Jessica Andersen - Spellfire

The chestnut snaked his head around, feinting for a nip.

“Quit that.” He nudged the horse out of his space, reminding him how the pecking order went: without Brutus at the top, despite his delusions of grandeur. The mustang had been at the ranch since last fall’s gather and had been under saddle for nearly six months. He’d been in the working string for only a few weeks, though, and was still reserved for the wranglers’ use because his better-than-average smarts were paired with an unpredictable streak wider than the stripe running down his nose. He wasn’t dangerous, but Foster wouldn’t exactly call him reliable, either. And given his quick mind, big feet and smooth gaits, he was worth putting some time into.

Annoyed that his nap had been interrupted, the gelding rolled an eye back at Foster.

“Yeah, yeah, life’s tough. You think this is hard work, try being a real cow horse. Compared to them, you’re just a glorified trail pony.”

Then again, what did that make him? Head trail-pony wrangler? Executive greenhorn herder? Overlord of make-sure-the-dudes-don’t-kill-themselves?

It made him employed—that was what. And saving for better days.

He gave the gelding a nudge as they reached the barn, where the bright sun turned to murky shadows at the doorway and a nervous horse—or one with a questionable sense of humor—could spook. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned conversationally. “This is supposed to be my day off, and I’m not in the mood to deal with your—”

Movement flashed in his peripheral vision as they stepped from light into dark, and Brutus gave a sudden elephant snort and exploded in a spook that was part pent-up energy, part Aieeeee, mountain lion! The big gelding’s shoes struck sparks on the cement as he tried to wheel and bolt, dragging Foster around with a thousand pounds of momentum and a cement-strong neck. Vader got in front of him and splayed all four feet, barking, trying to head off the runaway.

Foster hauled back on the lead. “Whoa, dang it! And, Vader, git!”

As the dog scurried out the back, Foster caught a flash of brown hair and wide, scared hazel eyes in a triangular face. He had only a split second to think Oh crap at the realization that the little girl was about to get flattened. Then Brutus swung his haunches around and bumped her hard, and she went flying across the aisle.

She hit the wall and went down in a pink-and-denim heap.

Oh crap turned into an inner nine-one-one, but Foster’s body kept reacting, using thirty-some years of experience to juggle the gelding away from the kid and down to the other end of the aisle.

“Knock it off!” he growled, getting right up near one of Brutus’s white-rimmed eyes. Where normally he would’ve soothed, now he muscled the blockheaded chestnut under some semblance of control, then kicked open a nearby stall and sent him into it still wearing his halter. “Don’t you dare get tangled in that lead,” he ordered, then ran the door shut and latched it tight.

He spun back, expecting to find the little girl still down. She wasn’t, though. She was on her feet, plastered in the corner where the tack stall jutted out a few feet into the aisle. Her pink T-shirt and jeans were streaked with dust, her face sheet white. All arms and legs, with a long torso and those big hazel eyes, she reminded him of a long yearling in the middle of a growth spurt, when all the pieces didn’t go together quite right.

She hadn’t made a sound, wasn’t crying now, just stood there staring at him.

“You okay?” When she didn’t say anything, he took a step toward her and reached out a hand. “Are you hurt?”

“Lizzie!”

Foster’s head whipped around as a dark-haired woman in a ridiculous black pantsuit raced into the barn wearing the same sort of look he’d seen before in a half-wild heifer’s eyes when he’d made the mistake of getting between her and her newborn calf. The kind of look that said she didn’t care what happened to her or anything around her as long as she got up close and personal with the little one, pronto.

He did what he should’ve done back then, which would have saved him a whole bunch of black-and-blues. He got the heck out of the way.

“Are you okay?” Shelby dropped to her knees, hitting so hard that the cement grated through her pants. Not seeing any blood or obvious injuries on her daughter, she whipped a look over her shoulder at the stranger. “What happened?”

“She spooked one of the horses, zigged when she should’ve zagged and took a tumble. By the time I got Brutus in a stall, she was up and moving.” He was straight out of central casting, filed under “cowboy, circa twenty-first century” in worn jeans, scarred brown boots and a black felt hat that was flecked with hay and dirt and sat low on his forehead. Compared to the guys in the dining hall, he looked faded and authentic. And concerned. Points there.

Focusing on Lizzie, she brushed at the dirt smudges on her daughter’s clothes and tried to remember how to breathe. She’s okay. It’s okay. But it wasn’t, not when Lizzie could’ve gotten seriously hurt because her idiot mother had stopped paying attention for a few minutes. “Why did you leave the dining hall? I told you not to go near the horses without a grown-up!”

Lizzie didn’t answer, didn’t meet her eyes, didn’t give her any sign to indicate that she’d heard or understood.

“Is she okay?” He sounded dubious. “I didn’t see her hit her head, but she seems kind of out of it.”

Shelby stood and faced him, tucking her daughter behind her. “She’s fine.”

“Maybe somebody should take a look at her. It’s Stace’s day off, but Gran has doctored more banged-up riders than your average ER.”

She’s seen plenty of doctors. “We don’t need anybody, but thanks. And thanks for containing the situation.” She had some idea of how fast things could get out of control when horses were involved and shuddered to think how much worse it could’ve been. “I’m very sorry she got underfoot. It won’t happen again.” She tightened her grip on Lizzie’s shoulder. “That’s a promise.”

“But she’s—”

“Perfectly okay just the way she is.”

His eyes snapped up to hers, as if she’d just said more than that. “Oh. Sorry. I, ah . . . Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not.” Don’t you dare pity us.

He frowned at her instead and then looked at Lizzie. “What is she, seven? Eight? And you brought her to singles week? There isn’t going to be our usual family-vacation vibe, you know.”

It wouldn’t have irritated her so much if she hadn’t already been thinking the same thing. “She’s nine. Not that it matters, because we’re not here for guest activities. I’ll be working in the kitchen.”

“You’re . . .” He trailed off.

“The new assistant cook,” she filled in.

“What happened to Bertie?”

“The doctor wants her on bed rest until she has her baby.” Which was why she and Lizzie had hit the road a week ahead of schedule, arriving in the middle of speed dates rather than next week’s thirty-person family reunion.

“You’re a chef?”

“Nope. I’m in advertising, but a friend of mine knows Krista and the ranch. When she found out I wanted to get Lizzie away from the city for the summer, she set things up. The next thing I knew, I had a summer job and a place for us to stay.” It was such a simple summary for what had been in reality a really tough choice involving dire warnings from both her boss and Lizzie’s doctor, and the inner fear that she’d come into September with Lizzie no better and her clients having forgotten who she was. In her line of work, you were only as good as your last campaign.