Taking the Reins(14)

Feisty. That’s all she was. And it got under his skin more than he ever wanted to admit. He knew he was setting himself up for a big disaster, putting himself in close working proximity to Peyton Muldoon.

He pulled up to a rig that looked like it should have headed to the junk pile years ago. Definitely didn’t recognize it, and it was something to remember all right. Hopping down, he saw a horse and rider working out in the main arena and headed that way. From this distance, he couldn’t recognize the rider either, but using his sharp detective skills, he figured the man for the owner of the rustmobile.

The horse, he was glad to see as he came up, was in much better shape. Excellent, actually. The man put the animal through its paces, weaving in and out of an obstacle course set up with barrels, dummies, and traffic cones. Sure-footed, confident, and quick, the horse maneuvered the course like it was born to handle the job. As the exercise ended and horse and rider headed to the side of the arena, he couldn’t help but wonder who the hell the guy was. Not a beginner, that was for sure.

Locating Peyton off to the side, he girded his loins, wished he’d worn a cup, and headed over. She had one boot heel hitched up to the bottom rung of the metal gate and her elbows leaning over the top. The position did some interesting things to her backside, plastering the jeans to her bottom in a way he could more than appreciate.

“Peyton.” He eased up slowly, giving her ample warning so she couldn’t blame him for startling her.

She turned a cool, dispassionate eye toward him. “Callahan. See you finally came sniffing around.” Glancing back at the horse and rider exiting the arena from the opposite side, she asked, “All those other ranches rescind their offers? Are we the last stop?”

“First stop.” Why lie? She could find out with one call that he’d already said no to every other offer. “Came here to accept the job.”

She pushed the gate wide open and started walking to the obstacle course, picking up cones. “Too late.”

He paused, gate halfway shut behind him. “Too late for what?”

“I said forty-eight hours. It’s been”—she checked her watch, but he’d bet she didn’t have to—“fifty-six.”

“True.” He picked up one of the dummies and walked it to the side where she was stacking cones. “I just needed a little more time.”

“Wanted to play hardball. Show me who’s boss.” Her words were harsh, but she bit the corner of her lip, as if not sure how to play it.

“Actually, no. I just needed the time to think.” Or to try to convince himself that his instincts were wrong. Fruitless in practice. He rolled a barrel over, and she hopped up on it.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re too late.”

He understood pride, knew sometimes it stepped in the way of a good thing. And he was a good thing . . . for the ranch. “You keep saying that, but we know it’s not true.” He placed a hand on either side of her hips and caged her in. “You need me. Said so yourself. You need anyone, but you really need me. So go ahead and give me hell for taking my sweet time. I can take it. I even deserve it. But when you run out of steam, we can go inside, sit down like adults, and start making a plan.”

Her smile was all teeth, and more than a little scary. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

He raised a brow.

And her expression turned smug. “I have a trainer.”

That knocked him down a few pegs. “You what?”

“Did you stuff cotton in your ears?” She grabbed his chin with one hand, and his breath caught as he wondered what she was going to do with it. “I have a new trainer.”

“Bull. No way in hell you could get a trainer that fast. I’m only eight hours late.”

She shrugged and dropped her hand. He resisted the urge to pick it up and replace it. Her touching him was a new development. And his body liked it, even as his mind screamed to step away.

“Who?”

Peyton looked to the right, and he followed her eyes to see the mystery rider walking back through the training arena at a fast pace.

“Peyton? This guy bothering you? Need me to take care of him?”

She looked back at Red, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Don’t you dare,” he muttered.

With a sigh, she hopped down and ducked under his arm, body brushing against his. He jerked back like he’d been scalded.

“No, Trace. Not bothering me. He’s just a little lost.”

Trace? The name was familiar. First or last name?

Reaching Peyton, the man slipped his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. Red’s eyes narrowed in automatic response.