“Registration papers just popped up with the AQHA. Ownership’s been transferred. To Cassidy Morgan. Makes me wonder how a horse the old man had in his sights suddenly pops up in her name, and that makes me curious about her interest in you, bro.”
Chance considered the possibilities. He’d seen her face in the barn when Boots showed her the colt. She’d seemed surprised. If he ever had to play cards with someone, he wanted it to be Cass. She had the worst poker face in the world. Besides, how would she or her father know that Cyrus was after the same horse? The facts just didn’t add up. Sure, women always had angles to get close to or take advantage of the Barron brothers. He didn’t believe Cassie was one of them.
“Who signed off on the registration? American Quarter Horse Association doesn’t require a principal to file the papers.”
“Former owner, as her agent.”
He pondered that information, still not convinced of her culpability. “Doesn’t mean she knew it was happening.”
“Why are you defending her, Chance? Wait, don’t tell me. She’s pretty, and you’re a sucker for a damsel in distress.”
“Shut up, Cash.”
“Then why haven’t you filed the paperwork dealing with calling in the loan and preserving the collateral?”
“Are you checking up on me?”
“Just following the old man’s orders, big brother. Which is something you’d better start doing. He wants that land and the colt. Cassidy Morgan has both. You’ve been jackin’ around too long and spending way more time sniffing around that little gal than in your office taking care of business. It’s time to get in, kill two birds with one stone and get the hell out. Simple.”
Simple? Chance closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead again. Nothing about Cassidy Morgan was simple. Nothing about this acquisition was simple. Once upon a time, life had been. He’d wanted to ride the rodeo circuit, then settle down to run the family cattle business and breed some excellent horses on the side. Unfortunately, the old man had different ideas. He’d steered each of his sons into a profession. A short bark of laughter escaped at the thought. Cyrus Barron didn’t steer. He bullied, hammered, demanded and dragged his sons kicking and screaming all the way. His old man always got what he wanted.
Movement on the front porch caught his attention. Boots stepped to the rail, staring at him. “I gotta go, Cash.”
“Just get it done, Chance.”
Opening the door, he stepped out of the truck and met Boots halfway to the house. The older man squared off, hands on his hips, jaw jutting, looking a bit like a bulldog ready to defend his territory.
“I just have one thing to say to you, boy.”
Chance bristled. No one, not even his father called him boy. “Then say it, old man.”
“You hurt that little gal, I’ll hunt you like the junkyard dog I know you are.”
Chance rocked back, surprised by the direction this conversation had taken.
“I recognized you, Chance Barron, when you walked into the barn that first time. And I know all about the bad blood between her daddy and yours.”
“Then why haven’t you told Cass?”
“Because I haven’t figured out your angle. Given what I saw this afternoon, maybe you do have feelings for her. That said, I don’t have to like you, and I dang sure don’t have to trust you.” Boots glanced toward the house then looked him up and down. “You better tell her who you really are. She’s just like her daddy—never could abide a liar.”