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Colby giggled, unaware of Sam’s level of distress. “She didn’t hurt me, Daddy. It was just cold.”
Nash slowly loosened his grip on Sam. “Oh,” he mumbled in embarrassment. “Sorry.”
Sam’s breath came out in a rush of air. She dropped the cotton ball, then flexed her fingers for a moment as if to rid them of the feel of him. Firming her lips to hide their trembling, she picked up the tube of ointment and squirted a dime-sized dollop onto the tip of her finger. She leaned closer, combing Colby’s hair out of the way, and gently traced the wound.
“The cut’s a little deeper at her hairline, so I’m going to put on a butterfly bandage to close it in order to prevent scarring.”
“Scarring?” Before Sam could stop him, Nash had wedged himself between her and Colby, his face going pale as he examined the wound.
His reaction confirmed Sam’s earlier opinion that Nash Rivers was an overprotective father who was overreacting to a simple accident.
“Nothing to worry about,” she assured him. “In a couple of weeks, you won’t even know it was there.” She waited until he moved out of her way, then she carefully stretched the bandage over the skin, closing the wound. “There!” She stepped back, briskly dusting her hands together. “All done.” She grinned at Colby. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”
Colby smiled back shyly. “Not bad at all. You’ve got soft hands.”
Stunned, Sam opened her palms and looked down at them. Soft? Her hands went places Colby wouldn’t even want to think about and were as rough as cobs due to the number of washings they received each day.
“I think she means gentle,” Nash offered.
Sam whipped her head around to find him watching her. Quickly, she stuffed her hands in her pockets and took another step back, her face flaming as she turned her gaze on Colby. “Speaking of hands, you need to wash yours. We don’t want you spreading any germs if you happen to touch your bandage.”
“My hands aren’t dirty,” Colby argued. “I just—”
Nash caught her under the arms and. set her on the floor, interrupting her. “Wash them anyway. Doctor’s orders. And stop by Nina’s room and apologize for your behavior. You almost gave her a heart attack.”
“Oh, Daddy,” Colby whined, “Nina’s a worrywart. You know that.”
“She worries because she loves you. Now scoot,” he ordered firmly, giving her a light swat on the behind to get her moving.
Dragging her feet, Colby obeyed.
And Sam wished she could call her back, for now she was alone with Nash. Fishing for something to say to fill the silence, she asked, “How long’s Colby been riding?”
“Since she was three. She’s always been nuts about horses. After we moved to Austin, I found a stable where she could continue her lessons, but it’s a forty-five-minute drive from here, so we had to quit after a few months.”
“We?” Sam asked, cocking her head to look at him. “You took lessons, too?”
His eyebrows shot up at the question. “Me? Hell, no! But somebody had to drive her there.”
In other words, Colby’s lessons didn’t fit into Nash’s busy schedule, Sam concluded. “Would you mind if I saddled Whiskey and rode him around for a bit?”
His frown returned. “For what purpose?”
“Just to form an opinion. Then I’d like to see Colby ride him, to see how she handles him.”
Nash narrowed his eyes and stabbed a finger in the direction of Sam’s chest. “You can ride him all you want, but Colby stays on the ground. I won’t have my daughter on that horse’s back again.” He tightened his jaw as he turned to stare down the hallway Colby had disappeared into. The image of her lying on the ground, blood spurting from the wound on her head, formed in his mind and he had to swallow back the fear that rose with it. “She’s my baby,” he murmured, “and all I’ve got left. I can’t take a chance on losing her, too.”
Grateful that Nash had stayed behind at the house to make phone calls, Sam took the saddle Colby had offered her and tossed it onto the horse’s back. She settled it over the pad before dipping her knees to reach underneath for the girt. “Did you pick out this saddle yourself, Colby?”
Perched on top of the stall gate, watching, Colby shook her head. “No. Daddy bought it for me for my birthday.”
And money was obviously no object, judging by the quality of the leather and the tooled name of the saddle maker. “How old are you?”
“Six. My birthday was May first.”
“Really?” Sam tightened the cinch, then threaded the strap back through, making a loop, and tugged it into place. “Mine’s the tenth.”
“Did you have a party? I didn’t get to have one this year. Daddy said he didn’t have time to fool with it. But he said next year we’ll have a bi-i-ig blowout. Course I don’t know who I’ll invite. We’ll be gone by then.”
Sam angled her head, hearing the disappointment in the girl’s voice. “You’re moving?”
Dejected, Colby dropped her elbow to her knee and her chin onto her palm. “Into a condo, just as soon as Daddy gets the deal on the ranch. He’s turning it into a subdivision. You know, houses and shops and stuff. The works. I think he calls it a planned community.” She flapped a hand, scrunching her nose. “Or something like that.”
“So your daddy doesn’t ranch?”
Colby sighed, obviously disappointed. “No. He’s a developer. He buys land, divides it all up, builds streets and stuff then sells it to builders.”
Which explained to Sam the neglect she’d seen upon first entering the ranch. Nash Rivers wouldn’t spend time or money on fences and cultivation if he was planning to subdivide the property for development.
She frowned, remembering the rusted sign that she’d driven under proclaiming the place Rivers Ranch. At one time, someone named Rivers had ranched the land. If not Nash, then who? “Have y’all lived here long?” she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.
“About a year. We lived in San Antonio when I was little, but when my grandpa died, we moved here.”
His father’s ranch, then, not Nash’s. Probably an inheritance, Sam decided.
“Before we lived in San Antonio, we lived in Dallas,” Colby added. “Daddy didn’t like Dallas after my mother died. He said it held too many memories, so we moved to San Antonio.”
That the child could speak so matter-of-factly about her mother’s death surprised Sam. She’d lost her own mother when she was barely two, and though she didn’t remember her, she never thought of her without feeling a swell of tears.
“How old were you when your mother died?” she asked softly.
“About eight hours. She was a diabetic. She wasn’t supposed to have any babies, but Daddy said she wanted me so bad that she was willing to give up her own life just so that I could be born. That’s pretty cool, isn’t it?”
The tale was heartbreaking, and made even more so by the emotionless way in which Colby told it. Sam had to ease her breath out before she could answer. “Yeah, that’s pretty cool.”
“Daddy says I look like her, but I’ve got her picture in my room on my nightstand and I don’t think we look anything alike. Except for the color of our hair, maybe. She was blond like me, but her hair was straight and pretty and mine’s all kinky and curly.” Wrinkling her nose, Colby wadded a fistful of hair in her hand then let it drop in disgust. “Daddy says it would probably look better if I’d put a comb through it sometimes, but, heck, it just gets tangled up all over again.”
Sam bit back a grin as she bent over to lift Whiskey’s front hoof to clean it out. Did the kid ever run out of breath?
“Anyways,” Colby went on, with a dismissing wave of her hand, “Daddy loved my mother a lot and sometimes I can tell he still misses her. Are you married?”
The question came out of nowhere and caught Sam off guard. “W-well, no,” she stammered as she dropped Whiskey’s hoof and moved to pick up his rear one.
“How come?”
Sam felt heat creep up her neck. She bent her head over her work, digging the hoof pick under a clump of dirt and stone. “I don’t know. Too busy doctoring horses, I guess.”
Colby grinned, showing off the gap where her front tooth should have been. “Maybe you could marry my daddy. He’s always telling me I need a mother.”
Whiskey’s hoof slipped from Sam’s grasp. Mother? She hauled in a steadying breath and moved to the opposite side of the horse, out of sight of Colby. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. Your daddy would probably like to do his own choosing.”
“Oh, he wouldn’t care. He usually lets me have pretty much what I want, anyway.”
And Sam didn’t doubt that for a minute. Biting back a smile, she replied, “That may be true, but your daddy needs to do the choosing, just the same.” Before Colby got any more ideas in that pretty little head of hers, Sam quickly exchanged Whiskey’s halter for a bridle. “Where do you warm him up?” she asked, hoping to put an end to the discussion.
Colby hopped down from the gate. “There’s an arena out back. Well, not an arena, really. My grandpa used it to work cattle, but it’s big and I’ve got barrels set up for practicing, so I call it an arena.”
Sam chuckled, pausing to ruffle the girl’s hair. The child talked a mile a minute, giving her life history when a simple answer would suffice. “Okay, then. Let’s head for the arena and we’ll see what Whiskey can do.”
Once outside, Sam used an old feed bucket as a step to mount the horse, while Colby climbed onto the fence. There was no way Sam’s long legs would bend enough to fit into Colby’s stirrups, so she simply let her feet dangle at the horse’s sides.
Whiskey danced a bit at the unaccustomed weight, then settled down to a walk. Making smooching noises at the horse, Sam eased him into a trot, circled the arena a few times, then ordered him to lope. The horse responded easily to each change of command. Pleased, Sam reined him to a fast stop, then made him back up a few steps.
She grinned over at Colby. “Nice horse.”
Colby beamed. “Thanks. Are you going to run the barrels?”
Though she hadn’t run a barrel pattern in years, the temptation was too much for Sam. “Do you mind?”
“Heck, no! Whiskey’s fast, though, so you better be ready to turn and burn!”
Sam laughed at the barrel-racing term as she guided the horse into position. Drawing a bead on the first barrel, Sam blanked everything else out. Beneath her, she felt the anticipation build in Whiskey. That he was a competitor was obvious in the quiver of muscle, the increased tension on the reins, the tossing of his head. Already seeing herself running the pattern, Sam squeezed her legs against the horse’s sides. He bolted forward and she had to keep a tight rein to keep him from getting away from her.
Wind ripped her cap off her head just before they reached the first barrel and sent it spinning behind them. Preparing for the turn, Sam shifted her weight, while sliding her hand down the rein and squeezing her right leg against the horse’s side.
Whiskey responded immediately, rating himself for the turn and digging into the freshly plowed earth with his rear hooves. He came out of the first turn and raced for the second. Subconsciously, Sam noted the smooth lead change, the bunching of finely honed muscles and the burst of power as he wrapped the second and headed for the third.
Grinning from the sheer pleasure of it all, she turned the last barrel and gave Whiskey his head as he raced for home. Bracing a hand against the saddle horn, she reined him to a dust-churning stop, then tossed back her head and laughed.
“Wow, Sam! You’re good!” Colby called out.
“Whiskey’s a good horse,” Sam replied, turning him toward the fence where Colby waited.
“He ought to be. I paid enough for him.”
Sam’s smile slowly wilted as she realized that Nash had joined his daughter at the fence. He stood with one foot propped on the lowest rail, his arms braced along the top one. He’d removed his jacket and tie while at the house and rolled his shirtsleeves halfway up his forearms, revealing tanned skin and a smattering of dark hair. The wind played with his razor-cut hairstyle, blowing a tuft of it across his forehead. The result was a combination of mouthwatering maleness and little-boy charm.
Maybe you could marry my daddy. He’s always telling me I need a mother.
Remembering Colby’s words, Sam swallowed hard as she met Nash’s gaze.
“You’ve obviously ridden barrels before,” he commented.
Gray eyes watched her, measuring her while he waited for a response. Self-consciously, Sam tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “I started when I was about Colby’s age and quit when—well, when I went away to college.”
“So what do you think of Whiskey?”
Uncomfortable meeting his gaze, Sam ducked her head and leaned forward to scratch the horse’s ears. “He’s a good horse. Well-trained, even-tempered, but a competitor. The bit might be part of the problem. He seems to fight it a little. A combination might suit him better.” She lifted her head. “But before I can offer an opinion on whether he’s well matched with Colby, I’ll need to see her ride.”
Colby twisted around on the fence, her hands pressed together prayerfully at her chest. “Can I, Daddy? Please? I promise I won’t fall off this time.”
Nash eyed her, scowling. “I’ve already told you, Colby. I don’t want you on that horse.”
“But Sam rode him and he didn’t act up. I promise I’ll be careful and besides, you’re right here if anything should happen. Please, Daddy? Pretty please?”
How anyone could deny those brimming baby blues, that angelic face, Sam didn’t know. The child was obviously a charmer, and knew all the right buttons to push to get what she wanted from her father. But Nash stood firm.
“I said no, Colby.”
Tears that had brimmed, now spilled over. “But, Daddy,” she cried. “We made a deal. You said if I agreed to move to Austin and leave all my friends in San Antonio, that I could have my very own horse. And now you won’t even let me ride him.”
Sam watched Nash’s shoulders sag in defeat. It seemed a little guilt heaped on his shoulders accomplished what Colby’s sugarcoated pleas couldn’t.
“Oh, all right,” he said grudgingly. “But no running.” He wagged a finger beneath her nose. “You break a slow lope and you’re on the ground, understand?”
Colby’s tears disappeared as quickly as they’d formed. “Yes, sir!” She scrambled down from the fence while Sam slid from Whiskey’s back.
Cupping her hands, Sam bent over to boost Colby up. After giving the horse a fond pat on the rump, Sam stepped back out of the way. “Let her rip, cowgirl.”
Laughing, Colby guided the horse to the starting position again. Sam folded her arms beneath her breasts and watched. She could feel Nash’s gaze on her back and tried her best to ignore him. “Remember, Colby,” she called. “Easy fingers. Use your legs. And don’t let him get ahead of you.”
With a salute, Colby fixed her attention on the first barrel. Her expression turned intense as she prepared for the run. Sam felt her own heart thrumming against her ribs and she discreetly crossed two fingers against her forearm, out of Nash’s view. “Just stay in the saddle, Colby,” she whispered under her breath. “And I’ll take care of the rest.”
Sam watched Colby ride, making mental notes of the girl’s movements as she guided the horse through the pattern. She’s leaning forward too much on the barrels, Sam thought. She needs to lean back and tuck her bottom more. And, whoa, that pocket! Way too wide. She needs to tuck his nose more and shape him on the turns.
Colby rounded the last barrel and headed home, her white-blond hair flying out behind her. A smile split her face, revealing that missing front tooth. Sam found her own smile growing. “That was good, Colby. Really good.” She caught Whiskey’s reins and reached up to give the child a pat on the knee. “You’re a natural. No doubt about it.”
Colby lifted her head, her eyes shining brightly. “Did you hear that, Daddy? Sam says I’m a natural!”
“Yeah, I heard her.”
The voice came from directly behind her and Sam’s shoulders tensed as Nash moved up beside her. She smoothed a hand along the horse’s neck, trying her best to level her breathing. “The two are well matched,” she offered hesitantly. “An adjustment or two in tack will help, but Colby needs more instruction.”
Nash stuffed his hands into pockets and rocked back on his heels, his relief obvious. “Well, that pretty much solves it then, doesn’t it?”
Sam stole a glance at him. “What do you mean?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I’ve already told you that the only classes I could find for her are forty-five minutes away and I can’t commit to that much time away from work.”
“But, Daddy—”
Sam placed a hand on Colby’s knee to quiet her. “What if someone came here to teach her?” she asked. “Would you agree to lessons then?”
Nash frowned at Sam. “And how am I supposed to find someone willing to come all the way out here to teach her when I can’t even find a place within driving distance to take her?”
Sam glanced up at Colby, shooting her a wink as she squeezed the child’s knee in encouragement. “I might know someone who’d be willing to make the drive.” She turned her gaze on Nash. “If I can arrange it, would you give Whiskey and Colby another chance?”
Sam could tell that he wanted to say no, but she also knew that she’d trapped him, and he was as aware of that fact as she was. How could he refuse now, when she was practically serving up a teacher for his daughter on a silver platter?
