Home To Blue Stallion Ranch. Stella Bagwell
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money hadn’t made up for his inability to love her.
“Well, if I don’t meet a different Holt tomorrow, I’m going to suggest he drive up to the Grand Canyon and take a flying leap off the South Rim.”
“Ouch. He must have really rubbed you the wrong way.”
Just the thought of Holt Hollister rubbing her in any way sent a shiver down Isabelle’s spine. Maybe the women around here went for the barbarian type, but she didn’t.
Purposely focusing her attention on the apple fritter, Isabelle said, “Let’s talk about something else, shall we? I don’t want to ruin the rest of my day.”
* * *
For the first night in the past ten nights, no foals were born and Holt managed to sleep until four thirty in the morning without being disturbed. Even so, the moment he opened his eyes, he jerked to a sitting position and stared around the bedroom, disoriented.
What was he doing in bed and what the heck had happened while he’d been asleep? Swinging his legs over the side of the mattress, he reached for the phone on the nightstand and punched the button for the direct line to the foaling barn. It rang six times before someone finally picked it up and by then Holt was wide-awake.
“Yep.”
“Matt, is that you?” Matthew Waggoner was the ranch foreman and had been for several years. His job was mostly handling the cowhands, the cattle, and everything that entailed. He usually stayed away from the mares and foals.
“Yep, it’s me. What’s wrong?”
“Why are you in the foaling barn?” Holt asked. “Has something happened?”
“No. Everything is quiet. I’m spelling Leo. He’s dead on his feet. Sounds like you are, too.”
Holt raked a hand through his tumbled hair, then reached for the jeans he’d left lying on the floor by the bed. “When I woke up and realized I’d been in bed all night, it scared me.”
Matthew chuckled. “That’s a hell of a thing to be scared about. Hang up and go back to sleep. The mares in the paddock are all happy and the hands and I won’t be leaving out of the ranch yard until six anyway.”
“Thanks, Matt. But my sleep is over. I’ll be down as soon as I grab something from the kitchen.”
In the bathroom, he sluiced cold water onto his face, then ran a comb through his dark hair. The rusty brown whiskers on his face hadn’t seen a razor in three days, but he wasn’t going to bother shaving this morning. He had more important worries.
After he’d thrown a denim shirt over his jeans and tugged on a pair of worn cowboy boots, he hurried down to the kitchen, where Reeva was already shoving an iron skillet filled with buttermilk biscuits into the oven. The scents of frying bacon and chorizo filled the warm room.
“Got any tortillas warm yet, old woman?” Holt asked as he sneaked up behind the cook and pecked a kiss on her cheek.
Without batting an eye, she pointed to a platter stacked with breakfast tacos wrapped in aluminum foil. “The tacos are already made. What do you think I do around here anyway? Sit reading gossip magazines or lie in bed? Like you?”
In her early seventies, Reeva was a tall, thin woman with straight, iron gray hair that was usually pulled into a ponytail or braid. She’d been working as the Hollister cook since before Holt had been born and now after all these years, she was a part of the family. Which was all for the best, he thought, since the little family she’d once had were all moved away and out of her life.
“Ha! I’ve seen you lounging around in the den reading gossip magazines and drinking coffee,” Holt teased as he snatched up three of the tacos.
Reeva swatted the spatula at his hand. “Get out of here, you worthless saddle tramp.”
“Don’t worry, I’m going. As soon as I find my insulated cup.”
“Right behind you. On the cabinet. And don’t go out without your jacket. It’s cold this morning.”
“It’s a good thing you’re around to tell me what to do, Reeva. Otherwise, I’d be in a hell of a mess.” He grabbed up the stainless steel cup and headed toward the door that led to the backyard.
“You stay in a mess even with my help,” she said tartly, then added, “I’ll send Jazelle down with some pastries later. And don’t call me old woman.”
Holt looked over his shoulder and winked at her. “Reeva, you look as fresh as a spring rose.”
Reeva continued to flip the frying bacon. “You wouldn’t know what a spring rose looked like. But I love you anyway.”
“Right back at ya, old woman.”
At the door, he levered on a gray Stetson and, to please Reeva, pulled on a Sherpa-lined jacket. After stuffing the tacos into one of the pockets to keep them warm on the long walk to the foaling barn, he stepped outside and was promptly slammed in the face with a cold north wind.
Ducking his head, he left the backyard and started toward the massive ranch yard in the distance. Along the way, he passed the bunkhouse where most of the single ranch hands lived. The scents of coffee and frying sausage drifted out from the log building and Holt figured the guys would be sitting down to breakfast any minute now, which was served at five on most mornings. Once in a while, he and Blake would join the group for the early meal, just to share a few casual minutes with the hardworking employees. But the bunkhouse cook was a crusty old fellow, who couldn’t begin to match Reeva’s kitchen skills.
At the cattle pens, there were already a half dozen cowboys spreading feed and hay. Dust billowed from the stirring hooves, a sign that so far the winter had been extremely dry. Grass on the range was getting as scarce as hen’s teeth and Matthew had already warned Blake that the hay Three Rivers had baled back in the spring would soon be gone. As for the Timothy/alfalfa mix Holt fed the horses, he’d already been forced to get tons of it shipped in from northern Nevada.
At times like these, Holt figured Blake acquired a few more gray hairs at his temples. As manager of the ranch, his brother carried a load on his shoulders and he worried. But Holt didn’t worry. Not about the solvency of the ranch. After a hundred and seventy-one years, he figured the place would keep on standing strong. No, the only thing he worried about was keeping the horses healthy. And his mother.
For the most part, Holt could control the well-being of the Three Rivers’ remuda, but his mother was a different matter. Lately she was doing a good job of acting like she was happy. But Holt and his siblings weren’t fooled. She was keeping something from the family.
Chandler wanted to think she’d fallen in love and was trying to hide it, but Holt didn’t go along with his brother’s idea. A woman in love had a look about her that was impossible to hide and his mother didn’t have it.
When Holt reached the horse barn, the hands were already feeding the few mares that were stalled with their new foals. T.J., the barn manager, met Holt in the middle of the wide alleyway.
“Mornin’, Holt,” he greeted. “Everything is quiet. No problem with Ginger. She seems to have taken to her little boy. He’s been standing and nursing and already looks stronger than he did two hours ago.”
Holt wasn’t surprised to hear T.J. had already been at the barn for two or three hours. He was a dedicated young man with an affinity for horses. He’d come to work for the ranch six years ago and since then had proved his worth over and over.
“That’s happy news. I was afraid we might have to put him on a nurse mare.” Grinning now, Holt patted his jacket pocket. “I have breakfast tacos. If you’re hungry, I’ll share.”
“Thanks, Holt, but I promised William I’d eat at the bunkhouse this morning. Now that you’re here, I’ll mosey on over there.”
“Better do more than mosey or there won’t be anything left.”
“Right.