The Wrong Cowboy, page 9
“I figured.” He nodded.
“We’re going to have a girl’s night out tonight,” she said, glancing over the list.
“Sounds nice.” He shrugged. “You haven’t missed much.”
She nodded, her thoughts returning to the paint horse again and again. There was no point fighting it. If she didn’t try to help the animal, she’d never forgive herself. And she’d be too distracted and worried to be any use elsewhere. “Found the fifth,” she murmured, handing the list back to Forrest—with the paint horse’s number circled—and sat back in her chair.
The barn was surprisingly full. But according to Forrest, it’d been a while since they’d had this large a sale. Her gaze swept the crowd—some faces familiar, others not. But one face in particular caught her full attention.
Jensen.
He was staring down at the auction list in his hands, his tan cowboy hat shielding the top part of his face... But it was him. She knew it was him. She always knew... Stop staring. She forced her gaze onward—and locked eyes with Dwight Crawley. If looks could kill, Mabel would be in serious trouble.
I get it. Mabel drew in an unsteady breath. You don’t like me. Like might not be a strong enough word. Still, she managed a smile and nod in greeting. He might send her a shrivel-up-and-die glare, but how she responded was up to her. And since she’d never mastered the art of scowling or glaring or giving anyone the stink eye, a smile and nod would have to do.
Mr. Crawley must have made some sort of noise, because Jensen shot his father a peculiar look—before searching out the cause of his father’s irritation. When those deep blue eyes met hers, a flush of warmth crept up her neck to settle into her cheeks.
“Mabel?” Forrest asked, nudging her gently and leaning closer. “This one, right?”
Mabel was glad for the nudge and the need for focus. She blinked, staring at the page until she was calm enough to say, “Yes. Go for it.”
Auctions were terribly exciting events. While Mabel found the idea of bidding anxiety-inducing, she did love watching her brother in action. He was fast, his hand popping up with a calm that belied the energy rolling over the crowd. For a split second, Mabel thought they’d lost the red quarter horse with the white blaze on his face, but Forrest managed to place a final bid.
But as the auction carried on, Mabel began to think her anxiety might have more to do with Mr. Crawley’s continued narrow-eyed stare over the furor of the auction itself. It wasn’t like she was trying to look in their direction—she wasn’t. Forrest was seated beside her. When she looked his way, the Crawleys were two rows behind his shoulder. It got so uncomfortable that she stopped looking at Forrest to avoid any accidental eye contact with Mr. Crawley. Things were going well; they’d secured the horses she’d picked out. All that was left was the paint. And when she leaned over to tell her brother that, she did her best to ignore Mr. Crawley, openly scowling her way.
“We’re down to the final horse today. This lovely little blue roan paint has an impressive lineage and a mild disposition,” the auctioneer read, flipping the index card over.
Mild disposition? Mabel wasn’t so sure about that. Timid was more like it. Maybe even frightened.
“You’re sure?” Forrest asked, zeroing in on the scar marring the horse’s flank.
Am I? She sucked in a deep breath. “I’m sure.”
But something in her voice must have tipped Forrest off because he turned to look at her. “Mabel.” Forrest sighed, shaking his head. “I know that look.” Another sigh. “I can’t spend money on a pet project—something you feel the need to fix. Especially if that horse will wind up costing me more money in the long run. It’s not like you’ve said you’re staying, either.” He paused. “This is business.”
Valid points, all of them. But... “I’ll buy her.” Mabel knew, in her heart, this horse needed help.
“That’s fine. You buy her... But where are you going to keep her?” Forrest was sounding far too logical for Mabel’s liking. “Because I can tell you right now, it won’t matter who pays for her if you leave her at the ranch and you go back to Wyoming.”
Mabel refused to look at her brother. He was right. If she looked at him, he’d see her uncertainty and put his foot down. He always said the worst time to make a decision was when emotions were high. And now that she could see the paint’s withdrawn reaction to the crowd of people and the constant murmur of conversation, Mabel was feeling all kinds of emotions. “I’ll buy her.” It was what needed to be done. “I’ll stay and take care of her.” She’d figure it out. Work. All of it. She would. All she could do was hope it sounded like that had been her plan all along. “But you have to bid for me.”
“If she’s living on the ranch, the ranch will buy her,” Forrest grumbled. “But I’m holding you to the rest—staying and all.” He gave her a quick nod and jumped into the bidding.
But the dollar figure kept climbing and, one by one, the other bidders dropped out. The only two left were Forrest and...Dwight Crawley. Which meant Forrest would keep right on bidding, no matter what. As the bid started edging its way up to a ridiculous amount, Mabel’s heart sank. Her uncle and brother kept a fixed cost on livestock purchases—with very few exceptions. She knew how hard they worked for every dollar they made and how fickle ranching could be. Asking Forrest to spend this much money, on a horse who might never be a working animal put a knot in her stomach.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, her hands fisting in her lap. “Don’t break the bank, Forrest.” She might not be fond of Dwight Crawley, but he and Crawley Cattle Ranch had a reputation for treating their animals well. There was some comfort in that. “You hear me?”
The muscle in Forrest’s jaw was so rigid, Mabel worried he’d chip a tooth.
“I don’t want Uncle Felix having a heart attack over this.” She placed a hand on his arm. “You neither, Forrest.”
Forrest glanced her way, disappointment and frustration bracketing his eyes and mouth.
“You know I’m right.” She couldn’t look at the horse. She’d lost out on animals before—auctions weren’t always fair—but she couldn’t deny this was hard. There was something in that mare that tugged at Mabel’s heart. She’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. And now she wasn’t forced into staying put in Garrison. That’s something.
It wasn’t easy for Forrest to cross his arms over his chest, Mabel could tell, and she loved him all the more for it. But frowning and rigid, Forrest yielded the bidding to Dwight Crawley and that was that. When the gavel slammed down for the final time, she winced.
“I don’t like losing—especially to those people.” Forrest stood abruptly, turning his back on the people he was referring to and offering her a hand. “Guess we’ll get the paperwork done, load them up and hit the road?”
She nodded, walking with him to the business office.
Sometimes the best course of action is to retreat—with dignity. The words were so clear Mabel could swear she could hear them. She couldn’t, of course. She hadn’t heard her father’s voice in years. But he had said that to her once, long ago. It was a treasured memory, warm and comforting. She’d been sitting on the corral fence, watching as one of the ranch hands worked patiently with a horse who’d yet to be broken.
Her father had been talking softly, walking her through what Bossier was doing and why. Mabel had listened, quietly, but her attention kept wandering back to the horse. Over and over... Mabel had been struck by a notion.
“But the horse wants to make friends with Bossier, Daddy,” she’d said. “He wants Bossier to talk nice to him and stop waving that rope in his face.”
Her father had looked at her for a long time, those sky blue eyes of his searching her face until Mabel worried she’d said something wrong. Finally, he’d called out, “Bossier, put the rope down and talk soft. Talk to the horse like he’s Mrs. Bossier.” Her father had chuckled then.
Bossier had pushed his hat back on his head, swiped his forehead with the back of his forearm and dropped the rope.
It was the first time Mabel had dared share her connection with someone and her daddy believed in her. Thankfully, it had worked and Bossier and the horse got on much easier after that. Since everyone else took their cues from Albert—Albie to his friends—Briscoe, no one on Briscoe Ranch batted an eye over Mabel’s ability. She could help out now, in her own special way, and it felt good. It had always been a part of her, nothing odd or unusual.
But once she’d started school, she realized the truth. Not only was her connection highly unusual—she was odd. A weirdo. Goggle girl. After the single-engine plane crash that took her parents’ lives, it got worse. She was old enough to “know better” and her “lying” had to stop. Yes, it was sad she’d lost her parents, but telling stories for attention because she was some “sad little girl wearing her brother’s clothes and Coke-bottle glasses” wasn’t acceptable behavior. She’d been telling the truth. What they wanted her to do was lie—lie so she’d fit in. But she didn’t fit in. Hiding her connection from people helped them accept her, but it didn’t change how she felt. Sometimes Mabel wondered if life would be easier if she couldn’t communicate with animals. Easier, maybe. But it would also be lonelier. As if that were possible.
* * *
JENSEN STARED AT his father. There was no way he’d heard that correctly. “For Samantha?”
“She’s old enough.” His father nodded, leaning against the horse trailer. “You’d been in the saddle since you were out of diapers—”
“She’s not ready for a horse,” Jensen cut him off. Maybe his father was telling him the truth and he’d been planning to buy Samantha a horse all along. Maybe. But would his father have been as insistent on buying that horse if he hadn’t been bidding against Forrest Briscoe?
“She’s not ready because you’re not pushing her. It’s what parents are supposed to do, Jensen.” He sighed, frowning at Jensen. “You want her running and hiding from everything on four legs for the rest of her life? Of course you don’t. This is a good thing, you’ll see. A little push now and then won’t hurt.”
“A little push?” Jensen shot his father a look. “Buying her a horse is your idea of a little push?” He opened the back doors of the trailer and pulled out the ramp as he added, “And what was it, exactly, about this horse that made you think of Samantha?”
“Well, now...” His father huffed. “That mare comes from good stock.”
“It’s not the only one.” He stood, tipping his hat back on his head to get a better look at his father.
His father was squirming—looking for just the right thing to say. Finally, he pushed off the trailer, red-faced and scowling, to snap, “I didn’t want... It felt like... Well, that animal deserves someplace better...”
“Than Briscoe Ranch?” Jensen finished, waiting. “And you didn’t want Forrest Briscoe to have it.”
“I didn’t say that.” His father crossed his arms over his barrel of a chest. “But it’s good to know you’re thinking like a Crawley again.”
Only his father would twist his words to suit his purposes. He’d been scolding his father—his tone should have said as much. But nope, his father had perfected the science of hearing only what he wanted to hear or what suited him best. Like now. Jensen walked into the trailer, making sure everything was stowed away before the horses arrived. His father was too proud of publicly thwarting the Briscoes to consider the spectacle their little bidding war had caused. Mabel just happened to reel in Forrest before Jensen attempted to do the same with his father. Though, he likely wouldn’t have had much luck. When has my father ever listened to me?
“You need to be careful, son.” His father cleared his throat, giving Jensen an assessing look before he continued. “I get that she’s...sort of attractive. I suppose. A fact she’s likely well aware of.”
Jensen stopped what he was doing and looked at his father.
“The way she seemed to be sizing you up, today... She’s up to something, I know it. A woman like that will play dirty, too. Best remember where she comes from and who she is. A Briscoe.”
Jensen rolled his neck, stretching out the knots that’d set in once his father and Forrest were going toe-to-toe over the pretty little paint mare and still showed no sign of easing. He turned his back on his father, heading into the interior of the trailer to check the medical kit—or at least that was what he was pretending to do. He’d done this before they hit the road this morning. What he needed was a few minutes to clear his head, away from his father.
Sort of attractive? Jensen swallowed. From where he’d been sitting, he’d had an unobstructed view of Mabel. Oddly enough, Jensen had a hard time seeing anything but Mabel. Every smile, every twitch or eyebrow raise, and every time she brushed one long strand of that midnight-black hair from her shoulder, Jensen knew. Instinctive. Reflexive. She had a dimple in her left cheek. He hadn’t known that before today.
Mabel wasn’t sort of attractive. She was mesmerizing. Anyone with eyes could see there was an honest-to-goodness genuine sweetness to her. Anyone, that is, except his father. The very notion of Mabel using her looks for some dastardly purpose was downright laughable. For that matter, Mabel being involved in anything dastardly was absurd. He took a deep breath and headed down the loading ramp and out of the horse trailer.
“What now?” his father asked, scowling once more. “You look like you swallowed a bee.”
The day was only half done. Jensen still had to load the newly purchased horses, drive them—and his father—home, unload them all, get them sorted and settled. Then, it was Samantha time. Homework, playtime and bedtime. If he voiced even the slightest difference of opinion on Mabel, his father would load every second of every minute of the rest of the day with hostility and snide comments.
“Nothing.” Jensen shrugged. “Just thinking logistics. You know I like to load by personality. I don’t know much about these horses.”
“You worry too much.” His father shook his head. “I saw Tom Parker over in the swine barn. I figure I’ll head that way while you wait on the horses.”
“Sounds good.” As far as Jensen was concerned, his father spent too much time on the ranch and removed from people. Then again, his father wasn’t overly fond of most people. Tom Parker was an exception. Tom had worked on the Crawley place for years. Upon the death of his sister, he’d inherited her small farm and quit the ranch, but they’d stayed friendly. “Give him my best.”
“That I will.” His father set off, his stride slow but confident.
Jensen watched his father until he’d disappeared in the sea of livestock, people and what looked like the arrival of a school group or two. The kids were lined up in twos, wearing name badges, school T-shirts and grinning from ear to ear. He smiled, thinking about Samantha... But his smile faded.
Would she enjoy being here? The only time she ever ventured into the barn, it was to see a new baby animal, rabbits or chicks. The small ones were fine, most of the time. Grown animals—like the horse his father had bought today—plain terrified his little girl. No one thing had caused it, Samantha just panicked over something bigger than her being on all fours. His father might be going about it the wrong way, but he was trying to help. Jensen was pretty sure buying Samantha a horse wasn’t going to cure her fear, but what did he know? Maybe his little girl would take one look at the pretty paint and fall in love.
Wouldn’t that be nice.
He’d planned to leave with two horses, horses that knew how to work cattle and were easygoing. And he was. But the little paint? She was pretty to look at, but did her temperament match? There was only one way to know. He walked down the aisles, heading straight for the mare’s pen.
The last person he’d expected to find there was Mabel. But there she was, her arms draped over the top rung of the fence and one booted foot resting on the lowest rung. Today, she wasn’t wearing a dress. He wondered if her boot-cut jeans and red-and-white shirt with the frilly neck would make Samantha rethink the whole princess thing. I doubt it. As Samantha had pointed out, some Texas royalty wore boots and jeans “’Cuz we live in Texas, Daddy,” she’d said. There was no arguing with that.
As he drew closer, he realized Mabel was studying the mare.
The mare seemed to be studying Mabel right back.
He slowed, torn. The last thing he needed was to get caught out in the open talking to Mabel Briscoe again. There was still all sorts of chatter about the two of them at the picnic, or so his sisters said. Twyla had gone on to say, “It didn’t help that Mabel had spoken out at the recital, making sure there wasn’t a single solitary person that didn’t know what was happening.” She’d said a whole lot more, too. So, this probably wouldn’t help.
But the paint was now his horse; he had every right to be there. And it wasn’t like he could just turn and head the other direction. People had noticed them and they were watching. There’s no turning back now.
“Mabel.” His voice was low, but it still startled her. “Sorry.”
She stared up at him, eyes wide. “No,” she murmured. “No, not at all.”
A lump hung in his throat the moment he caught sight of her face. Is she crying? Her eyes were red-rimmed. And her nose was red, too.
“I shouldn’t be here.” But other than blinking rapidly, she didn’t move. “I just... She...”
That was when it clicked. “You wanted the horse?” He hung his head, his hands on his hips—silently cursing his father’s pigheadedness. The lump in his throat doubled in size and felt jagged when he swallowed. He looked up to find her staring at him.
