Peggy Moreland - The Restless Virgin

“So your daddy doesn’t ranch?”

Colby sighed, obviously disappointed. “No. He’s a developer. He buys land, divides it all up, builds streets and stuff then sells it to builders.”

Which explained to Sam the neglect she’d seen upon first entering the ranch. Nash Rivers wouldn’t spend time or money on fences and cultivation if he was planning to subdivide the property for development.

She frowned, remembering the rusted sign that she’d driven under proclaiming the place Rivers Ranch. At one time, someone named Rivers had ranched the land. If not Nash, then who? “Have y’all lived here long?” she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“About a year. We lived in San Antonio when I was little, but when my grandpa died, we moved here.”

His father’s ranch, then, not Nash’s. Probably an inheritance, Sam decided.

“Before we lived in San Antonio, we lived in Dallas,” Colby added. “Daddy didn’t like Dallas after my mother died. He said it held too many memories, so we moved to San Antonio.”

That the child could speak so matter-of-factly about her mother’s death surprised Sam. She’d lost her own mother when she was barely two, and though she didn’t remember her, she never thought of her without feeling a swell of tears.

“How old were you when your mother died?” she asked softly.

“About eight hours. She was a diabetic. She wasn’t supposed to have any babies, but Daddy said she wanted me so bad that she was willing to give up her own life just so that I could be born. That’s pretty cool, isn’t it?”

The tale was heartbreaking, and made even more so by the emotionless way in which Colby told it. Sam had to ease her breath out before she could answer. “Yeah, that’s pretty cool.”

“Daddy says I look like her, but I’ve got her picture in my room on my nightstand and I don’t think we look anything alike. Except for the color of our hair, maybe. She was blond like me, but her hair was straight and pretty and mine’s all kinky and curly.” Wrinkling her nose, Colby wadded a fistful of hair in her hand then let it drop in disgust. “Daddy says it would probably look better if I’d put a comb through it sometimes, but, heck, it just gets tangled up all over again.”

Sam bit back a grin as she bent over to lift Whiskey’s front hoof to clean it out. Did the kid ever run out of breath?

“Anyways,” Colby went on, with a dismissing wave of her hand, “Daddy loved my mother a lot and sometimes I can tell he still misses her. Are you married?”

The question came out of nowhere and caught Sam off guard. “W-well, no,” she stammered as she dropped Whiskey’s hoof and moved to pick up his rear one.

“How come?”

Sam felt heat creep up her neck. She bent her head over her work, digging the hoof pick under a clump of dirt and stone. “I don’t know. Too busy doctoring horses, I guess.”

Colby grinned, showing off the gap where her front tooth should have been. “Maybe you could marry my daddy. He’s always telling me I need a mother.”

Whiskey’s hoof slipped from Sam’s grasp. Mother? She hauled in a steadying breath and moved to the opposite side of the horse, out of sight of Colby. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. Your daddy would probably like to do his own choosing.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t care. He usually lets me have pretty much what I want, anyway.”

And Sam didn’t doubt that for a minute. Biting back a smile, she replied, “That may be true, but your daddy needs to do the choosing, just the same.” Before Colby got any more ideas in that pretty little head of hers, Sam quickly exchanged Whiskey’s halter for a bridle. “Where do you warm him up?” she asked, hoping to put an end to the discussion.

Colby hopped down from the gate. “There’s an arena out back. Well, not an arena, really. My grandpa used it to work cattle, but it’s big and I’ve got barrels set up for practicing, so I call it an arena.”

Sam chuckled, pausing to ruffle the girl’s hair. The child talked a mile a minute, giving her life history when a simple answer would suffice. “Okay, then. Let’s head for the arena and we’ll see what Whiskey can do.”

Once outside, Sam used an old feed bucket as a step to mount the horse, while Colby climbed onto the fence. There was no way Sam’s long legs would bend enough to fit into Colby’s stirrups, so she simply let her feet dangle at the horse’s sides.

Whiskey danced a bit at the unaccustomed weight, then settled down to a walk. Making smooching noises at the horse, Sam eased him into a trot, circled the arena a few times, then ordered him to lope. The horse responded easily to each change of command. Pleased, Sam reined him to a fast stop, then made him back up a few steps.

She grinned over at Colby. “Nice horse.”

Colby beamed. “Thanks. Are you going to run the barrels?”

Though she hadn’t run a barrel pattern in years, the temptation was too much for Sam. “Do you mind?”

“Heck, no! Whiskey’s fast, though, so you better be ready to turn and burn!”

Sam laughed at the barrel-racing term as she guided the horse into position. Drawing a bead on the first barrel, Sam blanked everything else out. Beneath her, she felt the anticipation build in Whiskey. That he was a competitor was obvious in the quiver of muscle, the increased tension on the reins, the tossing of his head. Already seeing herself running the pattern, Sam squeezed her legs against the horse’s sides. He bolted forward and she had to keep a tight rein to keep him from getting away from her.

Wind ripped her cap off her head just before they reached the first barrel and sent it spinning behind them. Preparing for the turn, Sam shifted her weight, while sliding her hand down the rein and squeezing her right leg against the horse’s side.

Whiskey responded immediately, rating himself for the turn and digging into the freshly plowed earth with his rear hooves. He came out of the first turn and raced for the second. Subconsciously, Sam noted the smooth lead change, the bunching of finely honed muscles and the burst of power as he wrapped the second and headed for the third.

Grinning from the sheer pleasure of it all, she turned the last barrel and gave Whiskey his head as he raced for home. Bracing a hand against the saddle horn, she reined him to a dust-churning stop, then tossed back her head and laughed.

“Wow, Sam! You’re good!” Colby called out.

“Whiskey’s a good horse,” Sam replied, turning him toward the fence where Colby waited.

“He ought to be. I paid enough for him.”

Sam’s smile slowly wilted as she realized that Nash had joined his daughter at the fence. He stood with one foot propped on the lowest rail, his arms braced along the top one. He’d removed his jacket and tie while at the house and rolled his shirtsleeves halfway up his forearms, revealing tanned skin and a smattering of dark hair. The wind played with his razor-cut hairstyle, blowing a tuft of it across his forehead. The result was a combination of mouthwatering maleness and little-boy charm.

Maybe you could marry my daddy. He’s always telling me I need a mother.

Remembering Colby’s words, Sam swallowed hard as she met Nash’s gaze.

“You’ve obviously ridden barrels before,” he commented.

Gray eyes watched her, measuring her while he waited for a response. Self-consciously, Sam tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “I started when I was about Colby’s age and quit when—well, when I went away to college.”

“So what do you think of Whiskey?”

Uncomfortable meeting his gaze, Sam ducked her head and leaned forward to scratch the horse’s ears. “He’s a good horse. Well-trained, even-tempered, but a competitor. The bit might be part of the problem. He seems to fight it a little. A combination might suit him better.” She lifted her head. “But before I can offer an opinion on whether he’s well matched with Colby, I’ll need to see her ride.”