her head and rolled her eyes. “Are you always like this?”
“Endearing? Charismatic? ’Fraid so.”
“I was thinking annoying and irritating and very full of yourself.”
“Give me time. I have a tendency to grow on people.”
Bridget sighed and aimed the golf cart toward the second-to-last cabin in the line of six. “I can see why Nora likes you. You’re her type.”
Ryan held on to the side handle when Bridget pulled to a stop, braking a bit harder than was necessary. Perhaps she really was trying to eject him.
“She’s my type, too,” he said. “Or she would be if she was younger.” His neighbor had to be in her midseventies, possibly older. “Then again, I’m a hip guy and might be able to see past the forty-five-year age difference.”
“Wait here,” Bridget instructed and turned off the golf cart.
Ryan started to get out. “Need help?”
“No, thanks. I can manage.” With a quick flip of her fingers, she unfastened the insulated container and carried it up the short walk to the cabin’s front steps.
Ryan watched her, his attention riveted. All the time he kept thinking, too bad. Too bad she was his new boss’s granddaughter. Too bad she was a settling-down kind of gal. Too bad he needed to behave himself, though she’d probably argue he’d been anything but behaving himself on their short drive.
She marched more than walked to the cabin’s front door. Independent, he thought. Feisty. Smart. Talented. Capable. Pretty. Very, very pretty. Those reddish-blond curls of hers were an invitation shouting “Touch me.” He’d discover for himself if her hair felt as silky as it appeared, except she’d no doubt slap away his hand.
At her sharp knock, a young man opened the cabin door. A few words were exchanged, and he took the insulated container. Bridget bade him goodbye and marched back to the golf cart with the same purpose as before, her arms swinging at her sides this time.
Did she realize she still wore her apron? Perhaps the garment was so second nature to her, she forgot she had it on.
The moment she climbed back into the golf cart, a musical chime sounded. Reaching into the pocket on her apron bib, she extracted her cell phone and read a text.
“Grandma says Big Jim’s going to be a few minutes late.”
“Should we go back to the house?” Ryan asked. “If your sister’s free, I can fill out my employment paperwork.”
“Big Jim won’t be long. I’ll drop you off at the stables. You can wait for him there.”
Yet another too bad. In this case, too bad their time together was at an end.
The stables were located farther up the road, a quarter mile past the last cabin. Even at fifteen miles per hour, they made good time. Ryan took in the structure and uttered a low “Wow!”
“We recently expanded the stables as well,” Bridget said. “Four more stalls and we increased the size of the paddock out back.”
Ryan had built covered stalls at the last two properties he’d flipped. Neither were as nice as these stables, which, while not large, were on par with professional horse ranches. Then again, the stalls he’d built were for private use and not to impress paying guests or appear in magazines.
Bridget parked beside the hitching rail. He expected to be dropped off and left to his own devices while he waited on the soon-to-retire wrangler. To Ryan’s vast delight, she shut off the golf cart and hopped out.
“Come on. I’ll show you around.” Pride tinged her voice. She didn’t just work for her grandmother, she loved the ranch.
“I’d like that,” he said.
The stables’ main door stood open, and Bridget went inside first. Ryan crossed the threshold behind her and stopped to stare.
Windows allowed ample natural illumination, eliminating the need for electric lights during bright sunny days like this one. Nickers filled the air as heads immediately popped over stall doors, eager to investigate the newcomers. The scents of hay and leather and grain filled the air.
“I’m impressed.” He went over to the far wall, where the harnesses hung in neat order. Running his hand down the length of a large collar, he noted the fine craftsmanship and pristine condition. Much better than anything his family had ever owned.
“Riding gear’s over there.” Bridget pointed to the other wall, where a variety of saddles sat perched on racks and bridles dangled from wooden pegs.
Every piece looked recently cleaned and recently polished. Also much better than anything his family owned.
Feeling a little like a fish out of water, he meandered over to the nearest horse. Happy for the attention, the large blond gelding nuzzled Ryan’s palm when he extended it.
“Haflinger,” he said, then noticed the other horse in the next stall over. They were a perfect match, like twin bookends. “Your driving team, I assume.”
“That’s Amos.” Bridget joined Ryan. “The other is Moses. They’re brothers.”
“I figured as much.”
“These are our recent purchases.” She indicated the three quarter horses in the adjoining stalls. “For trail rides. We bought them from a horse rental outfit in Apache Junction.”
“They appear tame enough.” Ryan estimated the trio were in their late teens and seasoned veterans.
“A lot of our clients have little or no experience riding. We don’t want to put them on anything that isn’t one-hundred-percent trustworthy. These three are perfect lambs.”
“You ride much?”
She moved to pat the nearest broad face and received a contented snort in return. “When I can get away from work. Which isn’t often enough. We’ve been going like gangbusters since we opened last November.”
She enjoyed riding. Yet another reason for Ryan to like this woman, who was fascinating him more and more with each new tidbit she revealed.
“Pleasure riding?” he guessed. “No, competitive.”
“Both. I grew up active in 4-H and competed in Western horsemanship classes. Later, I took up team roping for a while. Semiprofessionally.”
Ryan broke into a wide grin. “We have a lot in common. I team-roped, too.” He’d used the money from his winnings as a down payment on his first property. “Why’d you quit?”
“Culinary school. Le Cordon Bleu College.” More pride tinged her voice. “It’s one of the top schools in the southwest.”
No question about it, Bridget O’Malley was so far out of Ryan’s league, she might as well reside in outer space.
A horn sounded from outside, accompanied by the crunch of tires on gravel.
Bridget
