Rita Herron - Platinum Cowboy

“Of course,” Lora Leigh said. “And I don’t mind working weekends.”

“Everyone needs a life,” Flint said. “I don’t want my people burning out.”

Darn it. He sounded nice. Not what she had expected at all.

Then again, he’d fooled her father into selling him his ranch. That was Flint’s game: he knew how to woo and seduce and get what he wanted. She couldn’t fall for his act.

Back in the truck, they headed into the horse quadrant. “That’s the stud barn, and there’s the turnout area for the stallions. The breeding area is part of that barn. We have a separate area for the Thoroughbreds and quarter horses. Broodmares are turned out in pastures, except those getting ready to foal or to be bred.” He gestured to some outdoor pens, where she noticed three gorgeous, sleek mares.

“The yearlings are kept separate, and some are being sent to the auction house now. I keep the show horses and sale horses separate as well.”

“Do you keep them under lights in the winter to keep their coats slick?”

“Of course.” He grinned. “We have some race horses on the road in training, but a couple of our younger ones are kept here near the track.”

“You retired Diamond Daddy to stud?” Lora Leigh asked.

“Yes, his first season.” Flint smiled again, obviously proud of his prized stallion. “I’m anxious to see if he produces another Triple Crown winner.”

“You board and train a lot of horses for Middle Eastern owners?” Lora Leigh asked.

He nodded. “I’ve got contacts there through my friends. We’ve raced the quarter horses as well as competed in reining, cutting and roping and in some of the big rodeos.”

“I saw that one of yours won the National Cutting Horse Association Championship.”

“Yeah. Salamander. We’ve racked up some quarter horse world championships.”

Lora Leigh noticed a bald eagle soaring gracefully above the land. “I heard you’ve instituted hunting regulations on your land.”

“Absolutely. I had to in order to protect the quail and deer. We also have turkeys and whistling ducks. I installed windmills at various intervals and fenced off areas from the cattle to provide water for the wildlife. We have a lot of quail, and we half cut the shrubs to provide shelter for them. We also planted prickly pear cactus plants in open areas to serve as cover for the wildlife.”

Impressive. “Have you had any problem with feral pigs?”

He cut her a strange look. “Some. If you spot them, keep back and let me know. And I’d advise you against riding alone in the more isolated areas, especially near the cattle land. Occasionally, we’ve had trouble with rustlers trying to steal our stock. I’ll supply you with a pistol for protection against them and the snakes.” He hesitated. “Do you know how to shoot?”

She gave him a sardonic look. “Of course. My father taught me when I was a kid.”

He veered to the left and drove to an isolated barn set among ancient trees, a stable and outdoor pens that opened to luscious green pastureland. “This is where we house the Arabians.”

Try as she might, she couldn’t stop the spurt of excitement budding in her chest. She jumped from the truck before he had a chance to come around to her side and followed him up to the barn, determined to prove herself worthy of her job. Too many men had assumed that due to her size, she wasn’t strong or capable enough to handle the magnificent beasts she worked with.

But size had nothing to do with it. She understood the horse’s nature, listened to him speak, honed in on his mood and anxieties, and soothed him with her voice and manner.

She reined in her excitement as she entered the barn, knowing the animals would respond to her mood, as she would to theirs and lowered her voice as she approached the stalls.

Four incredible horses had been stalled. Two bays, a chestnut and a gray, which was the largest of the four, standing at least fifteen hands, compared to the average of 14.1 hands of the others.

“What are their names?” she asked.

“The larger bay is Sir Huon, and the other, Lord Myers. The chestnut is Iron Legs, and the gray one, Eastern Promise.”

“Nice,” she said, stroking Eastern Promise’s mane. One of her jobs would be to verify a horse’s good disposition before reproducing; another was to meet the quarantine standards and administer medical care.

Iron Legs whinnied and kicked the stall, as if agitated, while Sir Huon stood almost docile. She eased from stall to stall, quietly assessing each horse, noting the refined, angular heads, the large eyes and nostrils, and the small muzzles, searching for any indication that they weren’t well bred. But the distinctive concave profiles, the arched necks and structure of the throatlatches looked good, as did the well-angled hips, high tail carriages, and well-laid-back shoulders of the beasts.

“So what do you think?” Flint asked.

She reached out and stroked the taller of the bays. “They’re incredible. Of course, I’ll conduct some tests, but I think you made a wise choice.”

When she angled her head to look at him, he was smiling. “I’m glad you appreciate my animals.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, her heart tripping as she met his gaze. Of course she did. The fact that he was a talented, cutting-edge breeder and an intelligent rancher and businessman wasn’t in question.

The fact that he cunningly used people to ensure his own personal success was. His choices had driven him to ruin her father and others.

That was why she needed to take him down.

FLINT’S CHEST SWELLED with Lora Leigh’s compliment, even though an odd tone tinged her words, as if giving him praise pained her.

But why?

He’d read her résumé and files. She was smart—possibly brilliant—and specialized in equine care.

And she was a horse whisperer. That hadn’t been in her file, but it was obvious by the way the animals had quieted the moment she entered the barn. Her quiet, melodic voice had mesmerized them.

As it did him.

Workwise, they would make an incredible team.

But there was definitely an underlying tension between them, a disdain for him, which he couldn’t ignore. Besides, he wasn’t looking for a partner—just an employee who could complement his staff.

His cell phone trilled, jarring him from his thoughts. The chestnut Arabian whinnied and started to kick at the stall. Flint excused himself and stepped outside to check the phone number. The police.

Maybe they had information about who had sabotaged his shipment and killed his men. “Flint McKade speaking.”

“Mr. McKade, this is Detective Brody Green. I’d like to talk to you today.”

“Do you have a lead on who attacked my plane?”

“Let’s discuss it in person. I’ll be at your house at noon. Meet me then.”

Flint agreed and hung up, although anxiety knotted his gut. Knowing he had an enemy put him on edge.

He glanced back at the barn, then across his land. Overhead in the distance, he spotted a lone vulture soaring above a copse of trees, its talons bared, as if preparing to swoop down and attack, reminding him that he had a stalker of his own.

Was it possible that one of his own employees had sabotaged him? Had they wanted the Arabians or just to hurt his business?

Who had it in for him? Was it someone he knew and trusted, someone who worked for him or for a competitor?

He mentally ticked down a list.

His half brother, Tate, who hated him because Tate was a leech and Flint had cut him off financially? Lawrence McElroy, because Flint had outbid him for Diamond Daddy? Someone who didn’t like his connections to Viktor and the Middle East?

He hated to suspect his own men, people he considered part of his family, but having money meant making enemies, and he obviously had garnered at least one.