Chapter 2
LILAH
Dawson let out a rough laugh, then looked surprised at his own reaction. "Sorry, I don't have any horses with wings."
"That's okay. I've got my own wings. Now I just need a horse to practice with." God, it felt good to stand outside in the cold, fresh air and flirt with a gruff, good-looking cowboy. It had been a while since I'd felt the urge to smile.
"I'm assuming you had a horse at one point?" He glanced past me to the trailer I still hauled behind my truck.
"I did." My cheeks heated under his steady gaze. "Up until about a month ago, I had a horse, room and board, and a contract with an outfit out of Wyoming."
"Want to tell me what happened?" He cocked his head and his brow furrowed like he was bracing himself for a sob story.
"Not really." I didn't make a habit out of sharing my past mistakes with people, especially when I should have seen the red flags from miles away.
Dawson shook his head. "Sorry, Ms. Martinez, but I’m not sure this will be a good fit."
"Why? Because I don’t want to tell you how I lost my horse? Look, I'm not asking for charity." I crossed my arms and met his gaze head-on. "I'm asking for arena access and temporary stock. I'll pay for both. I'll work around your schedule. I won't interfere with your training or your rodeo prep."
"That's not—"
"And I don't need your pity." My pulse kicked up, but I kept my voice level. "Ruby vouched for me. If you don't trust her judgment, that's between you two."
Dawson's jaw tightened. He looked back toward the round pen behind him where a big bay mare had settled near the fence, her ears pricked toward us.
"Ruby's not the one who has to manage stock rotation or explain why one of my horses got injured practicing stunts."
"That’s fair." I shifted my weight and gestured toward the barn. "How about this? Give me fifteen minutes with one of your finished horses. Let me show you what I can do, and if you think I'm reckless or incompetent, I'll leave."
He studied me for a long moment with dark blue eyes, the same deep blue as the spikes of lupine that bloomed all over the hillsides in spring. Then he turned without a word and headed toward the barn.
I followed.
There was something comforting about being inside a barn. I inhaled the scent of warm hay and horses and immediately my nerves settled.
Dawson moved down the aisle and stopped at a stall holding a stocky buckskin gelding. "Meet Rio. He’s eight years old. I use him for ranch work and some arena events. He doesn’t spook. You should be safe with him."
"Perfect."
Dawson pulled the gelding out and cross-tied him in the aisle. I grabbed a brush from the nearby grooming kit and ran my hand along Rio's neck, feeling for tension. He stood there relaxed, his ears swiveling toward me.
"Do you need anything from my tack room?" Dawson leaned against the stall door, arms crossed.
"Not yet."
I worked the brush over Rio's coat in smooth, deliberate strokes, murmuring low enough that Dawson couldn't hear the words. The gelding’s breathing deepened. I moved to his shoulder, then his barrel, checking his stance and muscle tone.
Dawson watched without comment.
When I finished grooming, I unclipped the cross-ties and led Rio toward the indoor arena. Dawson followed a few paces behind.
Once inside, I turned Rio loose and let him move. He trotted a lap, snorted, then circled back toward me. I stepped into his space and rested my hand on his withers. He didn't flinch.
"Are you just going to stand there?" Dawson called from the rail.
"Patience isn't your strong suit, is it?"
"Not lately."
I grinned and vaulted onto Rio's back in one smooth motion. I didn’t need a saddle or a bridle, just my hands tangled in his mane and my legs finding balance. Rio startled half a step, then steadied.
I pressed my calves against his sides, and he moved into a walk. Then a trot.
Dawson straightened at the rail, his gaze fixed. He was giving me his full attention, and I’d always thrived in front of an audience.
I shifted my weight and Rio turned. Another shift and he stopped. I slid forward onto his neck, then pushed up into a crouch, and planted my feet along his spine.
Rio's ears flicked back, but he held steady.
I dropped into a seat and patted his neck.
Dawson's expression hadn't changed, but his hands gripped the top rail.
"Alright." His voice carried across the arena. "You can use the stock. But we do this my way."
Satisfied I'd passed his unofficial test, I directed Rio toward Dawson. "What's your way exactly?"
"My way means you don't touch the broncs. Not even to look at them sideways." Dawson's tone left no room for negotiation. "You work with finished stock only… horses I clear. You schedule your arena time around mine. If I'm training, you wait."
"That sounds reasonable." It actually sounded like heaven compared to my last mistake… the one I’d be paying for forever, or at least for the foreseeable future.
"You don't adjust tack, feeding schedules, or turnout rotation. You want something changed, you ask me first."
I slid off Rio's back and led him toward the rail. "Got it, boss. Anything else?"
"Yeah." Dawson's gaze dropped to my hands tangled in the gelding's mane, then back to my face. "You get hurt, that's on you. I'm not responsible for broken bones or bruised egos."
I rolled my eyes. "I've been doing this since I was sixteen. I know how to fall."
"Good. Because Montana ground is harder than Wyoming dirt."
I stopped a few feet from the rail and Rio pressed his nose against my shoulder. "When can I start?"
"Tomorrow morning. Six sharp." Dawson pushed off the fence and opened the gate. "I'll have three horses ready for you to evaluate. You pick one and we'll work out a rotation schedule."
"Three?" I raised an eyebrow. "I only need one."
"You need a backup in case your first choice goes lame or gets pulled for rodeo prep. And you need options so you're not wearing out the same animal every day." He stepped aside to let me pass. "Like I said, we’re doing this my way."
"Fair enough." I led Rio through the gate. As I passed Dawson, our shoulders brushed. I was close enough to catch the scent of fabric softener mixed with something woodsy and masculine. I took in a deep breath. Goosebumps broke out on my arms.
It was nothing. Just a long dry spell coupled with meeting a man who had the kind of understated confidence that had always been my downfall.
I was a sucker for cowboys, especially the ones who surrounded themselves with tall walls.
But not this time. I might appreciate the way the man filled out a pair of jeans, the hard set of his jaw, and the guarded look in his beautiful blue eyes, but I couldn’t screw this up. Not if I wanted to get my horse back.
We walked Rio back into the barn in silence. I brushed him down while Dawson checked the water buckets in the stalls nearby. When I finished, he took the lead rope and returned the gelding to his stall himself.
"You handled him well." Dawson latched the stall door and turned. "A lot of trick riders I've seen treat their stock like props."
"Yeah, well, most trick riders probably haven't invested years of their life training the perfect horse to have it stolen by a promoter who thinks contract fine print matters more than partnership.” I shook my head, wishing I’d had the sense to keep my mouth shut.
This man didn’t need to know about my problems.
Dawson's expression shifted. Something hard and guarded slid into place. "Is that what happened in Wyoming?"
"Among other things." I pulled my gloves from my coat pocket and headed for the barn doors. "But like I said, I'm not here for charity or sympathy. I'm here to work."
"Good because I’m short on both." The edge in his voice told me he meant it.
Outside, the wind had picked up, and the sky had turned the kind of gray that promised more snow. I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets and started toward my truck.
"Have you got a place to stay?" Dawson called out to my back.
I turned around. He stood in the barn doorway, backlit by the dim glow of overhead lights.
"I’ll get a room at that motel outside town. The one off the highway."
Dawson grunted. "That place is a dump. You can stay at the house."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I'd offer the bunkhouse, but I’ve got a few ranch hands staying down there, and I don't want you to have to share space with them." He shrugged like the offer cost him nothing. "The main house has plenty of room."
"If you're sure it's no problem." I hadn't expected the offer of a place to stay, especially after his comment about being short on charity, but was more than willing to take him up on it. I needed to save every penny I could to put toward lawyer fees.
Dawson crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "I've got a few ground rules we ought to cover."
Figured. This man seriously needed to loosen up. I rolled my eyes and played along. "Like what?”
"Like you stay out of my way. You can use the guest bath down the hall. The kitchen's fair game but clean up after yourself."
"Anything else, boss?"
His jaw ticked. "I'm up at four-thirty. I don't do small talk before coffee. And I don't do houseguests who think sharing space means we're friends."
I took a step closer. "Funny. I don't remember asking to be your friend."
"Good. Because I'm not offering."
"Then why invite me in at all?" I cocked my head, studying the hard set of his mouth and the way his shoulders stayed tight. "You strike me as the type of man who likes his space."
"I am."
"So?"
Dawson's gaze dropped to my lips for half a second before snapping back up. "So Ruby would have my hide if I let you freeze in that rattrap of a motel. Consider this a favor to her, not you."
"Right." I smiled slow. "Because you're such a generous guy."
"I'm practical. You're here for a few weeks. Might as well make it easy on both of us."
"Easy." I rolled the word around in my mouth like I could taste it. "Is that what you call bossing people around and making lists of rules?"
"I call it setting boundaries."
"It sounds exhausting."
His eyes narrowed. "Are you always this difficult?"
"Only when someone tries to manage me like livestock."
Dawson pushed off the doorframe and stopped in front of me. He was close enough that I had to tilt my head back to hold his gaze. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him despite the cold air swirling through the barn.
"Do you want to stay or not?"
My pulse kicked up. "Are you done with your rules?"
"For now."
"Then yeah." I held his stare. "I'll stay. But if you wake me up at four-thirty with some kind of lecture about protocol, I might start a rumor that you actually like having people around."
He didn’t even crack a smile. "You wouldn’t dare.”
“Don’t test me, cowboy.”
“Ruby knew exactly what she was doing when she sent you over.” His shoulders dropped a notch in resignation. Then he held out his hand to shake on it. “Looks like we’ve got a deal.”
I slid my hand into his, shivering at the contact.
Dawson was a good-looking guy even if his attitude could use a major overhaul.
I estimated his age to be mid-thirties. Ruby hadn’t mentioned a wife or family, though.
She just said his bark was way worse than his bite, that he lived alone, had plenty of stock I could use to train on, and he could use a little shake up in his carefully controlled life.
My fingers still tingled as he pulled back and gestured toward the barn doors. “Let me show you around.”
The main house sat about a hundred yards from the barn. A wide front porch stretched the full length with faded shutters by the windows that had seen better decades. Dawson led me inside, flipping on lights as he went.
The front room opened into a kitchen with butcher-block counters and a wood-burning stove in the corner. Everything looked clean but lived in. There was no clutter, no piles of paperwork, and no photos on the walls. No personality, either.
"Guest room's upstairs. First door on the right."
I followed him up the narrow staircase, our boots heavy on the wooden steps. At the top, he gestured toward a closed door on the left.
"That's mine and it’s off limits."
"Why? Is that where you hide the bodies?" I teased.
"No, I use the back pasture for that."
So he was capable of humor. That was a good sign. I smirked and moved past him toward the guest room but paused when I noticed his door sat slightly ajar. Curiosity got the better of me, and I leaned in to take a quick peek.
A single lamp sat on the nightstand. Boots lined up near the closet like soldiers. A plaid comforter stretched over a queen-sized bed. There were no throw pillows, nothing hanging on the walls, and nothing personal anywhere. It was exactly what I expected.
"Seriously?"
I turned. Dawson stood in the hallway, his arms crossed again, his expression somewhere between annoyed and amused.
"I’m just making sure you're not a serial killer."
"And?"
"The jury's still out."
His mouth twitched, earning me an almost-smile. "The guest room is the first door on the right."
I shouldered my duffel and opened the door he'd indicated.
The room was smaller than his but not by much.
A faded quilt covered the double bed, and a large window overlooked the pasture.
It was clean and impersonal, like a hotel room someone forgot to decorate.
But it was also safe and warm and the perfect place to land for a little while.
"This works."
"Good." Dawson lingered in the doorway. "Breakfast is at five if you want it. Otherwise, see you at six."
"Can't wait."
He turned and walked away, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the uncomfortable realization that I was already looking forward to six a.m.