been fun blending our holiday traditions,” Jeanne Marie added.
“I guess change isn’t always a bad thing.” Amber wished she would eventually come to believe that herself.
Jeanne Marie sighed. “I don’t know about that. When it comes to family, it’s been fun. But not when it comes to our town and community.”
“Are you talking about Cowboy Country USA?” Amber knew where Jeanne Marie was going with that. The town had seemed to split in its support of the new Western theme park that was being built near Vicker’s Corners. Some thought it would draw tourists and business to Horseback Hollow and others were staunchly against its construction because they feared it would make a mockery of the Western life they held dear.
“Now, I’m not one to get political,” Jeanne Marie said. “And I’m not about to make a fuss down at city hall or give speeches in Town Square on Founder’s Day. But I like Horseback Hollow just the way it is.”
Amber understood her concern—and that of the others, too. But she was excited to have an amusement park so close to home. She loved roller coasters and thought it would be cool to show the tourists from the rest of America how their country counterparts lived.
She’d also been approached by the casting department of Moore Entertainment about starring in their Wild West Show. And she was going to accept the offer because it would provide her with an opportunity to rope and ride again in an arena, while not having to leave Gram to run the ranch alone. She hadn’t told anyone, though. No need to risk getting run out of town on a rail.
Besides, she wouldn’t hurt Jeanne Marie for the world. The woman had become a second mother to her after her own mama had passed.
When Jensen returned, Jeanne Marie and Lady Josephine excused themselves and went to find seats closer to all the holiday activity.
“Here you go, Miss...” Jensen paused as he handed Amber a glass of eggnog, along with a holiday napkin. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your last name.”
“It’s Rogers,” she said, as she took the drink and thanked him.
Jensen—Lordy, the man was handsome—tossed her an earth-tilting grin. “Are you any relation to Roy?”
“You mean Rod, who owns the R and J Auto Body in Vicker’s Corners? No, I’m afraid not.”
“Actually,” he said, “I was referring to Roy Rogers, the old-time movie star.”
Amber stole a glance at the Brit. Who in America, especially the state of Texas, wouldn’t know who Roy Rogers was? She just hadn’t expected Jensen to. But rather than point out their obvious cultural differences, she said, “I’m afraid that was a bit before my time.”
“It’s before mine, as well. But since I’m an American Western film buff, I’m familiar with all the old movie stars, such as Tom Mix, Randolph Scott, John Wayne...”
She crossed her arms and shot him a playful grin. “So you assumed that, just because I’m a cowgirl, that I should be familiar with all things Western, even from sixty and seventy years ago?” He probably also thought she sang on her horse as she cantered along in her fringed pink vest à la Dale Evans.
“I’m sorry. It appears that I’m making all kinds of false assumptions today.”
“Apparently so. But you don’t have to be so formal. You can call me Amber.”
“Well, Miss Amber Rogers, if you’ll excuse me, it looks like that eggnog needs to be replenished again.”
That seemed an odd job for a man—especially a fancy-pants one like him, who was just a guest in the house anyway. Was he trying to get away from her?
As much as she’d wanted to avoid him in the past, she was a bit sorry to see him go. He was actually charming—when he wanted to be.
As he made his way to the punch bowl, which was indeed nearly empty, he was stopped several times along the way—first by one of his cousins, then by one of the children. He would smile and comment, yet he appeared to hold back, to remain somewhat aloof.
He’d seemed to lower his guard with her, though, but just for a moment. And only when they’d talked about old movies and horses.
She couldn’t help watching as he moved through the house, chatting with his family, yet milling about looking as neat and formal as his professionally pressed suit.
Jensen was a looker—if you liked the fancy and stylish kind of man who could grace the cover of a men’s fashion magazine.
Of course, she’d always favored the rugged outdoorsman, like cowboys and ranchers. Real men, not city boys.
Still, Jensen Fortune Chesterfield was a sight to behold—and to study, to admire, as long as he wasn’t aware of her interest.
Funny thing, though. For a man who seemed to have it all together—amazing good looks, a boatload of money, a royal family and position—he seemed to distance himself from the others.
But then again, she could see why someone as stuffy as him would be a loner. And she couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for him.
There was something about Jensen that gave her a feeling of...well, she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. But it was a feeling she just couldn’t quite name or shake.
It was as if she knew him—or was destined to know him.
Hmm. Now that was weird. Because it made zero sense. He was British royalty and wool suits. And she was one hundred percent Texas cowgirl and worn jeans. They were as ill-suited as a cutting horse at the Grand National.
You’d think that would be the end of it. But oh, no. He’d gone and invited himself out to the Broken R tomorrow. And like the goof that she was, she’d agreed to a tour. So she was stuck seeing him again.
But after that, she’d cut herself out of the herd and make a quick getaway. Because what possible good could come of a friendship between a down-home country girl and the lord of the manor?
Amber had expected to see Jensen show up at the Broken R the next morning since he’d asked if he could see her breeding operation. But she’d thought he’d probably take his jolly good time, as the aristocracy was prone to do, and arrive late, driving a borrowed ranch truck, kicking up dust and trying to get used to having the steering wheel on the correct side of the vehicle.
What she hadn’t expected to see was him all decked out in English riding clothes and mounted on Trail Blazer, the gelding Quinn Drummond had recently purchased from her.
Still, here he was. And she’d promised to give him a tour. So she walked down the porch steps, carrying a mug of fresh-brewed coffee, and waved as he rode up.
When he dismounted in a swift, fluid motion, she sucked in her breath at the way his jodhpurs hugged his muscular legs.
Yet she stifled a grin, too. Who the heck wore fancy English riding britches in Horseback Hollow?
“Hi,”
