скачать книгу бесплатно
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?
Chapter Two (#ulink_dcb3d121-68e3-5825-8671-c818d418f1dd)
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,” she said, which was about all she could muster, as she watched him stride toward her in a pair of swanky brown equestrian boots.
Did he think she’d invited him over to play polo? If so, he was as out of place on the Broken R as she would have been sipping tea in Buckingham Palace.
And speaking of being out of place, so was that little flutter that was racing up and down her spine.
He held the horse’s reins in one hand and reached out the other to her in greeting. “Good morning.”
Well, dang. The gent was certainly formal. She shifted the steaming mug to her left hand and accepted his handshake. But the moment his fingers wrapped around hers, her pulse rate spiked.
Then, upon his release, which was slow and drawn out, that little flutter took off like a flock of turtledoves, and she nearly dropped her coffee on the ground.
“I hope I’m not too early,” he said.
He was too everything. Too early, too formal, too good-looking. But her grandmother had raised her to be a gracious hostess, and she didn’t give voice to her racing thoughts. “Of course not. Can I get you a cup of coffee? Or tea? You guys probably prefer tea, right?”
“We guys?”
“You Brits.”
He smiled and gave her a slight nod of his head. “Actually, I was hoping for a nice pot of chicory cooked over a campfire. That’s what you country-and-western ‘guys’ drink, correct?”
The glint of amusement in his eyes sent her already soaring pulse rate into a loop de loop, but she reined it back down to earth the best she could and tossed him a smile of her own. “Fair enough. I guess we probably shouldn’t make assumptions about each other. So...? Coffee or tea?”
“Neither, thank you. Amelia cooked a huge breakfast this morning. I believe she’s going through what the maternity experts call ‘the nesting period.’ She can’t stop cleaning and organizing and freezing big pans of food Quinn refers to as casseroles.”
Amber laughed at the animated confusion in Jensen’s eyes. “I’ve heard about nesting. I would imagine the responsibility of bringing another life into the world would be a little overwhelming. She probably just wants to get everything in order.”
“I take it you don’t have children?” Jensen glanced down at her left hand.
She moved the mug handle around, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that her ring finger was very much unadorned.
“Nope,” she said. “No kids. But maybe someday.”
“My aunt Jeanne Marie said you live here with your grandmother?”
“Yes, it’s just me and Gram.” She dumped the rest of her coffee into a shrub near the barn, then set the mug on the fence post. “Actually, I only moved back to Horseback Hollow a few months ago.”
“Where were you living before that?”
My, he was certainly full of questions for a man who’d closed the door in her face when he’d thought she’d been a nosy reporter. She wondered how he’d like a taste of his own medicine. But she didn’t have anything to hide. Well, other than her possible job with Cowboy Country USA. But if that came to be, and it certainly looked promising, it would soon be out in the open as front-page news for the Cross Town Crier,the county weekly paper. And boy, was she dreading that day...
“I traveled around,” she admitted. “I was on the professional rodeo circuit for a couple of years and spent most of the time living out of a trailer.”
She waited for him to lift his snooty British nose at that revelation, but he just nodded his head as if he’d expected her response.
“Like a caravan?” he asked.
“A what?”
“A caravan. Isn’t that what you Americans call a recreational vehicle?”
“I guess—if it’s a whole bunch of them. Sometimes we stayed in motels or would bunk at a friend’s ranch. It’s a far cry from the glamorous world you’re probably used to living in. But I loved the rodeo life—the traveling and the camaraderie.” In fact, after only a few months away, she was already missing it.
“It sounds quite exciting, actually. Like Dale Evans, Queen of the West.”
Was he comparing her to a movie star from the fifties? Seriously?
“Dale Evans?” she asked.
He nodded, and his dark brows lifted as if he was...well, if not intrigued, then definitely interested.
She shrugged. “I guess it was kind of like that, but with faster riding and less singing.”
He smiled. “I actually have a film library and collect all the classic American Westerns and some documentaries. I’ve even watched some of the rodeos on television. But besides an appreciation for thoroughbred racing—especially the Kentucky Derby—I’m afraid my knowledge of other American horsing sports is somewhat limited.”
The tension in Amber’s shoulders eased. So that’s why he was here. He really was a greenhorn, interested in the Wild West. And if he was still going to be in town this summer, when Cowboy Country USA opened for business, he’d probably be the first in line to buy a front-row seat.
Well, she could deal with that kind of fan. And while his style of dress was better suited to a polite game of polo than to bronc busting, she’d give him a tour, just as she’d promised.
She rubbed the bay gelding’s nose. “So what do you think of Trail Blazer? Though I realize you’re more into the English style of riding.”
“He’s a fine horse. Quinn said your grandfather trained him.”
“That’s right. Trail Blazer is one of the last colts out of Moonshine, my pop’s pride and joy. The other is Lady Sybil. She’s one of our more spirited fillies.”
“Lady Sybil? As in the character from Downton Abbey?” He arched his brow.
Amber’s cheeks warmed at the connection. The last thing she wanted was for Jensen to think she was some sort of British noble wannabe like a few of the other Horseback Hollow residents. But since he was such a Western movie buff, maybe he wouldn’t judge her too harshly. “Gram is a big fan of the show. Anyway, come on into the stable and you can meet her.”
“Lady Sybil or your grandmother?”
Amber laughed as Jensen followed, the bay gelding trailing behind him. “No, Gram went to Vicker’s Corners this morning to meet with her quilting club. And the rest of the hands are still off for the holidays. It’s just me, you and the horses.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to snatch them back. “What I meant was that nobody else is here to bother...I mean, we’re alone...Oh, heck. What I’m trying to say is that there’s no reason to keep me from showing you around. Why don’t we start in the barn?”
She kept walking, not wanting to turn and face him since the blush in her cheeks had probably deepened to the exact shade of red in her plaid shirt. Fortunately, the cool confines of the stable and its familiar smell of straw and horses brought her back to her senses and provided a better state of mind.
For the next thirty minutes, Amber showed him the 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.”
