The Rancher's Redemption. Myra Johnson
Читать онлайн книгу.
far from the main road?”
Glancing around, the woman started looking panicky again. “Um, which way is the road?”
Okay, this was just too much—probably a good thing because, at the moment, Kent’s annoyance was a whole lot easier to deal with than being discombobulated by a damsel in distress. He whipped his tan felt Resistol from his head and slapped it against his thigh. “You ride?”
“Ride?”
“Yeah, ride. Because the easiest and fastest way for me to get you back to the road is if I take you on my horse.”
She eyed the big black mare uneasily. “Thanks, but I’d rather walk.”
“You realize we’re a couple miles in, right?”
“That far?” A swallow tracked up and down her throat, so thin and delicate and lovely it made Kent’s chest ache. “I must have explored farther than I thought.”
“Guess so.” He inched his gaze upward, only to find himself riveted by a pair of eyes bluer than a whole field of bluebonnets. With a rough cough, he slammed his hat back onto his head. “So. You want a ride to the road or not?”
After an uneasy glance in all directions, she peeked at her watch. “Oh, no, is it really nearly three?”
“Afraid so. That a problem?”
“Yes, it’s a problem.” She was already striding toward Jasmine. “My daughter gets out of school in twenty minutes, and I’m going to be late.”
Daughter. Which meant there had to be a dad in the picture. Wildly, that came as both a disappointment and a huge relief. Kent caught up with her at the mare’s side, and then he was the nervous one. Riding double—what had he been thinking? Sure, he could let her ride while he led Jasmine from the ground. After his three tours of duty as a navy corpsman in Afghanistan, hiking a couple of miles over rough pastureland was a walk in the park.
Just one problem, though. This walk in the park—the most direct route back to the road—covered a section of his property where he’d recently spotted a rattler’s den. The lady was plumb lucky she hadn’t encountered one while traipsing across the pastures with bare ankles and wearing those flimsy sneakers, or instead of offering her a ride, he might have been administering first aid from the snakebite kit in his saddlebag—and only if he’d found her in time.
Taking hold of Jasmine’s bridle, he brought the horse’s head up from the clump of grass she’d been munching on. “So,” he said, teeth clenched, “if we’re gonna get up close and personal on the back of my horse, we should at least introduce ourselves. Name’s Kent Ritter.” He stuck out his right hand.
She stared at it for a moment, then released her hold on the quilt long enough to accept his handshake. “I’m Erin. Erin Dearborn.”
Pretty girl, pretty name...
The sooner he got this woman back to the road and off his property the better.
* * *
When Erin decided to take a drive down a country road in search of interesting items for her basketry creations, doubling up on horseback with a perfect stranger was not how she saw her day unfolding. Served her right for her city-girl ignorance. Before parking her car along the roadside, she hadn’t passed a house for miles. The barbed wire fence? Well, those were everywhere out this way. Why should she assume it meant keep out?
The cowboy climbed into the saddle first, then had Erin pass him her quilt bundle. He removed his left boot from the stirrup and shifted his leg forward. Pointing toward the empty stirrup, he instructed, “Put your foot here, grab my arm and swing your other leg over.”
She did as she was told, and with a breathtaking burst of motion, she found herself straddling the horse’s rump just behind the saddle. The man shoved the wadded-up quilt around behind him, and she hugged it close, grateful for the space the bundle created between her chest and the lean, muscular torso in front of her. “I could have walked, you know. I’m not a wimp.”
“Uh-huh.” The cowboy’s laconic reply said he didn’t quite believe her. “If you didn’t get lost. Or snakebit.”
Her eyebrows shot up. She sat a little straighter. “Snakes? There are snakes out here?”
“This is the Texas Hill Country. Of course there are snakes.” He glanced over his shoulder with a snort. “Weather’s warming up, rattlers are getting more active—”
“Rattlesnakes?” Skin crawling, Erin drew her knees higher on the horse’s sides.
The man chuckled. “Rattlesnakes can’t fly. Anyway, Jasmine’s got a keen sense for snakes. She won’t take us anywhere near one.”
“That’s... That’s good to know.” After a couple of calming breaths, Erin relaxed her legs.
Picking up the reins, the cowboy suggested Erin might want to hold on.
“To what?”
“To me.” He reached behind and found her right wrist, drawing her arm around his waist. “I don’t bite, I promise.”
Erin didn’t have a reply to that. But when the horse—Jasmine?—began to move, holding on felt like a really good idea. The horse’s rhythmic, rocking gait reassured her, though, and before long, Erin was almost enjoying the ride—or would be, if not for the nearness of the man in front of her.
“So,” he said, “do you make a habit of wandering across private property to do your—whatever that art stuff is called?”
“It’s basketry. And no. I just thought—” She forced out a sharp sigh. What was the point of explaining? He’d just pile on more ridicule for her foolishness. And he’d be right. She had no business wasting her time on such a useless hobby when she should be getting serious about the interior design career she’d postponed so many years ago. Scary stuff, starting over after a divorce. Especially when starting over felt a lot more like starting from scratch.
“Basketry, huh?” the cowboy harrumphed. “Next time you’re looking for twigs and stuff, maybe check with the property owner first.”
“Duly noted.”
When he deftly opened a pasture gate without dismounting, then guided the horse through and closed the gate behind them, Erin couldn’t help being impressed.
Off to their right, a herd of black cattle grazed, their musky smells mingling with the earthy scents of grass and cedar. “Are those your cows?” Erin asked.
“Mmm-hmm. Minus the two still off somewhere by themselves because I got sidetracked rescuing you.”
“Look, I’m sorry, Mr...” She’d already forgotten his name.
“Ritter,” he supplied, sounding irritable. “And don’t worry about it. Road’s just up ahead. Tell me where you left your car.”
They’d come a different way from the route Erin had taken cross-country, so nothing looked familiar. Noticing a dilapidated two-story farmhouse off to the right, which she didn’t remember passing on her drive out, she decided her car must be up the road to the left.
“I’m pretty sure it’s that way,” she said, pointing. Another glance at her watch made her stomach clench. School would be letting out about now, and it was only Avery’s second day at Juniper Bluff Elementary. The almost seven-year-old had suffered enough trauma in her short life. She didn’t need to wonder if Mommy had forgotten her. “Can you hurry, please? My daughter’s going to be so worried.”
“All right, hold on.” After guiding the horse through another gate, the cowboy made sure Erin’s hold was secure before clucking to the horse.
Unprepared for the burst of speed, Erin gasped and tightened her grip around Mr. Ritter’s waist, the quilt bundle trapped against his back. They galloped past a weathered barn and onto