Sins Of A Tanner. Peggy Moreland

to do a favor for an old friend, not to get into a spitting contest with that friend’s widow.

      Ramming his hat over his head, he turned for the door. “I’ll load him up and take him to my place.”

      “You can’t.”

      He stopped, barely able to contain his frustration. “You just said I could train him.”

      “He doesn’t load.”

      Praying he’d misunderstood, he turned to look at her. “The horse doesn’t load?”

      She shook her head.

      He was tempted to tell her to forget it, that he didn’t have time to drive the sixty-plus miles to Briggs and back every day that working with the horse would require. But he’d come to return a favor to a friend and he wasn’t going to back out now just because of a little inconvenience.

      Dragging off his hat, he pushed his fingers through his hair. “That’s gonna change things some,” he said as he worked through his schedule in his mind. “I have stock to feed at my own place, plus a few that’ll require exercise before I can head this way. I probably wouldn’t be able to make it over here until noon or so.”

      Judging by the way she pursed her lips, he assumed she wasn’t too pleased with the time he’d named. But what difference did it make if he came at sunup or sundown? he asked himself. Either way, the horse got trained, and that was what she wanted, wasn’t it?

      Already questioning his sanity in making the offer, he snugged on his hat and turned to leave again. “Look for me around noon tomorrow.”

      Melissa didn’t want to look for Whit, at all. If she never laid eyes on him again, she would die a happy woman.

      But looking for him was exactly what she found herself doing the next day as the clock slowly wound its way to noon.

      He finally showed up at nine minutes after twelve. She knew the exact moment of his arrival because she glanced at the wall clock above her worktable when she heard his truck, and quickly did the math to see how much time remained before she had to pick up Grady from school. Two hours. Would that give Whit enough time to work with the horse and be gone before she returned?

      Intending to ask him how long he planned to stay, she turned to look out the window again and was surprised to see that he had turned onto the lane that led to the barn instead of continuing on to the house.

      Irritated that he didn’t think it necessary to check in with her before beginning work, she pursed her lips and turned her attention back to the cutter quilt she had spread over her worktable and the pattern pinned to it. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to make the long trek to the barn to see if he needed anything, she told herself as she pushed a tracing wheel along the pattern. Not in this heat. If he had any questions, he could darn well come to her. She was the one paying him, after all. Not the other way around.

      Reminded of the money she would owe him, she caught her lower lip between her teeth. She didn’t have the money to pay Whit. Not and pay her monthly bills, too.

      She blew out a breath. “Who am I trying to kid?” she muttered as she pressed the wheel against the quilt again. She wouldn’t have the money to pay him even if she didn’t pay her bills.

      But he’d get what was due him, she told herself. She’d see that he did. He just wouldn’t get it until he’d completed the job and the horse was sold. She’d done her research. At the price War Lord would bring, she’d have enough money to pay Whit his trainer’s fee, plus the percentage of the sale price she had promised him, and still have enough left to pay off a large portion of Matt’s debts.

      She cast an uneasy glance over her shoulder. Or she would if Whit was able to train the horse. The other three men she’d hired for the job had been unable to get close enough to the horse to touch him, much less work with him.

      Reminded of the horse’s mean disposition, she caught her lower lip between her teeth again and worried it as she strained to see the area surrounding the barn. She really should at least warn Whit that the horse might be difficult to handle, she told herself.

      Huffing a breath, she turned away from the window and pressed the wheel against the pattern again. He was a professional trainer, for heaven’s sake. He’d all but grown up on a horse. He didn’t need her to warn him that one might be dangerous.

      Or did he?

      Unsure of the answer, she dropped the wheel and hurried for the door.

      When she didn’t see any sign of Whit or the horse in the pen or the corral, she broke into a run. By the time she reached the barn, she was out of breath and convinced that War Lord had trampled Whit to death in the stall.