Summertime Dreams: A Little Bit Country / The Bachelor Prince

“Oh?” Skip couldn’t possibly mean he planned to marry her, Rorie thought. Good heavens, he was still in high school.

He must have seen Rorie’s puzzled frown, and hurried to explain. “Not me,” he said with a short laugh. “Kate is Clay’s fiancée.”

Five (#ulink_251a96cc-4696-596b-b74c-f344882c7a75)

“You and Clay are...engaged,” Rorie murmured as shock waves coursed through her blood. They stopped with a thud at her heart and spread out in ripples of dismay.

Somehow Rorie managed a smile, her outward composure unbroken. She was even able to offer her congratulations. To all appearances, nothing was wrong. No one would’ve known that those few simple words had destroyed a night she’d planned to treasure all her life.

“I hope you and Clay will be very happy,” Rorie said—and she meant it. She’d just been introduced to Kate Logan, but already Rorie knew that this sweet, friendly woman was exactly the kind of wife a man like Clay would need.

“Skip’s rushing things a little,” Kate pointed out, but the glint of love in her eyes contradicted her words. “Clay hasn’t even given me an engagement ring yet.”

“But you and Clay have been talking about getting married, haven’t you?” Skip pressed. “And you’re crazy about him.”

Kate blushed prettily. “I’ve loved Clay from the time I was in fifth grade. I wrote his name all over my books. Of course, Clay wouldn’t have anything to do with me, not when he was a big important high-schooler and I was just the pesky little girl next door. It took a while for him to notice me—like ten years.” She gave a small laugh. “We’ve been dating steadily for the past two.”

“But you and Clay are going to get married, right?” Skip continued, clearly wanting to prove his point.

“Eventually, but we haven’t set a date, although I’m sure it’ll be soon,” Kate answered, casting a sharp look at Rorie.

The tightness that had gripped Rorie’s throat eased and she struggled to keep her smile intact. It was impossible not to like Kate, but that didn’t lessen the ache in Rorie’s heart.

“The wedding’s inevitable,” Skip said offhandedly, “so I wasn’t exaggerating when I said you were Clay’s fiancée, now was I?”

Kate smiled. “I suppose not. We love each other, and have for years. We’re just waiting for the right time.” Her eyes held Rorie’s, assessing her, but she didn’t seem worried about competition.

Rorie supposed she should be pleased about that, at least.

“I was taking Kate over to see Nightsong,” Skip explained to Rorie.

“I actually came to Elk Run to meet you,” the other woman said. “Clay stopped by last night and told me about your car. I felt terrible for you. Your whole vacation’s been ruined. You must be awfully upset.”

“These things happen,” Rorie said with a shrug. “Being upset isn’t going to ship that part any faster. All I can do is accept the facts.”

Kate nodded sympathetically. “Skip was about to show me the filly. You’ll come with us, won’t you?”

Rorie nodded, unable to excuse herself without sounding rude. If there’d been a way, she would have retreated, wanting only to lick her wounds in private. Instead, hoping she sounded more enthusiastic than she felt, she mumbled, “I was headed in that direction myself.”

Skip led the way to the barn, which was alive with activity. Clay had explained that Elk Run employed five men full-time, none of whom lived on the premises. Two men mucking out stalls paused when Skip and the women entered the building. Skip introduced Rorie and they touched the tips of their hats in greeting.

“I don’t understand Clay,” Skip said as they approached the mare’s stall. “When we bought Star Bright a few years back, all Clay could do was complain about that silly name. He even talked about getting her registration changed.”

“Star Bright’s a perfectly good name,” Kate insisted, her sunny blue eyes intent on the newborn foal.

Nightsong was standing now on knobby, skinny legs that threatened to buckle, greedily feasting from her mother.

“Oh, she really is lovely, isn’t she?” Kate whispered.

Rorie hadn’t been able to stop looking at the filly from the moment they’d reached the stall. Finished with her breakfast, Nightsong gazed around, fascinated by everything she surveyed. She returned Rorie’s look, not vacantly, but as though she recognized the woman who’d been there at her birth.

Rorie couldn’t even identify all the emotions she suddenly felt. Some of these feelings were so new she couldn’t put a name to them, but they gripped her heart and squeezed tight.

“What I can’t understand,” Skip muttered, “is why Clay would go and call her Nightsong when he hates the name Star Bright. It doesn’t sound like anything he’d ever come up with on his own, yet he says he did.”

“I know,” Kate agreed, “but I’m glad, because the name suits her.” She sighed. “Clay’s always been so practical when it comes to names for his horses, but Nightsong has such a romantic flavor, don’t you think?”

Skip chuckled. “You know what Clay thinks about romance, and that makes it even more confusing. But Nightsong she is, and she’s bound to bring us a pretty penny in a year or two. Her father was a Polish Arabian, and with Star Bright’s bloodlines Nightsong will command big bucks as a National Show Horse.”

“Skip.” Clay’s curt voice interrupted them. He strode from the arena leading a bay mare. The horse’s coat gleamed with sweat, turning its color the shade of an oak leaf in autumn. One of the stablemen approached to take the reins. Then Clay removed his hat, wiping his brow with his forearm, and Rorie noticed the now-grimy bandage she’d applied last night. No, this morning.

She stared hungrily at his sun-bronzed face, a face that revealed more than a hint of impatience. The lines around his mouth were etched deep with poorly disguised regrets. Rorie recognized them, even if the others didn’t.

Clay stopped short when he saw Kate, his eyes narrowing.

“’Morning, Kate.”

“Hello, Clay.”

Then his gaze moved, slowly and reluctantly, to Rorie. The remorse she’d already sensed in him seemed unmistakable.

“I hope you slept well,” was all he said to her.

“Fine.” She detected a tautness along his jawline and decided he was probably concerned that she’d say or do something to embarrass him in front of his fiancée. Rorie wouldn’t, but not because she was worried about him. Her sense of fair play wouldn’t allow her to hurt Kate, who so obviously adored this man.

“We’re just admiring Nightsong,” Kate explained, her expression tender as she smiled up at him.

“I can’t understand why you’d name her that,” Skip said, his mouth twitching with barely suppressed laughter. “You always pick names like Brutus and Firepower, but Nightsong? I think you’re going soft on us.” Considering himself particularly funny, Skip chuckled and added, “I suppose that’s what love does to a man.”

Kate’s lashes brushed against the high arch of her cheek and she smiled, her pleasure so keen it was like a physical touch.

“Didn’t I ask you to water the horses several hours ago?” Clay asked in a tone that could have chipped rock.

“Yes, but—”

“Then kindly see to it. The farrier will be here any minute.”

The humor left Skip’s eyes; he was clearly upset by Clay’s anger. He looked from his brother to the two women and then back at Clay again. Hot color rose into his neck and invaded his face. “All right,” he muttered. “Excuse me for living.” Then he stormed out of the barn, slapping his hat against his thigh in an outburst of anger.

Kate waited until Skip was out of the barn. “Clay, what’s wrong?”

“He should’ve done what I told him long before now. Those horses in the pasture are thirsty because of his neglect.”

“I’m the one you should be angry with, not Skip.” Kate’s voice was contrite. “I should never have stopped in without calling first, but I...wanted to meet Rorie.”

“You’ve only been here a few minutes,” Clay insisted, his anger in check now. “Skip had plenty of time to complete his chores before you arrived.”

Rorie tossed invisible daggers at Clay, annoyed with him for taking his irritation out on his younger brother. Skip had introduced her to Clay’s fiancée. That was what really bothered him if he’d been willing to admit it—which he clearly wasn’t.