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Bucking the Rules(26)

By:Kat Murray


He stood and waited for Bea to exit before speaking. “You’ve done good, Peyton.”

She gave him a sad smile. “I think we both know that’s a crock.”

“You can’t fix everything. Sylvia did her damnedest to drive this place into the ground before she crashed into that pole. That’s not on your shoulders. If you were starting from scratch, there’d be no contest. You’d be unstoppable.”

She stood and walked around the desk, stepping easily into his arms for a hug. Her ear rested against his chest and she sighed. “I wanted to save it for Daddy.”

“How about for yourself, too?”

“Oh, yeah. That was obvious.” He chuckled. “But I just had this image of Daddy watching us, cheering us on like he used to when we’d be out in the arena learning a new trick.”

“Sittin’ on a barrel or draped over the top rung of the gate, yelling at us to keep pushing harder, not give up,” he said, the image clear as crystal in his mind. In a few years, he could substitute himself for his father, Seth for a younger Trace. That made him smile.

“It’s over, isn’t it?” Peyton leaned back and looked at him. “I need someone to tell me the truth.”

“Do you still have the keys to the front door?”

She grinned. “Yeah.”

“Then it’s not over.”





Trace twisted his back around and moaned when he found the pulled muscle. Something hadn’t felt right the entire day, and now he knew why. Damn. He needed a masseuse and a heating pad.

Too bad all he had was lukewarm bottled water and a horse trailer.

Actually, he stood and watched as Steve drove away the M-Star vehicle with the trailer attached. Now all he had was his own pickup.

The thought of a three-hour drive with his back aching so badly was enough to bring a grown man close to tears. After a quick debate, he realized he needed to suck it up and drive. His back would only be worse in the morning; he knew that much from experience.

Damn Lad and his desire to throw him off whenever the animal damn well felt like it. And damn that kid for screaming and scaring the piss out of his horse. Who the hell taught that kid barn etiquette, a pack of wolves?

An hour into the drive, his cell phone rang. He picked it up out of the dusty cup holder and flipped it open, hitting the speaker button at the same time. “Yeah?”

“Well, hey there, Daddy. Someone wanted to say goodnight.”

“Da!” Seth’s shrill scream pierced his skull and sent shards of glass rattling through his brain.

Trace gritted his teeth and fought back the rough edges of pain to keep his eyes on the empty road. “Hey, little man. You being a good boy for Peyton and Emma?”

“Da! Bah bah. Da!”

“Sure, uh-huh. Sounds like fun,” he said, wanting to smile. He would have, if it wouldn’t have hurt. Man, he missed his son. Two days away and the kid picked up new syllables.

“He’s reaching for a ball. I’m pretty sure full words are right around the corner.” Peyton’s voice was strong again and it was clear she’d taken the phone back from Seth. “So how’d it go?”

“Not shabby, until the end.”

“Define ‘not shabby’ and then what happened at the end?”

“Second overall in my division, and a few guys who are gonna be popping by this week to check the place out. And one guy who was interested in Lad.”

“Huh. Not a bad idea.”

“Lad’s my horse, Peyton.”

“Technically, he’s an M-Star horse. Besides, I thought you never wanted a horse of your own. Something about responsibilities and how you had too many of them already.”

Yeah, he’d said it. And meant it, too. Trying to travel everywhere with a horse of his own while towing Seth along for the ride had proven too much. And Trace never got in the habit of attaching any sentiment to his animals anyway. They were livestock, end of story.

But the thought of watching some other man drive away with Lad in his trailer, riding Lad on his own land …

It left a sour taste in his mouth. Maybe he was changing his tune.

“Forget Lad. The end part was basically something spooked him after we were done with the day and he threw me like a sack of potatoes. I think I pulled a muscle in my back.”

“Are you out of commission?”

“Thank you for your concern, Peyton,” he said dryly. “No, I don’t think I need a doctor. Yes, I’ll live. Your worry is overwhelming.”

“Can it, big bro. You’re talking and you’re alive. If it was worse you’d have told me and made me feel all sympathetic. It’s how men work. ‘Oh, poor me, I’m near death’s door. I have a cold. It’s like the plague, but worse.’ ”