Stick in the Mud Meets Spontaneity (Meet Your Match, book 3) by Rachael Anderson Page A

made it back unscathed and handed one to her father. He took a few guzzles and sighed. “Ah, that hit the spot. Thanks, sweetie.”
    “Anything for you. Just promise you’ll hide the evidence.”
    “I’ll be sure to remove all my prints and DNA from the glass before I put it in the dishwasher.”
    “And I’ll leave mine on the counter for Mom to find. She’ll never know the truth.”
    “You are a good daughter.”
    Sam smiled—at least until her thoughts veered in the direction of the ranch and she remembered a certain horse that might disagree. It would be one thing if Your Majesty believed in equality and treated everyone badly, but the horse had made her preferences obvious. Kajsa was top of her list, with Colton taking a close second, and the rest of the family not far behind. Sam, on the other hand, was the blacked-out name on the very bottom. And it bugged.
    “ Am I good, Dad? I mean, really?” She felt a vulnerability she hadn’t felt since—well, ever.
    “Why would you ask that? Of course you are.”
    “Because there’s a wild mustang at the McCoy ranch that likes everyone but me.”
    “I’m sure that’s not true.”
    “I’m not exaggerating. I promise.”
    Her father took another swig of his milk then set it on the table next to him. “If the horse doesn’t like you, it’s because she doesn’t know you. You, my daughter, are a very likable person.”
    Sam bit down on her lower lip as she mulled over his words. “I am a likeable person,” she said finally.
    “You are.”
    “And if I really wanted to, which I’m not sure I do, I could win over that horse.”
    “Easy as me finding your mother’s hiding places.”
    Sam wasn’t so sure about that, but it was sounding more and more like a challenge, and Sam never backed down from a challenge.
    It gives you a reason to go back tomorrow, came a tempting thought.
    But you don’t want to go back, remember? inserted the voice of reason.
    But I do want to go back, thought Sam . I just don’t want to want to go back.
    The lights suddenly flicked on, making Sam gasp and spill a little of her milk on her chest. She twisted around and squinted through the too-bright lights at her mother, who stood at the foot of the stairs, taking in the scene with narrowed eyes.
    Busted . Sam slowly turned back to her father, who was pointing a finger at her while his remaining fingers clutched a half-eaten cookie. Next to his elbow sat an empty glass of milk.
    Sam rolled her eyes. “You’ve been caught red-handed, Dad. Maybe if you fess up she’ll go easier on you.”
    “Have you met your mother?” he replied. “It’s going to be cabbage, spinach, and broccoli for the next week. I hate broccoli.”
    “Don’t forget Brussels sprouts,” said her mother, directing the words at Sam.
    Sam frowned. How was that fair? She despised Brussels sprouts. As in, would rather eat seaweed than Brussels sprouts. They tasted like nasty, slimy worms. She twisted around. “Why am I being punished when I’m not on a special diet?”
    “It’s called guilt by association.”
    That settled it. Come Monday, Sam would go back to the McCoy ranch, win over that horse, and hope sweet Mrs. McCoy would invite her to stay for dinner.
     

    Colton hefted the last box from his truck and carried it inside The Shack, dropping it down on the couch. He had to hand it to Samantha. When she offered to help, she really helped. The place practically gleamed it was so clean. The windows had all been washed and scrubbed, the cobwebs eradicated, the warped table sanded and re-lacquered, and a new-to-him taupe shag rug beckoned from under the couch and armchair.
    Once it had all come together, Sam had clapped her hands and said, “I told you it would be charming. I love it!”
    Colton had to agree. All of Sam’s little touches—the vase of fresh flowers on the table, the throw draped over the arm chair that she’d found in the closet, and the family picture she’d gotten from his