Debra Holland - [Montana Sky 02] Read Online Free PDF Page A

boy’s shoulders before he could hit the ground and set him on his feet.
    “Pardon,
Señor
.”
    Wyatt surveyed his captive. A little overdressed for a weekday. He didn’t recognize the child, but he was familiar with the sticky red-and-white candy clutched in the boy’s hand. His daughter’s favorite. Wyatt glanced down at himself. Just as he surmised, a red stain blotched his once-clean white shirt.
    The boy’s gaze followed Wyatt’s. A chagrined look crossed his face. “
Lo siento…
I mean, I’m sorry, sir.”
    “Slow down, son, and watch where you’re going.”
    “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
    A melodic woman’s voice asked, “Is there a problem?”
    Wyatt looked up. The Spanish widow no doubt. Clad in black from head to toe, she clutched an armload of parcels and sacks. The shadows near the door obscured her features. He gave a gentle push to the boy, heading him back outside. “Perhaps you should wash up. Use the pump by the horse trough.”
    Pepe rushed over. “Señora Rodriguez, let me take those for you.” He lifted the bundles out of her arms and disappeared outside. Popping back in the barn, he said, “Is there anything else I may do for you, Señora?”
    “No, gracias
, Pepe.
”
    “De nada,
Señora
.”
Pepe hurried back out.
    I should have helped her.
Wyatt buried the quick spurt of shame under rising anger. She was the cause of his current predicament. “I take it you’re the owner of these
midgets
?”
    She stepped into the light, and her beauty caught him in the gut—like a kick from one of her midget horses. Under her black straw hat, he caught a glimpse of flame-colored hair. Auburn brows and lashes framed wide blue eyes. A flush of peach crept into her cheeks and a determined chin, now lifted several inches higher than before, gave her a spirited demeanor. Not the withered, dark-skinned widow he’d been expecting.
    “Falabellas,” she corrected.
    “I don’t care what highfalutin name you give them. Those horses are midgets.”
    “No, they’re not.”
    “What good are
Falabellas
anyway? Can’t even ride them.”
    He caught the flash of her cornflower blue eyes and watched with appreciation as her bosom swelled with anger. She tightenedher jaw and visibly forced herself to give him a civil reply. “They can pull a special buggy. And they’re very playful.”
    “Playful?” His words dripped with derision. Shame brushed across his conscience, but not enough to stop him.
    “Yes.”
    “Who needs a playful horse? A good horse is a hardworkin’ horse.” Didn’t she know anything? She would never make a go of her ranch with her kind of horses.
    “They’re very good with children. Although you might not approve of that either.”
    He heard the civility slip from her voice and secretly smiled. There was a way to reach past her cool exterior. “If you’re implying that I don’t approve of children, I must inform you I have a daughter. Christine will be out of school in a few minutes, and you can meet her. Perhaps we can get these…these…”
    “They’re Falabellas.”
    “I get the name. Falabellas. Do you herd them like sheep or lead them like donkeys?”
    “Chico and Mariposa will pull the buggy,” she said, crisping each word. “The rest only need lead ropes. I’ll hire a horse for Manuel, my groom. If we keep the bigger horses to a slow walk, these will be fine. Although I don’t know what business it is of yours, Mister…?”
    Beneath the chill in the widow’s icy blue eyes and cool voice burned a passion as fiery as her hair. He could sense it. Like the fires of hell, a man could be consumed by such a blaze. Might even heat up the cold emptiness inside him. He shoved that thought aside.
Best focus on the matter at hand.
“I’m the help you requested in your letter to Reverend Norton.”
    He swept her a mocking bow. “Wyatt Thompson, at your service.”
    She stepped back a pace, stiffening her shoulders. “I’m sure we can manage on our own, Mr. Thompson.