Cowboys Do It Best. Eileen Wilks

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      Two

      Thirty-two minutes later, Chase McGuire stood at her door, hat in hand, with Rosie Stafford. Rosie wore an orange blouse that went with her fiery hair about the same way that Tabasco sauce goes with jalapeños. Chase McGuire wore jeans, a sky blue shirt and that dangerous smile of his. He was a tall man, with just enough creases in his face to make it interesting. He had dark eyelashes, and his hair was six shades of blond all stirred up together.

      Summer looked at the man standing at her front door and realized she’d been fooling herself when she thought she knew anything about him. Seeing Chase McGuire at a distance, hearing the gossip about him, was totally different from meeting him up close and personal. He radiated bad-boy charm the way a stove gives off heat.

      Summer managed not to stutter when she told the two of them to come on in. “Have a seat, Rosie,” she said, gesturing at the old plaid sofa that Maud had vacuumed free of cat hair less than ten minutes before. “And...Mr. McGuire, too, of course.”

      “Make that Chase,” he said, treating her to a smile that showed off the single dimple in his left cheek. “Otherwise I might forget to answer. ‘Mr. McGuire’ is my big brother, Mike.”

      “Of course.” No, she’d never known this man. He made her feel...stupid, she thought. Stupid was definitely the word for what she was feeling. “Sit down, Chase. Can I get you something? Some coffee?”

      Summer noticed two things when Chase followed Rosie to the couch. First, he limped. Not badly, but the stiffness in his stride was especially noticeable in a man so surely made for strength and grace. She also noticed his... physique. At the mature age of twenty-seven, Summer was used to considering herself past the age for youthful follies. She was dismayed to learn she hadn’t gotten over her weakness for a cowboy in a tight-fitting pair of jeans, after all.

      “The coffee’s fresh,” Maud informed them. She was perched primly on a ladder-back chair, imitating a proper old lady.

      “None for me, thanks,” Rosie said, settling herself into the cushions on the couch with a little grunt. “Seems like the bigger the rest of me gets, the tinier my bladder shrinks. Can’t drink more’n a couple of cups these days.”

      Summer caught the quick glance Chase McGuire gave her sling before he answered easily, “I don’t need a thing.” He sat on the couch. The Stetson he turned to lay, brim up, on the end table was black with a rolled brim and a gorgeous band of silver conchas.

      Not a hat to wear when mucking out a stall. “I’m not sure what to say,” Summer began, seating herself in the old recliner. Leaning against the recliner’s high back eased some of the ache in her collarbone and shoulder. “Maud talked to Will without discussing this with me first. I don’t know if you realize what the job would be.”

      “Not exactly,” he said. “But I know it involves horses, so I don’t figure there’s too much of a problem.” That grin flashed again. “I’m good with horses.”

      Yes, the NFR’s “Best All-Around Cowboy” a few years back ought to be good with horses. She wondered how he’d managed to go through all his prize money—a small fortune, really—so quickly. Gambling? Women? Not that this man would ever have to pay for a woman, but a lot of cowboys liked to spend whatever money they had on whoever had their attention at the moment.

      “I’m sure you can handle horses just fine,” she said, “but I need someone to do the dirty work, not the fun stuff. Muck out the stalls, feed the horses, worm them, move them to pasture and back—oh, and probably tack up for me on Mondays and Fridays. I give lessons.”

      “Now, Summer,” Rosie said, “Chase ain’t a Hollywood cowboy. He don’t mind getting dirty or shoveling out a stall. He’d make you a good hand.”

      Chase shot his friend an exasperated look. “I’d just as soon apply for the job myself, Rosie.”

      Summer shifted, trying to find a position that made the hurt go away. “But there are the dogs, too. At the kennel. You’d have to clean up after them, feed them, hose down the runs—and a lot of the owners want their animals bathed before they pick them up. I can’t imagine that someone like you would—”

      “Ma‘am,” he interrupted. “I don’t know what you mean by ‘someone like me,’ but what I am is broke. So’s my truck, unfortunately. Your job’s got two things going for it. One, Rosie tells me you’ve got a room I might be able to stay in. Two, it’s temporary. That suits me, because I don’t plan on being here longer than it takes to save up enough to get my truck fixed.”

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