At first glance, he didn’t look particularly impressive. A scrawny older guy, probably not even ninety pounds dripping wet, with a big black mustache and curly black hair that fell to his shoulders. He walked bowlegged and dressed scruffy.
But he knew horses, and he could work miracles.
That meant he didn’t have to commit to anyone long-term, and he rarely did. He was like rain—you couldn’t summon it, and you couldn’t keep it from floating away to the next guy’s acres, but you were grateful for every drop that fell your way.
“Actually,” Grant corrected ruefully, “you’re only mine as long as I can afford you. Which, if I don’t sell Dawn Monday night, isn’t very long.”
“Monday night, huh?” Barley made a thoughtful sound between his teeth. Soberly, he bent over and plucked a snowdrop from a cluster of wildflowers growing beside the post. He threaded its stem into the top buttonhole of his vest. Then he tipped back his hat and watched Dawn cantering in the sunlight.
“That’s a damned shame, Campbell. Truly.”
“Yes,” Grant said with feeling. “Yes, it is.”
“Okay, then. I guess I’ll look at that horse in number five.” Barley saluted Grant wryly and started to walk away, but stopped after just a few feet and turned back. “Seriously, though. My best advice? Don’t let this one get away.”
Grant raised his brows. For a guy like Barley, who was infamous for his unflappable detachment, this was the equivalent of jumping up and down and screaming.
“Okay,” Grant said. “Message received. I’ll think it over.”
As he watched the little man stride away, the weaving gait of his bowlegs kicking up dirt, Grant tried to stay calm. No point letting wishful thinking run away with him.
The two truths weren’t incompatible. Barley could be quite right about Golden Dawn’s value, and Grant could also be quite right about needing to sell her.
But Grant was the only one who had the big picture. He was the only one who had seen both the horse and the solvency projections. All of his financial planner’s clever graphs and charts showed Campbell Ranch nose-diving straight into bankruptcy if they didn’t make their targeted income every month, rain or shine.
Without this sale, he didn’t even come close to that target. And that was before he factored in all the extra expenses his broken arm would create. Not to mention the medical co-pays and deductibles.
If he tried to hold on to every good horse he encountered, instead of selling it, he might as well shut up the ranch now and head out to Memphis, where his father-in-law so desperately wanted him to be, in the job his father-in-law was dangling like a carrot.
He liked Ben Broadwell. And the job, heading up the foundation to help disadvantaged youths with after-school programs, literacy tutors and various kinds of mentoring, was a worthwhile cause. But...
But Ben Broadwell wasn’t his father-in-law anymore, really. Not since Grant’s wife, Brenda, had died. And if Grant took that offer, it was as good as saying he would never be any more than a dead woman’s grieving widower.
That might be true, in the end. But surely he hadn’t reached the end yet. Surely there was still hope that he could build a meaningful life of his own.
So...he had to sell Dawn. Debate settled.
Or at least it should be. Still, he lingered by the paddock watching the filly romp and play awhile longer, even though his foot ached and a mountain of paperwork called.
“Hey, mister!”
He turned at the sound of Crimson’s voice. To his surprise, she was only ten feet away, walking toward him. She wore soft, faded jeans and a loose shirt as blue as the columbines she waded through.
The sun brought out auburn highlights in her silky brown hair and gilded her cheeks, turning her to a kind of gold, just as it had done with Dawn. He felt his body react to her simple, unfussy beauty and had to throw up his guard in a hurry before it could show on his face.
As she drew closer, with Molly draped over her shoulder, and her classic mischievous smile on her lips, she showed no signs of feeling awkward—or sensing that he did. She held up a closed fist and shook it teasingly, the way a gambler might shake a pair of dice before rolling them.
“Can I interest you in some of the good stuff, mister? I’ve been watching you. You look like you could use some serious acetaminophen.”
He checked his watch. He was at least two hours overdue. No wonder his foot was killing him.
“You’re an angel.” He accepted the pills and the small paper cup of water she’d been balancing in the hand that held Molly. He downed both pills in one swallow, realizing only afterward the cup was oddly soggy and bent around the rim.
He looked at the baby, who had swiveled in Crimson’s arms and was now watching him steadily, a frown on her cherubic face. She held out one fat hand and uttered a demanding syllable.
“Oh, sorry, was this yours?” Smiling as he put two and two together, he handed the crumpled cup back. He scraped his lips between his teeth in exaggerated distaste. “Yum,” he said. “Delicious.”
Crimson grinned as Molly gummed the ball of wet paper. “In some cultures, baby slime is considered a delicacy. And speaking of dinner...”
He laughed.
“Marianne tells me you’ve asked her to cater dinner for you Monday night.”
“Yeah.” He wasn’t aware she and Marianne chatted on a daily basis. “I’ve got a foreign buyer coming by. If he nibbles, it’s a big sale, so a little wining and dining seemed in order.”
And Marianne’s dining was the best. She might call the place a “diner,” but the swankiest place in Colorado could take a few pointers from her food. She’d become the go-to spot for catering lately, weddings and funerals, and everything in between.
A disturbing thought occurred to him. What if Marianne had run into trouble?
“Is there a problem? I know I didn’t give her much notice, but Marianne said she could handle it. If she can’t—”
“She can.” Crimson shifted the baby to her other shoulder. “But the way she’s handling it is to ask me to do most of the cooking. I’ve done that for her a couple of times, when she’s been in a pinch. But this time the arrangement seems unnecessarily complicated, don’t you think? I just thought I’d let you know, in case you’d like to eliminate the middleman.”
“No, damn it.” He frowned. “I deliberately didn’t mention the dinner to you because you’re doing too much work around here already.”
And that was absolutely true. Not only did she take care of Molly, and spend hours driving to and from Montrose to see Kevin at the hospital, she’d taken over the cleaning, as well. And for these three days she’d cooked breakfast, lunch and dinner and sent it out to the stable office, where he often ate his meals while he worked.
Then, in the evening, when he was struggling with feeding the horses, she’d somehow materialized in the stables, with Molly in a backpack carrier, and pitched in there, too.
The extra pair of hands was a relief—a godsend, really—but it also made him uncomfortable. When he’d accepted her offer to stay here, he certainly hadn’t intended to turn her into the full-time housekeeper.
And they hadn’t talked about money yet, either. He hoped she knew he intended to pay her for everything. He hadn’t forgotten she’d just been fired, and if she weren’t stuck tending to Molly she’d probably be out there lining up a new job.
“For me, cooking isn’t