“WHERE TO?” SAMANTHA ASKED, picking up the slack on the reins and turning Red toward the rail. “You want me to do some figure eights or something?”

      Eugenia Bear had a grin on her face about as wide as the snow-capped mountains behind her. “Can you do a reining pattern?” she asked.

      “Gigi,” her grandson said. “She said she rides English. She doesn’t know what a reining pattern is.”

      “Actually, I do,” Sam said, trying to keep the wattage of her grin down. “I’ve watched more than my fair share at horse shows. I bet if you ran some of those cows over there into the arena, I could do some cutting for you, too.”

      Eugenia’s pleasure appeared to grow—if possible. “There,” she said to Clinton, “you see? She’s an expert.”

      “So she claims,” he said. “But I’d like to actually see her do the pattern before we move on to cows—if we move on to cows.”

      “Well, I don’t know the pattern, exactly,” Sam said, “but I have a pretty clear idea what to do. Let’s see what I can get this little cow pony to do.”

      “Little?” she heard Clint huff.

      “Most of the horses I ride are closer to seventeen hands,” she said. “They breed them big on the quarter horse circuit.”

      She pulled Red away before she could gauge Clint’s reaction. A reigning pattern was meant to showcase a rider’s ability to control a horse. Those patterns were always performed in a western saddle, but that wouldn’t matter. Patterns had been a big part of her training, and that gave her confidence as she guided Red toward the rail.

      “Come on,” she told the horse. “You gotta make me look good.”

      But Red didn’t like to go. That became apparent the instant she tried to squeeze him into a canter—or a lope—as the western people labeled it. He didn’t even want to trot, much less jog—or God forbid—gallop. But she hadn’t ridden over fences for nothing. Holding on over three-foot obstacles, sometimes higher, had given her the legs of a linebacker. She ground her heels into Red and made him behave.

      He did.

      Sam sighed. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, like riding a horse. She hadn’t ridden much in the past few months—doctor’s orders—but it was a lot like roller skating. Once you knew how, you never forgot.

      “Okay,” she called out, trying to ignore the saddle horn as she squeezed Red. English saddles didn’t have horns and so she was somewhat distracted by its presence. “Here I go.”

      The pattern was deceptively simple. Big circle at a lope, change of pace, then a small circle. Switch leads. Do the same thing going the other direction. Stop in the middle. Spin. Red didn’t like the spin, but she dug her leg into him and made him do it. All in all, it wasn’t a bad pattern, and she loved the last part where she got to run down the middle of the arena at a full gallop, coming to a sliding stop at the end. That part Red did beautifully.

      “Bravo!” Eugenia called out when she was done. “That was terrific.”

      Perhaps not terrific, Sam thought, but she gave Red a pat on the neck nonetheless. They’d hardly win points on the quarter horse circuit, but she was proud of her ride and, man, it felt wonderful to be back, almost as wonderful as the look on Clint’s face.

      “I bet I really could work some of those cows,” Sam said, riding up to where her audience stood.

      “How long has it been?” Eugenia said.

      “Not since the accident,” she said. She hadn’t had the heart when they’d finally given her the go-ahead, not when she was going to have to sell her horse anyway to cover her medical bills.

      Coaster, her beloved black gelding, was going to a new home soon.

      “Accident?” Clint asked. “What accident?”

      “The one that killed my parents,” Sam admitted.

      Chapter Five

      Her parents were dead?

      “What?” Clint asked.

      “They died four months ago,” she said. “Just before Christmas.”

      Damn. No wonder Gigi had taken an instant shining to her. His grandmother’s maternal instincts were legendary. Crap. It’s what’d gotten him through the death of his own parents.

      Gigi had never truly recovered from the death of her only child. To be honest, Clint had never truly recovered, either. Even though he’d lost his mom and dad years ago—ten, to be exact—he still missed them every day of his life.

      “I’m sorry,” he said, his gut twisting as he recalled his own grief. “I know what that’s like. It’s not easy.”

      She nodded, Red shifting beneath her, but she controlled the horse beautifully. He was an honest man—something he prided himself on—and she had one of the nicest seats he’d seen on a woman in a long time, and he wasn’t talking about the seat she sat on. Although that was nice, too.

      “You should stay with us.”

      Clint jerked his head up. He’d been leaning against the top rail of the gate and he damn near stumbled backward when he heard Gigi say the words.

      “What?” Samantha asked.

      Gigi nodded toward the woman on horseback. “You should say with us,” she said again. “You can help us prep for the gathering in a few days.”

      “Gigi,” Clint said in a low, furious voice, hoping the woman behind him was hard of hearing. “Are you crazy? We just met her today.”

      “Clinton McAlister,” Gigi said, turning toward him. “I can’t believe you would say that. Just look into that child’s eyes. She’s still grieving.” And this time it was his grandmother who lowered her voice. “And you know better than most what that’s like. Don’t be a complete ass.”

      Ass?

      His grandmother spent entirely too much time on the Internet.

      “Fine,” he said, because what else could he say? If he kept on protesting he would, indeed, end up looking like an ass. “But she stays in one of the bunkhouses.”

      His grandmother shook her head. “The boys’ll be using that next week. She can’t be staying in a bunkhouse with men. She’ll stay in the house.”