you’re not at all what I expected you to be.”
Eric wandered onto the front porch. The steam from the hot coffee whirled above his mug. The morning haze was diminishing to reveal the grandeur of the lush green paddocks and the gentle sway of the oaks. The mist rose off the blue tin roofs of the horse barns.
He noticed the black Porsche parked in front of the equine swimming facility. His eyebrows furrowed when the door opened and Tom Mason emerged with a beautiful blonde on his arm.
He cupped his hand to his mouth. “Tom!”
Tom opened the passenger door of the Porsche for Coco. His attention jerked toward the farmhouse. Whipping his sunglasses from his head, he placed them over his eyes before lifting a hand to wave at Eric.
“Tom, where are you going?” Eric shouted across the way. His calls brought Mike, Shane, and Kate filing out the front door to the porch to catch a glimpse of their father’s old friend.
“I’ll catch you later, Eric,” he shouted back.
“But I thought you wanted to see the horses swim.”
Tom slipped into his car next to Coco, “Later, Eric, later.”
“Is that Coco in his car?” Kate was rather disturbed by the sight.
Eric scrubbed his chin in concern. “I think so.”
The Porsche ripped past the farmhouse.
Spotting Mike, Coco blew a kiss and waved her hand at him like a ballerina making a graceful exit-stage left.
“Ouch, dumped for an older man,” Kate quipped in his ear.
“How old is Coco?” Eric asked.
“Thirty-one, maybe thirty-two.” Mike shrugged his shoulder while taking a sip of his coffee.
“Yep,” Eric confirmed, “that’ll work.”
“He ain’t getting no freaking prize. He’ll see.” Imitating Doug’s gruff voice the day they claimed Coco’s horses from his barn, Shane shook a piece of toast at his older brother. With a wink, he moseyed into the house.
The right side of Mike’s lip curled. Snorting, he followed his ornery kid brother through the door.
The old O’Conner farmhouse was more of a shack than a house.
Mike stood at the end of the cracked and heaving sidewalk that led through an over-grown front yard littered with cigarette butts. Chickens pecked at the ground. When he walked through, they scattered while clucking loudly.
He picked his way up to the front porch while climbing over sleeping cats sprawled across the steps. There was an old rocking chair on the porch. Several battered plastic yard chairs and a straw broom leaned against the splintered wooden door frame.
The screen door used to be white, but was now rusty with patches of white paint that had managed to survive to this point. The welcome mat below the door that was so worn that the word welcome now read: We c m . He couldn’t imagine why there would be a welcome mat at all. Doug wasn’t exactly hospitable. He was pretty damned sure that the O’Conners didn’t do a lot of entertaining.
The sound of snorting horses caught his attention. He peered around the side of the house. Behind a fence made of frayed baler twine strung along old rusted metal posts, several old Thoroughbreds munched on hay. Doug’s got himself a top-notch operation here.
He rapped on the weather-beaten screen door. A moment later, Margie yanked the equally battered storm door open.
He was surprised that she wasn’t as shabbily clad as she usually appeared. Her hair was clean, curled, and pulled back away from her face to accentuate the nose that didn’t quite fit. A pair of gold hoops dangled from her earlobes, and she wore pink lip gloss. Her tightly-fitted clean jeans complimented her curves, and her red blouse swept nicely over her perky, ample, breasts.
Confused, she blinked. Mike West was the last person she expected see when she opened the door. Why is he standing on my porch?
Mike half-smiled. He wasn’t exactly sure what had impelled him to come. “How’s dinner sound?”
She didn’t respond. Looking at him like he’d just grown another eye, she stood there with the
Eric wandered onto the front porch. The steam from the hot coffee whirled above his mug. The morning haze was diminishing to reveal the grandeur of the lush green paddocks and the gentle sway of the oaks. The mist rose off the blue tin roofs of the horse barns.
He noticed the black Porsche parked in front of the equine swimming facility. His eyebrows furrowed when the door opened and Tom Mason emerged with a beautiful blonde on his arm.
He cupped his hand to his mouth. “Tom!”
Tom opened the passenger door of the Porsche for Coco. His attention jerked toward the farmhouse. Whipping his sunglasses from his head, he placed them over his eyes before lifting a hand to wave at Eric.
“Tom, where are you going?” Eric shouted across the way. His calls brought Mike, Shane, and Kate filing out the front door to the porch to catch a glimpse of their father’s old friend.
“I’ll catch you later, Eric,” he shouted back.
“But I thought you wanted to see the horses swim.”
Tom slipped into his car next to Coco, “Later, Eric, later.”
“Is that Coco in his car?” Kate was rather disturbed by the sight.
Eric scrubbed his chin in concern. “I think so.”
The Porsche ripped past the farmhouse.
Spotting Mike, Coco blew a kiss and waved her hand at him like a ballerina making a graceful exit-stage left.
“Ouch, dumped for an older man,” Kate quipped in his ear.
“How old is Coco?” Eric asked.
“Thirty-one, maybe thirty-two.” Mike shrugged his shoulder while taking a sip of his coffee.
“Yep,” Eric confirmed, “that’ll work.”
“He ain’t getting no freaking prize. He’ll see.” Imitating Doug’s gruff voice the day they claimed Coco’s horses from his barn, Shane shook a piece of toast at his older brother. With a wink, he moseyed into the house.
The right side of Mike’s lip curled. Snorting, he followed his ornery kid brother through the door.
The old O’Conner farmhouse was more of a shack than a house.
Mike stood at the end of the cracked and heaving sidewalk that led through an over-grown front yard littered with cigarette butts. Chickens pecked at the ground. When he walked through, they scattered while clucking loudly.
He picked his way up to the front porch while climbing over sleeping cats sprawled across the steps. There was an old rocking chair on the porch. Several battered plastic yard chairs and a straw broom leaned against the splintered wooden door frame.
The screen door used to be white, but was now rusty with patches of white paint that had managed to survive to this point. The welcome mat below the door that was so worn that the word welcome now read: We c m . He couldn’t imagine why there would be a welcome mat at all. Doug wasn’t exactly hospitable. He was pretty damned sure that the O’Conners didn’t do a lot of entertaining.
The sound of snorting horses caught his attention. He peered around the side of the house. Behind a fence made of frayed baler twine strung along old rusted metal posts, several old Thoroughbreds munched on hay. Doug’s got himself a top-notch operation here.
He rapped on the weather-beaten screen door. A moment later, Margie yanked the equally battered storm door open.
He was surprised that she wasn’t as shabbily clad as she usually appeared. Her hair was clean, curled, and pulled back away from her face to accentuate the nose that didn’t quite fit. A pair of gold hoops dangled from her earlobes, and she wore pink lip gloss. Her tightly-fitted clean jeans complimented her curves, and her red blouse swept nicely over her perky, ample, breasts.
Confused, she blinked. Mike West was the last person she expected see when she opened the door. Why is he standing on my porch?
Mike half-smiled. He wasn’t exactly sure what had impelled him to come. “How’s dinner sound?”
She didn’t respond. Looking at him like he’d just grown another eye, she stood there with the
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