of place, given the fact that he lived in a place like Latimer House.
“Just follow my lead and you’ll be fine,” Nate assured him.
“Can we pick any horse we want?”
Eden had told him the boys were fifteen to seventeen. This one, Nate decided, must have a growth hormone problem.
“Why don’t we let Mr. Marshall choose this time,” Kirk said. “He’ll know better how to match you up with a horse that isn’t a runner, or worse, one that isn’t of a mind to move at all.”
The suggestion satisfied them, and like mustangs, the boys charged ahead, laughing like four-year-olds as they raced toward the barn.
“Hey, fellas,” he called after them, “hold it down, or you’ll spook ’em.”
Instantly, they quieted and slowed their pace. This might not be such a bad weekend after all. If they survived the ride—and what he had in mind for them next.
As the assistant joined the boys, Eden fell into step beside him. “This is really nice of you, Nate. Not many people are willing to give kids like these a chance. I hope you’ll consider inviting them back. At your convenience, of course. Because being out here in the fresh air, learning about horses and cattle...” She exhaled a happy sigh. “I just know they’re going to love this!”
Since losing Miranda, Nate had made a habit of saying no. But there stood Eden, blinking up at him with long-lashed gray eyes. He couldn’t say, “Let’s see how the rest of the weekend goes,” because yet again, his brain had seized on the “kids like these” part of her comment. What had they done to earn the title?
“I wasn’t the best-behaved young’un myself.” He hoped the admission would invite an explanation.
“That’s true of most of us, don’t you think?”
Nate noticed that Eden had to half-run to keep up with his long-legged stride. Slowing his pace, he said, “So how did you hear about the Double M?”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you when we spoke on the phone?”
She had, but he wanted to see her face as she repeated it.
“We have a mutual friend. Shamus Magee. He suggested this might be a good change of pace for these city-born-and-raised boys of mine.”
His grandfather often referred to Shamus as “good people,” and that was good enough for Nate.
“And I asked for you, specifically,” she continued, “instead of your dad or one of your uncles.”
“Why?”
“I read all about you in Sports Illustrated. You know, the issue where they featured major leaguers who...”
She trailed off, telling Nate she didn’t know how to broach the subject of the accident that ended his pitching career—and killed his fiancée—two years ago.
“Does the shoulder still bother you much?”
“I can predict the weather now,” he said, grinning, “but that’s about it.” It wasn’t, despite months of grueling physical therapy. And the head shrinker that’d helped him come to terms with his Miranda issues. But he had no intention of dredging up bad memories with someone he’d just met—and would likely never see again.
“They’d never admit it,” she said, using her chin as a pointer, “but they were more excited about meeting a baseball star than spending the weekend at a ranch.” She paused for a step or two, then added, “Think you’ll ever go back? To baseball, I mean?”
“No. Too much damage.” He reflexively rotated the shoulder and winced at the slight twinge. “But it doesn’t keep me from doing things around here, so...”
He’d never seen eyes the color of a storm sky before. Funny that instead of cold or danger, they hinted at warmth and sweetness. He hadn’t felt anything—anything—for a woman since the accident, and didn’t know how to react to his interest in her. Nate tugged his hat lower on his forehead. Unfortunately, it did nothing to block his peripheral vision.
“And anyway, that was then, and this is now.”
She leaned forward slightly, looked up into his face. “Ah, so you’re one of those guys who isn’t comfortable with compliments?”
Nate only shrugged.
“The boys were fascinated when I told them about your baseball history.” She glanced toward the barn. “Something tells me when they get to know you better, they’ll have an even bigger case of hero worship.”
Hero worship. The words made him cringe. Before every game, fans from four to ninety-four lined the fence beside the outfield, waving programs, caps, even paper napkins in the hope of acquiring a signature. He’d taken a lot of heat from teammates when a kid in the autograph line slapped the label on him. “We’re not heroes,” he’d blurted, thinking of his cousin Zach, who’d served multiple tours of duty in Afghanistan, and his cousin Sam, a firefighter in Nashville. “Fans oughta look to soldiers, firefighters and cops as their heroes, not a bunch of overpaid athletes like us.” The beating he took from the media had taught him to let his teammates do the talking from that point on, but it hadn’t changed his mind on the subject.
“I hope they know what a bunch of garbage that is...and how to recognize a bona fide hero when they see one.”
Confusion drew her eyebrows together, and he pretended not to notice by focusing on the boys, who stood just inside the barn. A few still looked bored, but most seemed excited about saddling up. And then there was the smallest one, with that deadpan expression. He’d have to keep an eye on that one.
Using Patches as his example, Nate showed the teens how to approach a horse and where to stand, and after saddling each horse, he explained how their attitudes would put the animals at ease—or rile them. Before long, the group was ambling single file on the bridle path that ringed the Double M pond before meandering into the woods beyond the corral, doing their best to stay upright and in control of their mounts. “I’m just so proud I could cry!” Eden said, bringing her horse alongside his. “They’ll remember this for the rest of their lives. I can’t thank you enough, Nate. You don’t know how much good you’ve already done them.”
He was too busy wondering what her hair looked like under that Baltimore Orioles baseball cap to answer. Was it long and thick? Or did it just seem that way because of the curly bangs poking out from under the bill?
She quirked an eyebrow, proof that she’d caught him staring.
“What’s with the hat? You’re not a Colorado Rockies fan?” With any luck, she’d believe it had been the Orioles logo that had captured his attention, not her pretty face.
“I was born in Baltimore, and my dad held season tickets. He took me and my brother to nearly every home game.” On the heels of a wistful sigh, she added, “I sure do miss him...”
“How long ago did you lose him?”
She waved, as if the question was an annoying mosquito. “My folks were killed nearly fifteen years ago.”
Her tone told him something more sinister than an accident had been responsible for their deaths. But how her parents had died was none of his business. Maybe he’d ask Shamus.
“Afterward, we came to live with my dad’s parents, here in Denver. After graduation, my brother went back east for a while. Joined the Baltimore County police force. But a year or so ago, Stuart signed on with the Boulder PD.” Smirking, she drew quote marks in the air. “To keep an eye on me, he said.”
A good idea, considering what she did for a living. “How old were you guys when you moved here?”
“I was twelve, Stuart was nine.”
Nate could only shake his head. At that age, he’d spent half his time shirking chores and the other