back where you came from, Ms. Brant.” His voice was low and without mercy. Spurring his mount forward, he left her staring after the cattle now rushing through the pasture’s gates.
An animal broke free and the black-and-white dogs darted out, piloting it back to the herd in seconds. Daisy jumped from her chocolate-colored horse—half the size of the gray—to close the gate. When her eyes caught Rachel’s across fifty feet of road, she sent a two-fingered wave, then climbed into the saddle before following McKee to the barns.
Go back where you came from.
He hadn’t meant Sweet Creek.
Ash led Northwind, his prize Andalusian stallion, into the big box stall at the rear of the horse stable.
She had nerve, that woman.
Last time newshounds swarmed the ranch was five years ago, chasing that goddamn stupid mad-cow story. A bunch of bull that cost Susie her life.
But this one didn’t want a story, just a roof over her pretty head.
Pretty. No damn way would he think a hack pretty.
Except she was. That bob of hair the color of his mother’s antique cherrywood sideboard, those eyes that tilted slightly at the outer corners. Cat eyes in Siamese-blue.
They always sent the pretty ones on a story hunt.
Did you not hear what she said? She wants to rent a room.
Right. That he would believe in another life.
He yanked the saddle off Northwind hard enough to make the horse sidestep. “Easy, boy. Don’t mean to take it out on you.” Hauling the gear into the tack room across the corridor, Ash clamped his teeth. Yeah, that was all he needed, a word wizard living on his ranch. A word wizard with media broadcasting power. And her power—if she chose to use it—could be a thousand times worse than the taunts and gossip he’d endured in school.
Well, dammit, this ranch was his life, and though he held its paperwork together through the eyes and smarts of his family—they paid the bills, did the ordering, worked e-mail and the Net—those bills and orders came through his direction, his guidance, his knowledge of the land and the animals. Still, the fact he wasn’t college educated sat like chain mail on his shoulders.
And while he couldn’t put the onus of that fact on the head of a woman he had met for three minutes, newsperson or not, neither could he trust her.
His family had seen its share of run-ins with the Rocky Times. The year Ash turned sixteen, Shaw Hanson, Senior, had sent his team to the Flying Bar T after Tom was accused of not feeding his stock properly due to his disability.
Ash snorted. All of it drivel. Still, the newshounds had fed like a wolf pack on the ASPCA’s investigation. Yet, to this day the person or persons who’d pointed the finger at Tom remained a mystery.
And then there was Susie’s death….
The memory twisted a knot in Ash’s gut. Now a Rocky Times reporter wanted to rent the little cottage she’d designed and he’d built? Never.
“Dad?”
He turned from retrieving a currycomb off the tack room wall to his fifteen-year-old daughter standing in the doorway. A sprite like her mother with big green eyes, a mop of long red curls. But strong enough to lift the saddle she carried to a loop hanging from the ceiling rafters.
His heart bumped. “Hey, Daiz. Need some fresh bedding for Areo?”
“Already did that this morning.”
He crossed the room and wove the loop into the hole on the pommel and around the horn.
“Thanks.” She tossed the blanket over a wooden drying rack in a corner. “What did Mi—that woman want?”
“Nothing important.”
Daisy reached for a second currycomb. “You chased her off.”
“She works for the Times.” And that should explain it. He went into Northwind’s stall. “You know how I feel about them.” About Shaw Hanson, Junior, and his crew of sleazy reporters.
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “I know.”
He glanced over his shoulder. Her expression sent a shaft of pain across his chest. She still missed her mother, missed their girl chats, Susie’s laughter, her hugs. Hell, he missed those hugs. He combed Northwind’s powerful withers. “I won’t let her hurt you, honey. And I won’t let her come near your grandpa.” Or this ranch.
“Oh, Dad.” She sighed and turned into the corridor.
What the hell?
“Daisy?” He peered around the door as she disappeared into Areo’s stall. For a moment, he stood wondering if he’d heard right. Her voice had held resignation, not sorrow. Had he disappointed her by chasing off that journalist? He shook his head. No. She knew how their family felt about the Hansons and their editorial finesse. It had to be something else. Well, she’d tell him in time.
Back in Northwind’s stall, he brushed down the big dapple-gray stallion, then filled his water bucket and manger. As Ash finished, Daisy exited Areo’s stall. “All done, pint?” He strode down the aisle toward his daughter. The dogs, Jinx and Pedro, trotted ahead.
“Yep.”
“All right. Let’s see what Grandpa’s got for lunch.”
They headed from the warmth of the barn into clear cold air. Hoof and boot prints pockmarked last night’s snow. Ash slowed his stride for his daughter. They walked in silence toward the two-story yellow Craftsman house that Tom’s great-grandfather, an immigrant from Ireland, had built in 1912.
Ash set a hand on Daisy’s shoulder. “Good thing your teachers had that in-service today. Don’t know if I could’ve moved those steers without you.”
“Oh, Dad. You and Ethan do it all the time when I’m at school.”
Ethan Red Wolf, their foreman. A good man. “You know Wednesday is Eth’s day off. Anyway, things go ten times faster with you helping.”
“You always say that.”
“And I mean it.”
A grunt. “What did the reporter want?”
Back to that. His pixie-girl, forever the little dog with an old shoe when she focused on some particular subject. While her tenacity baffled the heck out of him at times, he was damned proud when she brought home her straight-A report card. “She wanted to talk to Grandpa about renting the guest cottage.”
“Are you gonna let her?”
“No.”
“Why not? We could use the money.”
He rubbed Daisy’s shoulder. “We’re not so hard up, honey, that we need to rent to a reporter.” Never mind that the woman in question had him thinking about things he hadn’t
