Reclaimed (12 page)

upside down? Or failed to snug down the cinch properly? She wouldn’t know the difference until it was too late, and by then she’d be on the underside of a twelve-hundred-pound animal. She could imagine the chatter in town.

Did you hear about that city girl? Killed herself with ignorance. Got run over by her own horse.

She couldn’t let someone like Chuck Stanton have that kind of last laugh.

She slipped the cotter pin through the crank stop and turned back toward the road. “Where will we go?”

Paul fell into step beside her and shrugged. “Wherever.”

Suzanna glanced up at him. His hat making his tanned face darker still. Kind blue eyes smiled into hers, and something warm spread through her core.

What was the rest of Paul Rustin’s story? Such an amiable man could only be single by choice.

She forced her eyes from his, pressing her lips together. She had no right to feel any sort of attraction. Paul was better than most men and deserved more than she had to give. Which was, in fact, nothing at all.

“I’ve been wondering what’s over that rise.” She pointed north, past her house even as her stomach twisted. She shouldn’t continue to latch onto his kindness, taking advantage of his generous spirit.

She pushed away the guilt. Certainly he was not in danger. Paul was settled in his life—content. He wouldn’t look at her with anything more than friendly thoughts. She was alone in this growing attachment, and she could keep it appropriately concealed.

They reached his truck. “I’ll be back around six, and we can go see.” He tossed the drill to the passenger seat and turned back to Suzanna. “Why don’t you try to saddle up on your own? I’ll check it before we set out. Okay?”

She bobbed her head.
Do you want to come for dinner?
She held her tongue. That would be going too far.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Paul set Bronco at a lope down the road. Three visits in one day. He’d better tone it down, or Suz would get the wrong impression.

What impression did he want to give?

Sort this one through. A pretty, single woman lands as his neighbor clean outta nowhere. No, somewhere. Fort Collins. How many single women pick up and move from Fort Collins to Podunk, Nebraska, on purpose?

None.

Singleness had settled with him. Well, he’d made peace with it anyway. Why would God switch gears on him when he’d accepted his lot in life?

How narcissistic could he be? Suzanna Wilton’s move to Rock Creek had nothing whatsoever to do with him. He’d best get that set straight in his head right now, because from all indications, she needed a friend. An honest friend without any strings or deeper expectations attached. That’s why he’d been chosen as her neighbor. He could do that. Content in the single life God had assigned for him, Paul could be that kind of friend.

He released a long breath and settled into the movement of his horse. Good. He felt like himself again. He didn’t like feeling all discombobulated and upside down. He’d left that kind of nonsense behind a decade ago.

He crossed the creek, cleared the tree line and looked at Suzanna’s barn. The little pickle hefted the bulky Western saddle over the blanket spread on the mare’s back, her back arching against the strain. He ought to keep his eye out for a smaller saddle. Something with less bulk and weight but still equipped for ranch work.

She touched the mare’s shoulder and reached for the cinch. Paul slowed Bronco to a walk and watched her secure it around the animal’s belly. One loop, two. Three and up. Pull tight. Check the buckle. Through the D ring, back around and down. Tug and done. Executed perfectly. Paul smiled.

He rode up next to her and slid to the ground. “Well done, Pickle.”

“Don’t speak too soon.” She pushed a few stray hairs off her face. “You’d better check to make sure. And I didn’t do the bit. She tossed her head, so I wasn’t sure I was going about it right.”

Paul tugged the cinch strap and nodded his approval. He pointed to the bit. “Take it by the headstall, and let’s have a go.”

The horse shook away twice, but Suzanna stuck with it. Paul thought he saw her hands tremble, but she did it. Suzanna snapped her helmet on, and they both swung into their saddles. Paul wheeled Bronco around, heading back toward the road.

“Where are your boots?” He nodded toward her feet.

She tugged at her jeans, revealing her riding boots underneath. “I didn’t want to tuck my jeans into them.”

“How about sticking to the English getup?”

She tossed him a smirk. “Only so you could laugh at me?”

“I don’t laugh at you.” He liked the other outfit. Heat crawled up his neck.
Friend, cowboy. She needs a friend.

“No.” Sarcasm oozed from her voice. “You’d never laugh at me.”

Paul chuckled but didn’t trust his tongue enough to use it anymore. They turned north and hit a pasture gate.

“I worked on this one.” Suzanna dismounted with the precision of an English rider—her back straight, her shoulders squared. Chin held perfectly under her riding helmet.

Paul tucked his lips between his teeth, holding back a grin.

She shoved a shoulder into the cedar post, pulling herself toward the corner post. The gate reluctantly gave, and she smiled in triumph.

He set his smile free. Suzanna met his eyes and threw her hands up like she’d won a roping competition, laughing at herself. She pulled the slack barbed wire back, and Paul took both horses through.

She set the gate back into the bottom loop and smacked a hand against her thigh. “You get to close it.”

“What?” Paul shook his head. “That’s not how it works. You’re already on the ground.”

She cast a forlorn glance. “It took me six tries yesterday.”

“Come on, girl.” Paul nudged his chin forward. “You’re not one to quit.”

“Ha.” She huffed and then stuck out her tongue. “Fine.”

Paul waited for her third attempt before he slid from the saddle. She put her shoulder to it, and he pushed from behind. The loop slid over the corner post. Suzanna blew out a breath and backed into his chest. He caught her by the arms, just below her shoulders.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Paul.” Her spine snapped straight, and she stepped forward.

He curled his fingers around her sweatshirt, squeezing arms that were thin, but capable. A strange jolt ricocheted in his chest, and he wondered what she would do if he pulled her back.

Where were these thoughts coming from?

Drawing a long breath in hopes to clear his reckless brain, he released his hold and patted her helmet. “Do we need a cheater for this one?”

“No.” She shook her head, setting her ponytail swinging. “I’ll get it. I’ll just practice when I don’t have an audience, and maybe try some push-ups in the mean time.”

She moved toward her horse, tossing him a grin over her shoulder. Such a pretty smile.

Paul remounted, trying to ignore his undisciplined heart, and they set off for the northern rise. He needed something to ground himself, something normal to talk about.

Paul shifted in his seat. “So … now that you’ve inherited two hundred acres of good grazing land, what are you going to do with it?”

That was harmless enough, right? Good grief, what was he, like fourteen?

Suzanna sat straight, cantering with her horse. “I’m not sure. I wanted to see what Dad had planned.”

“Thus the notebook.” His pulse returned to normal, and he felt like a grown-up again.

“Yes. The notebook.” She looked over her shoulder opposite him, her eyes hidden from view.

Paul wondered what she saw as she scanned the scene around them. Rolling hills, prime for grazing? A vast emptiness, lonely and useless? How did this life look from her point of view?

Her attention came back, and he watched her profile.

“I was surprised to find cattle in it.” She shifted and looked at her hands.

“In the notebook?”

“Yes.”

He waited, hoping she would keep talking. She didn’t meet his gaze, and her silence lasted too long.

“Didn’t he ever talk about it?”

“No,” she whispered.

Why did she hate talking about her family? Her face would go stone-cold when her mother came up. She seemed to have a soft spot for her dad, but she wasn’t comfortable on that one, either. What was she burying?

“I was pretty wrapped up in my own life.” Suzanna brought her gaze back to him. Her expression begged him to let it be.

It was hardly an explanation. Pushing aside the questions she obviously didn’t want to answer, he cleared his throat. “What did you think you would find in the notebook?”

“Trees.” Life came back into her eyes. “We used to dream of an orchard, Daddy and me. I thought that’s what he was aiming for. Maybe that’s why he left me this property.”

“Didn’t he have an orchard?”

Her forehead wrinkled. “Yes. But he’d been called to the church, so he left it.”

Paul nodded. Made sense… a little bit, anyway. Did preachers retire like bankers?

“He didn’t want to leave the pulpit.” Suzanna rushed to explain. “He just loved growing things.”

“Like a hobby?”

“Sort of.”

Still didn’t make sense. Paul adjusted his hat and leaned back in the saddle. Mike didn’t want to leave the pulpit, but he had. He wanted an orchard, but he was researching cows. He seemed to have been close to Suzanna, but he hadn’t really talked to her much in six years. Maybe the man wasn’t as stable as Paul had thought.

“Why did he leave the ministry?”

She shut down. Cold anger shadowed her expression, reminding Paul of the woman he’d first encountered.

Suzanna’s jaw set hard as she looked away. “We don’t plan some things in life,” she whispered, her voice harsh. “They just happen, and nothing can be done.”

Paul swallowed, but he couldn’t break his gaze. Anger didn’t complement her, but he longed to touch her skin, to hold her hand or fold her in his arms. Pulling back on the reins, he brought Bronco to a halt. The mare stopped as well, without Suzanna instructing her.

“I’m sorry, Suz.”

Her shoulders slumped. Anger drained from her downturned face like sour water tipped from a dirty trough. Hadn’t anyone ever offered her compassion?

She tipped her head up. “I thought he was planning an orchard. I don’t know what he was up to now.”

So, they were just moving on. Okay. For now.

“What do you want to do with it?”

“I don’t know.” She searched the plain behind him.

Please, God, let her trust me. There’s so much more in there. I know there is
.

“I was studying horticulture in college.”

“Horticulture?” He couldn’t restrain his surprise.

“Yes.”

Her grin resurfaced. Paul’s heart flopped again.

“Didn’t know city people studied such things, did you?”

He chuckled. “It is surprising.”

Her eyes grew distant again. “I didn’t finish. I thought maybe it wouldn’t matter out here.”

Maybe not. Depended on what she wanted to do. Titles weren’t necessary in the gritty reality of agriculture. Work and know-how did more good. The know-how part—that might be the hang-up.

“There’s an ag school not far from here.” He clucked to his horse, and they were moving again. “Degrees are just a piece of paper ’round here, but the classes would offer some practical knowledge.”

Suzanna nodded, her expression thoughtful. “I suppose I’d better figure out what I’m aiming for, first.”

The pasture dipped, and Paul shifted his weight back. Suzanna grasped the saddle horn, but her balance didn’t waver. Sure-footed, the horses reached the bottom. The rise ahead would allow her a glimpse of her northern property line. With a glance to Suzanna, Paul nudged Bronco with his heel and set him to a trot. Together, they took the hill.

She was still gripping the horn by the time they crested, but she looked excited. He let her scan the panorama in silence, appreciating the view himself.

The sun lowered to their left, a ball of orange against the purple sky. Long grass waved until it reached the fence line, some thirty feet in front of them. Bales of hay, rolled tight and spaced like checkers on a checkerboard, dotted the hay field beyond her northern boundary. Cottonwoods, gold in their autumn glory, lined Rock Creek to the east.

Suzanna’s face smoothed as she closed her eyes. A breeze carried the sweet smell of a freshly hayed field and ruffled her ponytail. She put her nose into it and inhaled, her lips tipping upward.

A woman who appreciated the small pleasures of country life. Satisfaction warmed Paul as the sun caught the blonde highlights in her hair.

Beautiful.

“Whose property is that?” Suzanna pointed to the hayfield.

Stop staring, you old fool.

He glanced toward the fence line, but, like a June bug drawn to his porch light, his eyes came back to her face. Skin the color of a wheat field in July set off those stormy blue eyes.

“Paul?”

Staring again. Good grief, he was pathetic. “Stanton’s.” He forced his attention back to the hay field.

“Chuck Stanton’s?” Her jaw set, and her mouth pressed into a line. “He’s my neighbor?”

“On a map, yes.” Paul nudged his horse forward. “It’s been in his family since the homesteading days. He doesn’t actually live out here, though. Rarely even sets foot on his property. He leases out his pastures and sharecrops the hayfield. Some of the best grass in the county—it’s naturally subirrigated.”

“By Rock Creek?”

“Maybe. I’m not really sure. Might have its own little spring, or the aquifer is just closer to the surface here.”

Suzanna dipped her chin, but her expression remained thoughtful. “He’s never made a play for this property before?”

“Not until you moved in.”

Paul sighed as the lightness of the evening crumpled under the weight of her troubles. She didn’t really know how big they were. How far Chuck could cast his shadow.