Page 2 of Darla's Christmas Knight
To cover her discomfit, she blurted out, “Well, aren’t you a shiny knight in dusty armor. Did your horse get tired, or are you just here for the view?”
His smile morphed into a grin as those mesmerizing blues zeroed in on her hand.
She followed his amused stare.
To the pink lace object dangling from her fingers.
It was one of those this-is-so-not-happening-to-me moments, and she flicked her hand without thought. Mortified, she watched it sail through the air.
Right toward him.
He merely stretched his arm out, caught the scrap of clothing, and returned amused eyes to her. “Oh, love, I’m definitely here for the view.”
1
Bulwark, Texas, mid-August.
Golden light spread across the concrete floor, filling the vast structure with a soft glow. Bobby Bell stood for a moment and savored the familiar smells and sounds of the stables, a blend of earth and animals. The musky overnight odor from manure and straw and sweat underscored by a symphony of gentle whinnies and soft, welcoming neighs. It was a balm to his restless soul, a reminder that despite yearning for the cool Atlantic Ocean breeze, the rolling green hills, and the mild temperature of the Andrastian islands of his birth, Texas was his home and had been for almost fourteen years. And would be until the day he took his last breath. But hell, he would never get used to the relentless heat that baked the parched land.
He adjusted his hat and set about his daily routine. Moving through the stalls, he greeted each of the twenty-seven ranch horses under his care. His movements efficient and methodical, Bobby checked for signs of illness or discomfort. He knew the quirks and habits of each horse and would spot an anomaly straight away. Disease could spread rapidly, sometimes decimating an entire stable.
This morning, there were two he paid special attention to —Mosaic, a heavily pregnant tri-color Paint, and Dude, one of the working Quarter’s.
“Morning, love,” he said, entering Mosaic’s stall. He ran his hand over her neck, and she whinnied, nudging his hip in return. Bobby chuckled. “Greedy, huh?” He pulled the plastic bag from his back pocket and removed the quartered apple, offering her one piece at a time. She devoured them in record speed. “Well, there is nothing wrong with your appetite, that’s for sure.” He examined her hindquarters, looking for signs of the muscles relaxing, preparing for the coming birth, but found none. But her udder was fuller, and some gentle probing proved it a bit firmer than yesterday. That was promising. “Hang in there, love,” he soothed, patting her flank. “Three, maybe four weeks to go.”
And he outright laughed when she gave a snort and shook her head.
In sharp contrast, Dude wanted nothing to do with him. The bay Quarter shied away, backing into the far corner of the stall as Bobby entered. He frowned at the stallion’s unusual behavior. “Hey, big fellow. Not doing so great, huh?” His gaze shot to the bandaged hind leg but couldn’t see any outright discoloration on the gauze. He raked his eyes over the horse, looking for signs of sweating or shivering. Nothing. Although the horse’s muscles seemed a little tense.
“Are you messing with me, Dude?”
In reply, the horse sidestepped, pressing his entire flank against the wall of the stall, his head turned to the entrance, his eyes wide and ears forward. Bobby frowned. Then stilled at a slight rustling noise behind him. Dude shuddered.
Aw, hell. A snake?
Automatically, his hand moved to the weapon strapped to his side, but he stopped. Shooting in a stall with an already frightened horse was a very bad idea. Very slowly, he turned and—
Cat.
He blinked.
Yep. Itwasa cat. “A fucking cat?”
A small tabby with a leg in the air, casually grooming its —her— privates.
Bobby swung back to face the horse. “Seriously? Acathas you cowering like a baby. You weigh half a ton, Dude, chase fucking cows for a living. That miserable feline is not even ten pounds. Grow a pair.”
Shaking his head, Bobby left the stall, scooping the cat up on his way out. “Not even ten pounds. Seven at the most.” Innocent blue eyes stared back at him. He shook his head again and stalked down the center aisle and out into the open. “Go catch your food somewhere else,” he muttered, setting the rascal down. Head held high, tail swishing, she walked away without a backward glance.
He chuckled again. Trouble sure came in small packages.
Voices neared, and three of his five stable hands rounded the barn. His eyes narrowed as he viewed the two older men flanking the new hire, Colt Finnegan. It was the youngster’s first day on the job, and judging by his wary expression and the amused smirks of the seasoned men, they were filling Colt’s head with bullshit.
The trio pulled up short. Colt’s eyes bulged. The other two slapped him on the back, nudging him forward.
“Um … uh …” Colt’s throat bobbed, and he shot Emmet, the old timer on his left, a frantic look. Emmet, his expression now ultra serious, lifted his chin in encouragement.
Colt squared his shoulders and faced Bobby.
