Cathy Mcdavid - Last Chance Cowboy

She waited while he mulled over her proposition. He didn’t take long to make his decision.

“Deal.” He extended his hand.

“Good. Glad that’s resolved.”

Shaking his hand for the second time that afternoon, she tried to hide her relief. Like before, she noticed both strength and assurance in his callused fingers. Gavin Powell was definitely one of those men who didn’t make his living sitting behind a desk.

“Would you like something in writing?” She asked. “I can have the office fax—”

“Not necessary. I was raised to take someone at their word. And not to give mine unless I intend to keep it.”

She didn’t doubt that. “Then we’re in agreement.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Sage. We’re going to be working together, after all.”

“Gavin.”

She smiled.

So did he. And though reserved, it both transformed him and disarmed her. She hadn’t noticed his vivid blue eyes or the pleasingly masculine lines of his face until now.

For a moment, Sage lost track of her thoughts. Standing, she promptly gathered them.

“About that stall for my mare.”

“Sure.” He also stood. “You can pull your truck around to the stables and unload her there.”

“Any chance I can park my trailer here? My cousin’s homeowners association won’t allow me to leave it there.”

“No problem.”

They went through the back of the house rather than the front door where Sage had entered. She caught a whiff of something tantalizing when they entered the kitchen, reminding her that all she’d eaten since breakfast was a semistale leftover doughnut and a snack-size box of raisins Isa must have accidentally left in her purse.

A man stood at the stove, stirring a pot. He turned and before Gavin introduced the man, she recognized the resemblance.

“Dad, this is Sage Navarre. From the BLM. My dad, Wayne.”

“The BLM?” Confusion clouded Wayne Powell’s face, then abruptly cleared. “Oh. Yeah. I forgot. Someone called last week.”

“That’s what I heard.”

To Gavin’s credit, if he was annoyed at his father, he didn’t let on. There was no point anyway; they’d reached an agreement about the horse.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Navarre.”

“Sage,” she told Gavin’s father.

“Will you be in Mustang Valley long?”

“A week at the most.”

“We’d better tend to that mare of yours,” Gavin said, inclining his head toward the door.

Sage got the hint. Gavin didn’t wish to prolong the conversation with his father. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Powell.”

“Enjoy your stay. I hope to see you again.” He smiled, but it was mechanical and flat. Nothing like his son’s.

“I’m counting on it,” she answered cheerfully, and followed Gavin outside.

“I’ll meet you in front of the stables,” he told her.

They parted, and Sage headed toward her truck. As she drove the short distance to the stables, she caught sight of Cassie watching from the back porch, her form partially obscured by a thick wooden column.

Without thinking, Sage waved. Cassie ducked her head behind the column, then reappeared a second later, waving shyly in return.

An interesting family, Sage mused, though a little unusual. She supposed there was a lot more to them than met the eye.

Pulling up in front of the stables, she reminded herself why she was in Mustang Valley: capture the wild horse and collect four years’ worth of back child support from her ex.

Any distractions, most especially those in the form of a good-looking cowboy, were counterproductive. Not to mention inviting trouble.

Gavin waited as Sage unlatched the trailer door and swung it wide. He expected the horse to bolt backward as most did after a long ride. Not so this one. The mare lifted her left rear foot and placed it gingerly down, as if not quite believing solid ground awaited. Her right rear foot followed, then the rest of her compact and sturdy body emerged inch by inch. Once standing on all fours, she turned her head with the regality of a visiting dignitary and surveyed her new surroundings.

“She’s a good-looking horse.” In fact, Gavin had never seen one with that same charcoal-gray coloring.

“Her name’s Avaro.” Sage reached under the mare’s impressively long mane to stroke her neck. “It’s Spanish for greedy. And trust me, it fits. She attacks every meal like it’s her last.”

“A mustang?”

“She was brought in on a roundup about three years ago in the Four Corners area. I had another horse at the time, a good one. But as soon as I saw Avaro, I wanted her.”

Gavin could appreciate that. He felt the same about his mustang.

“Not just because of her coat,” Sage continued, “though it’s pretty unusual.”

“She’d make a nice broodmare.” He was thinking of his own mares, the ones with mustang bloodlines.

Sage shrugged. “Maybe someday. Right now, I’m using her too much and too hard.”

“How long did it take you to break her?”

“Six months.” Sage laughed, her brown eyes filling with memories.

“That long?”

“It was weeks before she let me near her. Another month before I could put a halter on her.”

Gavin considered the information. He’d been hoping to start breeding the mustang stallion right away. Might be difficult if he couldn’t even get a halter on the horse. “Your perseverance paid off.”

“I told you, owning a feral horse isn’t easy.”

“I’m up to the task.”

She studied him with a critical eye. “I believe you are.”

The compliment, if indeed it was one, pleased him.

They started toward the stables with Sage leading Avaro, who observed everything with large intelligent eyes. It was that intelligence that had enabled her to survive by her wits in what had been a harsh and dangerous world. It was a quality he hoped to produce in his foals.

At the entrance to the stables, they heard a familiar rhythmic clinking.

“Do you think your farrier could have a look at Avaro’s right front hoof?” Sage asked. “Her shoe’s a little loose, and I don’t want any problems when we head out into the mountains.”

“That’s my brother, Ethan. As a rule, he only works on our horses, but I’m sure I could ask him to make an exception.”

“If there’s a local farrier—”

“It’s all right. Our regular guy’s usually booked several days out. We may not be able to get him here until after the weekend, and I know you don’t want to wait that long.”

“No, I don’t,” she agreed.

Gavin didn’t explain the reasons his brother only shoed their own horses. Farrier work was physically demanding and hard on Ethan’s prosthetic leg.

Fixing a single loose shoe, however, wasn’t nearly as strenuous. And like Sage, Gavin didn’t want to postpone capturing the wild mustang any longer than necessary. Business tended to slow down during the holidays. He wanted his stud and breeding operation well underway before then.

“You have a great setup,” Sage said appreciatively.

“Thanks.”

“How long has the ranch been here?”

At one time telling the history of his family’s ranch had been a source of pride. No more. Not after the past ten years. But because she was being friendly, he answered her question.

“My great-grandfather Abe Powell built the original house and stables after he moved here from Texas. According to my grandfather, he was evading the law.”

“Is it true?”

“I don’t know. But it makes for a good story.”

“When was that?”

“Right before the turn of the century. Last century. The house wasn’t much more than a shack. The stable consisted of six standing stalls and one box stall.”