Taking the Reins(77)

The sound of the tack room door opening. Soft, feminine murmuring, the wicker and ninny of a horse. Then the unmistakable sounds of a horse being saddled. Leather creaked, brass clanged. And without realizing she was being watched, Bea led the horse through the open door and into the darkness. From close up, he could see she wore jeans that were tight, but not impractically so, boots and a jacket. Her hair, usually fluffed and sprayed, was held back by simple clips from her face.

And as she and her chosen horse—Lover Boy, a responsive but spirited mount—cleared the stable, she placed her left foot in the stirrup, gripped the horn and back of the saddle, and launched herself into the seat with practiced ease. Those mile-long legs were a clear plus when it came to mounting without assistance.

“Okay boy,” she said, her voice much softer than the sharp-toned one he’d heard her use before. “Let’s have a little fun.”

With a click of her tongue and a nudge of her knees, they headed off.

Red debated a moment going out with her, following her to make sure she wasn’t going to hurt herself. But that little show was not the behavior of a woman unused to riding. Unless he missed his guess, she was more than a little familiar with the practice. Not to mention, she technically owned a third of the place, and that included the horses. If she wanted to go out riding in the middle of the night with one of the Muldoon horses, who was he to question it?

He shook his head and kept on toward the main house. But even as he reached the porch, another figure exited the kitchen door.

This time, he was sure, it was Peyton sneaking off into the dark.

“Out for a midnight ride, sweetheart?”

She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, my God. Don’t do that!” With her other hand over her heart, she turned her back to him a moment. After composing herself, she looked over her shoulder. “What are you doing out here?”

“Same as you, I suppose.” When she cocked her head to one side, he smiled, though he doubted she could see it. “Practicing my breaking and entering skills.”

Peyton started to laugh, then swallowed the sound and slapped at his arm. “Stop that.” She glanced around as if she were being followed. “Come on. Back to your place.”

“I like a forward woman.” He tucked his hands in his pockets and easily caught up, thanks to the fact that it took her two steps to make one of his.

“I’m not forward, I’m discreet. Something we can’t be if we’re in the house, with Emma and Trace and Bea in there.”

“Bea’s not—” He stopped himself short.

“Bea’s not what?” She didn’t look up at him, concentrating instead on the ground and not tripping over anything in the dark.

“Bea’s not . . . like you,” he finished lamely. If Bea didn’t want her family knowing she went for joyrides in the middle of the night, it wasn’t his business to bring it up. He’d check on Lover Boy in the morning, but as long as she groomed him well and settled the tack back in the proper spots, then he wouldn’t say anything.

Peyton snorted. “She never was. Barbie doll and tomboy, we couldn’t be more different if we tried.”

“Who gave you those labels?” Red followed her up the stairs to his apartment and opened the door around her. As she shuffled inside, he watched her make herself at home in his small place. Boots came off and settled by the door, just as if Emma would come bursting in to scold her otherwise. She hung her jacket on the back of a kitchen chair, walked to the fridge and grabbed his pitcher of water, then started looking through cabinets for a cup.

“Above the stove,” he said helpfully.

“They should go by the fridge. That’s where they make the most sense.” But when she reached for the cabinet, she couldn’t quite make it. “Why don’t you have a stool in this place?”

He walked up behind her, raised his arm, and pulled down a cup without a word. As he handed it to her, she scowled. “Not all of us can be freak-of-nature tall, you know.”

“Of course not.” He waited until she had a drink and asked again, “Who named you the tomboy and your sister the Barbie doll?”

“You just assume I was the tomboy? Why couldn’t I be the Barbie?”

Red just stared at her.

“Oh, fine. My mother. Sylvia.”

He waited patiently.

“Trace is the oldest. And he was all boy from the start. Which was a good thing. But when I came along, I think my mother just saw me as a plaything. Trace was already Dad’s little helper, following him around the ranch like they were joined at the knee. So a girl? As far as she was concerned, I was practically begging to be decked out in lace and ribbons and bows simply because I was born female.”