Horses, Hayrides, And Husbands (Country Brides & Cowboy Boots)

by Jeanette Lewis

  Why had she agreed to come with him? They hardly had anything to talk about, and there certainly didn’t seem to be any chemistry between them—they hadn’t even kissed yet. She would have thought he’d give up on her by now, but he hadn’t. Was he that desperate for company?

  Misty cleared her throat, determined to make an effort. “It’s been okay. Kind of the usual, though, with work and family.” She chuckled. “Summer breaks in school gave me a very unrealistic idea of what the rest of my life would be like.”

  The corner of Gregory’s mouth twitched in a smile. Travis would have laughed and then come up with a story of his own about smashed childhood dreams. Like maybe how he’d always expected red-hot lava to be a bigger problem in everyday life than it had turned out to be. Her throat tightened. She could practically hear the words in his voice.

  A few miles later, Gregory pulled through the huge stone-and-timber gates of the Firebird Resort. It was situated in a narrow valley filled with condos. Ski runs carved their way through the thick pines of the surrounding hills. They were grassy now, but in the winter, they be covered in snow—and skiers.

  “The bunny hill is over there.” Gregory pointed out her window. “When we come skiing this winter, that’s where you’ll start, but I have an excellent instructor; he’ll have you zooming down the harder slopes in no time.”

  Misty wasn’t sure what she resented more—that he assumed she wanted to become an expert skier, that he assumed they’d still be going out come winter, or if they were, that he wasn’t interested in teaching her how to ski himself. She thought of how Travis had shown her how to fling the Frisbees when they’d been golfing—hampered only slightly by the weight of Wyatt on his back. He’d taken a personal interest in both of them; Gregory seemed to be only going through the motions.

  Okay, that wasn’t fair. She couldn’t hold every guy from now on to the “Travis Standard.” And even if she did, wouldn’t that mean she should expect him to have a giant chip on his shoulder and get mad over nothing?

  The Firebird Lodge was a huge building of pale stone, accented with thick, heavy timbers and a peaked roof designed to shed winter’s accumulating snowpack. It was definitely the focal point of the valley, overshadowing the condos.

  Gregory pulled up at the entrance and the doorman hurried forward to open Misty’s door. “Welcome, Mr. Brookes,” he said, then gave Misty a polite nod. “Welcome, miss.”

  “Thanks.” Misty swiveled in her seat so she could put both feet on the ground at the same time and to avoid any unfortunate flashing. She had forgotten the car’s low seats when choosing her outfit, and her skirt, hitting a few inches above the knee, could have used a few more inches.

  Gregory handed the keys to the Lamborghini to a waiting valet and reached for Misty’s hand. “Could you please see that our bags are delivered to the King’s Suite?” he asked the doorman.

  Suite? Misty’s heart thumped. Gregory had told her to pack a swimming suit, but hadn’t said anything about a hotel suite.

  “I’ve arranged for a private dinner in the suite,” he said with a grin. “But first I wanted to show you the art gallery. We just got some new pieces in last week.”

  Pulling her hand, he led her through the three-story lobby, which was dominated by a huge stone fireplace.

  “Wait, what’s this about a suite?” Misty demanded, stopping so suddenly that he stumbled and let go of her hand.

  Gregory turned to face her, his eyes wide with concern. “Oh, no! Nothing like that. It’s just … it’s the best suite in the lodge, and it has its own hot tub on the balcony with a killer view. I never thought …” He held up both hands, palms out. “I promise it’s only dinner and then the hot tub if you want.”

  The tension in her shoulders eased a bit and she nodded. “Thanks for clearing that up.”

  They continued to the gallery, but her mind churned. Was he being sincere? Why would you take a woman to a hotel room unless you wanted … that? And even if she’d refused now, was he still hoping on some level once they got there and had dinner and relaxed in the hot tub that she’d get in the mood?

  Not gonna happen.

  The art gallery had white walls, concrete floors, and an exposed ceiling with black-painted duct work. The latest in the modern look, Misty concluded, though she did think the gallery didn’t match the rest of the building. Paintings hung in spotlights along the walls and sculptures were placed throughout the room, seemingly at random, though Misty suspected someone had spent hours deliberating just the right placement of every article.

  She’d been expecting breathtaking vistas and cowboy sculptures, the kind of art one usually saw in Sun Valley. But this was different, modern. A flat-screen TV on the wall played nothing but static while a voice droned through the speakers, saying something unintelligible. According to the placard, it was supposed to be a brave exploration of time and space in a digital world, but to Misty, it looked like her living room when she hit the wrong button on the remote and the streaming service went down.

  Gregory stopped in front of a canvas covered in splotches of color. Misty gasped when she leaned close and saw the price tag. “Fifteen hundred dollars? For finger-painting?”

  He gave her a tolerant smile. “You have to take time to appreciate the themes of the piece.”

  She stared at it for several minutes, totally mystified. “I dunno. To me it still looks like globs of paint.”

  They went through the rest of the gallery, and by the end, Misty had to admit she was unimpressed. “Maybe I just don’t get modern art,” she said as they stared at a white vase full of clear glass rods. This placard said it represented the human condition, but Misty couldn’t see how.

  “Well, it can be an acquired taste,” Gregory said at last, giving her an out. “I have a Mueller in my condo, and at first I hated it, but now it’s grown on me.”

  She was about to ask what a Mueller was, but realized she didn’t care. Besides, the question was lost in the flood of nerves as she realized he was leading her toward the elevators. They rode to the top floor in silence and walked together down hushed hallways to the double doors at the end. Gregory produced a key card from his wallet and held it up to the door. The green light flashed, and he pushed the door open.

  “After you,” he said with a grin.

  She could definitely see why it was called the King’s Suite. The whole main room was given over to the living area with a kitchen bigger than the one in Misty’s house. Plush leather sofas faced a stone fireplace with a large TV above the mantle. Two sets of French doors flanked the fireplace, leading to a wide balcony with a view of the slopes. Another set of double doors stood open, leading to the bedroom and an enormous king-sized bed with a tall, wooden headboard and a pristine white comforter.

  “I had them put your bag in the master bedroom,” Gregory said, coming up behind her. Goose bumps prickled down her arms at his breath on the back of her neck. “I’ll use the bedroom on the other side.”

  She hadn’t noticed the other door standing open to reveal a bedroom every bit as luxurious as the master suite, just on a smaller scale.

  “So, dinner first or hot tub?” Gregory asked.

  “How about dinner?” Misty worked to keep her voice steady. “I’m starving.”

  The prime rib and baked potatoes were perfectly cooked, and the green salad was especially delicious, but Misty’s stomach churned, and she couldn’t help casting glances at the—now closed—doors leading to the master suite. Memories of Chet washed over her—the way he used to beg, flatter, and guilt her into giving in. Gregory was much more of a gentleman, but guys were guys, right? When it came right down to it, didn’t they all eventually want the same thing?

  “Are you okay?” Gregory asked when her silence had evidently gone on too long.

  “Yeah.” Misty put her napkin on the table. “I think I’ll go check out the view.”

  A light breeze drifted across the balcony, sending wisps of her hair dancing around her face. F
rom six floors up, she had a stunning view of the trees, the naked ski slopes, and the condos nestled into the hills. It was dusk, and lights shone in a few of the windows, but most were dark. That figured. Many were probably vacation homes and only lived in when the snow was high and the skiing was good.

  “Misty?” Gregory came to stand slightly behind her, and she felt his breath mix with the breeze on her neck. “Did I make you uncomfortable in there?”

  She clenched her fingers around the rail, determined to keep her perspective and not let bad memories of Chet overwhelm her. “No, I’m good.”

  “Okay. I was afraid I’d done something wrong.”

  “It’s fine,” she said, still concentrating on the view.

  She jumped a bit when his hands skimmed softly up her arms to her shoulders, where he started making slow circles on her bare skin with his palms. She wished she’d worn a dress with sleeves. “I really like you,” he said low in her ear. “I think we could be good together.”

  Misty willed herself to relax. Of course it would be awkward; this part was always awkward at first, right? But it hadn’t been awkward with Travis. It had been … magic. Need and desire and affection and fun, all merged into one perfect moment. It had been the easiest thing in the world to lean in and press her lips to his.

  Gregory’s grip on her shoulders tightened and she let him turn her so she faced him, watched as he ducked his head. She closed her eyes a split second before his lips fastened over hers while her brain whirled. Gregory was a good guy, not like Chet. He seemed to genuinely care about her and she … well, she liked him. Maybe not in the same way she’d liked Travis, but that was setting the bar a little too high, right? How bad would it be if something came of this?

  She wrapped her arms around his waist and didn’t resist when he instantly became more demanding, deepening the kiss. He tasted like the dressing on their Italian salads. Well, she probably did too.

  One of Gregory’s hands skimmed down her back, coming to rest on the curve of her hip, while the other went to the back of her head. His arms tightened, pulling her flush against him as his breathing became faster. His mouth moved over hers quickly, carelessly. She knew he wanted her to respond in kind, but her hands stayed locked around his waist, the fingers of one hand clutching the wrist of the other. With a sinking heart, she realized that she felt nothing but a slight annoyance that his fingers were messing up her hair.

  She stepped back, disentangling herself from his arms.

  “What’s the matter?” Gregory raised his head, the passion fading from his eyes. The rays of the sunset bounced off his face, shimmering on his blond hair.

  “I don’t … it’s just …” Misty curled her toes in her sandals. Her own heart was beating wildly, but from confusion, not passion.

  Gregory cast a glance back through the French doors, toward the bedroom. “I didn’t expect things to go any farther, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I know.”

  And she did know. That wasn’t the problem. Kissing Gregory felt about as passionate as picking out oranges at the grocery store. There was none of the rush she’d felt simply by being near Travis, no deep urge to be closer to him, to snuggle into the crook of his arm and breathe in the scent of him. She couldn’t pretend anymore.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. “Could you please take me home?”

  He gave her a long look, then nodded. “I get it. You’re not into me, are you?”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Gregory’s jaw clenched under his pale whiskers. “It’s okay. I mean, I’m disappointed, but thanks for being honest.”

  They stood in silence for a minute. Then he jerked his head toward the master bedroom. “If you want to get your stuff, I’ll drive you home.”

  Chapter 11

  Travis grunted as he pushed the wheelbarrow of sawdust into the stable. He’d already cleaned out the old sawdust; now he had to spread the new—about fifty wheelbarrows full—into the stalls. And this was only barrow number … was it eleven? He’d lost count.

  He took a minute to straighten and work the kink from his back, but hesitated when he saw Duke, standing silently next to Sherlock’s door in the dim light.

  “Duke? You okay?” Travis made his way toward his boss.

  Duke raised his head and Travis took a step back. For the first time ever, there were tears in those pale eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” Travis demanded.

  “Oh, nothing. Just being a sentimental old fool.” Duke pulled a hanky from his back pocket and blew his nose. “We’ve been through hard times before, and we’ll have hard times again, but this one stings more than some of the others.” He reached through the bars of the stall to stroke Sherlock’s soft white nose.

  A dreadful realization spread over Travis. “You’ve sold the horses?”

  “Not all of them, but some,” Duke admitted, and his eyes glistened with fresh tears.

  The air whooshed out of Travis’s lungs, just like it had the time when he was seven and his younger brother had jumped from the top bunk, using Travis as a landing pad. “Because of the feed?” he demanded hollowly, though he already knew.

  Duke lifted his shoulders. “Can’t afford them. It’s as simple as that.”

  “But we’re going to get the grazing land back; this is only temporary. It just has to go through a committee evaluation.”

  “Yeah. But we’ve held out as long as we can. The horses need to eat every day; they can’t wait for any committee.” Duke cast an eye to the corner of the stable, where a stack of bagged feed was dwindling. “That’s all I can afford right there.”

  Travis looked at the pile. It had seemed huge last week when he and Doug were unloading it bag by bag. But now it was tiny, completely insufficient for the Clydesdales. A hollow ache gnawed at his stomach. “What about me and Doug?” he asked. “You could let one of us go.” The idea he might have just put himself out of a job brought a wave of panic, but he had to be realistic. If Duke couldn’t afford to feed the horses, how could he afford his employees?

  Duke met Travis’s eyes. “I thought of that,” he said gruffly. “But it’s hard to find work nowadays. We don’t need all the horses to run the operation, so if I have to pick, I’ll hold on to the people as long as I can.”

  He said it with obvious sincerity, and Travis felt a swelling of pride for this simple, honest man whom he loved like a father. As much as he cared about his animals, Duke’s first priority would always be his men.

  “Which ones are you selling?” he asked.

  Duke blew out a breath. “I’ve talked to a couple of buyers back east. Sherlock’s getting up there in years, so they didn’t want him, but Candy and Jemima are still good breeders. I’ve also been talking to them about Harrison and Lillybelle.”

  Almost half the herd. Travis gritted his teeth. There was a good chance they would go to responsible, careful breeders who loved horses and who would treat them with care. But they could just as easily go to someone without the right equipment or the right understanding of how to handle Clydesdales. He’d told Misty draft horses were pretty much like their smaller cousins, and that was true, except when it came to breeding.

  Misty. If it hadn’t been for her and her stupid brother, they wouldn’t be in this mess. But his flare of fresh anger was immediately snuffed out by the anguish on Duke’s face as he rubbed a gnarled hand over Sherlock’s nose. “In any case, guess it’ll be roomier around here soon, huh, buddy?” he said softly.

  Duke’s noble convictions or not, Travis wasn’t going to let the horses go without a fight. “Did you already make the deal with any of the stables back east?” Travis asked.

  Duke shook his head. “I haven’t made any final decisions.”

  He hadn’t told Duke about Misty’s offer to buy their feed. Because he was a stubborn idiot. And because he hadn’t realized the situation was quite so close to the wire. “Give me a couple of hours, okay?” he pleaded. “Maybe I can fix it.�
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  “I don’t see how. We’ve already been to bat over it. Luck’s just not on our side this time.”

  “You’re just like my dad, always the pessimist.” Travis smiled. “Just give me today before you accept any offers, okay?”

  Duke nodded.

  Travis parked in front of the small butterscotch-colored house on Main Street, his stomach already churning. It had been a month since he’d been here, since he’d seen Misty, since their fight. How many times had he thought about her? Considered texting her? Wishing he could apologize? Hundreds. But he hadn’t, and now he was here, literally hat in hand, to beg for money. She’d never believe his apology now.

  The receptionist’s friendly smile soured when she obviously recognized him. Great. Getting off to a fantastic start.

  “Can I help you?” she said coolly.

  “Is Misty here, please?”

  “She’s not. Can I take a message?”

  Travis’s heart sunk. As humiliating as this was, he’d been looking forward to seeing her. “Will she be in today?”

  The receptionist shook her head. “I could schedule an appointment for you on Monday; she might have an opening.” Her tone left no doubt that she preferred he leave and never come back.

  “Can I help with something?”

  A tall, dark-haired man came down the hall, and Travis did a double take. It was the guy who’d tipped him a fifty on the hayride.

  “I’m Misty’s brother, Ty,” the man said. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “I’m Travis Harper. I work at Sun Valley Clydesdales.”

  Ty’s face immediately darkened, leaving no doubt in Travis’s mind that he knew at least part of the story.

  “Why don’t you step into my office?” Ty said, his voice not quite as friendly as before.

  After they’d settled into the leather chairs, Ty steepled his fingers together under his chin and surveyed Travis thoughtfully. “What can I do for you?”