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Yazar
Stella Bagwell
Okur
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Harlequin
HarlequinChapter One
Who the hell is that?
Holt Hollister pushed back the brim of his black cowboy hat and squinted at the feminine shape framed by the open barn door. He didn’t have the time or energy to deal with a woman this morning. Especially one who was pouting because he’d forgotten to call or send flowers.
Damn it!
Jerking off his gloves, he jammed them into the back pocket of his jeans and strode toward the shapely figure shaded by the overhang. Behind him the loud whinny of a randy stallion drowned out the sounds of nearby voices, rattling feed buckets, the whir of fans, and the muffled music from a radio.
As soon as the woman spotted his approach, she stepped forward and into a beam of sunlight slanting down from a skylight. The sight very nearly caused Holt to stumble. This wasn’t one of his girlfriends. This woman looked like she’d just stepped off an exotic beach and exchanged a bikini for some cowboy duds.
Petite, with white-blond hair that hung past her shoulders, she was dressed in a white shirt and tight blue jeans stuffed into a pair of black cowboy boots inlaid with turquoise and red thunderbirds. Everything about her said she didn’t belong in his horse barn.
Frustration eating at him, he forced himself to march onward until the distance between them narrowed down to a mere arm’s length and she was standing directly in front of him.
“Hello,” she greeted. “Do you work here?”
Holt might forget where he’d placed his truck keys or whether he’d eaten in the past ten hours, but he didn’t forget a woman. And he was quite certain he’d never laid eyes on this one before today. Even without a drop of makeup on her face, she was incredibly beautiful, with smooth, flawless skin, soft pink lips, and eyes that reminded him of blue velvet.
“It’s the only place I’ve ever worked,” he answered. “Are you looking for someone in particular?”
She flashed him a smile and at any other time or place, Holt would’ve been totally charmed. But not this morning. He’d spent a hellish night in the foaling barn and now another day had started without a chance for him to draw a good breath.
She said, “I am. I’m here to see Mr. Hollister. I was told by one of the ranch hands that I’d find him in this barn.”
She was looking straight at him and for a brief second Holt was thrown off-kilter by her gaze. Not only direct, it was as cool as a mountain stream.
“Three Mr. Hollisters live on this ranch,” he said bluntly. “You have a first name?”
“Holt. Mr. Holt Hollister.”
He blew out a heavy breath. He might’ve guessed this greenhorn would be looking for him. Being the manager of the horse division of Three Rivers Ranch, he was often approached by horse-crazy women, who wanted permission to walk through the barn and pet the animals, as if he kept them around for entertainment.
“You’re talking to him.”
Those blue, blue eyes suddenly narrowed skeptically, as though she’d already decided he was nothing more than a stable hand. And he supposed he couldn’t blame her. He’d not had time to shave this morning. Hell, he’d not even gone to bed at all last night. Added to that, the legs of his jeans were stained with afterbirth and smears of blood had dried to brown patches on his denim shirt.
“Oh. I’m Isabelle Townsend. Nice to meet you, Mr. Holt Hollister.”
She extended her hand out to him and Holt wiped his palm against the hip of his jean before he wrapped it around hers.
“Is there something I can do for you, Ms. Townsend?” he asked, while wondering how such a soft little thing could have a grip like a vice.
She eased her hand from his. “I’ve been told you have nice breeding stock for sale. I’m looking to buy.”
If Holt hadn’t been so tired, he would’ve burst out laughing. She ought to be home painting her fingernails, or whatever it was that women like her did to amuse themselves, he thought. “Are you talking about cattle or horses? Or maybe you’re looking for goats? If you are, I know a guy who has some beauties.”
“Horses,” she said flatly, while peering past his shoulder at the rows of stalls lining both sides of the barn. “This is a horse barn, isn’t it? Or are you in the goat business now?”
The sarcasm in her voice was the same tone he’d used on her. And though he deserved it, her response irked him. Usually pretty women smiled at him. This one was sneering.
“I’m in the business of horses. And at this time, Three Rivers isn’t interested in selling any. You should drive down to Phoenix and try the livestock auction. If you’re careful with your bidding, you can purchase some fairly decent animals there. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy.”
Not waiting to hear her reply, he walked off and didn’t stop until he was out the opposite end of the barn and out of Isabelle Townsend’s sight.
Furious and humiliated, Isabelle turned on her heel and stalked out of the barn. So much for all she’d heard about Three Rivers Ranch and its warm hospitality. Apparently, those glowing recommendations didn’t include Holt Hollister.
Outside in the bright Arizona sunlight, she crossed a piece of hard-packed ground to where her truck was parked next to a tall Joshua tree.
Jerking open the door, she was about to climb into the cab when a male voice called out to her.
Wondering if Holt Hollister had decided he’d behaved like an ass and had come to apologize, she turned to see it wasn’t the arrogant horseman who’d followed her. This man was slightly taller and perhaps a bit older than Holt Hollister, but she could see a faint resemblance to the man she’d just crossed words with.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m Blake Hollister, manager of the ranch.”
He extended his hand in a friendly manner and Isabelle complied.
“I’m Isabelle Townsend,” she introduced herself, then added dryly, “It’s nice meeting you. I think.”
His brows disappeared beneath the brim of his gray hat. “I happened to see you go in the horse barn five minutes ago. If you’re looking for someone in particular, I might be able to help.”
“I was looking for the man who manages your horse division. Instead I found a first-class jerk!” She practically blasted the words at him, then promptly hated herself for the outburst. This man couldn’t be held responsible for his relative’s boorish behavior. “Excuse me. I didn’t mean to sound so cross.”
“Isabelle Townsend,” he thoughtfully repeated, then snapped his fingers. “You must be our new neighbor who purchased the old Landry Ranch.”
Since she’d only moved here six weeks ago, she was surprised this man had heard of her. News in a small place must travel fast, she thought.
“That’s right. I was interested in purchasing a few horses from Three Rivers. But unfortunately, your brother or cousin or whatever he is to you isn’t interested in selling. Or showing a visitor good manners.”
“I’m sorry about this, Ms. Townsend.”
The ranch manager cast a rueful glance in the direction of the horse barn and Isabelle got the impression it wasn’t the first time he’d had to apologize for his brother’s behavior.
“Frankly, Mr. Hollister, I had heard this ranch was the epitome of hospitality. But after this morning, I have my doubts about that.”
“Trust me. It won’t happen again.” His smile was apologetic. “You caught my brother at a bad time. You see, it’s foaling season and he’s working virtually 24/7 right now. I promise if you’ll come back to the ranch tomorrow, I’ll make sure Holt is on his best behavior.”
Isabelle didn’t give a damn about the horse manager. As far as she was concerned, the man could ride off into the sunset and never return.
“Honestly, Mr. Hollister, I have no desire to do business with your brother. Exhaustion isn’t an excuse for bad manners.”
“No. And I agree that Holt can be insensitive at times. But you’ll find that when it comes to horses, he’s the best.”
He might be the best, but would dealing with the man be worth it? If it would help make her dream come true, she could surely put up with Mr. Arrogant for a few minutes, she decided.
Shrugging, she said, “All right, Mr. Hollister. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
He helped her into the truck, then shut the truck door and stepped back. And as Isabelle drove away, she wondered why she’d agreed to meet the good-looking horseman with a tart tongue for a second time. Solely for the chance to buy a few mares? Or did she simply want the pleasure of giving him a piece of her mind?
The answer to that was probably a toss-up, she decided.
“Holt? Are you in there?”
The sound of Blake’s loud voice booming through the open doorway penetrated Holt’s sleep-addled brain. Groggily, he lifted his head just in time to see his older brother step into the messy room he called his office.
“I’m right here. What’s the matter? Is Cocoa having trouble?” He leaned back in the desk chair and wiped a hand over his face.
“As far as I know, nothing is wrong with Cocoa. I saw her five minutes ago. She was standing and the baby was nursing.”
“Thank God. I had to call Chandler back to the ranch to deal with her afterbirth. I was afraid she might be having complications,” he explained, then squinted a look at Blake’s dour expression. “What’s the matter with you? You look like you’ve been eating green persimmons.”
“That task would probably be easier than trying to fix your mess-ups,” Blake retorted.
This wiped the cobwebs from Holt’s brain. “My mess-ups? What are you talking about?”
Blake shoved a stack of papers to one side and eased a hip onto the corner of the desk. “Don’t feign ignorance. You know damned good and well I’m talking about Isabelle Townsend. The blonde who left the horse barn with smoke pouring out of her ears. What the hell did you say to her anyway?”
Holt used both hands to scrub his face again. “Not much. I basically made it clear that I didn’t have time for her. Which is hardly a lie. You know that.”
Blake blew out a heavy breath. “Yes, I know it. But in this case, you should’ve made time. Or, at the very least, been polite to the woman.”
Holt picked up a coffee cup and peered at the cold black liquid inside. He’d poured the drink about five hours earlier, but never found a chance to drink it. Now particles of dust were floating over the surface. “What is the big deal, Blake? It was very clear to me that the woman had no legitimate business here on the ranch. I seriously doubt she’s ever straddled a horse in her entire life. We’ll probably never see her again.”
“Wrong. I invited her to return tomorrow. And I made a personal promise to her that you’d be behaving like a human being instead of a jackass.”
Holt plunked the coffee cup back to the desktop. “Oh, hell, Blake, you have no idea how I behaved with Isabelle what’s-her-name. You weren’t there.”
“I didn’t have to be. I know how you are whenever you run out of patience. Like I said, a jackass.”
“Okay, okay. I wasn’t nice. I’ll admit it. But I’m running on empty. And just looking at her rubbed me the wrong way.”
Blake arched a brow at him. “Really? She was damned pretty. Since when has a pretty woman got your dander up? Unless—” His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Dear Lord, I hope you didn’t make a pass at her. Is that what really happened?”
“No! Not even close!” Holt rose from the chair and began to move restlessly around the jumbled room.
His mother often mentioned that he needed a nicer office, one that was fitting for a respected horse trainer, but Holt always balked at the idea. He liked the dust and the jumble. He liked having metal filing cabinets filled with papers instead of flash drives and computers with spreadsheets. If he wanted to throw a dirty saddle across the back of a chair, he did. If he wanted to toss a pile of headstalls and bridles into a corner of the room, he didn’t worry about how it looked or smelled. He was in the business of horses. Not ostentatious surroundings. Or technical gadgets.
“Yeah, pretty women and I go hand in hand,” he went on with a dose of sarcasm. “Except I don’t like it when they pretend to be something they aren’t.”
“I don’t get you, Holt. You don’t know Isabelle Townsend. Why you’ve made this snap decision about her, I’ll never understand. But I’m telling you, you’ve got it all wrong. She’s purchased the old Landry Ranch and has intentions of turning it into a horse farm. And from what I hear about the woman, she has enough riding trophies to fill up this room.”
Holt stopped in his tracks and stared at his brother. “Who says?”
“Emily-Ann for one. And working at Conchita’s, you know she hears everything.”
Holt sputtered. “Sure, Blake. Working at a coffee shop means she hears gossip.”
“This is more than gossip,” Blake countered. “Emily-Ann has become fairly good friends with the woman.”
Holt looked away from his brother and down at the dusty planked floor. This part of the foaling barn had been built many years before Holt was born and the cypress boards, though durable, were a fire hazard. The floor actually needed to be ripped out and replaced with concrete, but like many parts of the century-and-a-half-old ranch, they remained as pieces of tradition.
“The old Landry Ranch, you say? That means she’s our neighbor on the north boundary.”
“Right,” Blake replied. “And we don’t need any kind of friction with a neighbor. So you think you can play nice in the morning?”
Holt grinned. “Sure. I’ll be so sweet, she’ll think she’s covered in molasses.”
Blake rolled his eyes. “I don’t think you need to spread it on that thick, brother. Just be yourself. No. On second thought, that could be dangerous. Just be congenial.”
Holt’s weary chuckle was more like a groan. “Don’t worry, Blake. I’ll be on my best behavior.”
By the time Isabelle reached the outskirts of Wickenburg, she’d managed to push her simmering frustration aside and set her thoughts on the breakfast she’d missed earlier this morning. Endless chores were waiting for her back at the ranch, and it would make more sense to go home and fix herself a plate of eggs and toast. But she was already close to town, and after that humiliating encounter with Holt Hollister, taking time for coffee and a pastry at Conchita’s would be a treat she desperately needed.
After driving through the main part of Wickenburg, she turned onto a sleepy side street where the tiny coffee shop was located. Shaded by two old mesquite trees, the building’s slab pine siding was weathered to a drab gray. Worn stepping stones led up to a small porch with a short overhang.
At the moment, the single wooden door stood open to the warm morning and Isabelle could hear the muted sounds of music. As she stepped inside the dim interior, she was met with the mouthwatering scents of fresh baked pastries and brewing coffee.
An elderly man with a cane was at the counter. Isabelle stood to one side and waited patiently while Emily-Ann sacked his order.
“Hi, Isabelle!” the waitress greeted. “I’ll be right back as soon as I help Mr. Perez out with his things.”
“Sure. Take your time. I’m in no hurry,” Isabelle assured her.
The gentleman waved a dismissive hand at the young, auburn-haired woman and spoke something to her in rapid Spanish. Emily-Ann replied in the same language and made a shooing gesture toward the door.
“He insists he can carry his order out to the car on his own,” she explained to Isabelle. “But I’m not going to let that happen.”
While Emily-Ann assisted the customer, Isabelle stepped up to the glass cases holding a huge array of pastries and baked treats. She was still trying to decide between the brownies and the apple fritters when Emily-Ann returned and gave Isabelle a tight hug.
Laughing, Isabelle hugged her back. “You must have missed me!”
“I have!” Emily-Ann exclaimed, a wide smile lighting up her pretty freckled face. “You’ve not been in for a few days.”
“I’ve been busy. So busy, in fact, that I missed breakfast this morning.” Isabelle pointed to a top shelf. “Give me a brownie and an apple fritter. And a large regular coffee with cream.”
Emily-Ann, who was the same age as Isabelle, looked at her in disbelief. “A brownie and an apple fritter? And you look like that? Do you know how frustrated that makes me? Just breathing the air in here makes me gain a pound!”
Isabelle shook her head. “You look lovely. I only wish I had your height. For the first fifteen years of my life, I was called shorty.”
“That’s better than being called freckles.” Emily-Ann turned to a counter behind her and filled a cup with coffee. “Do you want this to go?”
“No. I don’t want to gobble it down while I drive. I want to enjoy every bite.”
“Great,” she said. “The customers have let up for the moment so I’ll join you. That is, if you’d like the company.”
“C’mon. I’d love your company.”
The two women walked outside and sat down at one of the small wrought iron tables and chairs sitting in the shade of the mesquites.
“So what’s been going on with you since I was here?” Isabelle asked as she broke off a piece of the brownie and popped it into her mouth.
Emily-Ann tilted her head from side to side in a nonchalant expression. “Nothing new. At this time of year, lots of snowbirds come in for coffee. Most of them are friendly and want to chat and ask questions about things to see and do around here. Honestly, Isabelle, when you’ve lived in one little town all your life, you don’t really see things as a tourist. For example, that saguaro over there across the street. The tourists ooh and aah over it. To me, it’s just a saguaro.”
“That’s because you see it every day.” Isabelle sipped her coffee, hoping the caffeine would revive her from the long morning she started before daylight. “But think of it this way, one of those snowbirds that walk into the coffee shop might be your Mr. Right.”
Emily-Ann grimaced. “I’m not sure I want to look for a Mr. Right anymore. The men I’ve dated have all turned out to be stinkers.”
Isabelle shrugged. “At least you weren’t like me and made the mistake of marrying the wrong man.”
“From what you’ve told me, your ex would’ve been happy to stay married. And you did say that the two of you are still friends. Are you sure you don’t regret getting a divorce?”
“Trevor was a good guy. A nice guy. But he—” He just hadn’t loved her. Not with the deep, abiding love that Isabelle had craved. “Well, he was a great companion. Just not a husband.”
Shaking her head, Emily-Ann sighed. “I’m not sure I get that. But as long as you think you’re better off now, then that’s all that really matters, I suppose.”
Isabelle finished the brownie and unwrapped the square of wax paper from the fritter. “I am better off. I’m following my dreams.”
Emily-Ann leaned back in her chair. “How is the ranch coming along? Have you found any horses to buy?”
Instead of blurting the curse word burning the tip of her tongue, Isabelle snorted. “Actually, I drove out to Three Rivers this morning to look at their horses, but I didn’t get to first base.”
“Oh, what happened? Out of all of the horses they have, surely you could find something that suited you.”
“Ha! All I got to see was an arrogant cowboy and he promptly sent me on my way.”
Emily-Ann’s mouth fell open. “You mean Holt? He sent you packing?”
“He did. Emily-Ann, I thought you told me he was a charming guy and that he’d be easy to do business with. The guy is a first-class jerk!” Isabelle huffed out a breath and reached for her coffee.
Emily-Ann was perplexed. “I don’t understand how that could’ve happened. But he’s dreamy-looking. Right?”
Isabelle sipped the hot drink and tried not to think about the way Holt Hollister had looked standing there in front of her with his long legs parted and his arms folded against his broad chest. Dreamy? He’d looked rough around the edges and as tough as rawhide. “I’ll admit he’s sexy, but not the sort I dream about. I like manners and kindness in a man.”
Emily-Ann batted a hand through the air. “Holt knows all about manners. Him sending you away—that’s just not the man I know, and I’ve been friends with the whole family since I was a very little girl.”
Isabelle shrugged, while trying not to take the man’s behavior personally. “There must’ve been something about me that Holt didn’t like. Or maybe something I said. Like hello,” she added dryly. “No matter. Blake invited me to come back tomorrow and I’m going to take him up on the invitation.”
Emily-Ann looked relieved. “Oh, so you met Blake. He’s a real gentleman.”
“I’ll put it this way, he’s nothing like his brother,” Isabelle replied.
“So what did you think about Three Rivers? It’s quite a place, isn’t it?”
Nodding, Isabelle admitted, “Beautiful. But nothing like I was expecting. I thought the main ranch house would be a hacienda-type mansion surrounded by a stone wall with an elaborate gated entrance. Instead, it was a homey three-story house with wood siding and a front porch for sitting.”
Emily-Ann sighed. “The Hollisters are a homey bunch. Guess that’s why the family is so well liked. They’re just regular folks. Even though they have oodles of money.”
Isabelle’s ex had also had oodles of money. Perhaps not as much as the Hollisters, but he’d had enough to give her a tidy fortune in the divorce settlement. Money was necessary, and Isabelle would be lying if she said she didn’t appreciate the life it was allowing her to lead. Particularly with her plans to build a horse farm. But money wasn’t everything. In the end, Trevor’s money hadn’t made up for his inability to love her.
“Well, if I don’t meet a different Holt tomorrow, I’m going to suggest he drive up to the Grand Canyon and take a flying leap off the South Rim.”
“Ouch. He must have really rubbed you the wrong way.”
Just the thought of Holt Hollister rubbing her in any way sent a shiver down Isabelle’s spine. Maybe the women around here went for the barbarian type, but she didn’t.
Purposely focusing her attention on the apple fritter, Isabelle said, “Let’s talk about something else, shall we? I don’t want to ruin the rest of my day.”
For the first night in the past ten nights, no foals were born and Holt managed to sleep until four thirty in the morning without being disturbed. Even so, the moment he opened his eyes, he jerked to a sitting position and stared around the bedroom, disoriented.
What was he doing in bed and what the heck had happened while he’d been asleep? Swinging his legs over the side of the mattress, he reached for the phone on the nightstand and punched the button for the direct line to the foaling barn. It rang six times before someone finally picked it up and by then Holt was wide-awake.
“Yep.”
“Matt, is that you?” Matthew Waggoner was the ranch foreman and had been for several years. His job was mostly handling the cowhands, the cattle, and everything that entailed. He usually stayed away from the mares and foals.
“Yep, it’s me. What’s wrong?”
“Why are you in the foaling barn?” Holt asked. “Has something happened?”
“No. Everything is quiet. I’m spelling Leo. He’s dead on his feet. Sounds like you are, too.”
Holt raked a hand through his tumbled hair, then reached for the jeans he’d left lying on the floor by the bed. “When I woke up and realized I’d been in bed all night, it scared me.”
Matthew chuckled. “That’s a hell of a thing to be scared about. Hang up and go back to sleep. The mares in the paddock are all happy and the hands and I won’t be leaving out of the ranch yard until six anyway.”
“Thanks, Matt. But my sleep is over. I’ll be down as soon as I grab something from the kitchen.”
In the bathroom, he sluiced cold water onto his face, then ran a comb through his dark hair. The rusty brown whiskers on his face hadn’t seen a razor in three days, but he wasn’t going to bother shaving this morning. He had more important worries.
After he’d thrown a denim shirt over his jeans and tugged on a pair of worn cowboy boots, he hurried down to the kitchen, where Reeva was already shoving an iron skillet filled with buttermilk biscuits into the oven. The scents of frying bacon and chorizo filled the warm room.
“Got any tortillas warm yet, old woman?” Holt asked as he sneaked up behind the cook and pecked a kiss on her cheek.
Without batting an eye, she pointed to a platter stacked with breakfast tacos wrapped in aluminum foil. “The tacos are already made. What do you think I do around here anyway? Sit reading gossip magazines or lie in bed? Like you?”
In her early seventies, Reeva was a tall, thin woman with straight, iron gray hair that was usually pulled into a ponytail or braid. She’d been working as the Hollister cook since before Holt had been born and now after all these years, she was a part of the family. Which was all for the best, he thought, since the little family she’d once had were all moved away and out of her life.
“Ha! I’ve seen you lounging around in the den reading gossip magazines and drinking coffee,” Holt teased as he snatched up three of the tacos.
Reeva swatted the spatula at his hand. “Get out of here, you worthless saddle tramp.”
“Don’t worry, I’m going. As soon as I find my insulated cup.”
“Right behind you. On the cabinet. And don’t go out without your jacket. It’s cold this morning.”
“It’s a good thing you’re around to tell me what to do, Reeva. Otherwise, I’d be in a hell of a mess.” He grabbed up the stainless steel cup and headed toward the door that led to the backyard.
“You stay in a mess even with my help,” she said tartly, then added, “I’ll send Jazelle down with some pastries later. And don’t call me old woman.”
Holt looked over his shoulder and winked at her. “Reeva, you look as fresh as a spring rose.”
Reeva continued to flip the frying bacon. “You wouldn’t know what a spring rose looked like. But I love you anyway.”
“Right back at ya, old woman.”
At the door, he levered on a gray Stetson and, to please Reeva, pulled on a Sherpa-lined jacket. After stuffing the tacos into one of the pockets to keep them warm on the long walk to the foaling barn, he stepped outside and was promptly slammed in the face with a cold north wind.
Ducking his head, he left the backyard and started toward the massive ranch yard in the distance. Along the way, he passed the bunkhouse where most of the single ranch hands lived. The scents of coffee and frying sausage drifted out from the log building and Holt figured the guys would be sitting down to breakfast any minute now, which was served at five on most mornings. Once in a while, he and Blake would join the group for the early meal, just to share a few casual minutes with the hardworking employees. But the bunkhouse cook was a crusty old fellow, who couldn’t begin to match Reeva’s kitchen skills.
At the cattle pens, there were already a half dozen cowboys spreading feed and hay. Dust billowed from the stirring hooves, a sign that so far the winter had been extremely dry. Grass on the range was getting as scarce as hen’s teeth and Matthew had already warned Blake that the hay Three Rivers had baled back in the spring would soon be gone. As for the Timothy/alfalfa mix Holt fed the horses, he’d already been forced to get tons of it shipped in from northern Nevada.
At times like these, Holt figured Blake acquired a few more gray hairs at his temples. As manager of the ranch, his brother carried a load on his shoulders and he worried. But Holt didn’t worry. Not about the solvency of the ranch. After a hundred and seventy-one years, he figured the place would keep on standing strong. No, the only thing he worried about was keeping the horses healthy. And his mother.
For the most part, Holt could control the well-being of the Three Rivers’ remuda, but his mother was a different matter. Lately she was doing a good job of acting like she was happy. But Holt and his siblings weren’t fooled. She was keeping something from the family.
Chandler wanted to think she’d fallen in love and was trying to hide it, but Holt didn’t go along with his brother’s idea. A woman in love had a look about her that was impossible to hide and his mother didn’t have it.
When Holt reached the horse barn, the hands were already feeding the few mares that were stalled with their new foals. T.J., the barn manager, met Holt in the middle of the wide alleyway.
“Mornin’, Holt,” he greeted. “Everything is quiet. No problem with Ginger. She seems to have taken to her little boy. He’s been standing and nursing and already looks stronger than he did two hours ago.”
Holt wasn’t surprised to hear T.J. had already been at the barn for two or three hours. He was a dedicated young man with an affinity for horses. He’d come to work for the ranch six years ago and since then had proved his worth over and over.
“That’s happy news. I was afraid we might have to put him on a nurse mare.” Grinning now, Holt patted his jacket pocket. “I have breakfast tacos. If you’re hungry, I’ll share.”
“Thanks, Holt, but I promised William I’d eat at the bunkhouse this morning. Now that you’re here, I’ll mosey on over there.”
“Better do more than mosey or there won’t be anything left.”
“Right. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” The barn manager turned on his heel and hurried out of the barn.
On the way to his office, Holt made a short detour to Ginger’s stall. As T.J. had informed him, the colt was looking remarkably stronger since his birth yesterday. The fact that the first-time mare was now bonding with her baby was a huge relief and he smiled as he watched her lick the white star on the colt’s forehead.
“He’s a good-looking boy. Big boned, bright eyed and straight legs. By the time he’s a weanling, he’ll be strong and sturdy.”
The unexpected female voice had him whirling around to see Isabelle Townsend had walked up behind him. The sight of her at any time of the day would’ve surprised him, but he doubted it was daylight yet. Blake had told him she’d probably return to the ranch today, but he’d not mentioned she might show up at five in the morning!
“Ms. Townsend,” he said in the way of greeting. “You’re out early.”
To his surprise, she must’ve forgiven his nasty behavior yesterday. There wasn’t anything sarcastic in the smile on her face. On the contrary. It was warm enough to chase away the chill in the barn.
“Yesterday you were too busy to deal with me. This morning I came early in hopes I’d catch you before that happened.”
He had a thousand and one things to do, including eating the meager breakfast he was carrying in his pocket. He didn’t have time for Isabelle Townsend. Not this morning, or any morning. But he’d promised Blake he’d be a gentleman and one thing Holt never wanted to do was break his word to his big brother.
“I was headed to my office. If you’d like to join me, we can talk there.” He turned away from Ginger’s stall. “Have you had breakfast?”
“No. But I’m fine. Sometimes I don’t bother with that meal.”
From the looks of her, she didn’t bother with eating much at all. Yesterday he’d noticed she was petite. This morning, he could see she was even smaller than he remembered. Even with the heels of her cowboy boots adding to her height, he doubted the top of her head would reach the middle of his chest. The notion struck him that he could pick her up with one arm and never feel the strain.
But he had no plans to get that close to their pretty neighbor, Holt decided. Not unless she wanted him to.
