The Love of a Lawman, The Callister Trilogy, Book 3 (11 page)

"Yeah, well, you know. Kids and dogs."

She slid the coveralls off her shoulders. "Just don't forget"—she laughed again—"I'll soon be sending you a bill for carpet cleaning."

She stepped out of the coveralls, carried them to the tack room and hung them on a nail in the wall, then started toward the house. Since she didn't invite him to join her, he debated whether he should follow or just get in the Blazer and go on back to town.

While the question volleyed inside him, he fell in step beside her. "If you're going to the house, I'll just say hi to the dogs," he told her.

They walked along in silence and for the first time John noticed the landscape. Though he had grown up in Callister and had hunted the mountains sandwiching the long valley all his life, he had never been to Frenchie Rondeau's place. The house backed up to snowcapped Callister Mountain. In the late-afternoon sun, the mountaintop shone like gold. The pasture's fledgling green gently rolled uphill to the dark tree line behind the white house and barns. The place was picturesque and had an appeal about it even with the buildings looking old and run-down.

He had never known the size of the Rondeau spread, but the back boundary had to adjoin national forest. "How much land you got here?"

"Not enough. About three hundred acres. Which means once I get calves in, I'll have to buy feed most of the year."

"Calves?"

"For the horses to work with. Cutting horses, remember?"

* * *

A flutter beat in Isabelle's stomach as John walked beside her toward the house. Sneaking peeks at him, she saw lashes a woman would kill for and a good profile. She hadn't seen him without a hat, but he wore his brown hair longer than most cowboys. From out of nowhere, this crazy urge cropped up to find a mirror and catch a glimpse of her own unruly hair, which must be flying all over the place.

She found him just as easy to look at today as when he had come out in the rain about Jack. Today, however, it dawned on her that something other than his appearance had seized her attention in the first place. He seemed to own his space, giving off an easy confidence like it came to him naturally. It was something subtle that would have been as foreign to Billy as speaking Russian, something she had rarely seen in men. And it was something she admired, because she engaged in a daily struggle to find her own self-confidence.

Beyond that, the utter maleness that radiated from him grabbed her right where she had no business letting herself be grabbed. John Bradshaw could have his pick of women, even more so than Billy—of that she was certain. Her former partner may have been handsome, but he didn't have John's strong presence.

When they reached the house and she opened the door onto the porch, they were greeted by puppies scampering around their ankles. "Uh-oh," she said. "Ava's banished them to the porch. They must have done something on the carpet. I don't suppose you brought that second doghouse with you?"

"I haven't been down to Boise yet. But I haven't forgotten it. I promise."

She suspected he had done exactly that—forgotten it ten minutes after he dumped off the puppies.

She walked through the porch to the mudroom, pushed up her sweater sleeves and turned on the faucet in the laundry sink, glad to be distracted by washing her hands. He leaned a shoulder on the doorjamb and thumbed back his hat, watching her, which made her too self-conscious to look into his face. "I can't blame you for not wanting to work for what I'm paying, but you must have known it wouldn't be much." She laughed. "That can't really be why you came out."

His shoulder lifted. "I miss being around horses. If you could pay a little more, I could relieve you of the riding."

The offer tempted her. Bradshaws were old-time ranchers in Callister County. John had been around livestock since the day of his birth, but tempting offer or not, she hadn't seen him ride. Her horses were too valuable for an unskilled handler. No way would she hire him without knowing his ability. Nor could she commit to more wages. "Hah. I do the grunt work and you do the riding. Is that the idea?"

He shrugged again. "I'm willing to help you with what needs doing."

She rinsed off soap and shook the excess water into the sink, tore off sheets of paper toweling and dried. "I'd want to see you with the horses and watch you ride."

"No problem. When?"

She pulled a jar of bag balm from the cupboard and scooped out a dollop with the crook of her finger. "The sooner the better. When can you get away?"

As she began rubbing the silky cream onto her hands, he pushed away from the doorjamb, walked over and picked up the jar, the subtle scent of him—something woodsy smelling—overtaking the pleasant fragrance of the bag balm. Her pulse rate surged. Her mind swerved from negotiating his pay to the fact that she hadn't put on perfume since before she left Texas.

The corner of his mouth quirked. Amusement? Well, so what if using udder cream on her hands amused him? It was rich in lanolin. After seeing too many women who worked outdoors with animals let their skin turn tough as leather, she was determined to avoid that happening to her.

He set the jar back on the counter and stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. His khaki quilted vest shifted back. A badge hung on the pocket of a tan button-down. She saw the butt of a pistol strapped to his belt, but instead of being uneasy about the unusual circumstance of a man standing in her mudroom wearing a gun, the subject on which her mind settled was how would he look without a shirt?

"If the horses are for sale," he said, "why go to the expense and trouble of keeping them in peak training?"

She concentrated on creaming her forearms. "Would you pay a hundred thousand for a horse that isn't in top shape?"

A few seconds passed. "A hundred thousand? Dollars?"

She suppressed a grin of satisfaction at the astonishment in his voice, having sensed his skepticism all along. She glanced up at him. "No, sheriff. Marbles.... Besides having great breeding, they have winning records."

He looked away, as if he might be embarrassed. "Okay," he said. "Thursday. I could do it Thursday morning."

* * *

John now realized Izzy's animals were special. Due to selective breeding and unrelenting training from young ages, they had gone beyond the ordinary cow horse. They had become investments, athletes demonstrating their intelligence and capabilities in cutting contests across the Southwest. Everybody from car dealers to movie stars owned one or more that vied for the generous prizes awarded in cutting-horse performance shows. Her horses could well be worth the number she threw out.

That explained their superior condition and the fancy truck and trailer. What still puzzled him, though, was the contradiction between what she said and what she was doing. If she wanted to sell the horses, bringing them to Callister made no sense. If she intended to show them in competitions, hauling them from Texas to Idaho had been a wrong move. The purses in shows here couldn't come close to those in Texas and Oklahoma.

Well, his questions would have answers eventually. He had never met a woman who could keep secrets for long.

On Thursday morning John headed for Izzy's house, tamping down the guilt he felt for leaving the office to Rooster. To salve his conscience, he told himself he had worked 24/7 for months and was entitled to a day off.

An excitement buzzed within him. He hadn't been close to a horse in a year. The only rope horse he had left, a big gray gelding named Rowdy, was being used as a cow horse out at his folks' ranch. Since he didn't visit the Lazy B much, he didn't see or ride him.

His gear was there, too. His plan had been to put off riding for Izzy until he picked it up on Sunday when he went out for his mom's birthday, but with riding for Izzy on Thursday, he hadn't had time between now and then to make the trip to the Lazy B.

Izzy had told him she had tack she preferred him to use, anyway. A saddle used for cutting would have different features from the ones he used for calf roping.

When he pulled up beside her big barn, he saw the sorrel mare, Trixie, penned in one paddock and the stud in the other.

Izzy met him with a big smile at the barn door. "Early," she said. "I wasn't sure you'd make it."

He grinned, taken with how pretty she looked with her cheeks and lips even rosier than usual from the chilly morning air. "I always get up early," he said.

Her eyes watered from the cold and looked shiny and alive. She wore a tan jacket and a bright blue turtleneck sweater and the most worn pair of stovepipe boots he had ever seen. Tan chinks covered her jeans. She must be planning to ride with him. Her spurs clinked as she briskly led him to the tack room and showed him the saddle. "You ride Dancer," she said, handing him a pair of spurs. "But I warn you, he can be a challenge."

John couldn't think of a time when he'd had to prove his horsemanship to a woman, but he swallowed his pride and strapped on the spurs.

She patted a saddle mounted on a sawhorse. "You can use this one. It was Billy's. The stirrups should be about right." She dragged a different saddle off a neighboring sawhorse and lugged it outside.

John picked up Billy's saddle and followed. Good God, if the man didn't take his saddle, he must have left home in a hurry.

When he started across the driveway carrying the tack, Dancer's ears perked up and he watched from a still position.
Uh-oh.
That horse had rodeo on his mind. Though years had gone by since John had last ridden a strong-willed horse, he wasn't frightened. It just called for a little patience.

When John set the saddle on the ground, Dancer lived up to his name and snorted and stamped around the corral, then stopped on the opposite side and stared at him. John stood there, willing the horse to come to him. Minutes later, dark ears pricked forward and the blue devil walked to where John waited. Despite misgivings about hand-feeding a stallion, John dug a couple of carrot pieces from his shirt pocket and offered them. Dancer's attitude softened and finally, with a little neck sawing and a few head tosses, he let himself be haltered.

Munching on the carrot, Dancer accepted the bridle, but sidestepped away from the saddle blanket. John took his time, baby-talking him and letting him smell the wool fabric. After several attempts, the horse stood for the blanket, but he moved every time John started to swing the saddle across his back. Even after he consented to be saddled, he sidestepped when John tried to cinch up. Yep, Fancy Dancer wanted the world to know he had a mind of his own. Izzy had called him ornery. That was a fitting description, but John didn't think him mean.

Meanwhile, Izzy had saddled the sorrel mare, led her over and tied her to a pole rail. "Dancer hasn't been ridden in weeks," she told him with a grin.

That's just great.
John had no idea what to expect when he climbed aboard the stallion, but he looked him in the eye. "Pal, you and I are gonna be friends whether you like it or not."

The horse snorted.

Izzy tilted her head back and hooted. "He's smarter than both of us."

She left the corral and propped her arms on the top rail. Shit, she intended to watch. Only a lesser man would be intimidated at being set up, then judged by a woman, John told himself, as he stuck his boot in the stirrup.

The moment his butt sank to the saddle seat, he knew he was horseback. Dancer reared on his hind legs, bucked on a dime a few times, blew a few snorts and settled down to a fidget. They circled the corral, warming up, then gradually picked up the pace. Rowdy was fast and smart, but Dancer's stamina and footwork amazed John. The stud's response to subtle signals for flying lead changes, sliding stops and turns on the hindquarters soon had John feeling as if the two of them were one entity. When he wanted to—emphasize
wanted to
—Dancer handled as well as any horse John had ever ridden.

After a half hour of steady work, he reined the horse over to where Izzy stood. "You the one trained this horse?"

She looked up at him, grinning and squinting in the sunshine. "You betcha."

There was no mistaking the pride in the reply. If Dancer was an example of her work, she had plenty to be proud of. "Want me to ride the sorrel?"

"No." She ducked through the pole rails and opened the gate to the large pasture. She mounted the sorrel and rode through with John trailing her. Outside the gate, they rode side by side in an easy walk, letting Dancer cool down in the frosty sunshine.

"This may be the best horse I've ever ridden," John told her. "Like you said, he's ornery, but he's good."

"Thanks."

Isabelle didn't have to be told that much. Among the many horses she had known, she had ridden no better mount than Dancer.

As for John's handling of the rebellious stud, she had seen enough. John had a gentle hand, but a firm hold. His knowledge of horse nature showed and she had seen he had a calm personality himself. Horses were sensitive to human temperament. No way would she allow her babies to be handled by an ill-tempered man.

She looked over at him, cautioning herself not to show too much enthusiasm and jeopardize her chances of cutting a good deal. "I maybe could do something different on the pay."

"I'm listening."

"If I get my asking price for all three horses, it'll be about two or two and a quarter. If you wanted to take a chance and go ahead and work with them, I'd be willing to pay you a percentage when I sell one, or all of them. It's possible I could find one buyer for all three."