Heartbreaker of Hollow Peak (Hollow Peak Mountain Men #4)

Chapter 1

BECK

The way Riot's tearing up that pasture, you'd think the fence line had bad-mouthed his daddy.

I'm on the porch with my busted ankle propped on a cedar crate and a sweating glass of sweet tea going warm on the side table, and I've been watching this horse burn a trench into his own paddock for the better part of an hour.

Tail up, ears pinned, snorting at God and everybody who dares to watch.

He's pissed. Rightfully so…he’s eighteen years old, coming off one of the most demanding careers a horse can have, and now he's stuck watching his handler sit on his ass like a bum.

I’m pissed too, buddy.

I shift in the rocker and my ankle hums, a hot, tight throb that starts at the bone and radiates north.

I’m two weeks and change out from the dumbest thing I've done in a decade, which is saying something, because I've done a lot of dumb things.

I was at the feed store. Some kid, maybe nine years old, was staring at me like I walked straight off the big screen.

His mama had pointed me out.

That's Beck Aldridge—he did stunts in that horse movie you love so much.

The boy then asked, real polite, if I could show him a move. And I, a forty-four year old man with twenty years of injuries, thought: sure, kid, let me just vault off the flatbed of my truck onto a bale of hay.

I landed perfectly on the bale.

But my ankle gave out.

The kid gaped at me in awe, as if it was the coolest thing he'd ever seen in his young life.

So, at least I've got that going for me.

His mama, on the other hand, gave me the look I've gotten often since I moved back to Hollow Peak—the tired, unsurprised one.

The one that says I see you're still the same cocky show-off.

Probably still chasing all the ladies and breaking their hearts, too.

Kinda sad for a middle-aged man. Then she pulled the kid away by the shoulder without even asking if I was okay.

As if my particular brand of stupid might be contagious.

Riot circles the pasture one more time, kicking out at nothing, and then plants himself dead center and glares at me across the wide swath of clover.

"I know, pal. I’m sorry."

He snorts and swings his head, slowly and with purpose, toward the tack shed, then back to me with a whinny.

"Can't do it, bud. You know I can't."

He gives me another snort, deeper this time. That's horse for you’re a disappointment.

I'd argue, but he's not wrong.

Doc said another four weeks, minimum, before I put real weight on it. Six to be safe. And even when I can walk, it's going to be a long climb back to where I can ride a horse the way Riot needs to be worked.

He's not a trail pony. He's muscled and clever, bred and built to do things, and if he doesn't do things he starts inventing projects.

Last week's project was unlatching the gate to the hay paddock. The week before that, it was testing how hard he could kick the barn wall before a board split.

He's going to cost me a new fence by August if someone doesn't exercise him properly, and ride him into a calm, sensible stupor.

Which is why I called Maverick Dempsey in the first place.

Mav and I go way back. We’re not close, exactly, but close enough. He worked a Montana ranch I spent a week on a hundred years ago, and we kept in touch the way men do, which is to say almost not at all…but we’re there for each other in a pinch.

When I finally broke down and admitted I needed help, he texted: My sister's between jobs. She's even better than I am with horses. I’ll send her over, but don't be an ass.

Thanks, Mav. Real subtle.

I've got a list a mile long of things I was planning to do before she got here, starting with shave properly and ending with pretend I’m not a washed-up has-been.

I'm batting zero on both counts, and she’s due to arrive tomorrow morning.

So when I hear tires on gravel down at the end of the drive, I assume it's a propane delivery or Clay Henshaw stopping by on his bike to tell me that the Timberline's running a burger special and I should come down soon.

But the truck that rolls up is a dust-dulled silver Chevy with Montana plates and a horse-trailer hitch, and when the driver's door opens, every thought I had queued up in my head…disappears.

The woman is a stunner.

In Hollywood, I met glamorous actresses and beautiful models with faces and bodies you could only dream about. And I'm telling you, the woman who just stepped out of that truck and is staring at my house, makes them all look ho-hum.

She’s lean, tall-ish, and her dark hair is tied back in a knot that's already losing the fight. She’s in worn jeans, scuffed boots, a faded tank under an open flannel, and she’s got the kind of posture that says she doesn’t mind getting dirty or taking you to task for being a lazy SOB.

No makeup that I can see…just a body and an attitude that’s already makin’ me stiff in my jeans.

And my heart doesn’t do the polite little flutter you get when a pretty woman smiles at you in a bar. This is a full-body check into the floorboards, and I have about three seconds to get my face in order before she looks toward me.

When she does, I put on the grin that’s carried me through years of hot and heavy nights.

"What can I do for you, ma'am?" I call from the porch, tipping my chin up.

She stops in the yard, one hand on her hip, and takes her time studying me, from the propped ankle and probably the unruly scruff framing my smile.

"You Beck Aldridge?"

"Depends who's asking."

"Laurel Dempsey."

My brain, already operating under reduced conditions, takes another half-second to catch up. Laurel? As in Maverick's sister? As in my horse trainer?

As in the woman currently standing in my yard in a pair of jeans I could rip off with my teeth?

"You're early."

"I like to get a jump on things,” she says, and obviously realizes too late how I’d take that.

My brows fly up my forehead, and I drag my gaze from her boots back to her eyes. “I have no problem with that."

She still hasn't smiled.

I ease myself forward in the rocker, and with as much dignity as a man in my position can muster, make it to my feet.

The crutches that I rarely use lean against the rail about eight inches farther than my pride will admit I can reach, and I'm not about to go scrambling for them now.

I get down the porch steps one at a time—good leg, bad leg, good leg, curse silently, bad leg—and by the time I'm on flat ground, she's in front of me with her arms crossed, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair.

She’s got green eyes. Fuck, me. "Mav told me a lot about you, but he left out an important detail."

“What?”

“That his little sister is a goddamn knockout."

She doesn't even blink. “You expected my brother to tell you that?”

I shrug. “It’s possible.”

“I came for the paycheck,” she says, rolling her eyes. “And the horse.”

"Lucky horse."

“How about you introduce me?” she says, curtly.

"How about you call me Beck?"

"I'll stick with Mr. Aldridge."

"Ouch."

"You'll live."

“Is that him staring at us over there?” She's already moving past me toward the pasture fence, done with my bullshit.

And I'm watching her walk away with a grin spreading across my face, because damn that view.

"Ms. Dempsey," I call after her. "You always this friendly, or is it just me?"

She doesn't turn around. "Take a guess. I'm sure you’re smarter than you look."

A startled laugh punches out of me, and I hobble after her.

The woman’s got a mouth on her. A mouth I’d like to…nope, she hasn’t even been here for fifteen minutes, Beck.

Riot clocks us before we reach the rail.

His head comes up fast—ears forward for half a second, because he's curious, and then pinned flat when he sees the stranger. He's got issues with strangers. He's got issues with most things, but especially strangers. He tosses his head and starts a slow walk in our direction.

"Ms. Dempsey," I say, easing up to the fence and letting it take some of my weight, "meet Riot."

"He’s a beautiful quarter horse. Looks great for his age."

"Takes after me."

She huffs out a breath, un-impressed.

Riot reaches the fence and stops a few feet off, neck arched, nostrils working. His ears are so flat I could set a saucer on them. He swings his big dark body sideways, one shoulder deliberately angled at her like a warning.

She reads it, and doesn’t back off, or square up. She doesn’t show any nervousness I've seen out of people much bigger than her. "He bite?"

"Only if you show weakness."

She nods. “Got it.”

“And he’ll test you.”

She unlatches the gate.

"Ms. Dempsey…” I suddenly feel as if I’m letting her walk into the lion’s den. “…he's a handful."

"I know." She steps through and latches it behind her. "My brother warned me."

"About Riot?"

"And you."

I shut my mouth.

She walks out into the pasture toward him and then just stops. And waits. She doesn't reach for him. Doesn't click or coo. Doesn't do any of the things most people do when they're trying to convince a horse to come to them. She just stands in the grass with her hands loose at her sides.

Riot watches.

A full minute goes by. Then another. I brace myself on the fence and try to keep my weight off the ankle.

Riot tosses his head and paws at the ground once.

She doesn't move.

He takes a step in. Drops his nose a bit, then jerks it back up, trying to startle her. She still doesn't move. He circles her in a wide lazy arc, and she turns only as much as she needs to keep him in her peripheral vision.

She says something in a low voice, but I can't hear the words from where I'm standing.

Riot's ears come up one at a time. Not both at once—that'd be too much surrender. Then he takes another step.

She opens her hand at her side, palm up.

And in moments, he closes the distance in three slow steps, drops his head, and fits his muzzle into her palm like he's sliding a key into a lock.

I’m shocked.

In all my years with this horse, I've watched him take a chunk out of a stunt coordinator for standing too close on day one of a shoot.

I've watched him chase an award-winning actor around his trailer because the guy smelled weird.

I've watched him refuse to let a veterinarian in his stall until he was presented with a bucket of his favorite molasses biscuits.

He doesn’t close his eyes the way he is now, while she scratches under his cheek. He doesn’t lip at her belt and nose toward her pockets.

He doesn’t trust anyone this fast.

Except, apparently, this woman.

I’m not gonna lie. I was not prepared for this. It scares me a little.

And there goes my heart again.

Riot exhales into her palm. A long, slow breath that shows he's decided she's safe.

Laurel smiles at the side of his face. It’s damn pretty.

"Well," I manage to say, because I have to say something or I'm going to drown out here in broad daylight. "If you're this good with difficult males, maybe you could fix me, too."

She continues to stroke Riot’s face with two hands, and doesn't look up. "Out of my pay grade."

The laugh comes out rougher than I mean it to.

She murmurs something against the horse’s neck, and then turns and walks back toward the gate like she hasn't just performed a miracle in mere minutes.

She latches the gate behind her, and breezes past me with a nod. “I’ll go grab my bags,” she says, heading up the slope toward her truck.

I stand at the fence with my busted ankle and my dumbstruck heart and watch her go…from the sway of her hips to the little puffs of dust her boots kick up in the grass. And behind me, Riot comes up and noses the back of my shirt.

"Yeah," I tell him. "I like her, too."

He huffs against my spine.

She reaches the truck, pops the driver's door and leans in.

Her sweet ass taunts me.

I groan and shake my head.

Riot flicks an ear.

"What the hell am I going to do with myself?" I say.

Riot blows out a breath that sounds a lot like yeah, you’re screwed.