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She looked up from stamping her feet into a pair of snow boots. “Oh, you don’t know?” She grinned. “Helen is going to put half a dozen barrel racers through their paces for a buyer, and mister, you don’t want to miss my sister doing that.”
“I don’t?” He polished off the donut.
“No, sir, you don’t.” Grabbing gloves out of her pocket, she turned to look at him, and he grabbed his own coat and the knit hat, pulling on his boots.
He smiled at her confidence. “Well, Miss Daisy, lead the way.”
She eagerly pushed through the door and the storm door, and they started at a brisk walk toward the arena. D-Day saw the pricey six-horse trailer and a matching dual-wheeled truck, both midnight blue. On the side was painted in white: LoneTree Ranch, and beneath it, Medicine Bow.
“That’s the buyer, Jack Mooney. He’s a regular, purchasing our cutters for his ranch hands and barrel racers. He has a training camp.”
“Looks like he’s doing well.”
“He’s one of the richest guys around here.” She picked up her pace and he followed. They entered the arena and Buck, and his family were standing at the arena wall. He gestured D-Day over, and he couldn’t help the shot of guilt to his gut.
“’Bout time you got here.”
He met Buck’s eyes briefly then looked out to the arena. “No one told me Helen was barrel racing, not even her.”
Buck chuckled. “We probably all thought someone told you. Typical.”
Resting his forearms on top of the wall, he stared at nothing, noting the barrels set up at intervals.
“She could have really cleaned up on the circuit, and at the very least worked for Mr. Mooney, but she chose to go to nursing school,” Daisy said, her eyes shining, obviously full of sister worship for Helen. “Here she comes,” she whispered.
Experiencing a sudden sharpening of awareness, D-Day watched as Helen rode into the arena in the saddle of a dappled gray horse, everything slamming to a dead stop when the horse and rider moved from the shadows into the light. Her long-sleeved white western shirt, piped in black, was a stunning contrast to the black suede chaps. D-Day watched was intrigued as hell. Black and white. Grace and elegance. Skill and horsemanship. But it wasn’t the grace and elegance stamped into every line of her body that intrigued him, it was the sensuality he saw in her light, light hands—how she handled the horse with the slightest touch—that stirred something inside him he had never felt before. Feeling as if something had just slammed into his chest, he riveted his gaze on her, his pulse suddenly heavy. She was a woman right out of his fantasies.
He watched her legs, watched the barely discernible movements that cued the horse—the touch of a spur, the smallest shift of her calf, the tightening of her thighs—and the gray responded. D-Day had to look away, his own body responding.
Keeping his thoughts in check and his eyes averted, he waited for the sensations to pass. When she reached the far side of the ring, his jaw tightened as the horse exploded into action. She took the mare around the barrels with such finesse, such speed, that her family and the guest spectators and buyers went crazy, and D-Day clenched his jaw tighter, focusing solely on her as she put the horse through the challenging pattern. She did that six times with six different horses, all of it flawless and so fast it was mind-bending.
When she reined in the last racer, a white with caramel patches, and came trotting over, the conversation was brisk, and she gave D-Day a smile that warmed him all the way to his toes. She was something.
He automatically smiled back, but folded his arms across his chest, his gut tightening with a feeling that made him want to bust something. The whole party moved out to the drive where the rig was parked. He watched them all go, then he clenched his jaw, focused on keeping it together. Loneliness rolled in on him like fog, along with the half-forgotten memories pulling at him. The agony, the humiliation, and the pain. He blocked the images and memories from taking shape in his mind, knowing he was going to be in bad shape if he didn’t.
He had enough heartache.
The only way to get himself out of this was to head back to NBC. Now. Tonight, if he could catch a flight. He would make up an excuse, put his brain in neutral and his fantasies in park. Helen was out of his reach, and he was out of hers.
* * *
To spare anyone within growling distance of Buck’s foul mood, he decided he’d had enough of sitting on his rump. So, after Helen’s stellar performance, he took himself down to the lower barn to take care of a bunch of small repairs that wouldn’t tax his side too much. It was feeling much better but still hurt if he twisted the wrong way too fast, the skin now showing yellow-brown bruises as the blood was absorbed back into his body.
He had just finished replacing all the belts on the oat crusher and was fixing to check out a gash on one stallion’s hind leg when D-Day came into the barn, the snow and cold swirling in around him as he came through the side door. He slammed the door behind him and stomped the snow off his feet, his knit hat yanked down on his head. He looked cold and slightly harried.
“Damn cold out there,” he said. “Cole wanted me to remind you to keep an eye on the water troughs, and that the heat is turned up.”
Buck nodded, securing the stallion to the heavy metal ring outside the stall, then crouched down with a wince to start unwinding the wrap on the horse’s back leg.
Blackjack was one of their main stud horses, and they kept the majority of them in this barn. One of the other horses must have caught him.
“Is it bad?” D-Day asked.
Buck tested the area around the wound for swelling, then reached for the jar of ointment and unscrewed the lid. “Looks good. We’re lucky he won’t be permanently damaged. We would probably lose stud fees.” Buck applied the ointment to a dressing and stretched it over the nearly healed gash, then began wrapping the leg. D-Day continued to watch him, and Buck glanced up at him, his attention sharpening when he saw the somber, preoccupied expression on his teammate’s face. Buck stared at him for a moment, then went back to wrapping the stud’s leg. “Something up, Drew?” he asked quietly.
D-Day shot him a startled look, then frowned and glanced down, his expression solemn. “I’ve been remiss in visiting my family. I should take some time and go to Bedford, so I’m leaving tonight.”
Buck finished the final wrap and pressed the Velcro in place. “I thought you were going to stay longer,” he said, his tone deliberately offhand.
