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Because up til now, it was definitely not their jobs to do any horse-breaking, and he was definitely not going to be God damn happy if he came back from lunch to find out that Randy was out of work for the next month because a horse broke his damn sternum doing something stupid off the clock.
But then again, what was he going to do about it now? Yell at him? Nope. The other two took off after him a minute later, and by the time Phil Callahan was leaning up against the paddock fence, they'd already gotten the big thing saddled up, in spite of the Black's best efforts not to be saddled.
It was only a moment later, as Randy shifted his weight up into the stirrup—the horse pulled away and Randy dropped back to the ground safely—that the bright red sports car drove up.
Callahan turned. This wasn't the time for folks to be showing up, and it definitely wasn't the time for Morgan Lowe.
Especially not with the boys thinkin' what they were thinkin'.
Because if they didn't keep it to themselves, Callahan might start thinkin' it himself.
Chapter Eight
Morgan Lowe grew up in Nevada.
She's aware of rodeos, in the sort of way that people are aware that people race around half-mile dirt tracks somewhere in the country, and that people make money doing it.
She's aware of them in the same way that she's aware that there are probably stamp collectors working for her. It's likely the case, and she's not so stupid as to question it, but that doesn't mean that she knows anything about it, and it doesn't really mean that she's interested in knowing anything about it, either.
But as she walks up, a youngish man—couldn't be older than twenty—with a cowboy's body tries to throw his weight up onto the horse.
Part of Morgan might think that he's attractive, in a theoretical way. He's got a handsome body, but she's not thinking about any of that. The one that she's thinking about, thinking in more ways than she should, since the man is as off-limits as anyone could possibly come, stands outside the fence.
He's got a sturdy build, and a square jaw. In some ways he looks like someone who was a movie star in his younger years, and then stopped doing it.
Philip Callahan has a quiet confidence, and he doesn't look like the sort of guy who has ever looked in the mirror and wondered what someone else thought about his looks. Not that he has anything to worry about.
If it was just his jaw, it might have been enough for most women. He's got an attractively square jaw, and whether he's smiling or frowning he manages to look at once intense and masculine.
Like a movie star, which is exactly the impression she'd gotten. If he never did any work in that field, well, he was missing out. Then again, Morgan figures, it's not likely that there are as many Hollywood agents in Wyoming as there are in Vegas.
It's more than just his jaw, though. Every motion, every movement, every expression… everything about the man is picture-perfect. As if he were designed by the Lord and imbued with his good looks for some kind of purpose. Like he was there specifically to tempt Morgan Lowe.
He turns as she comes up. He's caught between laughing at the kid, she knows, and being less than happy to see her. She doesn't have time to worry about whether or not he's happy to see her, though. She's got a business to run, and that business relies on her getting close to him and convincing him to sell the property.
"You're back," he says. Neutral. Which is better than she expected, at least. "Did you forget your jacket yesterday, and just now remembered?"
"I thought I'd come see what I could do. You left in a hurry."
"Well, I had to get back, didn't I?" He turns back to the horse. "We've got to get rid of him, and with his breeding—that means racing."
Something sounds weird in his voice. He's got feelings about the horse, feelings that it's hard for Morgan to put her finger on. Just that he's got them.
"Has he got a name?"
"No," he says. "My wife was working on one, when he was just young."
Wife? She looks down at his hand. A disappointment that she doesn't want to admit to runs through her when she sees the ring.
"You're married, Mr. Callahan?"
"Was married." He doesn't look at her. He reaches up with one hand and twists the ring around his finger a little.
"What happened?"
"Complications." The boy manages to get his leg swung up over the horse. It yanks left and then jerks hard to the right and kicks back, and half a second later the kid's on the tumbling head-over-heels into the dirt.
The black stallion turns around and tries to throw what's left of the stuff on his back off, but they've got the saddle strapped on.
