Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [45]
“Not just a woman—but a saint,” he mocked, turning as she passed. Laughter followed her outside. Her backbone stiffened, and she whirled to face him again.
“That’s right. A saint. Pure as the driven,” she tossed back at him. She didn’t know why he irritated her so much, why her skin flushed, and she wanted to slap that damned smile off his lips, but she couldn’t help herself. One of his eyebrows lifted in silent amusement. As they stood in the shade cast by the barn, swallows pirouetted and scrambled overhead in a sky covered with gauzy clouds that did nothing to block the intensity of the late-August sun.
“So, Saint Joan, you got a horse here?”
“Mmm.” She nodded; no reason to prolong the conversation.
“Want me to get him for you?”
“Why would you do that?” she asked before questioning what he was doing here in the first place.
“Part of the job.”
Her stomach sank as she started to understand that he might be more of a permanent fixture here than she first thought. “What job?”
“I work for Flora now.”
“Doing what?”
“Whatever.” Those damned eyes held her spellbound. He shifted the dried piece of straw from one side of his mouth to the other. “I teach riding and roping, though most people here aren’t interested in that. Take care of the stock, that sort of thing.”
“You’re a groomer?”
“S’pose ya could call me that.” He winked at her, and she nearly dropped the damned lead rope. “And a trainer and general do-whatever-needs-to-be-done guy.”
So this wasn’t a solitary meeting. He’d be here whenever she showed up. That thought was disturbing. Bothered her. Worse yet, there might be a chance that he would be teaching her how to ride. “What happened to Enrique?”
“Quit, I think.” He lifted a shoulder, and, beneath the worn T-shirt, a huge muscle moved. For the first time Maggie saw all of him. Wide shoulders, tanned arms where sinew moved easily under his skin, narrow waist, and hips so slim his faded, disreputable jeans, if not for his battered leather belt, might have puddled around his ankles. As it was they hung low. Too low.
“Oh.” She was suddenly embarrassed, painfully aware that she wasn’t quite eighteen. Not even old enough to vote. Hadn’t he called her a kid? Well, she was. “Too bad. I liked Enrique.”
His lips twitched. “You know, if you try real hard, you might like me, too.”
I doubt it, she immediately thought, but didn’t say it. If he read the apprehension in her gaze, he let it pass.
“The name’s Walker.” He stepped forward a couple of steps, spit out the straw, and thrust a hand, callused and large, at her. “Thane Walker.”
“Thane?”
“My mother had a lisp.”
“What?”
He chuckled. “A joke, Joan. It would be smart to leave it at that. Thane’s a family name.” His fingers curled over hers in a simple handshake that she felt was way too intimate. “And when you’re not being canonized, I suspect you’ve got another handle?”
“Maggie Reilly,” she said by rote, as heat seemed to climb up her arm.
“You go to school around here?”
She nodded as he dropped her hand and she backed up a step. “I did. Graduated last June.” Why did she feel compelled to answer all his questions, to keep the conversation going?
“Never finished myself,” he admitted.
“Why not?” This guy was a dropout?
His eyes darkened a shade, and Maggie felt a chill. This man, only a few years older than she, had secrets. Deep secrets. “Other things to do.” As if he decided he’d told her enough, he turned and nodded toward the fields where the horses were penned. “Which one’s yours?”
“The piebald, there, in the north paddock,” she said automatically, and pointed toward Ink Spot. She started toward the field, and Thane fell into step with her.
“You’ve got good taste.” A new appreciation flickered in his gaze. “Best horse here.”
“You already know that?”
“Yep.” A big gopher snake slithered out of their way as they walked along the dusty path to the north paddock.
“How?”
“Been around horses all my life. Grew up on a ranch in Wyoming. Now, if you give me that lead and halter,