Bucking the Rules(88)

He watched her silently, then nodded. The movement was curt, businesslike. “We’ll get out of your way. Sorry we took up so much of your time. I didn’t mean to inconvenience you.”

“That’s not what I—Trace.” But he was gone, the door closing with a soft finality behind him. She leaned against it, forehead and palms pressing into the cool wood, listening to the sound of his boots going down the stairs. Listening for the sound of his truck doors closing, the engine starting, pulling away.

Oh, God, that hurt. Hurt more than she’d anticipated.

Sliding down, she sat on the floor and gave herself nineteen of the last twenty minutes she had to sulk.





Chapter Twenty


Salt and pepper shakers. What the hell was that woman talking about? Jesus.

Trace ran a hand over his hair and pulled hard. Infuriating. The entire gender was completely infuriating. Why the hell would she think she wasn’t right for them? Why would she think she was wrong for Seth? She’d done her best watching him; he was still in one piece. Half the time, that’s all Trace ever hoped for on the days when things weren’t meshing. Had she expected him to come back and be pissed off she hadn’t taught his son the alphabet yet?

Seth snorted and shifted positions in the car seat behind him. Trace smiled in spite of his annoyance. The kid was quite the charmer, clearly, if a few hours with Jo sent her running for the hills.

Maybe he should have been more annoyed. Pissed, even. But he couldn’t work up the head of steam to get there. Probably because, despite it all, he knew better. Jo was it for him. He didn’t know quite yet how to convince her of that fact, but they’d get there.

He didn’t need a nanny, didn’t want a stepmom for his son. He wanted a woman for himself. Yeah, she had to be good with Seth, overall. A good person, a mature influence. But she didn’t need to bake bread or know exactly what Seth needed at all times. He didn’t expect her to drop her life and stay home with the kid. He didn’t even expect her to have more babies.

He loved Seth, with all his heart. But he was perfectly fine making Seth his only shot at fatherhood.

So, he’d bide his time. Give her some space. And then he’d calculate the next move.

Jo Tallen was it for him. And whether she wanted to believe it or not right now, she felt the same way about him.

Like hell was he gonna give that up.

Hours later, after he’d put Seth to bed and knew Emma was tucked in for the night, he wandered the house. But it wasn’t enough space. The walls of the big house were closing in on him, like hot breath on the back of his neck. He grabbed his boots by the front door and stepped into them barefooted on the front porch. Just the quick change of atmosphere released a small amount of pressure. So he’d take a quick walk around the property and let loose some steam.

Maybe a long grooming session with Lad would work out some of the kinks in his mind. As he headed in that direction, a figure stepped out of the shadows of the garage and headed with a determined, long-legged stride toward the stable. Trace froze, his mind flashing back to months ago when they’d had break-ins and near-sabotage on their hands, perpetrated by their previous trainer, Sam Nylen.

But there was no way that figure was male. In fact …

He nearly bit his tongue. That was Bea. He’d bet his favorite boots on it. What the hell was his sister doing, walking around in the dark?

He stayed in the shadows. She didn’t even notice him as she crept into the barn and down the long corridor. He risked a peek around the door and saw her handling his tack. What the hell! But instead of Lad, she chose another horse—Lover Boy—to saddle. He’d figured Bea couldn’t saddle a horse if someone ordered her to at gunpoint, but she was proving him wrong. Her hands worked quickly and efficiently, and she didn’t flinch at the weight of the heavy saddle.

He didn’t question why she chose his tack. Peyton’s would be way too short, and she’d have reservations about using one of the hands’ things. So, by default, his won out. He ducked out moments before she turned to lead Lover Boy out the wide double doors. She paused long enough to swing easily into the saddle, no grunts or whining or moaning about chipped nails. And she was off, setting a natural pace and moving in the saddle like she was born to it.

He stared, slack-jawed, after her for a minute. How the hell had that happened? When had his Bea-Bea, the self-proclaimed indoor, city girl who hated dirt and thought horses were big, filthy beasts learned to ride?

Not just ride, he corrected. But ride like she’d been doing it for years. No hand had taught her to do all that as fast and efficiently as she had in the few months she’d been back.