Page 4 of Just Say When

“Not Pirate. He’s special.” He drained his beer, then nudged the empty glass to Janie. “Another one, sweetheart.”

Janie reached for it, but I gave a quick, subtle shake of my head and she paused, then moved down the bar to cut limes, taking his glass with her.

I wondered what made Pirate special to a man like Alan Gaffney. Most people would point to the colt’s bloodlines. Sired by Gee Whizz, a World Champion reiner several times over who had already earned his owners a cool million in stud fees, his dam being Pretty Gal, another winner, he had the potential to earn thousands in the ring.

He was pretty to look at, too. Of course, it was hard to tell lately, what with all that mud covering him. But underneath the filth, he was a flashy black-and-white paint quarter horse with a bald face. The white mark covered one blue eye, while his other eye was brown. Hence his name.

But I would hazard a guess that none of that mattered to Alan. If it had, Pirate would have been stabled at Lodestar, my family’s quarter horse ranch, where the head trainer, James, could make a winner out of him. Instead, Alan had left him to rot in his backyardlike a lawn ornament. Alan talked a good game, but making Pirate’s sperm worth anything more than bragging rights would require capital and effort, two things he was never going to find at the bottom of an empty pint glass.

Bragging rights was all he gave a shit about, and the only thing he had worth bragging on was that damn horse. Hard to put a price on that.

“Five thousand,” I offered, even though I knew better.

Essie wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t have woken up one day and thought,golly gee, I do believe I’ll steal a horse today. No, she would have gone the legal route first. Maybe Alan’s price was too steep for her. For most people, that would have been the end of it. Not Essie. She didn’t quit. Shefinished.

Alan hooted and slapped his knee. “His sire earned that in stud fees last month. Hell, no.”

“His sire has a wall covered with blue ribbons and a proven record of producing winners,” I pointed out. “What does Pirate have?”

The question didn’t phase Alan even a little bit. He grinned sloppily. “Did ya hear how I won him? Poker. It was down to me and the kid. Everyone else had folded. But I was no coward and I know how to read a person, you know. So I looked him dead in the eye and raised him.”

Alan droned on. I allowed it, taking a deep swig oftepid water to keep my eyes from glazing over while I reconsidered my strategy. Letting him keep Pirate wasn’t an option and drunk though he was, if I kept raising my offer, he was going to figure that out. I made a good living as the only attorney in Aspen Springs, Colorado, and had plenty of investments to show for it, but hell if I was going to let this rat bastard drain me dry.

Fucking Essie. She would laugh her ass off if I let Alan get the better of me, just to save a horse she had already saved. It would never occur to her that the only thing I cared about saving was her. And that was exactly how I wanted it. She’d tunnel her sweet ass right under enemy fire to give her brother a piece of her mind if she knew the truth.

“Where’s my drink?” Alan whined.

Because the only thing Alan loved more than bragging was beer. As the only bar in Aspen Springs, the Painted Cat was the one place he could have both at the same time. This little dive bar was his happy place.

Now,thatwas something I could work with.

I jerked my chin at Janie. She put aside the limes, filled Alan’s glass, and brought it over.

“’Bout time,” Alan grumbled.

I clicked the pen and pulled the notepad toward me. “Here’s the deal. Five grand for the colt. You keep a one percent ownership interest. You have no say in Pirate’s care or career, but you get one percent of any earnings and you get to call yourself an owner.” Thepen scratched against the paper as I wrote and I shuddered. Fuck, how I hated a scratchy pen. “You sign here.”

“I’m not signing that,” Alan said, which was what I expected.

“Then enjoy the beer, because it will be your last at the Painted Cat.”

Alan laughed like he thought I was joking. “Says who? This ain’t your granddaddy’s whorehouse no more, boy. Your name don’t mean shit here.”

Boy. I was thirty-two, for fuck’s sake. The piece of shit next to me might have a decade on that, but he hadn’t been a man for a single day of it. I was going to enjoy this.

“Give him the good news, Janie,” I said. “Who signs your paychecks?”

She grinned. “You do.”

“That’s right. I do.”

Back when Aspen Springs had been nothing but a mining camp for gold prospectors, my great-great-great grandfather had figured he could make a lot more money—and for a lot less work—selling booze and women to lonely miners than digging for gold. He had been right, and the money from the Painted Cat was enough to buy a nice chunk of land that had been passed down through generations of Hale men as a cattle ranch. My dad had swapped cattle for horses, and now Lodestar Ranch—named for my mother—wasslowly building a strong reputation for breeding and training some of the best quarter horses around.

The Painted Cat, on the other hand, hadn’t been in the Hale family for at least a hundred years. But I’d always been fascinated with the history of it, so six months ago when the opportunity arose to buy it back, I took it.

A fact I still hadn’t shared with my brothers, Adam and Zack. I didn’t need those assholes thinking they could drink for free on my dime.

Alan grunted. “Take the damn horse, then. He costs too much to keep, anyway.”

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