“Fishin’.”
So she was. But Red’s attitude hurt her pride more than she wanted to admit. “I have calls to make.”
Peyton forced herself to walk slowly across the way to the main house, hoping the good quarter mile would cool her down. Not quite, but by the time she reached the kitchen, her anger wasn’t biting either. She stepped in to smell something mouthwatering and welcomed the reason to procrastinate.
In the heart of the home, she found longtime housekeeper and cook Emma. The woman who had all but raised the three Muldoon siblings while Mama was off on another bender and Daddy was busy keeping things together. Short, petite, and frail-looking, Emma was anything but. She could take over a platoon of soldiers and have them whimpering like babies in minutes. A quality almost necessary to live in the rough and rugged, male-dominated west.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Roast.” Emma didn’t turn from the counter where she chopped vegetables. “And you know what time dinner is, so don’t think you can come slinking in here and start snacking early. You’ll ruin your appetite and my work will go to waste.”
Peyton bit back a smile. It was the same speech she’d heard since she was a toddler. She held up her hands in surrender. “Wasn’t going to grab anything. Just wanted to say hi.”
At that, Emma turned and smiled. Several years older than Peyton’s own mother had been, Emma was a comfortable, maternal port in the storm, and Peyton had no problem walking into her outstretched arms. She’d take support wherever she could get it.
“I have to call Trace and Bea,” she mumbled into Emma’s shoulder.
“Why?” Emma pulled back and stared at her. “God knows they should have been here when your Mama passed. Not for her. But for you.” Emma smoothed Peyton’s hair back and studied her. “Do you need them?”
“Apparently,” she bit off. With a sigh, she stepped back and shrugged. Then with a grin, she grabbed a cookie from the cooling rack and darted away before Emma could reach out and slap her fingers.
On the way up to the office, she munched on the cookie and thought about how she was going to convince her brother and sister to waive their veto rights. But first she had to find them.
Red answered his cell phone to just to make the ringing stop.
“What.”
“Well, isn’t that the sweetest of greetings?”
“Dad?” Hello wake-up call. He shifted up so his back was against the headboard and blinked at the clock on the nightstand. Three fifty-eight in the morning. Joy. “I don’t have bail money.” He did. But that wasn’t the point.
The loud barking laugh blasted the last dregs of sleep from his brain. “No bail necessary. Not this time. Though I wouldn’t mind a few thousand to get me through until—”
“No.” Red was firm on this, as usual. “No money. Wait.” He sat up a little straighter. “Until what?”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you.” His father sighed the sigh of the long weary. “I’m calling about a job.”
“I don’t have a job for you.” Same old song and dance from dear ole dad.
“Son, you’re not hearing right. I mean a job for you. I’ve been working out here in Idaho on a sweet spread.”
Wonder if you bothered to mention your gambling habit to the sucker who hired you.
“Boss is pretty impressed with having Red Callahan’s old man on the payroll.”
That explained it. “I told you to stop using my name for things.” Having made a name for himself in the horse world gave him multiple advantages. But it also had its drawbacks. Somehow, his father managed to find every single one.
“Calm down, boy. No harm done. Now, like I was saying, heard through the grapevine you were taking offers. Boss mentioned there’d be a prime spot for ya. Why don’t you hop on over and check it out?”
“And a decent pay raise for you, too, right?” Mac Callahan didn’t do anything, period, unless it benefited him in some way. Mostly financially.
“I’m hurt.” Mac laid it on thick, pulling out his best
Don’t you trust me?
voice. “Maybe I just want to see my boy every day. Do the father-son thing.”
“Thing.”
You didn’t want to do the father-son thing when I was growing up . . . why now?
Red rubbed a hand over his face, scratched his jaw and winced at the bristle. Laying low for a break was one thing. Looking like a bum was something else entirely. Knowing there was no way he’d get back to sleep now, regardless of the time, he tossed back the covers and stood.
“Yeah. The bonding thing. Come on out. You’ll like the place.”
The place, as Red could easily guess, was likely nothing more than a two-bit breeding factory turning out half-rate ponies with no bloodlines. In other words, the exact thing he would run as fast the other way from as possible. But with his father’s less-than-stellar track record at both being reliable on the job and staying out of trouble with the law, the fact that he found work at all was something of a miracle.
“I’m going to pass.” He kept his voice hard, not allowing a hint of anything that might be seen as regret to leak in.
“Already got something lined up?” In true Mac fashion, he’d counted the chips, realized he was low, and moved on with minimal disappointment. That was the thing with his dad. The bastard was too charming for his own good.
“No, nothing lined up yet.” He got up to search for his boxers, pulled them on, then put the phone on speaker and set it on the bathroom counter while he splashed some water on his face. Staring at his own reflection, he knew it was time to stop dicking around and pick a spot. A week had passed, and he’d received too many offers to count. Most he’d discounted immediately for one reason or another. A few he’d hedged on, saying he’d give an answer soon. But his gut wasn’t talking. Not yet.
One thing was for sure, though. Wallowing in a hotel room didn’t agree with him. He had to get out of there.
“Dad? I’m gonna call you back, how’s that sound?” Before his father could respond, he snapped the phone shut. Mac wouldn’t care. No hard feelings, ever, with his dad. It was the beauty of their relationship, really. Sure, he got called for more favors and bailouts than any son wanted. But at least when he said no, his dad wasn’t likely to hold it against him.
Walking back to the double bed, he debated turning on the TV, but realized nothing would be on at this hour. So he picked up the folder where he’d kept the info on all the ranches that had reached out to him and spread each one over the rumpled bed.
No one ranch, spread, operation, or owner stood out to him as the clear winner. This hadn’t happened before. Usually within minutes, he knew exactly where his next move was. He’d made a few wrong turns based on his instinct, but not many. Not enough to discount it as the main motivator for his choices.
Blue Ridge was persistent. The owner had called several times, hinting the offered salary was merely a starting point, open to big negotiations. But it was small, both on land and in drive from the owner. Little room for growth. The man wanted the prestige of having Red work there, but wasn’t focused on the future.
Ten Fork was a good size, likely capable of growth. But they already had a good head trainer, and Red knew for a fact that man wasn’t going anywhere unless he was pushed out. Two head trainers in one operation spelled disaster. And he didn’t care for the fact that the owner might be willing to throw out a vet for someone new.
He stared at the papers until his eyes blurred, then blinked. It was coming down to this, then. He had to make a choice, had to get going. Not for the money, but to satisfy his own drive. A man without a purpose wasn’t a man at all, to his way of thinking. And if his gut wasn’t going to decide, he’d just have to do it the mature, rational, adult way.
Eeny, meeny, miny, moe it was.
Just as he started to sing the stupid rhyme in his head, a sharp knock startled him. He checked the clock. Only four-thirty. So not housekeeping then. And not a neighbor complaining, since he’d made no noise. Padding to the door, avoiding the window, he peeked through the hole.
And almost fell flat on his ass at the sight.
Yanking the door open, he drawled, “Well, isn’t this a surprise.”
Peyton Muldoon raised a brow, then rolled her eyes. “I’m sure it is.”
He stared at her, drinking her in. Dark gold-with-chestnut locks flowed out from under a dusty, worn hat; a flannel shirt fit her curves like a dream. And he couldn’t help but envy the denim that hugged every inch of her hips, down her legs. Christ, she was pretty. She’d hate hearing that though. She’d likely kick him in the nuts for it. He figured that pretty was too feminine for her mind, considering how tough she had to be to make it in the man’s world she’d set herself up in.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Muldoon?” His drawl was pronounced, sarcastic, but better she be annoyed than think he was giving her a real once-over.
Her eyes flicked down his body once. Any other woman, he would have been sure he’d gotten a once-over in return. But with Peyton, he doubted it.
“Wanna put some pants on, cowboy?”
Shit. He glanced down, realizing he was in boxers alone. He let the door go and grabbed the first pair of jeans he could find draped over a chair. He hopped on one leg, then the other, doing his best to hustle in. Which only meant that he had to slow down when his foot got caught and caused him to stumble.
A snort sounded behind him, and he took a deep breath. Acting like an idiot wasn’t going to make things better. After buckling his belt, he felt more in control. He grabbed a shirt and tossed it on, doing up buttons as he turned to the door, only to find it closed.
“Over here.”
He spun and found Peyton sitting at the small table in the corner, boots propped up like she was at home. “Come on in.”
“No problem.” She waved him over, as if he were the guest. Balls. She had brass ones. “We need to talk.”
He finished the last button as he plopped into the opposite chair. “Before five in the morning?”
“Work starts early on the ranch.” She narrowed her eyes at him. Red felt suspiciously like she was taking a mental picture. “You look like shit.”
That . . . was not what he expected. “Uh, thank you.”
She grinned. “I like it.”
He was definitely not awake enough for this conversation. Ignoring her, he got back up and walked to the bathroom counter to turn on the complimentary coffeemaker and start brewing a pot.
“You owe me.”
No more ignoring. “I owe you? What the hell for?” Had she lost her mind?
With her arms crossed over her stomach, her breasts were pushed up for display. Not that he was looking. He wasn’t looking.
“I heard you talking to Pete Daugherty. I’ve heard there were others. Unfair, since you’ve never worked for my operation or with any of our animals. You have no clue what we’ve got to offer.”
“I know what you don’t have to offer. And I know what your current plan is to grow the ranch, and that it’s not right. The intentions are there, but the plan isn’t effective.”
“You don’t know the first thing about what’s right for my place.” She stood up, eyes blazing, fists pounding on the fake wood table. “You don’t have the right to warn Daugherty off. Or anyone.”
“Daugherty doesn’t pay his bills,” he said quietly. Like horses, humans responded faster to quiet authority than shouting and theatrics. And as he guessed, some of the anger seeped out of her stance. “The others, and there weren’t as many as you make it sound, were not reputable. Working with them would have shown you were desperate. I wouldn’t have suggested them to anyone. Especially not someone whose reputation can’t afford another kick in the teeth.”
“I didn’t know that.” She sat back down, a little deflated.
Red poured two cups of coffee, bringing over a few packets of sweetener. He set them down, and Peyton took the mug gratefully and started drinking it black. Just like he figured. He dumped in sugar and gave it time to dissolve. “So remind me why I owe you again?”
She rolled out of the chair and walked over to the bed. Watching her move was something to see. Graceful as a colt, she moved with confidence and strength. But still, somehow, despite her tough exterior, she managed to have a little flirty kick to her hips when she stepped.
She’d hate hearing that as much as she’d hate being called pretty.
Picking up one file, she examined the ranch name on the outside. He debated telling her it was private, but no use in bothering. She’d snarl and tell him to bug off, then just go on doing whatever she wanted anyway. They’d known each other for years—the horse world was a small one, people-wise, not geographically—though they’d spent more time in each others’ presence in the past week than they had in a long time.
“Ten Fork. Good place. Big operation.” She looked at him. “Gonna take it?”
“Haven’t decided yet.” And she’d saved him from making the decision based on a nursery rhyme. But no need to share that part. Her seeing him in his boxers was humiliation enough for the day.