“Are you okay?” Shelby dropped to her knees, hitting so hard that the cement grated through her pants. Not seeing any blood or obvious injuries on her daughter, she whipped a look over her shoulder at the stranger. “What happened?”
“She spooked one of the horses, zigged when she should’ve zagged and took a tumble. By the time I got Brutus in a stall, she was up and moving.” He was straight out of central casting, filed under “cowboy, circa twenty-first century” in worn jeans, scarred brown boots and a black felt hat that was flecked with hay and dirt and sat low on his forehead. Compared to the guys in the dining hall, he looked faded and authentic. And concerned. Points there.
Focusing on Lizzie, she brushed at the dirt smudges on her daughter’s clothes and tried to remember how to breathe. She’s okay. It’s okay. But it wasn’t, not when Lizzie could’ve gotten seriously hurt because her idiot mother had stopped paying attention for a few minutes. “Why did you leave the dining hall? I told you not to go near the horses without a grown-up!”
Lizzie didn’t answer, didn’t meet her eyes, didn’t give her any sign to indicate that she’d heard or understood.
“Is she okay?” He sounded dubious. “I didn’t see her hit her head, but she seems kind of out of it.”
Shelby stood and faced him, tucking her daughter behind her. “She’s fine.”
“Maybe somebody should take a look at her. It’s Stace’s day off, but Gran has doctored more banged-up riders than your average ER.”
She’s seen plenty of doctors. “We don’t need anybody, but thanks. And thanks for containing the situation.” She had some idea of how fast things could get out of control when horses were involved and shuddered to think how much worse it could’ve been. “I’m very sorry she got underfoot. It won’t happen again.” She tightened her grip on Lizzie’s shoulder. “That’s a promise.”
“But she’s—”
“Perfectly okay just the way she is.”
His eyes snapped up to hers, as if she’d just said more than that. “Oh. Sorry. I, ah . . . Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not.” Don’t you dare pity us.
He frowned at her instead and then looked at Lizzie. “What is she, seven? Eight? And you brought her to singles week? There isn’t going to be our usual family-vacation vibe, you know.”
It wouldn’t have irritated her so much if she hadn’t already been thinking the same thing. “She’s nine. Not that it matters, because we’re not here for guest activities. I’ll be working in the kitchen.”
“You’re . . .” He trailed off.
“The new assistant cook,” she filled in.
“What happened to Bertie?”
“The doctor wants her on bed rest until she has her baby.” Which was why she and Lizzie had hit the road a week ahead of schedule, arriving in the middle of speed dates rather than next week’s thirty-person family reunion.
“You’re a chef?”
“Nope. I’m in advertising, but a friend of mine knows Krista and the ranch. When she found out I wanted to get Lizzie away from the city for the summer, she set things up. The next thing I knew, I had a summer job and a place for us to stay.” It was such a simple summary for what had been in reality a really tough choice involving dire warnings from both her boss and Lizzie’s doctor, and the inner fear that she’d come into September with Lizzie no better and her clients having forgotten who she was. In her line of work, you were only as good as your last campaign.
“A summer job.” His face was deadpan.
“Yep. Now through Labor Day. Three months, give or take.” She tipped her head. “Problem?”
He gave her an up and down just like the guys in the dining hall, only he didn’t look nearly so appreciative of her round-toed shoes and clingy pants. “Nope. No problem at all. I mostly do my own cooking anyway. What Krista does up at the main house is her business. What happens in the barn is mine.”
Shelby wasn’t sure which annoyed her more: the way he’d zeroed right in on Lizzie’s issues, the implication that she wouldn’t be able to handle herself as a ranch cook . . . or how she was way too sensitive on both fronts. Points-wise, it was a draw.
Refusing to dwell on it—or on him—she snagged Lizzie around the neck in a fake headlock they’d learned from watching too much TV wrestling for a pitch that hadn’t gone anywhere—Women’s Xtreme Wrestling. Fight like a girl!—and tugged her toward the door. “Come on, kiddo, it’s back to orientation for us. And consider yourself lucky if I don’t tattoo a couple of those rules on the insides of your eyelids.”
Foster watched them leave, telling himself it was because he wanted to be sure the little girl was moving okay. He wasn’t sure whether she’d been shell-shocked or if there was something else going on, but it seemed like her mother had it covered either way. Still, though, he’d had a fall or two that he’d walked away from, only to feel it later.
“Kid’s fine,” he muttered, and it didn’t take Brutus’s snort to tell him that his eyes had wandered. Okay, so little Lizzie’s mama had a fine rear view, with nice curves and a feminine wiggle. And the front view was just as good, all sleek and pretty.
So, that was Bertie’s fill-in? Huh. Wouldn’t have been his choice . . . but then again, it wasn’t his choice, was it? And while Krista was whip smart, she had a soft heart and a penchant for good deeds. He should know; he’d been one of them. He only hoped she didn’t get burned by this one.
“Ah, well. Not my problem.” Besides, Gran might be a little nutty around the edges, but she was plenty sharp when it came to her kitchen, and she had Tipper, Topper and Krista to back her up. They’d be okay, even if Ms. Fancypants flaked on them.
Whistling softly, he bent to pick up Brutus’s chipped-up foot, determined to enjoy the rest of his so-called day off. Because starting tomorrow, he’d spend the next six days being the cowboy the guests wanted to see, the wrangler they’d ooh and ahh over, the horseman they needed to have making sure they didn’t kill themselves or any innocent bystanders. They would ride, laugh, drink, dance, pair off—some of them two or three times—and have a good time, thinking they were living the Wild West experience, when really they were getting the Disney version. In this case, the R-rated version. And then next week Mustang Ridge would do it all over again, starting fresh with a whole new cast of characters and a different theme.
Rinse, repeat and be grateful for the work, he thought, casting another look up toward the main house. He wasn’t looking after the new assistant cook and her daughter this time, though. No, his eyes were on the house itself, and everything it represented, reminding him that fancy females were a distraction he couldn’t afford when he had his sights set on more important things.
Praise for the Nightkeepers Series
“This series goes right to your heart! Jessica Andersen is a must read for me!”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author J. R. Ward
“I love the whole Nightkeepers world.”
—Night Owl Romance
Magic Unchained
“[Andersen’s] storytelling talent has been honed to a fine art.”
—Romantic Times
Storm Kissed
“A superb thriller . . . fast-paced and character-driven. . . . Fans will relish this exhilarating tale.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“Thrilling. . . . With this tale of prophecy and curses, Andersen really shakes up her series. Love, loss, passion, and drama are all here. You won’t be able to put this one down.”
—Romantic Times
“Andersen’s tight writing style and ability to build tension on both the romantic and action sides of the story
