broodmares and several new foals. “Almost all of the mares were bred and trained on our ranch. We ride and work with them, so we know their strengths and weaknesses. We’re also honest and fair. If we don’t have what a buyer is looking for, we can usually refer them to another breeder or trainer.”
“I know horses and can see that you have some good quality stock here.”
She thanked him, then led him out of the barn. While he waited near the outside corral, Amber saddled Lady Sybil, the spunky bay filly she was still training—and not planning to sell, although there’d been several substantial offers already.
“I appreciate you taking the time to give me a tour,” Jensen said. “You must be especially busy with your staff on holiday.”
“It’s not too bad. We planned ahead and took care of all the major chores before they left.”
“If there’s something I can do to help,” he said, “just let me know. Quinn is staying close to the house this weekend, so I have some free time.”
Jensen might be an accomplished rider, but she couldn’t see him helping out on the Broken R.
“Thanks for the offer,” she said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He remounted Trail Blazer and together they set off to see the rest of the ranch.
Throughout their morning ride, he asked polite but inquisitive questions about their operation. It was easy to see that he had an avid interest in the ranch, although several times, she’d caught him watching her in a way that had her zinging and pinging all over.
She’d stolen a few glances his way, too. But that was to be expected. After all, the Brit was so foreign to her, it was no wonder she couldn’t keep her eyes off him.
Right? That’s all it was. Jensen could have been from another planet—or even another century, like the one in which Jane Austen had lived. The early 1800s, if Amber remembered what she’d learned in her English Lit class.
“You have a lovely piece of land,” he said. “And an impressive operation.”
“Thank you. It’s been in the family for generations.”
As they made their way back to the stables after their tour, it was just about noon. She wondered if she ought to ask him if he’d like a sandwich—or if she ought to send him on his way.
Seemingly he was in no hurry to leave because he dismounted first and tied up his horse while she rode Lady Sybil into the paddock.
So, now what?
She bit down on her bottom lip as she slowed her mount, giving a lunch invitation some thought, when a rumble grew in the distance.
Lady Sybil whinnied.
“Easy, girl.” Amber tightened her grip on the reins and stroked the filly’s neck, but with the approaching engine’s roar, the horse grew more apprehensive.
A loud green car churned up a cloud of dust as it tore down the long driveway toward the ranch house, fishtailing its way toward them.
Lady Sybil whinnied again, tossing her head back and forth. Amber leaned low over the agitated animal’s neck to avoid getting thrown.
Jensen jumped over the railing and ran to her side. Obviously, he didn’t realize that Amber was perfectly capable of handling the horse—or used to picking herself up after a fall—because he grabbed the horse’s bridle and murmured to Sybil in his soft English accent.
The horse stilled, and Amber began to dismount. But the darned vehicle backfired and the mare bolted to the right, which threw Amber off balance.
She stumbled toward Jensen, and he slipped an arm around her, steadying her just as effectively as he’d steadied the filly.
Yet as his fingertips dug into her waist, sending a bolt of heat to her core, he unraveled just about everything else holding her together, and she darn near dropped the reins.
Thank goodness he had a hold of them, too. And her.
When he looked at her, assessing her with eyes the color of fine Texas bourbon, their faces just inches apart, her breath caught and her lips parted. But before Amber could either think or blink, Lady Sybil tossed her head once more, and she came to her senses, pulled away and took control of the horse, just as the roaring muscle car parked in front of the house.
A dust cloud swirled around the windows, making it difficult to see who was inside, but there were two of them—a man and a woman. When the engine shut off, the driver’s door opened, releasing the big band sounds of the Glenn Miller Orchestra.
Uh-oh. That explained it all. Gram had come home with that man again.
But this time, there was an upside. At least, Amber had an excuse to put some distance between her wacky hormones and the fancy British nobleman who’d aroused them.
* * *
For the briefest of moments, while Jensen had rushed to Amber’s assistance, something had passed between them—an intimacy that had shocked the living daylights out of him.
The minute his hand slid around her waist, he couldn’t help pulling her closer—and not just in an attempt to save life and limb. Then, when her lips parted, there’d been a moment—a single heartbeat, actually—when he’d been sorely tempted to kiss her.
Amber must have felt it, too, because she’d had such a lovely expression of bewilderment—that is, until Lady Sybil and the big green machine had put a stop to it all and reality had set in.
The driver of the green Dodge Charger, a squat older gent in his early eighties, climbed out of the car and yelled over the sound of swing music, “I can’t figure out how to turn this dadgummed i-radio off.”
Then he reached back into the car, took the hand of the lady who’d accompanied him and helped her to slide across the bench seat and exit through the driver’s door.
But rather than calling it a day, the older gent spun the woman in his arms and lowered her into a graceful dip that should have only been attempted by the most agile of professional dancers.
Jensen found it all rather amusing.
Apparently Amber didn’t because she handed him Lady Sybil’s reins, then strode across the yard, reached inside the vehicle and disconnected a cord, ending the song, as well as the impromptu dance. “What are you doing?”
“Practicing our moves for the upcoming dance contest at the Moose Lodge,” the elderly gent said. “I’m trying to talk Helen into competing with me, instead of with Harold Witherspoon, who don’t stand a chance of winning, even with a woman as pretty as Helen in his arms.”
Amber shifted her weight to one booted foot. “Gram, I thought you and Mary Trimble went to have breakfast with your quilting group.”
The older lady, who wore a green floral dress and a cream-colored sweater, turned to her granddaughter with flushed cheeks and a pleasant smile. “We did have breakfast, honey. But on the way, we learned that Martha Bradshaw’s relatives are all still staying at her house, which is where we usually go. So the group had a change of plans,
