Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [44]
Half an hour later she was walking up the long drive to the stables when she spied his truck, an old beater with primer patches covering the dents of a vehicle that had once been army green.
Great, this day was just getting better and better. She waved to Flora, the owner of the ranch, who stood at the open kitchen window of the old farmhouse. Nearing sixty, Flora had let her hair turn its natural shade of gray, and when the straight wiry tresses weren’t hanging down past her shoulders, she wound the strands into a knot that she pinned to the very top of her head, where it was now. From years in the sun her face had a leathery cast, wrinkles, and age spots daring to mar the once-smooth surface, but Flora didn’t seem to mind. She never wore any makeup more than a genuine smile. Divorced for “a million years,” she never spoke of her ex-husband, had no kids, and seemed perfectly content with her life.
“Ink Spot’s in the north paddock,” she called through the window as the curtains shifted with a tiny breeze that skipped across the yard. Her dog, a golden mutt named Charlatan or Charlie for short, was positioned under a tree where a squirrel scolded from the upper branches.
“Thanks.”
Bored with the squirrel, Charlie fell into step behind her. His head lolled to one side, probably from the burs that he forever gathered in his ears as he hunted in the surrounding fields.
Chewing the corner of her lip and wondering why the guy in the truck was here, she passed by the rabbit warren where droopy-eared lops peered from their hutches. Their eyes were dark and bright, their noses twitching as she and the dog hurried by on their way to the stable.
She spied Ink Spot, bold black-and-white-patched coat gleaming in the sunlight as she grazed in a field with a couple of other horses—a bay and a palomino—where the grass was little more than dry stubble. The mare lifted her white face to look at her. Snorting, flicking her ears, Ink Spot returned to gingerly pick at the dry blades of grass.
“I can see she’s real excited about this,” Maggie grumbled to the dog, who, nose to the ground, wandered off to explore the cracks in the foundation of the garage. Maggie pushed open the door of the stable. Inside the old building the familiar scents of leather and oil, dung and dry straw, horses and cobwebs assailed her as she made her way to a closet of a tack room that was filled with saddles on sawhorses and bridles hanging from pegs, long reins snaking down to the concrete floor.
She set the curb bit and bridle aside, then found a lead rope and halter. Walking out a side entrance, she nearly collided with a man who was about to walk inside.
Of course it was the guy from the truck, she thought with uncharacteristic fatalism. His sunglasses were missing, revealing intense gray-blue eyes guarded by dark, straight eyebrows and spiked lashes. He mumbled a quick ”’Scuse me,” around a dry stalk of grass that was stuck in the corner of his mouth before a flicker of recognition lighted his eyes, and that same arrogant grin she found so irritatingly and blatantly sexual split his face. Rubbing his jaw and smelling of smoke, he looked her up and down. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Maid of Orleans.”
“What?”
“Joan? The independent lady too proud to take a lift?” He leaned a muscular shoulder against the doorjamb and effectively blocked her exit.
Embarrassed, she told herself to just shut up, but she couldn’t help but rise to the bait. “And if it isn’t the truck driver who thinks it’s safe for women to hitch rides with strangers.” Flinging the halter and rope over her shoulder, she