Claiming Her Cowboy. Tina Radcliffe
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The chicken wasn’t impressed. She slowly scratched at the ground and then began to run toward him on wobbly claws. “Why is she charging me?” Jack yelled.
“This is Mrs. Carmody and she doesn’t follow the fowl rules.”
Jack’s eyes rounded when the bird attempted liftoff, her black wings flapping furiously. Could chickens fly?
This one managed a small liftoff before landing on her backside. Regrouping, the beady-eyed bird targeted him, one step at a time. Suddenly she picked up speed.
“Old and not very fast, huh? That bird is going to attack!”
Jack turned and ran, straight into a pile of something soft and wet. “Oomph!” His feet slid out from under him, and he landed on his back in the sweet grass.
“Good thing that grass hasn’t been mowed yet,” Lucy observed.
He opened his eyes. Mrs. Carmody was tucked neatly against Lucy, who stroked her feathers with her other hand. The chicken squawked and fussed for a moment, but Lucy held firm.
He had to give the ranch director credit; she’d grabbed the bird and was now doing an admirable job of trying not to laugh.
“Yeah, good thing,” he returned as a black feather danced through the air and landed on him.
“Why did she run at me?” Jack asked.
“She was running to you. Big difference. I think she mistook you for Travis. You’re both about the same size and coloring. Travis always brings Mrs. Carmody treats.”
“So you’re saying that I ran for nothing.”
She glanced away, lips twitching. “Um, yes.”
“And the flapping?”
“To get you into the moment.”
Lucy held out a hand, and he grasped her palm, heaving himself to a standing position. Their eyes met and he froze for a moment, lost in her gaze. Then he glanced down at his once spotless shoes, lifting one and then the other to inspect the soles. A pungent odor drifted to his nose and he cringed. “Manure? Is that what I slipped on?”
She nodded and sniffed the air. “Horse, I’d say. Fresh.”
“Do you know how much these shoes cost?” Jack rubbed his feet back and forth on the long blades of grass.
“My guess is enough to feed one of our kids for a year.”
Jack only grumbled in response, and then he stopped what he was doing and stared at Lucy.
“What?” she asked.
“Could you have caught Mrs. Carmody on your own?”
“Probably.” She said the word slowly.
“That’s what I thought. So you were having fun with the city guy.”
“I’d like to think of it as breaking the ice. You and I have a whole summer to work together. We need to get along. Besides, if it’s any consolation, you passed chicken flapping with an A plus.”
Jack couldn’t help himself. He started laughing, and when he stopped, his gaze met Lucy’s.
Her lips parted sweetly, and he realized they had at least reached détente. In that moment he became aware that his obligation to remain objective while he investigated the ranch for the Brisbane Foundation would be compromised every time Lucy smiled at him.
“What about your goat?” he asked.
“You hold Mrs. Carmody and I’ll go grab Beau.”
He stepped back and held up his hands. “Ah, no thank you. Why don’t I get the goat?”
“You’re okay with that?”
“I’m okay with pretty much anything if it means not holding a chicken.”
This time Lucy laughed as well, and her eyes were bright with amusement. “You know that chickens are on your chore list, right?”
“Not seriously?”
She nodded.
“So, how do I get Beau?”
“He’s docile. Gently grasp the rope around his neck and lead him to the Ute.”
“What about the cows?”
“Nary a bull in sight. You’ll be fine.”
Jack started across the field. He grimaced and shook his head as he skirted around a cow patty. Day one on Big Heart Ranch, and already he’d gotten up close and personal with a chicken and was about to bring home a lost goat.
Yeah, it was going to be an interesting summer.
Jack checked his watch as he tugged his shirttail free from his jeans. He’d made it through day one and would be off duty soon. All he had to do was get his final chore assignment of the day completed. Then he’d be on his way to T-town, a little shopping and a nice steak. Free until the alarm sounded tomorrow at 5:00 a.m.
He pulled the paper Lucy had given him from his pocket and checked the dates. No chicken assignment until after the trail ride and camping trip were complete. If things went in his favor, Mrs. Carmody would release all the birds before then. He’d even pay the bird to stage a coop-break.
For a moment, he simply smiled, thinking about the whole chicken incident. Lately, women had been getting one over on him left and right. Feathered females included.
At least the goat had cooperated.
He shook his head and turned the paper in his hand over. Stables, straight ahead. Or equestrian center, as Lucy Maxwell called the building. He’d been assigned his own horse. That thought alone made him smile.
It had been a long time since he’d been responsible for a horse. Twenty-five years ago, Aunt Meredith’s horses had been his saving grace. His aunt worked him so hard the summer Daniel died that he didn’t have time to blame himself for his little brother’s death. He’d mucked stalls, fed and exercised a stable full of horses from sunrise until bedtime. Then he fell into a hard sleep, too exhausted for the nightmares.
There was no denying the thrum of excitement that accompanied Jack as he entered the equestrian building. Except for the soft whinny of horses, it was quiet.
Jack smiled. He’d forgotten how good quiet was. The lights were on as he took his time walking down the center of the stables, his left hand reaching out to touch the gates of each stall he passed, like he was a kid again. He let the smells of horse sweat and hay nudge his memories while he searched for the sorrel mare he was about to groom.
Spotless. The boys’ ranch stables were spotless, no strong urine odors to indicate the stalls were anything but clean. A chalkboard on the outside of the very last stall on the left had “Grace” printed in white chalk in a childish scrawl. He looked around and found the tack room, situated next to an office, whose door was shut, lights off. The sign on the door read Tripp Walker, Manager.
The familiar scent of new leather drifted to Jack’s nostrils as he entered the tack room and grabbed supplies. He juggled a currycomb and soft brush in the air and caught them easily. His steps were light as he opened the latch to Grace’s stall.
Jack Harris, in a barn. No one would believe it if they could see him now. He didn’t believe it himself.
The mare shifted and raised her tail. Jack sidestepped, though not fast enough to avoid stepping in steaming and aromatic horse patties. He grimaced and held his breath. Twice in one day.
His life as an attorney was filled with horse patties, but today was a record.
Nope, no one would ever believe this, either.
“Grace,”