Chase The Clouds. Lindsay McKenna
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“But one of you will. I haven’t spent thousands of dollars on this stallion to see him wasted in the hands of some second-class amateur.”
Dany shook her head. “I’m a trainer, Mr. Reese, not a show rider. There’s a big difference.”
His face was darkly tanned, chiseled as if sculpted by the sun and wind. He looked as though he would be at ease with any element that nature could conjure up. There was a faint look of surprise in his challenging gaze. “You can double as both.”
Dany uncrossed her arms, holding them stiffly at her sides. She wasn’t going to honor any commitment signed by Jean! “I’m too tall, Mr. Reese! Most of your riders are five-five to five-seven. Even the male riders are usually around a hundred and forty pounds. I’m one forty and my weight will cause the horse to tire on a long and demanding cross-country course. And my height would interfere with the horse’s movement, especially if he’s sixteen hands or less. You can’t mix and match something like this, you know.”
He relaxed against the door jamb, oddly out of place in his western attire. “I wouldn’t change one inch or pound on you,” he murmured appreciatively, making a thorough appraisal of her body.
Dany colored fiercely, getting ready to unleash a blast of anger at the lazily smiling westerner. “How—”
“Now calm down,” he defended. “I meant it as a compliment. You eastern women all seem to be a little uptight. Anyway, Altair is seventeen hands high and can easily carry you. Even with your height, you have that grace and flexibility which can only contribute to some of the more intricate jumps that have to be scaled. So you see, there’s no problem there.”
She stood rooted to the spot, her body drawn into a stiff posture. She didn’t realize that it made her look elegantly classical in her black knee-high English riding boots, white long-sleeved blouse and canary yellow riding breeches. The blouse set off the rich, shining blackness of her hair and accented the natural ruddiness of her complexion. Her thin brows knitted in displeasure. “Your horse could be eighteen hands tall, and I still wouldn’t ride him!” she hurled back, her voice quivering with anger. “And you can keep your low opinion of easterners to yourself, Mr. Reese. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m handing over the reins of this place to my new partner, who’s due to arrive any minute now.” She walked determinedly up to him, angrily holding his amused gaze.
“I don’t think he’ll mind waiting,” he drawled, remaining between her and the door.
She planted her hands on her hips, glaring up at his ruggedly handsome face. If they had met under other circumstances, she would have found him devastatingly intriguing She had still not gotten over her anger at Jean’s impulsive departure, and her life had no place for a man. In fact, she found herself agitated at men in general since the divorce. She wanted to slap his rugged face for the open expression of enjoyment that she saw there.
“If you don’t move, I’ll—”
“You’re worse than a female mountain lion that’s been woke up too early in the morning and is starving for a fresh kill,” he drawled. “And before you cock that fist at me I think I’d better inform you that I’m your new partner, Mrs. Daguerre.”
Danielle’s lips parted, and she took a step back, staring up at him in shock. “What? But…the contract was signed by Mr. Jack Ferguson. I don’t understand. I thought he bought…”
Sam Reese straightened up and slipped his large hand around her upper arm, gently guiding her back to the desk chair and sat her down. “I own the Sierra Corporation,” he explained, resting his bulk on the edge of the desk, watching her closely.
Touching her brow in confusion, she gave him a guarded look of distrust. The man sitting before her was both powerful and rich to own a corporation the size of Sierra. Even though the selling price on half interest of the stable had been more than fair, she found that most of the money would immediately be sent to bill collectors on past due notices. That was another item that Jean had forgotten to mention: He hadn’t handled the finances very well, and she found out by accident that the magnitude of the mismanagement totaled near a hundred thousand dollars. It had been the last factor to split their foundering marriage. And it meant selling the controlling interest of her dream: Richland Stables. Something she had slaved and toiled for all her twenty-nine years of life. Richland sat nestled between the rolling, gentle hills of Virginia, two hundred acres of luxurious slopes that were ideal for training young jumpers. Sighing, Danielle forced her thoughts back to the present and to this man who seemed to shadow her like a hound straight from hell.
She buried her face in her hands for a moment, trying to collect her broken, fragmented thoughts. He must have taken her gesture as one of utter defeat.
“Look,” he murmured. “I apologize for dropping it on you like this. I can see you’re tired and you’ve had quite a rough month. My half brother Jack Ferguson signed the sales agreement on your stable. He sent photos of your facility to my ranch out in California six months ago because he knew I was looking for a base of operation back East for Altair. I bought it sight unseen.”
She felt the sting of tears prickling at the back of her eyes, and she shut them tightly, fighting back the deluge of emotion that threatened to engulf her. Why couldn’t he be flip or arrogant like Jean? That always brought out her anger, and she was able to withstand any barrage. But this man—he was throwing her completely off base. His work-roughened fingers slipped around her wrist, pulling her hand gently away from her face.
“Here,” he growled, “you might need this,” and placed a white handkerchief in her palm.
A new, more disturbing sensation coursed electrically through her. Danielle looked up, her lashes thickly matted with tears. His face seemed open and undisguised of intrigue or game playing. He was so diametrically opposite of Jean that it was crumbling her defenses more quickly than she could replace them. This perfect stranger was leaning across the desk, his features sympathetic, offering her solace. She blinked twice and then murmured, “Thank you.” She dabbed at her eyes, clenching the linen cloth tightly within her long, artistic fingers.
“Look, Danielle—may I call you that? Westerners hate formality.” He gave her a frank smile. “We’re mostly homesteader folk and would rather sit down over a whiskey and discuss our troubles. I’ll take you to lunch, and we can discuss this problem over some good food. Besides, you look a little shook up.”
She shivered inwardly as he spoke her name. It rolled off his tongue like a soft growl of that mountain lion he had mentioned. Her heart was aching, and at the moment, she was aware of only pain and loss.
“Come on,” he urged, pulling her to her feet. “You’re getting paler by the second. Don’t worry. Everything will turn out all right.”
* * *
Danielle sat quietly in the darkened restaurant, a glass of wine in front of her. She stared down at the salad, her appetite nonexistent.
“You know, if you don’t eat, you aren’t going to be any good for me,” Sam murmured, setting the fork down and wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin.
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“I have a proposal for you,” he began. “And one that I think might do you a lot of good.” He rested his elbows on the table, leaning forward. “Fly back to my ranch that sits above Placerville and work Altair for me throughout the late spring. Then, if he comes along under your hand, I’ll put him on any show circuit you want. I can even have you both flown back East here for the Devon show. What do you say?”
She took a drink of the wine, trying to shore up her broken defenses. “Your ranch?” she echoed.
Sam sipped the whiskey, the shadows playing across his face reminding her of a medieval knight who had just stepped out of the past into the present and into her life.
“The Cross Bar-U sits in the High Sierra mountains eight thousand feet above Placerville and close to the Truckee River. It’s God’s unaltered handiwork up there. The Truckee is one of the most violent