A Valentine's Choice: A Montana Sky Series Holiday Novella (The Montana Sky Series) by Debra Holland Page A
Authors: Debra Holland
Ads: Link
of a shod hoof. Unable to bear the suspense any longer, she opened her eyes.
The squire’s barn had been several centuries old, the walls made of stone, the ceiling lower and the light dimmer than in this soaring wooden structure. The immense space seemed empty, with only a few horses poking their heads over the stall doors. Most of the cowboys must be out on the range.
Deuce worked with his back to her, mucking out a stall at the end of the aisle.
Bridget decided not to disturb him, instead wanting to explore a bit on her own before James caught up with her. Scanning the aisle of stalls, she recognized the sleek black head of the Thoroughbred and walked toward him, her gestures slow.
The horse eyed her with curiosity.
“ Is buachaill álainn thú’ ,” she murmured, while rubbing his neck.
“Thunder doesn’t know Gaelic.” A man spoke from behind her.
Bridget turned to see Patrick Gallagher looming near. She’d been too engrossed in his stallion to notice his approach.
He wore a black shirt that enhanced his dark eyes and hair. His eyelashes were long. But the chiseled planes of his face and the square chin kept him from looking soft.
He’s attractive, indeed. She couldn’t help but respond to the sheer magnificence of the man and his horse.
“I don’t speak the language, either,” he admitted with a small shrug. “Too many generations away from the old country.”
“I told Thunder he was a beautiful boy,” Bridget explained.
“Aye, beautiful,” he said, staring into her eyes and dropped a hand on the stall door next to her.
She blushed and dropped her gaze. Uncomfortable with his closeness, she sidled to Thunder’s other side, putting the horse’s head between them. “Why a Thoroughbred here?” She rubbed Thunder’s nose.
“We have racing in Montana, you know. Even here in Sweetwater Springs. It might not be up to Irish standards, but we have our share of splendid winners.”
“The squire of our village was heavily into racing. From an early age, he allowed me to spend time at his stables helping out.”
“He must have trusted you, then.”
“Aye. He’s a dear man. ’Tis grateful, I am that he didn’t let the disapproval of his wife and son prohibit me from the place.” She patted Thunder’s muscled neck. “This one must be fast.”
“As the wind. Thompson has a mare who won the horse race here last August. He wants to breed her. I brought Thunder for Thompson to inspect and also so I could look over the mare. I plan to drop by the Carter and Sanders’ ranches as well. But Thompson and his missus have made me welcome, invited me to stay a while.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “I’ve taken them up on their invitation.”
* * *
Eager to find Bridget and spend some time together, James strode to the bunkhouse where, during the day, a kettle of warm water was kept on the back of the stove that heated the room. He stripped off his gloves and coat and unwound his scarf. He poured some water into the basin, washed, and shaved—something he hadn’t managed in the early morning darkness. Once he dried his hands and face, he donned his outerwear again and strode to the barn.
The sadness in her eyes as she’d watched Alana leave had made his belly tight, and James wanted to do something, anything, to bring a genuine smile back to Bridget’s face. And he knew just the trick—the Falabellas.
According to Samantha, the midget horses had worked miracles on her once-troubled adopted sons. Every man on the ranch loved the small creatures, even if a few grumbled about having nothing to do with such toys —although on several occasions, he’d caught one or the other of those same cowboys secretly slipping carrots or apple slices to a Falabella and even using baby talk . James snickered at the memories. He hadn’t said anything yet to the culprits. He was saving the revelations for a time when they’d have the most impact.
Now, James was certain the little ones would have
The squire’s barn had been several centuries old, the walls made of stone, the ceiling lower and the light dimmer than in this soaring wooden structure. The immense space seemed empty, with only a few horses poking their heads over the stall doors. Most of the cowboys must be out on the range.
Deuce worked with his back to her, mucking out a stall at the end of the aisle.
Bridget decided not to disturb him, instead wanting to explore a bit on her own before James caught up with her. Scanning the aisle of stalls, she recognized the sleek black head of the Thoroughbred and walked toward him, her gestures slow.
The horse eyed her with curiosity.
“ Is buachaill álainn thú’ ,” she murmured, while rubbing his neck.
“Thunder doesn’t know Gaelic.” A man spoke from behind her.
Bridget turned to see Patrick Gallagher looming near. She’d been too engrossed in his stallion to notice his approach.
He wore a black shirt that enhanced his dark eyes and hair. His eyelashes were long. But the chiseled planes of his face and the square chin kept him from looking soft.
He’s attractive, indeed. She couldn’t help but respond to the sheer magnificence of the man and his horse.
“I don’t speak the language, either,” he admitted with a small shrug. “Too many generations away from the old country.”
“I told Thunder he was a beautiful boy,” Bridget explained.
“Aye, beautiful,” he said, staring into her eyes and dropped a hand on the stall door next to her.
She blushed and dropped her gaze. Uncomfortable with his closeness, she sidled to Thunder’s other side, putting the horse’s head between them. “Why a Thoroughbred here?” She rubbed Thunder’s nose.
“We have racing in Montana, you know. Even here in Sweetwater Springs. It might not be up to Irish standards, but we have our share of splendid winners.”
“The squire of our village was heavily into racing. From an early age, he allowed me to spend time at his stables helping out.”
“He must have trusted you, then.”
“Aye. He’s a dear man. ’Tis grateful, I am that he didn’t let the disapproval of his wife and son prohibit me from the place.” She patted Thunder’s muscled neck. “This one must be fast.”
“As the wind. Thompson has a mare who won the horse race here last August. He wants to breed her. I brought Thunder for Thompson to inspect and also so I could look over the mare. I plan to drop by the Carter and Sanders’ ranches as well. But Thompson and his missus have made me welcome, invited me to stay a while.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “I’ve taken them up on their invitation.”
* * *
Eager to find Bridget and spend some time together, James strode to the bunkhouse where, during the day, a kettle of warm water was kept on the back of the stove that heated the room. He stripped off his gloves and coat and unwound his scarf. He poured some water into the basin, washed, and shaved—something he hadn’t managed in the early morning darkness. Once he dried his hands and face, he donned his outerwear again and strode to the barn.
The sadness in her eyes as she’d watched Alana leave had made his belly tight, and James wanted to do something, anything, to bring a genuine smile back to Bridget’s face. And he knew just the trick—the Falabellas.
According to Samantha, the midget horses had worked miracles on her once-troubled adopted sons. Every man on the ranch loved the small creatures, even if a few grumbled about having nothing to do with such toys —although on several occasions, he’d caught one or the other of those same cowboys secretly slipping carrots or apple slices to a Falabella and even using baby talk . James snickered at the memories. He hadn’t said anything yet to the culprits. He was saving the revelations for a time when they’d have the most impact.
Now, James was certain the little ones would have
Similar Books
