Peggy Moreland - The Restless Virgin

He lowered his gaze to hers, one brow arched higher than the other, then glanced back over her head toward his daughter. “Watching.”

Sam huffed a breath and took a step back, stuffing her hands into her back pockets. “Watch somewhere else. You’re in my way.”

“It’s a big arena. I’d think there’s ample room for two adults to watch without any trouble.”

“Fine,” she snarled. “You can stay here. I’m moving.” She stalked off, headed for the far end of the arena...and could’ve sworn she heard Nash chuckle. The idea that he would laugh at her made her that much more angry. “Okay, Colby,” she said irritably, “lope.”

Whiskey responded immediately, charging forward. “Slow him down,” Sam yelled. “This is a lope, not a race.”

Colby dutifully obeyed, giving the reins a sharp tug, and Whiskey settled into a slow lope. Sam nodded her approval as she hitched a boot on a rail behind her. She tucked her fingers into her front pockets and settled her shoulders against the fence. Nash stood where she’d left him, his hands braced on his hips, his dress shirt a shocking white compared to the faded barn behind him. A little too white, Sam decided. A slow, devious smile chipped at one corner of her mouth.

“Take him to the middle, Colby,” she ordered, “and give me a fast stop.”

Dust churned as Colby swung Whiskey around, then rose into a cloud when the horse slid to a stop on his haunches inches from where Nash stood.

Choking on dust and fanning the air in front of his face, Nash sputtered, “Dam it, Colby! Didn’t you see me standing here?”

Colby’s chin quivered. “I was just doing what Sam told me to do. You did say that she was the boss.”

Nash turned to glare at Sam, and though she tried her best not to smile, she failed miserably. Serves him right, she told herself, for being so dam stubborn.

Brushing at the dust on his shirtfront, Nash shifted his gaze back to Colby. “Well, next time, look where you’re going.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

He heaved a deep breath, then lifted a hand to pat her knee. “That’s okay, sweetheart. I know you didn’t do it on purpose.”

Enjoying herself immensely, Sam shouted, “That was a good stop, Colby. Now let’s see some figure eights. Trot him once through the pattern so you can show him what you want him to do, then lope. Remember to keep his nose tucked to the center and use your legs to keep him shaped.”

Sam smothered a laugh as she watched Nash jump out of the way, then hustle to the side of the arena as Colby followed Sam’s directions.

After a series of seven or more figure eights, Sam instructed Colby to walk Whiskey a couple of laps to cool him off while she set up the barrels. Crossing to the third barrel she tipped it over and rolled it into place. The barrel was old and rusted from years of exposure. As she righted it, she caught a glimpse of Nash watching her, frowning... and another idea occurred to her. “How about you set the first one,” she called to him.

Still frowning, Nash gave the barrel closest to him a nudge with his shoe and sent it toppling over. Leaning over, he gave it a shove, rolling it into position, then caught the top rim and levered it upright. Opening his hands, he stared down at the rust and dirt that covered them. He twisted left and right, searching for something to wipe them on.

“What’s the matter, Nash?” Sam mocked. “Haven’t you ever gotten your hands dirty before?”

He turned to scowl at her, then plucked a white handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped furiously at his hands. Sam tossed back her head and laughed as she headed for the remaining barrel. Whistling happily, she turned it over, gave it a push with her boot and sent it rolling.

Nash watched her, his eyes narrowing. Damn woman! She was trying to make a fool of him, he was sure. “Well, two can play at this game,” he muttered under his breath. While Sam was still perched like a pelican, ready to give the barrel another shove, Nash stole up behind her, hooked a foot around the boot that was planted on the ground and gave a sharp tug. Sam yelped, beating wildly at the air in an attempt to regain her balance, but ended up facedown on the ground. She came up spitting dirt, her hands doubled into fists at her sides as she whirled to face Nash.

He smiled sweetly. “What’s the matter, Sam? Haven’t you ever gotten your hands dirty before?”

“You overgrown juvenile delinquent!” she muttered through clenched teeth.

“Me?” he asked innocently, touching the pad of a finger to his chest. “Isn’t that a little like the pot calling the kettle black?” He stepped closer and thumbed a speck of dirt from her face, then left his hand there to cup her cheek. His lips quirked in a teasing smile. “You know, you’re kind of cute when you’re mad.”

Sam felt the blood drain from her face as the pad of each finger, the swell of flesh at the base of his thumb burned into her cheek. Though she expected the familiar panic to set in, she was aware of nothing but the gentleness of his fingers, their underlying strength, and the clear gray eyes that smiled down at her. Heat burned through her and lit a fiery path all the way to her lower abdomen where it settled into a burning pool of fire. The sensation was a rare one for Sam and so unexpected she didn’t know what to do with it. Falling back on her anger, she hauled off and took a swing at him.

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