Amy looked at me, cocking her head. “Who were you expecting?”
“I…” Christ, how to answer that without sounding like a dick? Way to go, idiot. “Well, I mean, usually I get kids trying to earn some money while they’re in college. Drifters, sometimes.” I glanced at her. “What did bring you out here, anyway?”
I hoped she couldn’t see right through me. I still felt more than a little guilty for looking her up online, especially without telling her, but how exactly was I supposed to word that?
So I Googled you because I couldn’t figure you out, and now I know more about you than you probably wanted me to know. Is that okay?
Ugh.
Amy rested her elbow beneath the window. “It’s kind of a long, convoluted story. Basically, I just needed to get away from my…” She looked out the window and drew in a long breath. “I don’t want to go into detail about it, but I needed to get away from my other life for a while.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. The employer wanted to know how long she expected her sabbatical from her other life to last, because I’d need to fill the job again when she left. The rest of me was both curious and concerned about what could possibly have driven her to run like that so quickly after the death of the husband I wasn’t supposed to know about. And how that connected to the makeup-camouflaged bruise on her face. And how I hoped to God it didn’t connect the way I was pretty sure it did.
But I just rested my hand on top of the steering wheel and offered a hint of a smile as I said, “Well, you can’t get much further away from anything than this place.”
Amy laughed softly. “That’s true. I didn’t even realize how far out in the middle of nowhere it was until I got here.”
I chuckled. “Tell me about it. My folks moved to this farm while I was in college. First time I came home to visit, I called them three times on the way like, ‘are you sure I didn’t miss a turn somewhere?’”
She laughed again, this time with a little more enthusiasm. Then she asked, “So your parents started the place? But your dad was saying Ransom is your foundation stallion.”
I nodded. “He is. My parents bred horses until a little before I went to college, but then they scaled back and sold off the herd because Dad couldn’t handle the breeding and training on his own. So he just trained for a few years, boarded horses, things like that.” I paused. “About the time I graduated college and moved back, he had a heart attack, so we all decided that was a good time for me to take over. Since we didn’t have a stud, I started breeding for one. I bred Ransom’s dam to this gorgeous world champion stud up near Moses Lake.” I grinned. “I swear to you, the minute Ransom hit the ground, I knew he was going to be the horse to start my own breeding program.”
“And he was?”
“Very much so. Consistently throws excellent foals. Totally willing, gorgeous conformation, very—” I cut myself off, laughing self-consciously. “I’m sorry. I’m rambling.” I glanced at her as some warmth rushed into my cheeks. “Not very often I get to talk to anyone who’s not a client about this stuff.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She offered a faint smile, then looked out the windshield. “It’s actually kind of refreshing talking to someone in this business who still gets excited about what they do.”
“Believe me, I’ve been burned out a few times.”
Amy looked at me again. “Have you?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “I haven’t even competed as heavily the last couple of years as I used to. Had the excuse of not having any of Ransom’s babies ready for the ring, but I have to admit, it didn’t really break my heart to back off from it for a little while.”
“I don’t doubt that,” she muttered. “So is that how you got past being burned out? Just scaling back competing?”
“Yes and no,” I said. “It gave me a break, but I still had to get past the burnout with the horses themselves.”
“How did you do that?”
“Trail riding. Lots, and lots, and lots of trail riding.”
“Really?”
“Yep.” I tapped my fingers on top of the steering wheel. “Still made sure the horses were in good form and not developing any bad habits, but it did us all some good to get out of the arena for a while.”
Amy said nothing.
I glanced at her. “So you know what burnout is like? In this business, I mean?”
“You could say that.” She lowered her gaze and played with the hem of her shirt. “I know I’m just a farmhand right now, but believe it or not”—she looked right at me—“I’ve been around this business.”
So I’ve gathered…
I swallowed. “In what capacity?”
She turned her head and looked out the window. “In one that almost did more than just burn me out.”
She didn’t elaborate.
I didn’t ask.
I wanted to. Badly. But nothing about her guarded tone suggested she wanted me to, so I didn’t.
I just kept my mouth shut and kept driving.
Forty-five minutes after we left the ranch, we pulled up in front of Ace’s, a country bar that had been here since the dawn of time.
“Here we are.” I put the truck in park and looked at Amy. “You ever been to a place like this?”
She shook her head. “No, I was usually dragged to the
other
kind of country club.” She followed the comment with an eye roll as she wrinkled her nose, and I couldn’t help laughing.
“Forced to endure champagne and caviar, eh?” I put my hand over my heart and sighed dramatically. “You poor thing.”
“Trust me.” She grimaced. “It’s not as great as it sounds. And champagne and caviar?” She made another face, and I laughed.
“Is that right?”
She unbuckled her seat belt and let it snap back behind her. “Have you ever actually
eaten
caviar?”
“I have not.”
“Don’t.” She waved a hand and shook her head. “I tried it once, and that was more than enough.” Gesturing at the bar, she said, “I’m more than open to trying a place like this, though.”
“Well,” I said, “let’s go in and see how you like it.”
We got out of the truck and walked across the dusty parking lot. I held open the door, and as she walked past, I almost forgot myself and laid a hand on the small of her back.
This isn’t a date, Dustin. Hands off.
Not that I’d know what to do with myself if it was a date. It had been, what, a year since I’d been on one? And that didn’t even count as much of a date. A little flirtation that led to a quickie in my tack room didn’t quite qualify.
Neither does this.
I led Amy toward a cluster of tables where my parents and some family friends had already sat down with beers and peanuts.
This is definitely
not
a date
.
I introduced her to our friends, who were some farmers we knew in the area and some trainers who were in town for a big competition at the fairgrounds. One I was glad not to be attending this year, but probably would next year when Ransom’s yearlings were ready for the two-year-old futurity.
Music played all around us. People line-danced, and everyone at our table laughed and carried on. Ace’s was loud on Friday and Saturday nights but not so loud people couldn’t have a conversation without screaming. Still, Amy didn’t say much to me or anyone else. She listened but didn’t look many of us in the eye. I wondered if it was a mistake, bringing her out with a bunch of people she didn’t know. She could barely hold a conversation with Dad or me.
I especially wondered if it was a mistake to bring her around other horse people. None of us could ever resist talking shop, particularly those who were in competition mode, and the way Amy kept her eyes down and picked at her food suggested she really, really didn’t want to join in.
Damn it, what had I been thinking? I hadn’t thought about it until just seconds before I asked, and hadn’t considered she might not be in the mood for noise and people. Maybe she wasn’t the type who enjoyed this kind of thing even when she
was
feeling okay.
She probably wanted to just fade into the woodwork and not be noticed, and I tried my damnedest not to let her know just how much I noticed her. She stood out, at least to me. It wasn’t like I’d never seen gorgeous women in this place. She wasn’t the first, and tonight she wasn’t the only, but for all I could take my eyes off her, she may as well have been.
As they say, she cleaned up good.
Real good.
The simple blouse drove me crazy. It held on in ways a T-shirt didn’t, and that single open button below the collar was simultaneously modest and tantalizing. More than once, I caught myself staring at the exposed edge of her collarbone. I may have even imagined, just once or twice, what it would be like to taste every soft inch from her collarbone to her jaw.
King. For God’s sake. She’s a widow. Settle the fuck down.
The deejay changed from one upbeat country song to another, drawing me back into the present.
Amy suddenly sat up straight, her expression brightening. “Oh, I remember this one!” She hesitated. “I think I do.”
“The song?” I asked.
“No, the dance,” she said.
“You…know how to line dance?” I asked.
Her cheeks colored a little, and she smiled shyly as she looked at her plate. “Well, I learned a few of them in high school. Don’t know if I remember all the steps, but…”
“Only one way to find out.” Grinning, I nodded toward the dance floor.
She looked at me, eyes wide. “Are you serious?”
“Sure, why not?”
She hesitated, but then smiled. “Only if you come with me.”
Twist my arm…
I shrugged and took one more swallow of beer, then stood. “After you.”
As she started toward the floor, she looked around. “No one’s videotaping this, are they?”
“You never know.” She stopped, so I nudged her forward and added, “So you’d better hope you remember the steps.”
“Oh, crap,” she said but laughed.
It took us both a few beats to get into step with the other dozen or so people, but we quickly fell into synch with everyone else. Amy was right; she did know this one. Her rhythm was solid, and though she wasn’t quite as smooth as the guys who were here every weekend of their lives, she got the steps right.
For a few bars, anyway. Then the line went left, Amy went right, and we collided. We both managed to stay on our feet, and I steered her back in the right direction, but we both lost track of where the hell we were supposed to put our feet, and I went back, she went left, and we both burst out laughing. Everyone else probably thought we were both shitfaced or something. That or complete idiots. Maybe both. Every time one of us started to get it, the other—and it wasn’t always Amy by
any
means—screwed it up, and then we’d start laughing, which didn’t help at all.
And seeing her this way, hearing her laugh like that, didn’t help me keep my feet under me. Five minutes ago, I wasn’t even sure she knew how to laugh, and yet here she was. She reminded me now of that photo on her website, when she’d been all decked out for dressage competition and holding up a trophy with a smile—with
that
smile—on her face. There’d been life in her eyes in that picture, and it had come back tonight.
Maybe what I’d thought was apathy and indifference was just grief. She had, after all, just lost her husband. People dealt with grief in strange ways, and maybe Amy had just shut down.
Whatever the reason, the shell around her had cracked, and I couldn’t catch my breath.
Or, apparently, keep my feet under me. Muscle memory couldn’t even help me now, and those steps I’d long ago memorized were suddenly out the window, and Amy and I collided again. “I thought you knew how to do this,” she shouted over the music.
“I never—” I went left when I should have gone right, and when I bumped into her, Amy grabbed my arm to keep from tripping. Once we were back on track, I said, “I never said I was any good at this.”
“Well, good,” she said. “I don’t feel so bad.”
“Glad to help.”
The line shifted again, and this time we were both completely distracted, and it was only by the grace of God we didn’t wind up on our asses.
“Okay, I give up.” Amy put up her hands and started for the sidelines.
Laughing, I followed her. “You’re a little rusty but not as bad as you think.”
“Maybe I just need a few more drinks.”
“Somehow I don’t think that’ll bring the steps back.”
“No.” She took her seat again. “But I won’t care as much when I trip over my own feet.”
“Hmm, yeah.” I sat across from her. “Alcohol does have that effect.”
“Yes, yes, it does.” She flagged down the waitress and ordered us a couple more beers.
Our beers came. The songs changed. We watched people dancing with much more skill and finesse than either of us had any chance of having tonight.
The moment had passed. We’d stopped laughing, but that spark in her eye lingered. Like something in her really had come to life, and looking at her now, it wasn’t the beer that was making me light-headed.
And then the song changed again, but this wasn’t a line dance anymore. Not when it was that slow. It was one of those steel-guitar ballads sung by some sad Stetson-wearing millionaire who probably didn’t even know how to ride, and it drew slow-moving people together into pairs instead of lines. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d danced like that.