Cowgirl Come Home (10 page)

“To the ranch? Fifteen years ago. Dad sold the place about a month after I left. I knew he and Mom had been talking about it, still…knowing my home was in someone else’s hands was a bit of a shock.”

At the time, it had felt like a slap in the face. Payback for nearly screwing up her life. “How’d you wind up with it up?”

When Mom first told her Paul Zabrinski bought their old ranch, Bailey had been shocked and a little…she didn’t have a name for the feeling. Hurt? Sad? Wistful? If things had been different, they might have bought it together and made a life there.

“The guy who bought if from OC was from California. Thought he wanted a summer home, but as I understand it, the economy went south and he couldn’t unload either one of his places. He rented the land and abandoned the house. He didn’t winterize the place so there were broken pipes, soggy sheetrock. Cosmetic stuff, which is right up my alley. I got it for a good price from the bank.”

“Why this place?” she asked, hating her lack of self-control.

He appeared to think a moment then said, “Because I could.”

He had the grace to look sheepish. “I have to admit there was a little sense of pay-back. Very little,” he stressed. “Mostly, it was a great deal and my dad had been encouraging all of us to invest in dirt. Jen is a city girl and she flat out refused to move into the house, so I rented it to Marla and Jack. The only thing I changed were some of the corrals. I wanted a safe place for the kids to ride.”

She sat forward, anxious now that they were getting close.

She couldn’t see the house yet, but the large pasture to the left of the road was outlined in enough pipe and wire to hold a rhino. Someone must have added sprinklers or irrigation because the grass was a deep, vital shade of green.

Four horses were scattered in groups of two—a bay mare and her yearling foal and two healthy-looking pintos with glossy coats and long, thick manes.

He put on his blinker when he drew up even with the high-end green powder-coated metal mailbox.

The one her family had used for as long as she lived there was a rusty but serviceable tin can that gave her the long white scar on the side of her baby finger.

When he slowed to turn into the driveway, she let out a breathless cry. “Oh, my gosh, you paved the driveway.”

The Jenkins Ranch driveway had been bumpy enough to shake loose a filling or two.

“All the way to the house? Did you win the lottery and nobody told me?”

OC had complained about the state of the road for as long as Bailey could remember, but he blamed the oil sheiks in the Middle East for its condition because he couldn’t afford to pave it.

Paul grinned sheepishly. “I got tired of washing my truck. It’s black, you know.”

As was this Escalade. He’d obviously done very well for himself. Not that she was surprised.

“You could do worse than Paul Zabrinski,” her mother had said the night before Bailey’s appointment. A half-hearted attempt to talk Bailey into going against her father’s wishes?

Bailey hadn’t replied. But in her heart of hearts, Bailey had agreed.

In a way, she’d fulfilled her mother’s prediction when she married Ross. She’d done worse. Much worse.

P
aul pulled the
SUV to a shady spot beneath the ancient cottonwood her father had threatened to cut down every year. As much as OC hated the mess that turned their yard white for a few weeks every summer, Mom loved the cheery green canopy when the heat got intense.

“The place looks great, Paul,” Bailey said, getting out with an eagerness that surprised her. “I love what you did with the barn.”

The huge, classically designed structure, now painted a pristine red with white trim, should have been featured in some kind of Montana promotion. She especially liked the huge, stylized Z superimposed over the closed haymow doors. “Your logo reminds me of pictures I’ve seen of old barns with advertising on them.”

He walked around the car, his gaze on her not the classic red structure. “I made this barn one of my construction crew’s first jobs after I bought the lumber yard. Had a reporter from the Courier out to do a story on saving our county’s heritage or some such drivel. Then we held a big Open House-slash-Barn Dance, with free hot dogs and pony rides for the kids. Got a couple of other barn jobs from the publicity.”

Her gaze lingered on the logo, but her mind had moved to the memory of what happened behind those closed doors. Did he remember the exact location of their first kiss?
Probably not.
Only women were sappy romantics with memories like elephants.

She turned to ask him about his missing horse, but her question was cut off by the jingle of a ringtone tune she couldn’t quite place.

He reached for the phone holster on his hip, like an old west sheriff going for his gun. The movement brought back the memory of them arguing over which of the actors in their favorite western,
Tombstone
, looked the most authentic.

“Val Kilmer, of course,” she’d insisted. “His Doc Holliday will go down in cinematic history.”

Paul, who actually seemed a bit jealous of her schoolgirl crush on the actor, swore he was going to buy a black coat like the one Kurt Russell wore, as soon as his fledgling mustache filled in.

She watched him pace with his phone to his ear. No mustache. No obvious tattoos. His dark blue Wranglers, low-heel cowboy boots and tucked in short-sleeve cotton shirt—an attractive plaid of grays and blues with an orange stripe—were the right combination of casual and successful.

He dressed much the same as he had in high school. But now, his biceps and chest filled out his shirt with a healthy maturity that made her mouth water.

Only his hand-tooled belt and pewter buckle, which resembled a Superman logo with a Z instead of an S, cried: money.

“No,” Paul barked, his tone strident and unyielding. “They signed a contract and it sticks no matter what kind of deal they think they can get in Bozeman. We aren’t Bozeman and people pick us for a reason. Remind them of how many trips to the city we’re saving them.”

She didn’t know what the contract entailed but she wouldn’t have wanted to argue the point with him. Especially when he added, “If they give you any more grief, tell them my brother is a lawyer and he hasn’t worked off this year’s retainer yet.”

After he ended the call, he ran his hand impatiently through his hair before he looked at her. “Dealing with the public never gets any easier.” He shrugged. “Now, where were we?”

“We were going to see a man about a horse,” she said, grinning at his blush when he caught her double entendre. Obviousy, he remembered OC’s code for taking a pee.

“Skipper,” he said, leading the way to the barn. “That’s what Chloe named him. Technically, he’s her horse. I told the kids they’d each get a foal from Felicity—the mare we passed coming in.”

“The little pinto by her side is your son’s, then?”

He nodded. “In theory. But Mark’s crazy about Legos and video games at the moment. I don’t know if he’ll develop a fondness for riding or not.”

She wondered if that bothered him. Her father wouldn’t have let a little thing like personal preference derail his intentions where his child was concerned.

“This horse isn’t here to look pretty,” he told her when he brought home her first pony. “You’re gonna be the best cowgirl this county has ever seen, Queen Bee. It’ll take work. But you can do it.”

In high school, even on cold and rainy days, she rode Charlie. Did Mom or OC ever ask what her dreams were? Did she even know?

Probably not.

“Hold on. I’m gonna let the foreman next door know we’re opening the gate.”

She could picture the fence line between her family’s ranch and the old Armistead place. Unless something had changed, the distance was at least a mile off. “I don’t think I can walk that far, Paul.”

He let out a gruff snorting sound. “You and me both. That’s what my quad is for, darlin’,” he said sliding the barn door open with a hefty push.

She knew the endearment wasn’t personal but a small squiggle of sweetness passed through her.

A couple of minutes later, he emerged from the barn driving a burly, mud-splattered all-terrain vehicle. A feedbag hung from one of the front hooks and several thick braided ropes were attached by bungee cords.

He scooted forward to make room for her directly behind him. “Hop aboard.”

Paul watched to see how Bailey digested the news that she was going to have to cozy up against him for the ride. She studied the Polaris for a moment then shrugged. “Haven’t been on one of these in ages.”

The road between the two ranches was rutted and dusty, but it appeared Austen’s foreman had graded the trail since the last time Paul visited his brother’s weekend estate.

“Are the Armisteads still alive?”

When Bailey leaned close enough to be heard over the engine noise, her front brushed against his back. Nice, but not quite what he’d hoped for. Admitting that made him feel about twelve.

“Mrs. Armistead died about ten years ago. John had a health scare and his kids made him move into an assisted living place in Bozeman a couple of years ago. That’s when my brother bought it.”

She leaned around him, holding onto his waist for balance. “Are you kidding me? Austen bought a ranch? Why?”

The sensations shooting through his body made it hard to think, let alone carry on a conversation. “Tax write-off, mostly. But then he had this…umm…thing.” He didn’t want to get into the political scandal that cost Austen his job. “He needed some peace and quiet. So, he’s been living there off and on for a few months.”

She returned to her less friendly position. Glancing out the corner of his eye he could see her hands gripping on the holds on the back fender.

“Does everyone in your family own property around here?”

“Mia’s got some empty land near the river. She and Edward were going to retire there. She got the property in their divorce settlement. Meg has a cabin way the hell up and out that way.” He pointed toward the Gallatin Range. He’d never been able to find the place on his own, but Meg called it her sanity spot.

The left front tire hit a rock, making the ATV buck sideways. He grabbed the handle bar to regain control.

Bailey let out a tiny yip and locked her arms around his waist. Her warmth felt…familiar, like muscle memory. After that, he kept his eyes open for big rocks…to run over.

“Is that him?” Bailey leaned in even closer so she could direct his gaze toward a flash of brown and white. Her bosom connected with his shoulder, which triggered a reaction much lower down.

Paul eased back on the throttle as they crested a slight rise. He let the ATV roll to a stop then turned off the motor.

By focusing on the white and brown pinto forty or so feet away, he could almost talk his body out of embarrassing him in front of Bailey.

The compact little horse with four white feet and a white blaze kicked up his heels as if putting on a show for the new spectators. He snorted and tossed his mane, nearly dancing on the tips of his hooves.

“What the hell is he doing…chasing butterflies?”

Bailey snickered and rocked back. “Maybe. I’ve seen colts play and jump just for the fun of it.”

The only place their bodies touched now was her thighs pressed against his hips. He tried to swallow and nearly choked. “Damn dust,” he muttered.

“Your colt is gorgeous, Paul. Great build. Has some Arabian in him, doesn’t he?”

“Uh-huh.”
Brilliant conversationalist.

“His white mane and tail remind me of Charlie.” She shifted positions to sit higher on the back of the seat.

“Charlie,” he repeated. The horse she’d ridden in every fair parade and rodeo during high school. “What happened to him?”

When she didn’t answer right away, he slid one leg to the ground and hopped to standing, taking care not to kick her.

Bailey’s gaze was no longer on Skipper. She seemed to be staring unseeing at Copper Mountain in the distance. “I knew when I took him to Fresno State he might not be able to complete all four years, and, sure enough, the summer before my senior year, his left front knee started swelling. That’s about the same time I met Ross. I could take my pick from his stable if I joined him on the circuit.”

Ross. Paul had never met the man but he didn’t care for him one bit. Talk about emotional blackmail. “Drop out of college and come with me and I’ll give you the horse of your dreams, baby,” he thought.

Bailey’s self-deprecating chuckle effectively ruined his private rant.

“It didn’t hurt that he looked like Hugh Jackman in a cowboy hat and could ride anything on four legs. I wasn’t the only cowgirl he swept off her feet, but I was the one he wanted to marry.”

Naturally. The man might be a conniving cad, but he had great taste in women.

“What’d you do with Charlie?”

“Boarded him with a friend.” Her tone told him this was still a painful subject. He didn’t expect her to say more, but she added, “I got a call in Plano, Texas. Charlie had stopped eating. His knees were swollen and obviously causing him pain. The vet didn’t give me any choice. I couldn’t let him suffer.”

“That’s too bad. I know how much he meant to you. You called him your life saver.”

“Yep. Every time OC came home drunk, I’d hop on Charlie’s back and fly the coop. I didn’t even need a bridle.”

He pictured Chloe bareback on Skipper without a bridle and his blood ran cold. He offered Bailey a hand getting off the quad. “Don’t tell Chloe you did that. She’s a dangerous combination of horse crazy and fearless.”

She put her hand in his tentatively. “I was the same way. My mother blamed her premature gray hair on me.” Back in the day, she would have ignored his help and bounced off the back of the quad. “How do you plan to catch him? Can you rope?” she asked, placing her feet carefully as she got her bearing.

Seeing the changes in her—out here in what had been her natural element—unnerved him. He realized for the first time how much things had changed. It was possible the girl he’d loved with all his heart was not the same person as this Bailey Jenkins.