leaning back on the barrel, knees clamped tight, heels down deep, left arm high in the air. His brow is furrowed and he’s concentrating hard, as if imagining the next direction the bull will buck.
He’s done this for weeks now, come in here alone to practice ride, since no one else shares his enthusiasm for bull riding. He needs real stock to ride. He needs a real teacher now. But it can’t be Dane. There’s too much tension between my brothers and Dane. Maybe one day they’ll be able to work through the hard feelings, but for now, it’s too soon after Cody’s death.
Back at the house, I sit at the computer in the kitchen to Google bull-riding instructors in Texas. And the very first name that pops up is none other than Dane Kelly.
My fingers itch to click on the link to his website, but I don’t. I refuse to be tempted. Dane broke my heart once, and he may be single again, but there’s no way I’m going to let him get close enough to do it a second time.
Chapter Seven
T he next morning, I arrive at the newly built guesthouse on the McCurdy ranch just before eight-thirty and discover Blue already behind the desk inside the rustic great room.
Soft yellow sunlight dapples the limestone floor, and the house smells of freshly brewed coffee. The guesthouse, a two-story stone-and-log cabin with a vaulted ceiling, now serves as the office and ranch’s welcome center, but Blue will one day convert it into a luxury residence to sell once the other home sites are gone.
Blue hangs up the phone as I walk in. “That was Brick. He’s got the horses and is almost here. Will you give him a hand when he arrives?”
“Sure.” I drop into one of the brown-and-white cowhide chairs facing his desk and stretch my legs out. “Are these horses for the photo shoot or the trail rides?”
“Both. Brick’s hitched the big trailer to his truck, so he should have six or seven horses. He thought we’d want to use Sunny and Dandy for the shoot, and the others for the trail ride.”
“Who’s leading the trail rides?”
Blue squirms ever so slightly. “Brick.”
“What?” Brick is not a trail guide sort of guy or the face of Texas tourism. “How did you get him to do that?”
“I promised him my tickets for the Cowboy-Giants game coming up in December.”
“That’s a big game this year.”
Blue looks miserable. “I know. But I needed the help.”
I’m still grinning when the Dallas photographer walks in, carrying a camera bag over one shoulder and a duffel bag of gear on the other. He looks familiar, and I wonder if maybe we’ve worked together in the past.
Blue gets up from the desk and crosses the floor to shake the photographer’s hand. “Glad you made it, Mason. Looks like we’re going to have a gorgeous day for pictures, too.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” the photographer answers before turning to me.
I’m still trying to place him, but he has no problem remembering me. “Shey Darcy,” he says with a smile.
I rise from my chair, smile through my embarrassment. “I should know you. We’ve worked together, haven’t we?”
“Not yet, no.”
My forehead furrows as I try to figure out the mystery. “You’re a photographer, though. And you know me.”
“And I know your husband.”
This feels awkward to me. “Give me a hint. Name the last time I saw you.”
Mason smiles. “It was a party.”
“A party?”
“I approached you, paid you a compliment, and then John walked up—”
“The Vanity Fair party!” I clap my hands. “You remembered me as a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model.”
“Not knowing you were John’s wife,” he concludes. “John was pretty pissed off.”
“You didn’t say anything wrong.”
“Just that you were my favorite SI model of all time.”
Embarrassed, I shake my head, even as I’m suddenly aware that Blue is right next to me, hanging on every word. “You didn’t tell me that,” I protest.
“No, but it’s true.”
I can feel my cheeks
He’s done this for weeks now, come in here alone to practice ride, since no one else shares his enthusiasm for bull riding. He needs real stock to ride. He needs a real teacher now. But it can’t be Dane. There’s too much tension between my brothers and Dane. Maybe one day they’ll be able to work through the hard feelings, but for now, it’s too soon after Cody’s death.
Back at the house, I sit at the computer in the kitchen to Google bull-riding instructors in Texas. And the very first name that pops up is none other than Dane Kelly.
My fingers itch to click on the link to his website, but I don’t. I refuse to be tempted. Dane broke my heart once, and he may be single again, but there’s no way I’m going to let him get close enough to do it a second time.
Chapter Seven
T he next morning, I arrive at the newly built guesthouse on the McCurdy ranch just before eight-thirty and discover Blue already behind the desk inside the rustic great room.
Soft yellow sunlight dapples the limestone floor, and the house smells of freshly brewed coffee. The guesthouse, a two-story stone-and-log cabin with a vaulted ceiling, now serves as the office and ranch’s welcome center, but Blue will one day convert it into a luxury residence to sell once the other home sites are gone.
Blue hangs up the phone as I walk in. “That was Brick. He’s got the horses and is almost here. Will you give him a hand when he arrives?”
“Sure.” I drop into one of the brown-and-white cowhide chairs facing his desk and stretch my legs out. “Are these horses for the photo shoot or the trail rides?”
“Both. Brick’s hitched the big trailer to his truck, so he should have six or seven horses. He thought we’d want to use Sunny and Dandy for the shoot, and the others for the trail ride.”
“Who’s leading the trail rides?”
Blue squirms ever so slightly. “Brick.”
“What?” Brick is not a trail guide sort of guy or the face of Texas tourism. “How did you get him to do that?”
“I promised him my tickets for the Cowboy-Giants game coming up in December.”
“That’s a big game this year.”
Blue looks miserable. “I know. But I needed the help.”
I’m still grinning when the Dallas photographer walks in, carrying a camera bag over one shoulder and a duffel bag of gear on the other. He looks familiar, and I wonder if maybe we’ve worked together in the past.
Blue gets up from the desk and crosses the floor to shake the photographer’s hand. “Glad you made it, Mason. Looks like we’re going to have a gorgeous day for pictures, too.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” the photographer answers before turning to me.
I’m still trying to place him, but he has no problem remembering me. “Shey Darcy,” he says with a smile.
I rise from my chair, smile through my embarrassment. “I should know you. We’ve worked together, haven’t we?”
“Not yet, no.”
My forehead furrows as I try to figure out the mystery. “You’re a photographer, though. And you know me.”
“And I know your husband.”
This feels awkward to me. “Give me a hint. Name the last time I saw you.”
Mason smiles. “It was a party.”
“A party?”
“I approached you, paid you a compliment, and then John walked up—”
“The Vanity Fair party!” I clap my hands. “You remembered me as a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model.”
“Not knowing you were John’s wife,” he concludes. “John was pretty pissed off.”
“You didn’t say anything wrong.”
“Just that you were my favorite SI model of all time.”
Embarrassed, I shake my head, even as I’m suddenly aware that Blue is right next to me, hanging on every word. “You didn’t tell me that,” I protest.
“No, but it’s true.”
I can feel my cheeks
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