“Work, Tatum. Get back to work,” I mumble as I grab my papers and head inside, but not before one more glance his way.
7
TATE
One cluck of a tongue is all it takes for Willow to fall in love with him.
That’s all it takes for her to saunter over to him, lower her nose, and nuzzle her forehead against his as he whispers sweet nothings to her.
Gracie and her all-black flank with the diamond of white on her forehead is even easier for him to schmooze than Willow. She sees the attention he is giving to Willow and fell into line: tail swishing, ears falling apart, a neigh sighing from her mouth.
Then there’s my thoroughbred Ruby, Fletcher’s pride and joy, who prances some at the sight of Jack.
Looking at her hurts, but the decision I made when it came to her hurts even more. So, I focus on Jack instead. On how irritated I am at him because all he has to do is talk to them to win them over while I have to pull out every stop.
I’m standing just outside the stable, watching him. The grass is wet, and steam rises off it in the early morning sunshine, a promising prelude to a warm day. In short, it’s a beautiful and poetic morning to watch my horses get to know him while I personally bristle every time I hear his voice.
Fletcher used to laugh at me as I called the horses over and over, bribing them with apples and carrots and affection, only to have them walk over to him. After he died, their desire for my comfort was even less. It was almost as if they knew he was gone and blamed me. They refused to eat. They fought my direction or urging every chance they got.
They weren’t sick. They just didn’t like me. Still don’t, not really.
Watching them cozy up to Jack and playfully vie for his attention has me choking on an odd sense of betrayal.
Just like a female to fall for a sexy voice and a nice ass.
Not this female, though.
Gracie dances as Jack moves out of the ring and into the stable area before reappearing a second later, leading Ruby by her bridle.
“Jealous girl,” he croons to Gracie as he lets go of Ruby, her coat glistening in the sunlight. She bows her head a few times and whinnies at the sound of his voice.
“You could at least play hard to get,” I grumble as I turn my back and start to head back to the house. A man gives them attention, and they preen from it.
“Who was that?” Jack calls over his shoulder, making me stop in my tracks and turn to face him again.
“Who was who?” I feign ignorance about who was in the truck that kicked up the dust on the driveway a half hour ago and step toward the fence. “Oh, the man? Wrong address.”
“He sure stayed a long time if it was a wrong address.” He tips his hat up off his forehead with a finger. “Was the envelope he handed you for the wrong address too or was he serving you papers?”
“Wrong address.” It was actually the process server who was in the right place, and the envelope he hand delivered to the correct person was from my lender.
Sheryl warned me it might happen and that it was standard procedure, but it didn’t make it any less jarring to be receiving them.
“Usually, lawsuits are served like that?”
Or foreclosure notices.
“He was at the wrong address.” My voice rises with each word.
“Huh.” The sound carries across the breeze but doesn’t convince me that he believes me, but he purses his lips and nods before turning back to Gracie, letting it go for now.
Still, with each passing second, my cheeks heat and anger rises. Embarrassment from actually being served and anger over him watching it all happen are both clear emotions in me.
It’s none of his damn business, and I’m not sure why he feels as if he has any right to ask about who stopped by.
I stare blindly through the tears welling, my hands beginning to hurt with how hard they are gripping the railing in front of me, but it stings.
All of this stings. The unforgiving bank and Jack with the damn horses that like him on the spot but that still somewhat hate me.
“You gonna stand there all day and watch me, or are you going to come learn something?” Jack calls out as another gust picks up and I have to shield my eyes against the dust it brings with it.
“My ranch.” I shrug and push the hair off my cheek.
His chuckle is low and even as he angles a glance over his shoulder, his dark brown eyes are unrelenting when they meet mine.
“This is how it’s going to be?” He shrugs as he takes our all white mare, River, by the reins. “Suit yourself.”
“I will.”
“Good.” Another chuckle. Another shake of his head. Another slow rub up and down her nose as he continues walking her around the ring. “It isn’t worth getting upset over, you know?”
“What am I upset over?”
“It seems as if you’re pissed that the horses like me, which, to me, would seem to be a bonus considering you hired me to take care of them.”
“And?” I shift my feet and wait for the point he’s trying to make known, but he doesn’t continue. He walks River a bit more before reaching into a bucket and handing her a piece of apple while praising her.
It’s hard to want to hate him when he’s nice. It’s hard to want to trust him when I know he went into town last night and did who knows what at the bar.
“If you’re going to stand there and watch, you might as well help. Grab Willow and brush her down for me, will you?”
“Fine. Sure.” Still angry but happy to have something to do besides sulk, I climb the fence, and my boots thump when I land. Within seconds, I have Willow by the reins and am leading her toward the gate that leads into the shaded area outside the stables where the grooming supplies are.
“You know, we could hire someone else to do that, right?” he calls out as I shut the gate at my back. “Most ranch owners aren’t the ones responsible for that task.”
“I’m not most ranch owners,” I counter instead of asking him why he suggested I do it in the first place.
“You most definitely are not,” he murmurs so quietly that I can just barely make it out.
I set to work on Willow, running the brush in one hand followed by my bare palm of the other over the strong muscles playing beneath her coat. I find an odd solace in the work. In the repetition. In taking care of something that truly needs it.
Here and there, she leans into me when I hit a sensitive spot that feels good to her.
Jack’s clucks and praise to the other horses slowly become background noise as I let the mindless task become a sort of meditation that both relaxes and soothes me in the simplest of ways.
The gate at my back clanks open and shut as Jack goes to grab something. My guess is more treats, but I don’t turn to look. Instead, I listen to the beat of his boots on the concrete floor as they grow faint when he walks away and then louder as he returns.
And just as the gate clanks open, another gust of wind hits, swirling inside the alcove where I have Willow hitched. The blast of air picks up a plastic shopping bag that had been shoved in a bucket to save it for a later use and throws it up.
Before I can intercept it, the bag flutters against Willow’s face, and she spooks. With the handle of the bag freakishly looping over her ear, she rears up on her hindquarters and a loud cry falls from her as she bucks to get it off.