A Home for the Horseman (Brush Creek Brides Book 5)
A Home for the Horseman
Brush Creek Brides Book 5
Liz Isaacson
AEJ Creative Works
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
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Sneak Peek! A Refuge for the Rancher Chapter One
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“And the Lord shall guide thee continually, and satisfy thy soul in drought, and make fat thy bones: and thou shalt be like a watered garden, and like a spring of water, whose waters fail not.”
Isaiah 58:11
Chapter One
“Landon?” Emmett Graves entered the homestead at Brush Creek Horse Ranch just after five o’clock on a Friday afternoon. He’d been told by the foreman that the owner wanted to see him before the weekend. So here he was.
Landon, apparently, was not at the homestead, as Megan poked her head up from the kitchen cabinets where she crouched. “Hey, Emmett.” She gave him a smile and disappeared again.
He moved through the living room, past a set of stairs that went down, and into the kitchen, where he found Megan organizing plastic storage containers and nesting them inside each other.
“Where’s Landon?”
“He hasn’t come in from the ranch yet.” She glanced up at him. “What do you need?”
“He wanted me to stop by.” A sense of urgency trickled through Emmett. He wanted to shower, grab something to eat, and get down to town. The country line dances had been going for a couple of weeks now, and he’d enjoyed himself at them.
“I’ll text him.” She stood and sent a message to her husband. “You goin’ dancin’ tonight?”
He laughed. “Don’t talk like a cowboy,” he said. “You can’t even pull it off.”
“Yes, I can.” She slugged him in the shoulder. “So are you going?”
“Yep.”
“You meet anyone down there?”
“Oh, don’t start on me.” Emmett groaned. “Between you and Tess it’s a miracle I don’t have a date every other night.”
“Do you want a date every other night?” Megan’s dark eyes glittered. “Because I know a lot of women that would be interested.”
“I’m not interested,” Emmett said. Megan tilted her head and looked at him with curiosity, but Landon entered the house through the French doors, saving Emmett from trying to explain.
Trying to explain was all he could do. No one really understood his aversion to women —not even Emmett himself. All he knew was that women couldn’t be trusted. They didn’t stick around when things got hard. His momma had left when he was twelve, and he hadn’t heard from her since.
His father had been married and divorced three times, and both of Emmett’s older brothers had endured divorces as well.
No thank you, Emmett thought as Landon washed his hands.
The fact that the owner hadn’t said anything upon his arrival set Emmett’s alert on high. “Ted said you wanted to see me before the weekend,” he said.
“Right,” Landon said, exchanging a glance with Megan. He sighed, further worrying Emmett.
“I’ve hired another trainer.”
“That’s great,” Emmett said, trying to find the hidden meaning in the words. Or hear words Landon hadn’t said at all.
“They’ll be doing barrel racing as well. I need you to train them.”
An icy wind swept through Emmett. “They’ll be doing barrel racing? What will I be doing then?”
“Barrel racing.”
Emmett’s eyebrows pinched together. “So you’ll have two barrel racing trainers?”
“For a while.”
Emmett straightened his square shoulders. He wasn’t as tall as Landon or some of the other cowboys on the ranch, but he could hold his own. “Am I being fired?”
“Of course not.” Landon looked at Megan again, who came to stand at his side. A flash of resentment for their relationship stole through Emmett. At the same time, he envied them. “I’m just doin’ a favor for a friend, and I need you to show them the ropes.”
“When is this happening?”
“Monday.” Landon held perfectly still, a tactic Emmett had seen him use before. It exuded confidence and the message that he wasn’t going to budge on the topic at hand.
Emmett admitted defeat with an exaggerated sigh. “Fine. Is that all?”
“That’s all. Just be here at the homestead at seven sharp on Monday morning.”
Emmett saluted Landon, who rolled his eyes and said, “Get outta here.”
With his teeth brushed and his dark hair still a bit damp and curling on the ends, Emmett set his sights down the canyon. The temperature improved by a few degrees as he left the higher elevations behind. The dances were held at Oxbow Park, the largest outdoor venue Brush Creek had to offer.
The days were getting longer now that May was half over, and Emmett parked with several minutes of sunlight left. He made his way past the playground to a large pavilion which had been emptied of all the tables. Music pumped from the lit space, the kind of country twang that brought a quick smile to Emmett’s face.
He didn’t join the throng of people already on the cement dance floor right away. He stuck to the edges, checking out the dancers and finding his groove with the music. He chewed his arctic ice gum with vigor, his anticipation of expending some extra energy on the dance floor amping up.
“Hey, Emmett.” A blonde-haired woman walked by, but Emmett barely glanced at her as he returned the greeting. He really wasn’t interested in anything long-term with a female. But spending an evening dancing with one was perfectly fine.
He merged into the crowd during the song transition, finding himself right next to a
tall, curvy woman wearing jeans that went on forever. It was the jeans that should’ve tipped him off. Most of the other women there wore flirty little dresses, not jeans, black cowgirl boots, and a blouse the color of clouds.
He tapped the heel of his boot, then the toe, launching himself fully into the line dance. The redhead next to him had clearly missed the last several years of line dances, because she fumbled all over the place, even coming close to backing into him a time or two.
He chuckled and when the song ended, he said, “When’s the last time you line danced?”
She trained her dazzling hazel eyes on him, and Emmett though he might be really interested in dating her. “It’s been a while,” she admitted. Her gaze slid down his body and back to his cowboy hat, where her lip curled.
She had skin that had spent plenty of time in the sun. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks, and her hair had to be naturally curly.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” he said. “I’m Emmett.”
“We haven’t.” The woman turned and pushed her way through the crowd to a different section of the dance floor, leaving Emmett to stare after her.
He blinked and a laugh flew from his throat. Another song started, and Emmett kept his eye on the dancing disaster that was the redhead. Another
man—sans cowboy hat—spoke to her, and she seemed perfectly warm with him.
Emmett’s mood dampened, and he maneuvered toward the refreshment table. So what if that woman didn’t like him? He wasn’t looking for anyone either. He just thought if he’d nearly trampled someone, the least he could do was apologize. And if someone introduced themselves to him, his good Southern manners dictated that he introduce himself back.
The frustration over the nameless woman left him as he downed a cup of lemonade, the chill of it intensifying against the mint of his gum. He refilled his cup and faced the crowd again. There were lots of other women here to dance next to. He didn’t need her.
He turned to put his nearly-full cup of lemonade in the trashcan but collided with another body. His grip on the plastic cup failed and the yellow liquid doused the woman he’d nearly knocked over.
Now her cloud-colored shirt looked like a dog had peed on it.
“I’m sorry,” Emmett said as he picked up the empty cup and put it in his original target—the trashcan. He grabbed a fistful of napkins and started pawing at the woman’s shirt.
She backed up and held up both of her hands. “Stop. Just…stop.”
Emmett blinked, pure horror flowing through him at the distaste the woman wore on her face. Distaste for him. He wasn’t sure what he’d done to make her dislike him so much—besides dumping ten ounces of ice cold lemonade down the front of her. But she’d seemed cold before then.
He forced a laugh and said, “So you can’t dance, and I can’t drink. Maybe we should both go home before we cause some real damage.” He kept his genuine smile on his face. The smile he wore when he was trying to get something he wanted. The smile that always worked.
Almost always worked.
Because the redhead scoffed, spun away from him, and stomped out of the pavilion. Emmett followed her, pausing where the cement met the grass. “Wait!” he called. “I didn’t get your number!”
She didn’t even turn around, and Emmett faced the dance floor with a chuckle. That woman needed a chill pill, because it was only lemonade. It would come out in the wash, for crying out loud.
“You wanna dance?” The blonde parked herself in front of him, and Emmett figured why not?
“Sure.” He gave that grin again, satisfied that it worked on some women. Human women, he thought as he scanned the darkness beyond the pavilion for the redhead. She was nowhere to be found, so he spun the blonde, and drank too much lemonade, and laughed good-naturedly until the dance ended near midnight.
Chapter Two
Molly Brady scrubbed at her new silk shirt. The stubborn yellow stain didn’t so much as turn a shade lighter. Oh, she could just kill that cowboy. First saying she couldn’t dance and then dousing her in cold liquid the color of urine.
She finally gave up and lifted the shirt over her head. Molly had driven back to Beaverton in the wet shirt, and she had nothing to launder it with as she was staying in a hotel until she moved into her more permanent place tomorrow.
Running hot water in the bathroom sink, Molly submerged the shirt and cried out. Her hand turned an angry shade of red and she spun to the tub where she fumbled with the faucet, finally getting it on and turned to cold. She sighed as the water took out the heated sting from the sink.
Another issue caused by that cowboy. Molly was no stranger to cowboys, having spent the last eight years of her life surrounded by them. Traveling with them. Enduring their catcalls. Though the one at the dance had been cute—handsome even—the arrogant way he wore his dark brown cowboy hat and that crooked grin had gotten under her skin.
She knew men like him. Knew they only wanted one thing from her and it didn’t end with an evening of dancing.
After a stalking altercation that had lasted almost a year, Molly had decided to leave the rodeo. Find somewhere she could go that no one knew her, and where she didn’t have to worry about checking over her shoulder to make sure Clay Corwin wasn’t there.
She changed into her pajamas, furious at herself for even going to the dance. She’d driven all the way from Nebraska today, and she was dead-dog tired. But she’d overheard some women talking about the dance while she picked up her calzone that night, and she’d thought what the heck?
Molly wasn’t sure how often she’d get to the town of Brush Creek, and she thought she’d scope it out before she missed her chance. She didn’t need long in a town to figure out its personality, as she’d traveled all over the country as she racked up wins in women’s barrel racing.
She sighed, her mind far from her old life as she remembered the small-town charm of Brush Creek. She’d been having a great time until that light-eyed, dark-haired cowboy had ruined it.
With those negative memories driving away the anxious thoughts of the new life she was starting tomorrow, she fell asleep.
The next morning, Molly didn’t get out of bed before dialing Brynn Bowman, the last woman who’d dominated the rodeo circuit. Molly had come on the scene in the last couple of years of Brynn’s fame, and though she liked the other woman, Molly hadn’t been sorry to see her go, because Molly could finally win without Brynn on the circuit.
She hadn’t dreamed that her friendship with Brynn would be needed all these years later.
“Hey, Mols, what’s up?” Brynn sounded chipper for so early in the morning, and Molly yawned.
“Just letting you know I’m in Utah.”
“Going to meet Landon today?”
“Yeah.” Molly chewed on her thumbnail. “Tell me again this is the right place for me.”
Brynn sighed, and Molly imagined her tossing her dark braid over her shoulder and staring her down with her intense eyes. So much of Brynn reminded Molly of herself. “I wish I had a place for you here at Three Rivers. But I don’t. I’m overbooked for horses, and I’ve been sending my leads to Landon for a few months now as it is.”
“So he’ll have work for me to do.”
“He does, yes. Lots of it. And he’s an honest guy. Hard worker. You’ll be happy at Brush Creek.”
Reassured, Molly sat up. “Thanks, Brynn.” She didn’t necessarily need the money, but she needed something to do. She’d briefly contemplated going home to Nebraska and staying, but once she’d gotten there, she knew she couldn’t stay.
She hung up with Brynn and ran her fingers through her curls, glad she’d chosen to chop them after her retirement. There was only so much she could do with the naturally curly mass on her head, and sticking a bow in it and letting it flow over her shoulders had gained her a lot of admirers in the rodeo circuit.
They didn’t know it took her a full forty minutes to comb out all the tangles and knots after a competition. They didn’t know how frustrating and infuriating having all that hair was. And now she didn’t have to worry about what her fans thought.
She seated her cowgirl hat on her head and carried her bag out to her truck. A short half-hour drive later, and she crested the hill that led to the horse ranch. Brilliant, blue sky filled the horizon before her, with lush green grass on both sides of the gravel road. A row of six cabins lined the lane to her right, with the homestead and all the other ranch buildings on the right.
Molly parked in front of the sidewalk that led to the front door. Drawing a deep breath, she closed the distance to the door and lifted her hand to ring the doorbell. The homestead at Brush Creek Horse Farm was exactly as Brynn had described. Upscale and quaint at the same time. Beautiful but functional too.
A dark-haired woman answered the door, and Molly felt an immediate kinship to her because of her naturally curly hair. “You must be Megan.” Molly put on her best showmanship smile and shook the woman’s hand. “I don’t know how you keep your hair so long.” She swiped off her hat. “I finally cut mine the day after I retired from the rodeo.”
Megan laughed with her and asked her if she wanted coffee. Molly was already so jittery, so she passed.
“My husband is out back with our daughters. Let me grab him.”
“Of c
ourse.” Molly watched the other woman glide gracefully through the house to the French doors in the back. Once, Molly thought she’d be able to live in a homestead like this, raise children with a man she loved, be free from the worries and cares of life.
But now, she didn’t want to be married, didn’t want children, and didn’t want anyone to know about the first two. She just needed to live her life in obscurity, the one behind the scenes instead of on the championship horse.
“Molly,” Landon said, entering the house. “You made it.”
“I did, sir.”
He scoffed and waved away her formality. “No ‘sir’ here.”
“He really does hate it,” Megan added as she stroked the hair of a little girl who was probably five or six years old.
Molly’s smile hitched into place. “Very well, Landon. I understand you have a place for me to live on the ranch?”
Landon’s feet shifted. “Well, sort of. It’s a temporary arrangement, but the only place I have for you right now is in the basement.”
Molly blinked. Blinked again. “I’m sorry? The basement here at the homestead?”
“That’s right.” He flashed her a quick smile. “I have plans to add to Cabin Row, but the first one won’t be finished until the end of the summer, at which time, you’ll move in there.” He gestured toward a set of steps off the living room that led down. “Do you want to check it out?”
“Sure.” Molly made her voice bright and tried to force a measure of optimism into her step. The basement was spacious, with a living area at the bottom of the steps that held two couches, a television, and an exercise bike.