“Oh, you couldn’t begin to imagine,” Bea drawled behind her.
Whipping around, the tail of Peyton’s hair caught Bea in the face. Her sister took a step back and swatted at her. “Watch that thing, it’s lethal. Not to mention completely unstylish.” A thoughtful look crossed her younger sister’s face. “You should let me cut it for you.”
“Touch my hair and die.” Peyton rolled her eyes. “I thought you were staying in bed all day.”
“Someone was rude and woke me up before I was ready. I couldn’t get back to sleep.” Bea stared down at the floor where her flats—at least that much was sensible—rested on a pile of dust and remnants of hay. “Is it always this dirty in here?”
“Just don’t think to give anyone serious orders while we’re gone. We’ll be back in a week. I can only imagine what kind of trouble you could come up with in that time, but I’m asking you to keep it simple.”
Bea shuddered. “Like I’d be caught dead in the barn anyway.”
Peyton looked up and around, brows raised, silently asking And where the hell do you think you are?
“Well, not if I can help it,” she added quickly. “Trace asked me to come get you. The trailers are hitched and everyone’s ready to roll. Just waiting for you.” With that, she spun on her heel, which was at least not a killer five-incher destined to get stuck in a floorboard, and headed back toward the house.
“The princess has spoken,” Peyton said to Arby with a wink, then waved and turned to follow Bea to the yard where the rigs sat. Trace and Red stood, twin pillars between the two engines, hip-shot and impatient. Her brother tossed a set of keys at her, which she caught in her palm.
“You get silver.”
“Dammit!” She stared at the much older truck, silver where the dirt didn’t cover, the one that protested going a mile over seventy. They never used it for the horses, only things like luggage. And usually not at all if they could help it. But with the other available truck in the shop, they had no real choice. “Trade me.”
“No way.” Trace patted his own truck’s hood and walked to the driver’s side door. “My rig, my ass in the driver’s seat.”
“Ugh.” She watched Red, wondering what his plan was. Ride with her? She could guess he would choose to ride with her, if only just to annoy her to death. His favorite hobby. He watched her back, thoughtful eyes never leaving her. Then he grinned.
“I’m with Trace.”
He opened the door through the window and hopped in, a smug smile planted firmly on his lips.
So she’d called that one wrong, apparently. With a sigh, she unlocked the door and hopped in, coughing at the dust that stirred the air.
It was going to be a long-ass haul to Wyoming.
The sound of the crowd, of the side vendors hocking their trinkets, the horses snorting, cattle braying their displeasure. The smell of leather and dirt, sweat and hay.
God, it was ambrosia. Red settled back in the stands, elbows on the metal seat behind him, and watched another cowboy saddle up. Though neither Peyton nor Trace were in this event, his eyes evaluated every move the cowboy and his horse made. Looking for the weaknesses, the sore spots, the one thing every cowboy had that needed adjustment. It was all pure habit, couldn’t stop himself if he wanted to.
The aluminum bleachers clinked as boot heels approached his area, and the structure shifted ever so slightly when a body landed on the seat close to him. Red reluctantly tore his eyes from the arena to see who his guest was.
And then wished he’d kept his eyes forward.
Sam Nylen leered at him from under a dirty, sweat-stained hat. “How are things at the M-Loser Ranch?”
“Piss off.” Red faced forward again, shifting his body so his shoulder was blocking Nylen. Any idiot could take the hint that he wasn’t in the mood to chat.
Unfortunately, Nylen was a special brand of stupid.
“Couldn’t figure out at first why someone of your . . . quality”—he spat the word out like it was a bad joke—“would bother with those losers. Nothing ever good came out of that ranch but a few good bounces on a mattress. And even that’s missing now, with Sylvia gone.”
Red gritted his teeth, willing himself to not react. Not give the jackass what he wanted.
From the corner of his eye, he could see Nylen scratch his chin with a dusty hand. “I figure there must be some other incentive. I know the pay’s not great. The head hand is older than dirt and a jackass to deal with. And the quarters aren’t the nicest by a mile. So the way I see it, you must like the management.”