall trees and his horses. Damn his aesthetic demands.
He got his feet swung over the bed and under him. Each movement was like being hit with a meat cleaver right between the eyes. Yeah, that must have been one hell of a party.
He navigated a flight of stairs and two hallways to the kitchen, which was in the original building. He got the coffee going and then dug a sports drink out of the fridge. He popped some Tylenol and guzzled the sports drink.
Almost immediately, his head felt better. He finished the first bottle and cracked open a second. Food. He needed food. But he needed a shower first.
Phillip headed back to his bathroom. That was the other reason he’d built his own addition—the other bathroom held the antique claw-foot tub that couldn’t hope to contain all six of his feet.
His bathroom had a walk-in shower, a separate tub big enough for two and a double sink that stretched out for over eight feet. He could sprawl out all over the place and still have room to spare.
He soaked his head in cool water, which got his blood pumping again. He’d always had a quick recovery time from a good party—today was no different.
Finally, he got dressed in his work clothes and went back to the kitchen. He made some eggs, which helped his stomach. The coffee was done, so he filled up a thermal mug and added a shot of whiskey. Hair of the dog.
Finally, food in his stomach and coffee in his hand, he found his phone and scrolled through it.
Ah. It was Monday. Which meant he had no recollection of Sunday. Damn.
He didn’t dwell on that. Instead, he scrolled through his contacts list. Lots of new numbers. Not too many pictures. One he’d apparently already posted to Instagram of him and Drake on stage together? Cool. That was a dream-come-true kind of moment right there. He was thrilled someone had gotten a photo of it.
He scanned some of the gossip sites. There were mentions of the clubs, the festival—but nothing terrible. Mostly just who’s-who tallies and some wild speculation about who went to bed with whom.
Phillip heaved a sigh of relief. He’d done his job well. He always did. People had a good time, drank a lot of Beaumont Beer and talked the company up to their friends. And they did that because Phillip brought all the elements together for them—the beer, the party, the celebrities.
It was just that sometimes, people talked about things that gave the PR department fits. No matter how many times Phillip tried to tell those suits who worked for his brother Chadwick that there was no such thing as bad PR, every time he made headlines for what they considered the “wrong” reasons, Chadwick felt the need to have a coming-to-Jesus moment with Phillip about how his behavior was damaging the brand name and costing the company money and blah, blah, blah.
Frankly, Phillip could do with less Chadwick in his life.
That wasn’t going to happen this week, thank God. The initial summaries looked good—the Klout Score was up, the hits were high and on Saturday, the Beaumont party tent had been trending for about four hours on Twitter.
Phillip shut off his phone with a smile. That was a job well done in his book.
He felt human again. His head was clearing and the food in his stomach was workin
g. Hair of the dog always does the trick, he thought as he refilled his mug and put on his boots. He felt good.
He was happy to be back on the farm in a way he couldn’t quite put into words. He missed his horses—especially Sun. He hadn’t seen Sun in what felt like weeks. The last he knew, Richard had hired some trainer who’d promised to fix the horse. But that was a while ago. Maybe a month?
There it was again—that uneasy feeling that had nothing to do with the hangover or the breakfast. He didn’t like that feeling, so he took an extra big swig of coffee to wash it away.
He had some time before the next round of events kicked off. There was a lull between now and Spring Break. That was fine by Phillip. He would get caught up with Richard, evaluate his horses, go for some long rides—hopefully on Sun—and ignore the world for a while. Then, by the time he was due to head south to help ensure that Beaumont Beers were the leading choice of college kids everywhere, he’d be good to go. Brand loyalty couldn’t start early enough.
He grabbed his hat off the peg by the door and headed down to the barn. The half-mile walk did wonders for his head. The whole place was turning green as the last of the winter gave way to spring. Daffodils popped up in random spots and the pastures were so bright they hurt his eyes.
It felt good to be home. He needed a week or two to recover, that was all.
As he rounded the bend in the road that connected the house to the main barn, he saw that Sun was out in a paddock. That was a good sign. As best he could recall, Richard had said they couldn’t move the horse out of his stall without risking life and limb. Phillip had nearly had his own head taken off by a flying hoof the one time he’d tried to put a halter on his own horse—something that Sun had let him do when they were at the stables in Turkmenistan.
God, he wished he knew where things had gone wrong. Sun had been a handful, that was for sure—but at his old stables, he’d been manageable. Phillip had even inquired into bringing his former owner out to the farm to see if the old man who spoke no English would be able to settle Sun down. The man had refused.
But if that last trainer had worked wonders, then Phillip could get on with his plan. The trainer’s services had cost a fortune, but if he’d gotten Sun back on track, it was worth it. The horse’s bloodlines could be traced back on paper to the 1880s and the former owner had transcribed an oral bloodline that went back to the 1600s. True, an oral bloodline didn’t count much, but Philip knew Sun was a special horse. His ancestors had taken home gold, the Grand Prix de Dressage and too many long-distance races to count.
He needed to highlight Sun’s confirmation and stamina—that was what would sell his lineage as a stud. Sun’s line would live on for a long time to come. That stamina—and his name—was what breeders would pay top dollar for. But beyond that, there was something noble about the whole thing. The Akhal-Tekes were an ancient breed of horse—the founder of the modern lines of the Arabians and Thoroughbreds. It seemed a shame that almost no one had ever heard of them. They were amazing animals—almost unbreakable, especially compared to the delicate racing Thoroughbreds whose legs seemed to shatter with increasing frequency on the racetrack. A horse like Sun could reinvigorate lines—leading to stronger, faster racehorses.
Phillip felt lighter than he had in a while. Sun was a damned fine horse—the kind of stud upon which to found a line. He must be getting old because as fun as the parties obviously were—photos didn’t lie—he was getting to the point where he just wanted to train his horses.
Of course he knew he couldn’t hide out here forever. He had a job to do. Not that he needed the money, but working for the Beaumont Brewery wasn’t just a family tradition. It was also a damned good way to keep Chadwick off his back. No matter what his older brother said, Phillip wasn’t wasting the family fortune on horses and women. He was an important part of the Beaumont brand name—that more than offset his occasional forays into horses.
Phillip saw a massive trailer parked off to the side of the barn with what looked like a garden hose and—was that an extension cord?—running from the barn to the trailer. Odd. Had he invited someone out to the farm? Usually, when he had guests, they stayed at the house.
He took a swig of coffee. He didn’t like that unsettling feeling of not knowing what was going on.
As he got closer, he saw that Sun wasn’t grazing. He was running. That wasn’t a good sign.
Sun wasn’t better. He was the same. God, what a depressing thought.
Then Phillip saw her. It was obvious she was a her—tall, clad in snug jeans and a close-fit flannel shirt, he could see the curve of her hips at three hundred yards. Longish hair hung underneath a brown hat. She sure as hell didn’t look like the kind of woman he brought home with him—not even to the farm. So what was she doing here?
Standing in the middle of the paddock while Sun ran in wild circles, that’s what.
Phillip shook his head. This had to be a post-hangover hallucination. If Sun weren’t better, why would anyone be in a paddock with him? The horse was too far gone. It wasn’t safe. The horse had knocked a few of the hired hands out of commission for a while. The medical bills were another thing Chadwick rode his ass about.
Not only did the vision of this woman not disperse, but Phillip noticed something else that couldn’t be real. Was that a donkey in there with her? He was pretty sure he’d remember buying a donkey that small.
He looked the woman over again, hoping for some sign of recognition. Nothing. He was sure he’d remember thighs and a backside like that. Maybe she’d look different up close.
He walked the rest of the way down to the paddock, his gaze never leaving her. No, she wasn’t his type, but variety was the spice of life, wasn’t it?
“Good morning,” he said in a cheerful voice as he leaned against the fence.
Her back stiffened but she gave no other sign that she’d heard him. The small donkey craned its neck around to give him a look that could only be described as doleful as Sun went from a bucking trot to a rearing, snorting mess in seconds.
Jesus, that horse could kill her. But he tried not to let the panic creep into his voice. “Miss, I don’t think it’s safe to be in there right now.” Sun made a sound that was closer to a scream than a whinny. Phillip winced at the noise.
The woman’s head dropped in what looked like resignation. Then she patted the side of her leg as she turned and began a slow walk back to the gate. Betty followed close on her heels.
The donkey’s name was Betty. How did he know that?
Oh, crap—he did know her. Had she been at the party? Had they slept together? He didn’t remember seeing any signs of a female in his room or in the house.
He watched as she walked toward him. She was a cowgirl, that much was certain—and not one of those fake ones whose hats were covered in rhinestones and whose jeans had never seen a saddle. The brown hat fit low on her forehead, the flannel shirt was tucked in under a worn leather belt that had absolutely no adornment and her chest—
Phillip was positive he’d remember spending a little quality time with that chest. Despite the nearly unisex clothing, the flannel shirt did nothing to hide the generous breasts that swelled outward, begging him to notice them.
Which he did, of course. But he could control his baser urges to ogle a woman. So, after a quick glance at what had to be perfection in breast form, he snapped his eyes up to her face. The movement made his head swim.
It’d be so nice if he could remember her, because she was certainly a memorable woman. Her face wasn’t made up or altered. She had tanned skin, a light dusting of freckles and a nose that looked as if it might have been broken once. It should have made her look awkward, but he decided it was fitting. There was a certain beauty in the imperfect.
Then she raised her eyes to his and he felt rooted to the spot. Her eyes were clear and bright, a soft hazel. He could get lost
in eyes like that.
Not that he got the chance. She scowled at him. The shock of someone other than Chadwick looking so displeased with him put Phillip on the defensive. Still, she was a woman and women were his specialty. So he waited until she’d made it out of the gate and closed it behind Betty.
Once the gate clicked, she didn’t head for where he stood. Instead, she went back to ignoring him entirely as she propped a booted foot up on the gate and watched the show Sun was putting on for them.
What. The. Hell.
He was going to have to amend his previous statement—most women were his specialty.
Time to get back to basics. One compliment, coming right up. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone wear a pair of jeans like you do.” That should do the trick.
Or it would have for any other woman. Instead, she dropped her forehead onto the top bar of the gate—a similar motion to the one she’d made out in the paddock moments ago. Then she turned her face to him. “Was it worth it?”
His generous smile faltered. “Was what worth it?”
Her soft eyes didn’t seem so soft anymore. “The blackout. Was it worth it?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
That got a smirk out of her, just a small curve of her lips. It was gone in a flash. “That’s the definition of a blackout, isn’t it? You have no idea who I am or what I’m doing here, do you?”
Sun made that unholy noise again. Phillip tensed. The woman he didn’t know looked at the horse and shook her head as if the screaming beast was a disappointment to her. Then she looked at Phillip and shook her head again.
Unfamiliar anger coursed through him, bringing a new clarity to his thoughts. Who the hell was this woman, anyway? “I know you shouldn’t be climbing into the paddock with Sun. He’s dangerous.”
Another smirk. Was she challenging him?
“But he wasn’t when you bought him, was he?”
How did she know about that? An idea began to take shape in his mind like a Polaroid developing. He shook his head, hoping the image would get clearer—fast. It didn’t. “No.”
Tempted by a Cowboy Page 3