“And I can appreciate that. But you hired me for a reason. And it wasn’t to stand around looking pretty and filling out forms. It’s for the horses. I chose Lad for a reason. He’s going to show better.”
“He’s not as experienced. Hasn’t been tested before. Ninja’s calmer.”
“That’s the problem. If Trace can keep Lad’s focus straight, then the horse is going to show like nobody’s business.”
She scoffed. “And if he eases up for even a second?”
Red nodded. “Yeah, Lad will run away with him, I know. But Trace can handle it.”
“So either a spectacular showing, or a dismal failure.” She held out her hands. “You want me to bet our reputation on it.”
“Your brother can handle it.”
She ran a hand over the top of her hair, pushing the flyaway strands back from her face. “Go big or go home, huh?” She lifted one shoulder. “Trust. Fine. Let’s go with it.”
As she walked past him to open the office door, his quiet question stopped her in her tracks.
“How much did that just cost you?”
Hand frozen on the doorknob, she answered without turning around. “The price is dropping.” Then she pushed through the door and left the training arena.
Red let his hat fall on the small table by the door of his apartment, too tired to bend over and replace it when it slid to the floor. Toeing one boot off, then the other, he kicked them under the same table to rest with his hat and padded to the kitchenette for a bottle of water.
Gulping half the bottle in one try, he wiped his mouth with one wrist, then looked around the small studio-style apartment. Something felt off.
Had he left that lamp on when he’d walked out the door that morning? He was almost positive he had dressed in the dark and left the same way. And his closet door was cracked open. And one dresser drawer. Walking suspiciously over to the closet, he realized his clothes had been shifted through. Boots on the floor—normally lined up in good order—were scattered and out of place. A few shirts were falling off their hangers. A box on the top shelf containing his buckles was tipped on its side.
Someone had most definitely done a half-assed job of rifling through his stuff. Though he’d be willing to bet they didn’t find anything to steal.
If stealing was their main motivation in the first place . . .
His hand squeezed into a fist, plastic crinkling as it was smashed. He set the bottle down on the bedside table and returned the closet to its original tidy order, his temper rising with each minute that passed.
Dammit, this was his own private space. He didn’t own the ranch or the stables or even his own office. But his living area was off limits. And the only other person who would have a key to his space would be the infernal Peyton Muldoon.
Not thinking twice, he stomped his feet back in the boots, grabbed his hat, and thundered back down the outside steps, around the barn and toward the house, where he assumed Peyton would be at this hour.
He was half right. He spotted her coming from the stables, angling the same direction as he was heading, back toward the house. But she wasn’t alone. The tall vet was with her, and she all but bounced next to him, trying to keep up with his normal walking pace. Her braids tumbled down her back like whipped ropes.
“Pippi freaking Longstocking. Thinks she can just mess with my stuff anytime she wants.” He slammed his hat down on his head and kept going until he was about to cut them off. “Muldoon.”
She stopped, the vet stopping with her. “What’s up, Red?”
“I need to talk to you about my apartment.”
He watched her face for signs of guilt, worry, anything that would incriminate. But she merely tilted her head and asked, “Something wrong with the place? If something needs fixing, that’d be Arby’s area. He’d know which one of the guys to send over.”
Odd. He figured she’d have the world’s worst poker face. He seemed as tuned to her moods as he’d told Trace to be with Lad’s, whether he wanted to be or not. He’d drag it out of her though. “You could say that.” To Browning, he nodded toward the vet’s truck. “You could give us some privacy now.”
Her eyes widened. “Red! That was rude.”
Morgan just smiled and nodded. “No problem.” He leaned over to whisper something in Peyton’s ear, something that had her grinning, and had Red’s hands balling into fists. Then with a mock tip of his hat, Morgan was off.
Peyton watched as he walked away—was she checking him out?—and waited until he was out of earshot before crossing her arms over her chest and staring at Red hard. “What was so important that you had to be completely rude to my favorite vet?”