Kathleen O'Brien - The Rancher's Dream

If Campbell Ranch was going to make a name for itself, Grant needed a champion maker, a consistent producer with a good bloodline. And he needed her soon.

Dawn could be that mare.

Though she was very young, she already had the most extraordinary elegance—a high, airy motion and impeccable conformation. She had a swan-like neck, a flat topline, a perfectly dished head. Her eyes were soulful and intelligent.

Plus, as Barley pointed out, she had that indefinable something that made a star. Everyone fell in love with her. The best Arabians were as pretty in the face as cartoon horses, as powerful in carriage as thunderbolts and as graceful in motion as water. Dawn was all of that...and then some.

Barley finished the lesson, led Dawn to the carrots and then let her loose to romp a bit in the outdoor paddock.

Grant followed the filly with his gaze. She covered so much ground when she ran—and yet she still had amazing elevation. He wished he’d brought a video camera. It was a beautiful morning, the sun sparkling like an enormous gold sequin overhead, and the grass studded with a thousand wildflowers that seemed to have sprung up all at once.

Amid all that picture-postcard color, Dawn looked like a dancing sunbeam.

“Thanks,” Grant said as Barley sauntered over toward him at the fence. “You really brought her along today. If you can stay, the boarders need turnout, too. And I’d love to hear what you think about the horse in stall five. His owner wants to sell, but I’m not so sure. I’d planned to ride him a bit this week, but...”

Damn his useless arm. It was going to cost him a fortune to hire out all this work. And he hated feeling cooped up. Pinned down. Irrelevant. He loved the horses, and he loved this land. He wanted to be doing something active, something that mattered.

Instead, for the past three days, he’d been clumsily typing with one finger and making endless phone calls. And watching while other people did the real work.

“I can stay.” Barley shrugged, as if it was no big deal. “Olson said you needed help, and that cast there says he wasn’t kidding. I’m yours as long as you need me.”

Grant was relieved—and a little flattered. Everyone knew Barley operated more on gut instinct than on schedules. No one else could get away with being so elusive, but Barley could.

At first glance, he didn’t look particularly impressive. A scrawny older guy, probably not even ninety pounds dripping wet, with a big black mustache and curly black hair that fell to his shoulders. He walked bowlegged and dressed scruffy.

But he knew horses, and he could work miracles.

That meant he didn’t have to commit to anyone long-term, and he rarely did. He was like rain—you couldn’t summon it, and you couldn’t keep it from floating away to the next guy’s acres, but you were grateful for every drop that fell your way.

“Actually,” Grant corrected ruefully, “you’re only mine as long as I can afford you. Which, if I don’t sell Dawn Monday night, isn’t very long.”

“Monday night, huh?” Barley made a thoughtful sound between his teeth. Soberly, he bent over and plucked a snowdrop from a cluster of wildflowers growing beside the post. He threaded its stem into the top buttonhole of his vest. Then he tipped back his hat and watched Dawn cantering in the sunlight.

“That’s a damned shame, Campbell. Truly.”

“Yes,” Grant said with feeling. “Yes, it is.”

“Okay, then. I guess I’ll look at that horse in number five.” Barley saluted Grant wryly and started to walk away, but stopped after just a few feet and turned back. “Seriously, though. My best advice? Don’t let this one get away.”

Grant raised his brows. For a guy like Barley, who was infamous for his unflappable detachment, this was the equivalent of jumping up and down and screaming.

“Okay,” Grant said. “Message received. I’ll think it over.”

As he watched the little man stride away, the weaving gait of his bowlegs kicking up dirt, Grant tried to stay calm. No point letting wishful thinking run away with him.

The two truths weren’t incompatible. Barley could be quite right about Golden Dawn’s value, and Grant could also be quite right about needing to sell her.

But Grant was the only one who had the big picture. He was the only one who had seen both the horse and the solvency projections. All of his financial planner’s clever graphs and charts showed Campbell Ranch nose-diving straight into bankruptcy if they didn’t make their targeted income every month, rain or shine.

Without this sale, he didn’t even come close to that target. And that was before he factored in all the extra expenses his broken arm would create. Not to mention the medical co-pays and deductibles.

If he tried to hold on to every good horse he encountered, instead of selling it, he might as well shut up the ranch now and head out to Memphis, where his father-in-law so desperately wanted him to be, in the job his father-in-law was dangling like a carrot.

He liked Ben Broadwell. And the job, heading up the foundation to help disadvantaged youths with after-school programs, literacy tutors and various kinds of mentoring, was a worthwhile cause. But...

But Ben Broadwell wasn’t his father-in-law anymore, really. Not since Grant’s wife, Brenda, had died. And if Grant took that offer, it was as good as saying he would never be any more than a dead woman’s grieving widower.

That might be true, in the end. But surely he hadn’t reached the end yet. Surely there was still hope that he could build a meaningful life of his own.

So...he had to sell Dawn. Debate settled.

Or at least it should be. Still, he lingered by the paddock watching the filly romp and play awhile longer, even though his foot ached and a mountain of paperwork called.

“Hey, mister!”

He turned at the sound of Crimson’s voice. To his surprise, she was only ten feet away, walking toward him. She wore soft, faded jeans and a loose shirt as blue as the columbines she waded through.

The sun brought out auburn highlights in her silky brown hair and gilded her cheeks, turning her to a kind of gold, just as it had done with Dawn. He felt his body react to her simple, unfussy beauty and had to throw up his guard in a hurry before it could show on his face.

As she drew closer, with Molly draped over her shoulder, and her classic mischievous smile on her lips, she showed no signs of feeling awkward—or sensing that he did. She held up a closed fist and shook it teasingly, the way a gambler might shake a pair of dice before rolling them.

“Can I interest you in some of the good stuff, mister? I’ve been watching you. You look like you could use some serious acetaminophen.”

He checked his watch. He was at least two hours overdue. No wonder his foot was killing him.

“You’re an angel.” He accepted the pills and the small paper cup of water she’d been balancing in the hand that held Molly. He downed both pills in one swallow, realizing only afterward the cup was oddly soggy and bent around the rim.

He looked at the baby, who had swiveled in Crimson’s arms and was now watching him steadily, a frown on her cherubic face. She held out one fat hand and uttered a demanding syllable.

“Oh, sorry, was this yours?” Smiling as he put two and two together, he handed the crumpled cup back. He scraped his lips between his teeth in exaggerated distaste. “Yum,” he said. “Delicious.”

Crimson grinned as Molly gummed the ball of wet paper. “In some cultures, baby slime is considered a delicacy. And speaking of dinner...”

He laughed.

“Marianne tells me you’ve asked her to cater dinner for you Monday night.”

“Yeah.” He wasn’t aware she and Marianne chatted on a daily basis. “I’ve got a foreign buyer coming by. If he nibbles, it’s a big sale, so a little wining and dining seemed in order.”