Mrs. Whitcomb’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Dalton? Is something wrong? You seem upset.”
He looked up, saw the faces staring at him, and struggled to put on a pleasant expression. “Just thinking about something Amala suggested yesterday.” Not an outright lie. He had been thinking about what Press said. Just not right then.
“Care to share? Perhaps we can help.”
Realizing he’d have to respond or arouse more suspicions, he said, “While I was there, I saw a mare you might be interested in. Not for showing. Press said she’d been overworked years ago and doubted she’d ever be showable again. But she has strong bloodlines, and since you’re expanding your breeding program, I thought you might want to take a look at her.”
“How old is she?” Raney asked.
“Ten.” Dalton explained that she’d been bred before and had dropped two healthy foals. Neither had made it into the arena, but the sire wasn’t anything special. “Breeding always tells, and he didn’t have it.”
“And you think this mare does?”
“I’ve seen her papers. She’s top-notch.” As he said the words, it occurred to him how similar the mare’s situation was to Raney’s. Both were outstanding females that had been poorly used and overworked, and both were scarred because of it. It fit, but he doubted Raney would appreciate him making the comparison.
“And Press is willing to sell her?” Mrs. Whitcomb asked.
“He has no use for her. He’s selling off most of his horses. Wants to go live near his daughter. He’s said several times that if you were to breed her to Rosco in a few years, you’d have a real winner.”
“What do you think, Raney?” Mama asked.
“I think we should take a look at her.”
“Then I’ll call him,” Mama decided. “See what he’s asking.”
A few minutes later, Maria came in with dessert. Brandied fruit compote, Mrs. Whitcomb called it. Smelled more like booze than fruit, but was pretty tasty.
Beside Dalton, Glenn started fidgeting, which usually meant he was working himself up to say something. After a lot of throat clearing and hemming and hawing, the foreman voiced his concern that the short power outage during the storm the previous night might have caused an issue with the liquid nitrogen tanks where the straws of bull semen were stored. Obviously, a difficult subject for the shy man to bring up in the presence of the ladies, although Dalton suspected those same ladies had set up the artificial insemination program in the first place.
“Did you check the gauge this morning?” Raney asked him.
“It showed a slight rise in temperature, but didn’t make it into yellow.”
“It should be fine. The technician comes next week. I’ll have him look at it.”
Joss tossed her napkin beside her plate. “Mercy sakes. All this talk about breeding and semen reminds me we’d better get cracking or we’ll never find a parking place at the Roadhouse.”
“Lord’s sake, Joss!” Mama scolded. “You’ll mark the baby with such talk!”
Dalton hid a laugh behind his napkin.
Glenn almost toppled his chair in his rush to excuse himself, Alejandro right behind him.
“I can be the designated driver,” Dalton offered. If he had to keep an eye on these two ladies, he’d have to keep his head clear. Plus, he didn’t intend to waste his time drinking when he had Raney to dance with.
“You can drive us out there, but we’ll let Joss drive home,” Raney suggested. “She’s off alcohol for now, and I don’t want to drink alone. We can take my truck.”
A few minutes later, they loaded up. As expected, Joss hopped into the passenger seat. Dalton opened the back door for Raney. “I never thought our first date would include your pregnant sister,” he murmured as Raney hopped inside.
“This isn’t a date.”
“We’ll see.” The door slammed before Raney could think of anything to say.
It wasn’t a long drive, but Raney was relieved they made it to the Roadhouse in one piece, since Dalton spent as much time watching her in the rearview mirror as he did watching the road. She knew this because every time he looked in the mirror, he caught her watching him. And winked.
It promised to be a long night.
Joss was right about the crowded parking. The closest spot they could find was at least thirty yards from the door. Because Dalton had the pockets, Joss and Raney gave him their vitals—money, credit cards, IDs—so they wouldn’t need purses.
The night was clear and brightened by a gazillion stars but the air felt warm and humid after the storm the previous night. Raney hoped there would be enough AC to keep from getting overheated, especially since Joss had talked her into wearing a short bolero jacket over her silk blouse.
They could feel the throb of the big bass speakers as they walked across the lot. Jerry and the Kickers were a popular semilocal band that had a pretty decent vocalist backed by a wildly enthusiastic drummer and nimble-fingered guitarist. Joss had sung with them a couple of times, mostly after she’d been drinking, and when they walked in and Jerry saw her, he announced her like visiting royalty.
Raney was embarrassed when a sea of faces turned their way, but she smiled gamely and waved to friends she knew. Dalton stood stoically by her side. As far as she knew, this was his first big social outing since his release from prison. She figured it must be difficult for him, seeing familiar faces and wondering how many of them he could still count
