She’d Bet Her Best Pair Of Dress Boots That He Could Charm Any Woman Right Out Of Her Garters.
The rancher’s wide, muscular shoulders, narrow hips and long, sinewy legs attested to the fact that he kept himself in excellent physical condition. When he’d hauled her out of the corral, he’d moved with the effortless power of a race horse, and she had no doubt about the identity of the “thoroughbred” glaring down at her. His authoritative presence, arrogant stance and dark scowl could only mean one thing. This was none other than Flint McCray, the lord and master of the Rocking M Ranch—her new employer.
And at the moment he looked mad enough to spit nails. It seemed that the handsome cowboy hadn’t expected his new horseman to be a filly.
Jenna’s smile widened. Time for a showdown!
The Rough and Ready Rancher
Kathie DeNosky
KATHIE DENOSKY
lives in deep Southern Illinois and enjoys dining out, factory outlet malls, traveling through the southern and southwestern states and collecting Native American pottery. After reading and enjoying Silhouette Desires for many years, she is ecstatic about being able to share her stories with others as a Silhouette author. She often starts her day at 2:00 a.m. so she can write without interruption, before the rest of the family is up and about.
Kathie and her husband, Charlie, have three children. Two are in college and the other is working with special needs children. You may write to Kathie at P.O. Box 2064, Herrin, Il 62948-5264.
To Kathie Brush, who was there when the dream began. To Bonnie and Huntley for encouraging the dream. And to Tina Colombo and Joan Marlow Golan for making the dream come true.
And to Wes Bennett, Braden Rathert and Forrest the Intern Boy. Thanks for the laughter, the encouragement and playing the music that inspires me to write.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
One
Flint McCray stopped thumbing through the papers on his desk to glare at his ranch foreman. “If Adams doesn’t show up within the next hour, he’s out of a job.”
“Simmer down, Flint.” Brad Henson lowered his lanky frame into a soft, leather armchair. “Cal Reynolds assured me J. J. Adams is the best horse trainer he’s ever seen step into a round pen. You know if the guy has Cal’s stamp of approval, he should be worth the wait.”
Flint considered Brad’s words. Reynolds was one of the most respected quarter horse ranchers in the state of Texas. His word should set Flint’s mind at ease, but gut instinct told him something didn’t ring true about the whole situation. “If Adams is so good, why haven’t I heard of him before now?”
“Let’s face it, since you got custody of Ryan you’ve had more important things on your mind than finding a trainer for that son of a sidewinder you insist on calling a horse.”
Pride and a sense of awe filled Flint at the mention of his son. “Now that I have Ryan, Black Satin’s training should be all I have to worry about for a while.”
His expression grave, Brad shook his head. “I don’t think so. We got hit again last night.”
“The herd up on Widow’s Ridge?” At Brad’s tight nod, Flint slammed his ink pen on the desk. “How many this time?”
“Near as I can figure about fifteen head.” Brad hesitated, then squarely met Flint’s furious gaze. “You haven’t heard the worst. Rocket became one hell of an expensive steer overnight.”
“On Widow’s Ridge?”
Brad nodded. “He had help getting there, too. Either that or he’s learned to open and close locked gates.”
“Damn!”
“Looks to me like somebody’s trying to even a score, Flint.”
“Castrating a twenty-five-thousand dollar bull? No question about it.” Flint leaned back from his desk to rub the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “But I’ll be damned if I can figure out who it would be or why.”
“Flint, you’d better get down to the barn,” Jed Summers shouted, rushing into the room. “Some kid’s shinnied the fence and is standin’ smack-dab in the middle of Satin’s corral.”
Flint grabbed the wide brim of his black Resistol, jammed it on his head and bolted from the chair. With both men hot on his heels, he covered the distance to the horse barns on the far side of the ranch compound where several of his men had gathered in horrified fascination.
For Flint time stood deathly still, and the air became smothering as the stallion bore down on the slender form inside the corral. Dust swirled where the stallion churned up dirt with his hooves, the beast’s intent clear. But to Flint’s amazement, the boy showed no sign of fear and sidestepped the charge at the last possible moment.
Black Satin’s blue-black coat gleaming, Flint watched the horse paw the ground and shake his head, preparing to make another pass. Flint felt a moment of hope when the unconcerned youth began a litany of unintelligible words the stallion seemed to consider, appeared to understand. But a muttered curse from one of the men broke the spell, and the horse reared on powerful hind legs, his hooves slashing the air as he screamed his rage.
Besides having a death wish, Flint couldn’t imagine what the kid was up to, but he’d seen enough. “Brad, ease around and open the gate,” he ordered, his voice a low monotone. “Jim, you and Tom get your ropes ready. If Satin doesn’t go for the pasture when that gate opens, I want a loop on him from each side.” Readying himself, he placed a booted foot on the bottom rail of the fence. “Hold him in a cross-tie long enough for me to get that damned kid out of there.”
When the horse failed to take the freedom the opened gate offered, Flint vaulted the fence and hit the ground running. His arms closed around the slight body at the same moment two ropes settled over the stallion’s neck. Tossing the youth over his shoulder, he hauled the kid from the corral.
“What the hell were you doing in there?” he demanded, setting the boy on his feet.
“My job.”
Flint started to berate the kid for pulling such a dangerous stunt, but his voice lodged somewhere between his vocal chords and open mouth when the brim of the lowered hat rose and twinkling, gray eyes locked with his startled gaze. Her unquestionably female lips forming a smile, the woman removed the battered Stetson, and a thick cascade of dark-blond hair fell to her shoulders.
“I’m J. J. Adams,” she said, extending her hand.
Flint felt as if a mule had kicked him right between the eyes. Ignoring the gesture, he allowed his gaze to slide the length of her. The curves disguised by her loose denim jacket suddenly became quite apparent. Firm, round breasts rose and fell with her labored breathing, and her jeans, worn white in certain tantalizing areas, were filled out to perfection.
He