The Restless Virgin

“Fine. And I’m paying you, whether you like it or not.”

Sam dropped the hoof and picked up a currycomb, taking out her frustrations with Nash on the burrs matted in the horse’s tail. “Your money would be better spent on repairing Whiskey’s stall. There are some loose boards he could injure himself on. And you need a new load of shavings for the floor.”

“Is that an order or a suggestion?”

The challenge in his voice had Sam cocking her head to look at him. Seeing the hostility in his gray eyes, she tightened her fingers on the comb. “Take it however you want, but the horse deserves the best care you can give him.”

“Hi, Daddy!”

Sam and Nash both turned at the sound of Colby’s voice. Nash’s frown disappeared as Colby skipped down the alleyway toward them. “Hey, sunshine!” He held out his arms and she ran the last few steps and vaulted into them.

Planting a kiss on his cheek, she curled an arm around his neck and reared back to look at him. “Are you going to watch me ride?”

“Yep. Are you ready?”

Colby’s mouth puckered into a pout. “I’ve been ready for hours, but Sam made me go back to the house and put on jeans.”

Nash shot Sam a questioning glance. She lifted a shoulder as she dropped Whiskey’s tail, then tossed the currycomb back in the bucket. “She had on shorts. I was afraid the saddle would rub sores on her legs.”

Nash turned his gaze on his daughter. “Sam’s the boss. What she says goes.”

He couldn’t have said anything that would have surprised Sam more. From the moment he’d announced his intention of being present at the lessons, she’d prepared herself to have to fight him at every turn. Not trusting this unexpected display of support, she eyed him warily. “We’re burning daylight,” she mumbled. “Let’s get started.”

Nash swung Colby onto the saddle, then untied the reins and led the horse out into the arena. Sam followed, pulling her cap lower on her forehead to shade her eyes from the bright sunlight.

“Okay, Colby, let’s warm him up,” she instructed, anxious to get the lesson underway. “Circle the arena a couple of times at a walk, then have him trot. And I want to see you use your body to give him the change of command. Understand?”

Colby beamed at Sam as she took the reins from Nash. “Yes, ma’am.”

Sam positioned herself in the middle of the arena, placing herself as far from Nash as possible, while still being able to keep an eye on Colby. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him at the fence, shrugging out of his jacket. As he leaned to hook it on a fence post, the stretch of starched white cotton across his back revealed muscles that Sam would have preferred not to have noticed. But she did notice and, as hard as she tried, she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away. With his back still to her, he cocked a hip slightly, then lifted a hand and unbuttoned a cuff. He carefully folded the sleeve back two turns, then lifted the opposite hand and started on the other. As each turn revealed another three inches of bare skin, Sam’s mouth grew dryer and dryer until it was as parched as the ground beneath her feet.

Ignore him, she told herself, and turned away. Determined to do just that, she folded her arms beneath her breasts and focused on Colby. “Okay, move him up to a trot,” she called out.

Colby leaned forward, lifting the reins, and repeated the voice command. Sam nodded her approval, turning slowly in a tight circle as she monitored Colby’s movements around the arena...and nearly jumped out of her skin when she made a complete circle and Nash’s chest filled her field of vision, inches from her face and blocking her view of Colby. Unaware that he’d even moved, she cried, “What are you doing?”

He lowered his gaze to hers, one brow arched higher than the other, then glanced back over her head toward his daughter. “Watching.”

Sam huffed a breath and took a step back, stuffing her hands into her back pockets. “Watch somewhere else. You’re in my way.”

“It’s a big arena. I’d think there’s ample room for two adults to watch without any trouble.”

“Fine,” she snarled. “You can stay here. I’m moving.” She stalked off, headed for the far end of the arena...and could’ve sworn she heard Nash chuckle. The idea that he would laugh at her made her that much more angry. “Okay, Colby,” she said irritably, “lope.”

Whiskey responded immediately, charging forward. “Slow him down,” Sam yelled. “This is a lope, not a race.”

Colby dutifully obeyed, giving the reins a sharp tug, and Whiskey settled into a slow lope. Sam nodded her approval as she hitched a boot on a rail behind her. She tucked her fingers into her front pockets and settled her shoulders against the fence. Nash stood where she’d left him, his hands braced on his hips, his dress shirt a shocking white compared to the faded barn behind him. A little too white, Sam decided. A slow, devious smile chipped at one corner of her mouth.

“Take him to the middle, Colby,” she ordered, “and give me a fast stop.”

Dust churned as Colby swung Whiskey around, then rose into a cloud when the horse slid to a stop on his haunches inches from where Nash stood.

Choking on dust and fanning the air in front of his face, Nash sputtered, “Dam it, Colby! Didn’t you see me standing here?”

Colby’s chin quivered. “I was just doing what Sam told me to do. You did say that she was the boss.”

Nash turned to glare at Sam, and though she tried her best not to smile, she failed miserably. Serves him right, she told herself, for being so dam stubborn.

Brushing at the dust on his shirtfront, Nash shifted his gaze back to Colby. “Well, next time, look where you’re going.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

He heaved a deep breath, then lifted a hand to pat her knee. “That’s okay, sweetheart. I know you didn’t do it on purpose.”

Enjoying herself immensely, Sam shouted, “That was a good stop, Colby. Now let’s see some figure eights. Trot him once through the pattern so you can show him what you want him to do, then lope. Remember to keep his nose tucked to the center and use your legs to keep him shaped.”

Sam smothered a laugh as she watched Nash jump out of the way, then hustle to the side of the arena as Colby followed Sam’s directions.

After a series of seven or more figure eights, Sam instructed Colby to walk Whiskey a couple of laps to cool him off while she set up the barrels. Crossing to the third barrel she tipped it over and rolled it into place. The barrel was old and rusted from years of exposure. As she righted it, she caught a glimpse of Nash watching her, frowning... and another idea occurred to her. “How about you set the first one,” she called to him.

Still frowning, Nash gave the barrel closest to him a nudge with his shoe and sent it toppling over. Leaning over, he gave it a shove, rolling it into position, then caught the top rim and levered it upright. Opening his hands, he stared down at the rust and dirt that covered them. He twisted left and right, searching for something to wipe them on.

“What’s the matter, Nash?” Sam mocked. “Haven’t you ever gotten your hands dirty before?”

He turned to scowl at her, then plucked a white handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped furiously at his hands. Sam tossed back her head and laughed as she headed for the remaining barrel. Whistling happily, she turned it over, gave it a push with her boot and sent it rolling.

Nash watched her, his eyes narrowing. Damn woman! She was trying to make a fool of him, he was sure. “Well, two can play at this game,” he muttered under his breath. While Sam was still perched like a pelican, ready to give the barrel another shove, Nash stole up behind her, hooked a foot around the boot that was planted on the ground and gave a sharp tug. Sam yelped, beating wildly at the air in an attempt to regain her balance, but ended up facedown on the ground. She came up spitting dirt, her hands doubled into fists at her sides as she whirled to face Nash.

He smiled sweetly. “What’s the matter, Sam? Haven’t you ever gotten your hands dirty before?”

“You overgrown juvenile delinquent!” she muttered through clenched teeth.

“Me?” he asked innocently, touching the pad of a finger to his chest. “Isn’t that a little like the pot calling the kettle black?” He stepped closer and thumbed a speck of dirt from her face, then left his hand there to cup her cheek. His lips quirked in a teasing smile. “You know, you’re kind of cute when you’re mad.”

Sam felt the blood drain from her face as the pad of each finger, the swell of flesh at the base of his thumb burned into her cheek. Though she expected the familiar panic to set in, she was aware of nothing but the gentleness of his fingers, their underlying strength, and the clear gray eyes that smiled down at her. Heat burned through her and lit a fiery path all the way to her lower abdomen where it settled into a burning pool of fire. The sensation was a rare one for Sam and so unexpected she didn’t know what to do with it. Falling back on her anger, she hauled off and took a swing at him.