Cathy Mcdavid - The Cowboy's Twin Surprise

“They have weekly rates,” Frankie said. “For short-term customers.”

Definitely insinuating, Spence thought. He should tell her of his plans, but decided to wait and see how their dinner progressed.

Frankie sat down across from him. “So, tell me about this different lifestyle of yours. And, if I’m not being too nosy, how you came into enough money that you can afford to invest ten thousand dollars in a start-up business.”

“The answer to both is the same.”

He’d much rather she sat beside him. Not going to happen, however. For a moment there, when he’d leaned close, he swore the old spark had flared between them. The next instant, she’d raised her guard.

On the drive here, Spence had worried that she’d agreed to meet with him only because of the money. Now, thanks to their mutual sparks, he knew that wasn’t the case. She cared for him. A little, anyway. Even after their long separation.

He indulged in a bite of brisket, instantly forgetting where he was and what he was doing. “This is good. No, fantastic.”

“It’s better warm and freshly carved.”

“Something to look forward to.” Swallowing, he flashed her a grin. “Next time.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Can’t help myself, honey. I mean Frankie,” he amended, before she could correct him. “This food is incredible. How is it you haven’t opened up your own restaurant?”

“You were saying.”

“Yes. Right. Different lifestyle.” He fortified himself with a heaping forkful of coleslaw. “Two years ago this spring, I took a job as assistant trainer for Cottonwood Farms. Have you heard of them?”

“Hmm. No.” She concentrated on her plate, delicately picking at her food. “But someone did say you were working with racing quarter horses.”

“Up until recently, Cottonwood Farms was a small player. Not anymore. The owner quite literally invested everything he had in a young colt named Han Dover Fist. The colt went on to be the top winning quarter horse last year, making his owners very rich.”

“We don’t hear much about horse racing of any kind in this part of the state.”

Spence figured as much. Mustang Valley was a cattle ranching community, its horses primarily working stock or those ridden for pleasure. Probably only a few people realized one of the better known quarter horse racetracks was a mere hundred miles away, outside Tucson. Spence did, and while not the reason he’d returned, it certainly was an added benefit. He’d be making a trip there in the near future.

Picking up the Fred Flintstone–sized rib Frankie had given him, he said, “I didn’t think I’d like training racehorses. It’s a lot different than cutting or calf roping. Turns out I’m pretty good.”

“That where you’re working now?” She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Cottonwood Farms?”

Spence remembered what it was like to kiss those lovely, full lips, and the thrill that coursed through him when they parted beneath his. Clearing his throat and banishing distracting thoughts, he continued.

“I was up until a couple months ago.”

“Ah.”

He knitted his brows. “What does that mean?”

“Two years. That’s a pretty long time to stick with one job. For you.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Enlighten me.”

While she’d delivered the statement with a teasing tone, there was no mistaking the seriousness of it. She saw him as a drifter. Unable or unwilling to hold down a job for very long.

“I guess you could say I’m on leave, with an invitation to return at any time.”

“Why on leave?”

“I’m trying my hand at racehorse breeding. Which is why I purchased the two retired mares. They were sold at a good price. One I couldn’t turn down.”

“Even at a good price, they couldn’t have been cheap.” She propped her elbows on the table. “Do you mind me asking where you got the money?”

“Well, that’s where the story gets interesting.”

“I bet.”

“Betting does have something to do with it, yes.” He pushed aside his plate. Not because he was full, but because he wanted to watch the play of emotions on Frankie’s face. “Buying Han Dover Fist drained my boss’s finances. He didn’t have enough money to pay me full wages, so we worked out an agreement. I helped train the colt in exchange for an ownership share.”

“You might have wound up working for nothing.”

“But I didn’t. Han Dover exceeded everyone’s expectations. He was the long shot in more than one race at the beginning of last year. I would scrape together what cash I could and bet on him to win.”

Interest flared in her eyes. “Is that where you got the ten thousand dollars? Gambling winnings?”

“No. My gambling winnings are what I used to buy the mares.” At fifty-to-one odds that first race, Spence had done okay for himself. He’d quadrupled those winnings over the next three months.

“You must have believed in the horse.”

“I did. And not just because I helped train him. At the end of the season, my boss paid me a bonus on top of my share of the winnings. There are also stud fees, which will roll in for as long as I own a percentage of Han Dover Fist.”

She blinked in disbelief. “Are you making this up?”

“Every word I’ve said is true. I’m not rich, but I have a nice nest egg in the bank, and if all goes well, I’ll have my own racing quarter horse farm.”

“That’s a pretty ambitious dream.”

Spence took her hand, half expecting her to snatch it away. She didn’t.

“I know what you’re thinking. I’ve moved from job to job, place to place, and rarely had two nickels to rub together. But the fact is, I’ve changed.”

“So you say.”

He was a bit wounded by her disbelief in him. “I’ve worked hard and have something to show for it. I also intend to keep working hard and have more to show.”

“Horse racing—” she reclaimed her hand in order to shoo away a pesky fly “—is a risky business. It’s also a rich man’s business.”

She wasn’t wrong. Plenty of people went broke. A few lucky ones, like his boss, made a fortune. If they had the right horse. Spence had high hopes for the foals his pregnant mares were carrying.

“I’m smart,” he said. “I’m starting small and not investing any more money than I can afford to lose.”

She glanced away, staring unseeingly at the play area.

“I’ve disappointed you in the past,” he said gently. “Plenty. I get why you think I’m chasing rainbows. But aren’t you doing the same thing with your catering business?”

Her head snapped back around. “It’s a lot less risky. And besides, I have a steady day job. One that provides benefits.”

“True. But if I lost everything I have now, I wouldn’t be worse off than when I started. Better, in fact. I have a job waiting for me.”

She frowned. “That’s not a very responsible attitude. Lose everything?”

“Believe me—I intend to be a success.”

She looked away again.

“I get it. My track record doesn’t inspire confidence.” He paused and started over. “I really believe I bounced around so much because I was searching for this. I love what I’m doing, Frankie.”

“Is it the excitement?” she asked.

“I won’t deny horse racing is fun. Nothing compares to the thrill of watching a horse you helped train cross the finish line in first place.”

“Nothing?”

Was she referring to herself or what they once had together?

“Nothing work-related.” He tried again to express himself. “I’m good at this, Frankie. Just like you’re good at cooking. And I’m convinced I can make a decent living. Also like you. We aren’t that different.”