The Horse Trainer's Secret Read online

  “What’s one of my terms?” Vivian’s granddaughter, Delia Templeton, sauntered into the conservatory, sucking some green concoction through a straw.

  “Backsies,” Vivian answered, sighing when Delia propped her hip on the scrolled iron arm of Vivian’s chair. “Delia, dear, there are several other perfectly adequate and unoccupied chairs in here.”

  Delia’s eyes were dancing as they met Nick’s, but before she could take the narrow space next to him on the cushioned bench, he dropped his legal pad there and busied himself hunting through his briefcase for something.

  Anything.

  Because it had been obvious to him for a while now that Vivian’s granddaughter had her eye on him.

  His searching fingers sank into something soft shoved deep in one corner.

  He didn’t need to draw it out to know what it was.

  The black knit stocking cap bearing the white Angel River logo that Megan had been wearing when she led the way to her motel room that memorable March night.

  It was the only thing she’d left behind when she snuck out early the next morning.

  “And what sort of thing do you want to take back?” Delia wasn’t the least deterred by his legal pad. She just moved it out of the way and sank down beside him, then proceeded to page through his notes as if she had every right to do so.

  He left the knit cap where it was, deep in the corner of his case, then lifted the pad out of Delia’s hands and away from her nosy eyes.

  It wasn’t as though she didn’t know most everything that Vivian was involved in since she was her grandmother’s personal assistant. But his pad contained all his notes from the meeting that morning up on the mountain, which—while not exactly secret—weren’t any of Delia’s business, either.

  She’d learned a lot in the way of discretion since Vivian had taken her under her wing, but Nick could still remember Delia from the days before Vivian had moved to Weaver.

  Delia had always been good-natured and funny. But she would probably never get over her tendency to say nearly everything and anything that popped into her brunette head.

  And now she made no secret of the fact that she’d been reading his scratchings. “Who’s Megan?”

  As was his usual habit, he’d headed the page with the date and time of his meeting and the names of those present.

  “The horse trainer who’s working with Jed and April Dalloway,” Vivian replied, returning the look he gave her with a bland one of her own. “Have you finished discussing the library’s grand-opening menu with Montrose?”

  Delia waved her hand, looking unconcerned. “The grand opening is almost two months away. There’s oodles of time yet. Besides, Montrose is wallowing in one of his hissy fits.”

  “I do not—” the man himself had entered the conservatory bearing a silver tea tray “—have hissy fits.” Vivian’s high-maintenance chef was tall, bald as a cue ball and dressed in a black suit with a white cravat. She’d brought him with her when she’d moved to Wyoming from Pittsburgh and he was as unlikely a sight in Weaver as her tropical-plant-filled conservatory. He moved slowly, as if doing so somehow imparted how important his role there was. He set down the tray and placed an empty cup and saucer in front of Nick, then filled it with brown liquid that steamed from the silver pot before refilling Vivian’s cup.

  So she was drinking tea, Nick thought. At least this time.

  He waited, trying not to show his impatience, as the man put a small plate of tiny sandwiches on the glass between the cups and saucers, followed by two small gold-rimmed plates and two perfectly folded linen napkins. Then, with his tray tucked beneath his arm, he straightened.

  “What about me, Montrose?”

  The man looked down his hooked nose at Delia, and at the green goop in her crystal glass. “When the gardener finishes mowing the lawns, I’ll be sure to mix you up more grass.” He turned on the heel of one of his highly polished dress shoes and departed the sunroom as ceremoniously as he’d entered.

  Delia sucked noisily through her straw in response.

  “Please stop antagonizing Montrose,” Vivian chided. “That’s my job.”

  Delia just grinned and swung her foot, where a sparkling red flip-flop dangled from her toes.

  “Help yourself, Nick, dear.” Vivian waved a finger at the refreshments. “I know how you love Earl Grey tea.”

  He hated the stuff and had worked with her for a full year on the library project before finally admitting it.

  Which was when she’d divulged the fact that her teacup didn’t always contain tea.

  He ignored the cup but did grab a handful of sandwiches. Combined, they didn’t equal even one full sandwich, but he hadn’t taken time to eat lunch after leaving Megan in the construction trailer on the mountain and he was starving.

  Besides which, affected mannerisms or not, Montrose was a helluva cook. Nick didn’t know what was in the little sandwiches and didn’t much care. They were delicious.

  He swiped his mouth with the napkin and flipped to a fresh page in his pad. “Okay. I’ve reviewed all the reports on the Gold Creek property, and everything looks good. Most importantly, there’s no asbestos issues, so we won’t have to deal with that when we start gutting the place.” He popped two more sandwiches in his mouth and ignored the way Delia’s shoulder bumped his every time she swung her foot.

  “And you have the presentation ready for the town council?”

  “Almost.” The council was meeting in a few days. “It’ll be ready, though.”

  “I don’t want any reason for them to shoot me down.”

  “No reason why they would,” he said confidently.

  Her lips thinned. “Depends on the mood Squire Clay is in,” she said. “He’s the newest member on the council but all the rest fall into line behind whatever he says. Have you sounded out the old man about my plans?”

  Nick gave a wry laugh. “Nobody sounds out Squire.”

  “You’re family.”

  “We’re family by marriage, and it didn’t influence him where the library plans were concerned, if you’ll remember.”

  “He came around on the library,” Delia said. “Maybe he won’t put up any argument about turning that old commercial building into something useful, like an athletic center.”

  “He’ll put up an argument just because he still hates me for things that happened long before even your parents were born.” Vivian brushed nonexistent lint from her sleeve. “You’d think he’d have other things to focus on these days.”

  Nick figured that was a reference to the fact that Squire and his wife had been separated for the better part of a year. And as much as he liked Vivian, he wasn’t going to get into a conversation about that. Not when his own stepmother was Gloria Clay’s granddaughter.

  He flipped through the files in his oversize case again and pulled out a folded drawing that he handed to Vivian. “Here’s the rendering that you wanted.”

  She set the thick paper on her knees. “Delia, dear. My reading glasses are up in my office. Would you mind getting them?”

  To her credit, Delia didn’t complain about the request. She left the room, her flip-flops making a loud slapping sound, and Nick exhaled slightly, spreading his work again on the seat beside him since the small glass table had no room left.

  Then Vivian unfolded the drawing and slipped a pair of glasses out of her pocket. “Don’t worry, Nick. My granddaughter will stay busy for at least a half hour trying to find these.” She put on the glasses and peered at the sketch.

  “I wasn’t worried.”

  “You’re very kind not to encourage her.”

  He grimaced. “Vivian.”

  “I’m old, dear. Not blind. In time, Delia’s interests will land elsewhere. You could help hurry her along if you’d just admit you’ve been pining for the horse trainer from Angel River for two months
now.”

  He nearly choked on the sandwich he’d just put in his mouth. He took a swallow of the hot tea, which tasted like dirt, and wiped his mouth again. “I haven’t been pining.” He tossed aside the napkin again. “So, back to the athletic center. If we get the plans approved quickly enough, I’m estimating that you’ll be able to open for business by the beginning of the year.”

  She looked at him above the rims of her narrow reading glasses. “I was hoping for sooner.”

  “You’re always hoping for sooner, Vivian.”

  “Yes, well, at this stage of my life I’ve learned to plan in terms of months versus years.” She looked back at his pen-and-ink drawing. “I’ve told you before, Nick, that if you ever want to switch careers, I have an entire wing upstairs where I’d be happy to hang your artwork.”

  “It’s a nice offer, but I’ll stick with architecture, thanks.”

  “I’m sure your father is pleased. He must be happy that you’ve joined his firm.”

  “Most of the time.” He smiled. “Unless we’re arguing over who has the privilege of working with you on your latest brainstorm.”

  Vivian chuckled. “Or who has the displeasure of being stuck with me.”

  “I’m not touching that one,” he said, waving off the sketch when she refolded it and started to hand it to him. “Keep it.”

  She set it back down on her lap. “All kidding aside, I do appreciate you indulging me when it comes to our little meetings. I know we could have dealt with this with a phone call, but I prefer conducting business in person. I’m old-fashioned, I’m afraid.”

  “Vivian, even if you weren’t paying the bills, I’d be happy to meet with you in person.” He winked as he gestured at the empty plates. “Montrose has the best food.”

  She smiled and stood, and he knew from experience that their meeting was concluded. He dumped his things back in his case and rose to shake her hand. Gently, because the woman did look frailer than her demeanor indicated. “Next week, same time?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  Even if he had, he wouldn’t have said so and it had nothing to do with the hefty retainer fees she’d paid into the coffers of Ventura & Ventura Architects. He might have started out frustrated as all hell with the woman over her impossibly lofty plans for the library, but as he’d gotten to know her, he’d grown to respect her opinions even when he didn’t necessarily agree with them. Now he could say that he genuinely liked the eccentric woman.

  And he appreciated the brevity of the meeting if it meant he could escape without another encounter with her granddaughter.

  After he left Vivian’s mansion, he picked up a normal-size turkey sandwich at Ruby’s Diner in town, sliding in just in time before they closed for the afternoon, and then returned to his office. He was sitting at his drafting table, halfway through eating the sandwich, when his father walked in.

  Beckett Ventura walked over and studied the plans spread out in front of Nick. “Heard your horse trainer’s all checked in at the Cozy Night. Arrived late yesterday.”

  “She’s not my horse trainer.” How many times did he have to say it? “And glad to know the Weaver hotline is as active as ever.” He rotated on his seat, looking from the prints to the two computer screens that displayed the same plans. He moved a few lines, corrected a few angles, then sighed and undid the changes. “I don’t know why she needs such a big damn barn.” He tossed down his pencil and stretched.

  Beck looked amused. “One thing I’ve learned since I came to Weaver is that barns gotta be big whether they’re housing equipment or livestock.”

  “No kidding,” Nick muttered. He hadn’t grown up here in Weaver. When his mom died while he’d been off at college, his dad had closed his thriving firm, sold off their family home in Denver and hidden himself away in the dinky town of Weaver. He’d even given up architecture altogether until he’d fallen for Lucy Buchanan. In time, Beck started a new firm. One that focused more on farmhouses than the skyscrapers he’d previously been known for.

  When Nick had graduated from Princeton with his own degree, he hadn’t really envisioned setting up shop with his dad. But after knocking around the world for a few years working on the sorts of projects he’d thought he’d wanted to do, he’d ended up right back in Weaver, where he could run his own projects.

  “The problem with this barn—” he turned back to the plans on his drafting table “—is that it was scaled to serve a simple dude ranch.”

  “Nothing about Rambling Mountain has ever been simple, even when Otis Lambert was alive.”

  Nick didn’t have to close his eyes to summon a vision of Megan Forrester wearing brilliant red, her dark blond hair streaming in the wind beneath a bright yellow hard hat.

  Things still weren’t simple, that’s for sure.

  “You’ll figure out a solution for the barn. Meanwhile, Lucy’s fixing meat loaf tonight. You want to come for supper?”

  He’d started shaking his head even before his dad finished speaking. “You know I love my stepmother, but I’ll pass.”

  Beck chuckled. “She’s using your grandpa’s recipe.”

  Stan Ventura had become quite a cook when he’d started helping out with Nick’s little sister, who’d been only three when their mom died. “I’m sure that helps,” Nick allowed because, when it came to Lucy’s cooking, most anything would help, “but I’ll still pass. Tell her I’ve got a late meeting.”

  “Do you?”

  He thought about Megan at the Cozy Night. None of the rooms there were equipped with actual kitchens. Maybe she’d be content with a cup of soup heated up in a microwave. And maybe not.

  “I hope to,” he said. He figured he could wrangle some of her time, particularly if he brought up the subject of the stable. She’d argued with him for damn near an hour before he’d had to come down off the mountain for his meeting with Vivian.

  As if his father could read his mind, Beck smiled. “Good luck with that.” Then he left Nick’s office.

  He could hear his dad talking with Gina, the office manager, and then the distinctive creak of the front door as he left.

  Nick gave up the pretense of studying his plans and opened his briefcase. He pulled out the knitted beanie and flattened it against his drafting table. “One and done, my foot,” he said under his breath.

  Then he turned back to his computer screens again. He moved a few lines. Tweaked a few angles.

  Because if Megan wanted a bigger barn, he was going to find a way to give it to her.

  He just hadn’t been inclined to admit that to her in light of her attitude today.

  Their one night together had ended abruptly with the close of a motel-room door shortly after dawn. But he knew that the incendiary heat that had burned between them hadn’t gone cold in the two and a half months since. He’d seen it in her eyes this morning every time she looked his way and thought he wasn’t paying attention.

  Patience, Nick. You’ll get so much further if you’re patient.

  The words had practically been his mother’s mantra while he was a kid, whether she was teaching him how to coax a scared cat out of a tree, or how to keep control of his own temper. Even though she’d died a decade ago, they were still a frequent refrain in Nick’s head.

  He continued working until Gina yelled that she was heading out for the day, then he packed up his things and followed her out.

  He ran by his place—one of the new condos located across town—where he dumped off his briefcase, showered and shaved in record time, and headed out again, back across town to the Cozy Night.

  He found out from the clerk in the office what room Megan was staying in—which wasn’t exactly a stellar example of honoring the guests’ privacy—and drove to the end of the building.

  She was sitting in the salmon-colored metal chair outside her room, her long legs extended and crossed at the ank
les. The ends of her thick hair drifted slightly in the breeze and she was holding a paper cup.

  He knew the second she recognized his SUV pulling into the empty spot next to her mud-spattered pickup because she exploded out of the chair like a racehorse from the gate and disappeared inside the room.

  Not exactly an auspicious start.

  He finished parking and exhaled as he approached the closed door. The number on the door—22—was just as askew now as it had been in March. He’d always known the universe had a quirky sense of humor.

  Seemed perfectly fitting that she was in the same damn room now.

  He straightened the number and knocked.

  Considering the way she had bolted inside, he was surprised at how quickly she opened the door.

  She’d replaced the red blouse from that morning with a blue plaid shirt that snapped down the front. The muddy cowboy boots were gone, too, leaving her feet bare. But the blue jeans that emphasized her narrow hips and long, long legs were the same.

  “I’m not inviting you in.” Her voice was blunt, almost to the point of being pugnacious.

  “Didn’t expect you to,” he countered mildly. “Doesn’t mean I can’t invite you out. Have you had dinner?”

  Her lips thinned. “I told you. One and—”

  “Done. Yeah. Got it.” It was easy to see around her into the room.

  There were two medium-size suitcases sitting open on one of the beds. She hadn’t unpacked; the closet was still empty. Next to the closet was a small counter with a microwave on top and a dinky fridge beneath it. On the counter was a lone, disposable coffee cup and the cheap basket that he knew would contain instant coffee, a tea bag and a cup of ramen noodle soup.

  “I’m not talking about a date,” he told her. “I’m talking about dinner.”

  She rolled her eyes and leaned her shoulder against the doorjamb. “What for? You won’t change my mind.” Her gaze focused somewhere over his shoulder. “The night we had was fun and all, but that moment has passed.”

  If she’d met his eyes when she said it, he’d have believed her. And he’d have filed away his own interest whether he wanted to or not.