Three river ranch, p.6
Three River Ranch, page 6
“What about the possibility of it working out in your favor?”
“Yeah, right. Look, Jonah, I appreciate how hard you’ve worked on this estate. It’s a disaster and I haven’t been—”
“Helpful? Cooperative? How about present?” interjected Jonah.
“Being here reminds me of just how little faith my father had in me. Maybe I’m too late to change his mind, but I’m going to keep this place and I’m going to do it on my own terms.”
“I’m sure you will, Carson,” Jonah said. “Grangers always get their way in the end, don’t they?” And then he’d hung up.
Carson thought about the exchange as he stood in the old lodge and surveyed the mess. The Granger stubbornness was legendary, but it wasn’t all bad; perseverance would help him reclaim the building for human habitation. Dogged tenacity had certainly played a role in both his and Mitch’s professional success. But it hadn’t done their relationships any favors. Maybe they were doomed to fail in that regard because they’d lacked a woman’s influence at a critical time in their lives. What kind of men would he and his brother have become if their mother hadn’t died? What kind of man would Derek have been, if he hadn’t lost his wife?
A disquieting idea intruded: would the new proximity of Aurora McAllister affect him and his work?
Carson pushed the thought from his head, sweeping a path to the drop-cloth-covered heap in the corner of the room. He lifted the edge, shielding his face against the rising plume of dust. A table, solid pine. He peered closely, smiling when he found the rough scars: CG and MG. Then his smile faded. They’d paid for that trick.
The matching chairs were stacked behind the table. He’d have to find someone to haul it all away. Well, maybe not his mother’s secretary desk.
There was another piece, behind everything. A cradle? He dragged it out, noting it was in decent shape. Who knew his dad had kept it all these years? He shoved it off to the side. Rory could have it if she wanted. Save him from junking it.
He forced his thoughts back to Stormy, and the foal she carried. The image of Rory’s face, as she’d read the history of the horses, popped into his mind. Carson knew that, in his family, when it came to the wild horses, he was on his own. Oh, there were other people who felt the same about the Spanish mustangs, but they were scattered across the continent. Even Laura hadn’t understood that horses were more than a job to him, that he came alive when he was around them. How had he not seen then that their relationship was doomed?
Then suddenly, here, in his childhood home, he’d seen that same spark in the eyes of a stranger who, by her own admission, didn’t know a thing about horses but was inexplicably fluent in such topics as dominant and recessive genes for color patterns, plus had an instinctive knowledge of horse behavior.
More disquieting thoughts for him to ignore.
He finished sweeping up and returned to the guesthouse, relieved to see that Rory hadn’t yet returned from her errands in Chinook. Carson picked up his reports from the table, then stood for a moment, surveying the boxes of books he’d carried from Rory’s car. Chewing on his lip, he pulled open the flap of one, tipped his head, and ran his finger over the spines.
Canine Genetics. The Complete Handbook of Canine Midwifery. Genetics for Dog Breeders. The Whelping and Rearing of Puppies.
Carson straightened up abruptly. Oh, no. Don’t tell me she’s breeding that mutt of hers. She’d mentioned pet-assisted therapy with Mistral. She never said anything about puppies.
He remembered her smile when he commented on the dog’s girth.
This was too much. Pregnant mare. Pregnant woman. Now the dog was pregnant, too? Seriously?
He spent what was left of the day mending corral fences and trying not to think. His dream was nearly a reality. The bureaucratic nightmare required to turn Three River Ranch into a mustang study center and sanctuary was almost over. One more meeting for final approval and he’d have the funds to purchase the ranch outright, as a not-for-profit research facility. He hated keeping Stormy confined but it was too early to let her go yet. Once the foal was born, and he’d located her herd, he’d let her loose to join them. For now, she needed the safety of the corral, and he’d make it as large as he could.
Stormy watched him from the farthest corner, pawing the ground occasionally, but otherwise they spent several peaceful hours together. The setting sun was painting the ground red and gold when suddenly, she snorted, lifted her head high, and peered intently at something far up the hillside. Her ribs contracted as she gave a long, high whinny of excitement.
Carson froze, listening as hard as he could. From a distance came the answering calls of other horses, a response that set Stormy’s hooves dancing back and forth along the pole fence. He grinned and bit back a whoop of joy.
“That’s why you’re here, girl,” he told her softly. “I know you miss your friends. Soon you’ll be with them again, and you’ll meet some new ones—you and your baby. Just be patient.”
She tossed her head, her long mane flickering across the waning light like tongues of black flame, and it looked to Carson as though she understood. It was self-indulgent to think like that, but it’s what he wanted to believe. Ever since he’d brought Stormy back with him, Carson had wondered if he’d made the right decision. Wild horses suffered so much stress in captivity that most of them simply stopped eating and faded away. She’d barely escaped the bullets that killed so many of her herd, and now this was her only chance. She and her foal would bring fresh blood, pure Spanish mustang blood, into the resident band of the future Three River Mustang Study Center.
…
The coffee shop next to the post office had wireless Internet, so Rory took the opportunity to grab a nonfat, decaf latte, check her e-mail, and do some online banking. Her moving expenses had been costlier than anticipated, but the rest of her savings should last the year out, especially now that she wasn’t paying rent. As long as she stayed put until the baby came, she’d be all right. After that, well, she pushed the thought out of her head. Surely she would have worked out something better by then. She had to.
She spent the rest of her time responding to e-mails from various friends and colleagues, including several from Desiree. Before she knew it, it was time to meet Sabrina. But just as she got up from her chair, her cell phone chirped with a text. Sabrina had to reschedule due to a patient going into labor.
Rory texted back immediately, aware of an uncomfortable mixture of relief, panic, and shame. Much as she was looking forward to seeing her friend, she was nervous, too. Rory dreaded letting Sabrina see the depth of her dread—plus the weight of doing it alone, without someone to hold her hand, to mop her brow, to help her stay strong through the pain. Up until now, she’d successfully avoided thinking about the actual birth in an up-close-and-personal way.
Coward.
Wasn’t there supposed to be some kind of instinct that took away the fear? She just wished she could fast-forward through the last bit of unpleasantness.
Don’t worry, little one. Doesn’t mean I’m not looking forward to meeting you.
Rory used her extra time to contact the service dog organization. They already had homes lined up for the first year of puppy raising, and, with the big day fast approaching, she wanted to assure them that everything was on track. That and collect the deposit they’d agreed on. Thank goodness for PayPal, she thought again.
“You’re no golden goose,” she said to Mistral on the drive back to the ranch, “but we’re doing this for all the families out there who need someone like you. If Carson doesn’t like it, too bad.”
But despite her brave words, she worried about his reaction when he learned that puppies would be arriving. Not that she cared; it wasn’t her fault they were stuck living together. She’d expected to be rearing her first litter of therapy dogs alone in her new house, not with a strange man who was as anxious to leave as she was to be rid of him. Surely, by the time her own baby arrived, they’d be sorted out.
She suddenly remembered the warmth of his bare chest against her face, and she winced in embarrassment.
“That was unpleasant,” she said to Mistral.
The dog gazed back mournfully, as if grieving her owner’s self-deception. Okay, so she’d felt some sort of primal attraction to the man. But it didn’t mean anything. It was just an instinct to hunker down next to a strong caveman, for the protection of the cave-baby.
Thank goodness for progress.
Besides, she’d already messed her baby up once, father-wise. She had no intention of doing it again.
“Don’t give me that look.” Rory’s eyes narrowed and she focused on the road. “Okay, so I like the way he’s put together. What do you know? You got pregnant with a syringe.”
Chapter Seven
Carson met Rory at the gate, swung it open for her, then followed behind her as she pulled up to the guesthouse and got out of the car. Excitement radiated off him, loosening his gait and opening his face. Rory’s pulse leaped in response.
“What’s the big grin about? You look like you won the lottery.”
“Horses,” he answered, his eyes crinkling. He tipped his head up the hill toward the corral. “Come here.”
Rory gestured for Mistral to follow, but the dog ignored her, slinking, tail-down, into the house.
“What’s her problem?”
Rory made a face. “It’s time for a haircut. She hates getting groomed.”
Carson laughed. “And you think she knows?”
“I know she knows.”
“I highly doubt that. She’s a dog.” Carson paused, looked up at the sky. “And you never said what kind of shelter rescue she is.”
Rory cut icy eyes at him, gave a minute shake of her head. Then in measured tones, she explained: “Mistral is a registered F-four Australian labradoodle. Her bloodlines go back to the seventies, when the original foundation dogs were first carefully selected, tested, and bred. I know her pedigree better than I know my own.”
“Labradoodle.” Carson thought for a moment. “You mean a cross between a Labrador retriever and a poodle?”
“That’s how the breed began, yes. Come on, Carson. Surely you remember genetics 101.”
“F-four.” He gave his head a shake. “Seriously? She’s a fourth-generation cross?”
Rory nodded. “They’re considered purebred at F-five, and F-fives are very valuable. There are a lot of people breeding Labradors and poodles together and thinking the pups are labradoodles, but those are backyard hybrids. F-ones. There’s no way to predict what traits will be expressed in the puppies. They aren’t multigenerational Australian labradoodles.”
“But why,” Carson said, “would anyone bother trying to create a new breed? Especially one with such a stupid name?”
“It is a dumb name,” agreed Rory. “But the breed came about because people wanted non-shedding service dogs. Labs are great with disabled people, but they shed. Most allergic people are okay with poodles, and they’re extremely smart, but they’re too active. The thinking was, take two intelligent breeds and aim for the placid temperament of one with the non-shedding quality of the other. Bingo, the perfect service dog. I’ve already got a waiting list for her puppies.”
But he wasn’t listening anymore. They’d reached the corral, and Rory immediately noticed the reason for Carson’s sudden attention shift. Something was different about Stormy. The horse held her head higher, her ears erect, and she appeared to be looking for something on the horizon.
“What is it?” she whispered, reaching for Carson’s arm. “What’s she looking for?”
“Wait,” he breathed in response.
They stood together, as still as the horse, when suddenly, off in the distance, she heard the high, drawn-out call. It shimmered on the wind, then dropped to a low rumble before fading away.
Rory felt her heart leap as the mare immediately answered, her tail rising and flicking. As she pranced along the pole fence, the barrel of her ribs and the belly below it bounced heavily.
“Who is that?”
“There’s a wild band out there. I think the ones I released have joined them. Hear that? That’s the stallion, and he wants her,” Carson said.
Something about the way Carson said the words made Rory’s pulse race. She dropped her hand from his arm and hugged her elbows, suddenly hyperaware of her own skin.
“He wants her?” she repeated, her voice husky.
“Oh, yeah,” Carson answered, then gave a small laugh from deep in his throat. “Foal heat.”
“Foal heat?” She seemed unable to come up with a coherent thought of her own. It was his fault; he was standing close to her, too close. She couldn’t think. The green scent of alfalfa mingled with horseflesh and sweat. Perhaps it was the warmth of the evening air, suddenly heavy against her skin. She wished she could peel off her shirt and let a breeze drift over her.
“Wild mares go into a heat again a week or two after foaling.”
“So soon?” Rory’s mouth was dry, her voice hoarse.
“They’re pregnant for nearly a year. Three hundred and forty days, give or take. This ensures that foals are born in spring, when they’re most likely to survive.”
“And the stallion knows?”
Carson laughed, low in his throat. “He knows.”
“Will they wait for her?”
Carson nodded. “He’ll keep his harem nearby. As soon as she drops her foal, I’ll let her join them.” He paused, swallowed. “Next year, she’ll carry his foal.”
“She won’t try to break out?”
“She would, if she could,” Carson said, “but she’s too big to jump the fence right now. And look.”
The mare pulled a mouthful of hay from the rack and began chomping on it with the most determination she’d shown since meeting Mistral.
“If she keeps eating properly,” he continued, “she’ll regain the weight she lost and be in great shape when the foal comes.”
“This is great news, isn’t it?” Rory turned to look at him, and saw on his face, just for a moment, the echo of her own excitement.
“It is.” He smiled at her fully then, and it was as if a lightbulb turned on inside him. “It really is.”
…
Again, Carson recognized with amazement, she’d known. As soon as she’d heard the wild bunch in the hills, she’d understood. This strange woman with her bizarre dog and her self-declared ignorance of anything equine understood what the presence of the wild band meant to the frightened, pregnant mustang.
Even more disturbing, Rory understood what the arrival of the wild horses meant to him. He could still feel the warmth of her hand on the flesh of his arm, burning through the fabric down to the muscle and bone and blood, so that he felt now as if her touch had become part of him and without it, he was missing something vital.
The way her face shone.
No one, no one had ever understood what these horses made him feel. Even he couldn’t explain it fully.
And without words, with the feather-light touch of her fingers, she’d shown him that she felt it, too. In other circumstances…no. He stopped himself. He wasn’t even free to consider the possibility of attraction, thanks to his father. What woman would believe he was interested in her, for her own sake, when so much money was on the line? And, for the same reason, any woman interested in him was suspect.
A cloud of gravel dust signaled the arrival of a vehicle in the yard, and Carson leaped at the excuse to change the subject, pushing away the vague internal nudge that he’d missed something important.
“Zach’s here,” he said, pushing away from the fence and brushing dust off his jeans. He strode to the ridge and waved his arms, gesturing for the new arrival to join them at the corral. “He’s from the next ranch over. Twinridge. He brought the rest of my horses. He’s got a bigger trailer.”
“More horses?” Alarm rose in Rory’s voice. “How many more?”
“Saddle horses,” he answered with a smile. “Domestic ones. And only three of them. Don’t worry, these ponies are tame as house cats.”
“I sincerely doubt that,” Rory said. “Sounds more like a rodeo to me. I’d love to meet your friend, but I’m sorry. I have a date with a scruffy dog.”
Yet before she could escape, the pickup pulled to a stop and a man materialized from behind the horse trailer. Like Carson, he was tall and lean, but unlike Carson, his dark eyes flashed with humor. He strode up to Rory and stuck out a hand.
“Hi, I’m Zach Gamble,” he said, pulling off his hat with his other hand. “You must be the monkey wrench.”
“Rory McAllister,” Carson said quickly, noting the look of confusion on Rory’s face. He shot a glare at Zach. “My friend Zach, the failed comedian.”
“How do you like Blaine County, Rory?” Zach asked.
She smiled wryly. “You know,” she said, putting one hand on a hip, “when I first drove up here, I thought it was the most beautiful countryside I’d ever seen. Then when I got to my house—I mean, Carson’s house,” she stumbled and blushed.
“We had a little misunderstanding about the old place,” Carson explained graciously. “The joy of probate. All cleared up now.”
“Anyway,” Rory continued, frowning, “I kind of lost track of the countryside then.”
“It’s been pretty crazy for you, I guess,” Zach said.
“It’s been a disaster,” Rory admitted with relief in her tone. “Biggest screwup I’ve made in a while.”
She doesn’t have to be quite so adamant about it, thought Carson.
“But the sunsets are amazing and the air smells good,” she continued. “I might be stuck in this place, but I’ll make the best of it. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even learn to ride while I’m here.” She laughed and started walking down the hill to the house, then turned and waved. “Nice to meet you, Zach.”
She muttered something about searching for her grooming supplies and her reluctant dog. The men watched her go, and as soon as she was out of hearing range, Zach turned to Carson, an incredulous grin on his face.
