The Cowboy's Twin Surprise. Cathy Mcdavid
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married and she wasn’t currently seeing anyone.
Music to his ears. Though how some guy had yet to put a ring on her finger baffled Spence. In his admittedly biased opinion, she was better looking now than ever. The short, chic hairstyle suited her, as did the stunning hourglass figure outlined by shorts and a snug top. Her brown eyes, when serious, had the power to captivate him, and make him laugh when twinkling with amusement.
She definitely wasn’t amused now. Really? Just because he was a few minutes late?
“Would you like a beer?” she asked, her hand disappearing into the cooler.
He shook his head, reminding himself to focus. He likely had one chance with Frankie and didn’t dare blow it.
“No, thanks. Lemonade’s great.”
“You’re refusing a beer?” She turned to him, an incredulous expression on her face.
“I don’t drink much anymore, except on special occasions.”
“Since when?” She narrowed her gaze.
“No DUIs or mornings I regret or nights I blacked out, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just cut back. Different lifestyle these days.”
She handed him the lemonade she’d already poured, then grabbed another cup. “I forgot to ask earlier. Where are you staying?”
“Eddie’s putting me up.”
“Did he ever move out of that old double-wide trailer?”
“Are you kidding?” Spence took a swig of lemonade, sweetened exactly to his liking, then another. “At least I have my own room. With a bed.” He’d spent many a night on a friend’s couch or floor, more than he cared to admit. “But I have to figure out what to do with my mares. The transport truck will be here tomorrow afternoon.”
“You shouldn’t have much trouble. Plenty of places in the area accept temporary boarders.”
Temporary? Was she fishing for information or insinuating he was leaving soon?
“Any suggestions?” he asked.
“Ronnie keeps her horses at Powell Ranch.”
She filled a plate with slices of brisket and one big, meaty rib. Handing it to him, she indicated he should sit and help himself to the sides and her homemade barbecue sauce. He noticed right away she’d made coleslaw. His favorite.
“I’ll check them out.”
Spence had been casually acquainted with the Powells at one time years ago. The family owned the largest public horse stables in the valley and had made a name for themselves breeding and training mustangs—some of them captured in the nearby McDowell Mountains.
“They have weekly rates,” Frankie said. “For short-term customers.”
Definitely insinuating, Spence thought. He should tell her of his plans, but decided to wait and see how their dinner progressed.
Frankie sat down across from him. “So, tell me about this different lifestyle of yours. And, if I’m not being too nosy, how you came into enough money that you can afford to invest ten thousand dollars in a start-up business.”
“The answer to both is the same.”
He’d much rather she sat beside him. Not going to happen, however. For a moment there, when he’d leaned close, he swore the old spark had flared between them. The next instant, she’d raised her guard.
On the drive here, Spence had worried that she’d agreed to meet with him only because of the money. Now, thanks to their mutual sparks, he knew that wasn’t the case. She cared for him. A little, anyway. Even after their long separation.
He indulged in a bite of brisket, instantly forgetting where he was and what he was doing. “This is good. No, fantastic.”
“It’s better warm and freshly carved.”
“Something to look forward to.” Swallowing, he flashed her a grin. “Next time.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“Can’t help myself, honey. I mean Frankie,” he amended, before she could correct him. “This food is incredible. How is it you haven’t opened up your own restaurant?”
“You were saying.”
“Yes. Right. Different lifestyle.” He fortified himself with a heaping forkful of coleslaw. “Two years ago this spring, I took a job as assistant trainer for Cottonwood Farms. Have you heard of them?”
“Hmm. No.” She concentrated on her plate, delicately picking at her food. “But someone did say you were working with racing quarter horses.”
“Up until recently, Cottonwood Farms was a small player. Not anymore. The owner quite literally invested everything he had in a young colt named Han Dover Fist. The colt went on to be the top winning quarter horse last year, making his owners very rich.”
“We don’t hear much about horse racing of any kind in this part of the state.”
Spence figured as much. Mustang Valley was a cattle ranching community, its horses primarily working stock or those ridden for pleasure. Probably only a few people realized one of the better known quarter horse racetracks was a mere hundred miles away, outside Tucson. Spence did, and while not the reason he’d returned, it certainly was an added benefit. He’d be making a trip there in the near future.
Picking up the Fred Flintstone–sized rib Frankie had given him, he said, “I didn’t think I’d like training racehorses. It’s a lot different than cutting or calf roping. Turns out I’m pretty good.”
“That where you’re working now?” She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Cottonwood Farms?”
Spence remembered what it was like to kiss those lovely, full lips, and the thrill that coursed through him when they parted beneath his. Clearing his throat and banishing distracting thoughts, he continued.
“I was up until a couple months ago.”
“Ah.”
He knitted his brows. “What does that mean?”
“Two years. That’s a pretty long time to stick with one job. For you.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Enlighten me.”
While she’d delivered the statement with a teasing tone, there was no mistaking the seriousness of it. She saw him as a drifter. Unable or unwilling to hold down a job for very long.
“I guess you could say I’m on leave, with an invitation to return at any time.”
“Why on leave?”
“I’m trying my hand at racehorse breeding. Which is why I purchased the two retired mares. They were sold at a good price. One I couldn’t turn down.”
“Even at a good price, they couldn’t have been cheap.” She propped her elbows on the table. “Do you mind me asking where you got the money?”
“Well, that’s where the story gets interesting.”
“I bet.”
“Betting does have something to do with it, yes.” He pushed aside his plate. Not because he was full, but because he wanted to watch the play of emotions on Frankie’s face. “Buying Han Dover Fist drained my boss’s finances. He didn’t have enough money to pay me full wages, so we worked out an agreement. I helped train the colt in exchange for an ownership share.”
“You might have wound up working for nothing.”
“But I didn’t. Han Dover exceeded everyone’s expectations. He was the long shot in more than one race at the beginning of last year. I would scrape together what cash I could and bet on him to win.”