Summer Nights. Сьюзен Мэллери

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      “A hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars.”

      He opened his mouth, then closed it. “That’s a lot of vehicle.”

      “Some of the money will go for stocking it with books and computers.”

      “And the Wi-Fi.”

      “Right.”

      So much for simply handing her a check. “So how does learning to ride fit into all this?”

      She smiled. “This is where we test how much you learned in history class. I’m going to ride in a ceremony celebrating the Máa-zib tribe.”

      Shane grimaced. “That class was a long time ago.” He paused, then nodded as something he’d learned in fourth or fifth grade drifted into his brain. “They settled the area eight hundred years ago. Maybe more. They’re Mayan women who founded their own civilization here. And maybe there was something in the news about gold recently?”

      “You were a good student.”

      “Not really. I would rather have been outside.”

      “Not me. I always had my nose in a book. Anyway, yes, those are the basics. At the end of summer, there will be a festival that will include authentic Máa-zib crafts and lectures, and me on a horse performing the traditional ride of the female warrior. It’s more of a dance, really. Technically it’s called the Dance of the Horse.”

      “You’re going to dance on a horse?”

      “No. The horse is going to dance while I ride it.”

      This time Shane remembered about the stool when he took a step back. “Do you have a dancing horse?”

      “Um, no. I thought maybe we could work on that, too.”

      He took another step back. “You want me to teach you to ride and teach a horse to dance?”

      “Isn’t that possible?”

      Her gaze settled on his, rendering him immobile, so when she moved closer, he was unable to ease away. She smiled up at him and put her hand on his arm.

      “Heidi said you’re gifted when it comes to horses. It’s just a little dance. A few steps. For a good cause.”

      He doubted she was doing anything extraordinary. In most parts of the country, a beautiful woman touching a man’s arm was considered a perk, not the least bit dangerous. But she wasn’t just any woman. This was the one he’d seen dancing on top of a bar. The one he, for reasons of chemistry and Fate having a hell of a good time at his expense, found irresistible.

      Why couldn’t she have been the cardigan-wearing boring stereotypical librarian he’d been expecting? Or maybe librarians weren’t like that at all. Maybe they were all wild, like Annabelle, and the cardigan thing was a giant joke they played on a world too self-involved to see the truth. Either way, he was lost. Lost in a pair of green eyes and a sexy smile that hit him like a fist to the gut. Only it wasn’t a fist and the parts of him responding weren’t exactly his gut.

      He wanted to say no, but he couldn’t. Not only because the bookmobile was a good cause but because his mother would give him a look that told him how he’d disappointed her. Despite crossing thirty a few years ago, he couldn’t stand that look.

      “I’m a tough, macho guy,” he growled, then held in a groan as he realized he’d spoken out loud.

      Annabelle raised her eyebrows, then stepped back. “I’m, ah, sure that’s true. Big horse man.”

      He swore under his breath.

      Before he could figure out how to extricate himself from the conversation and somehow recover what was left of his dignity, he heard a loud neigh from one of the corrals. He turned and saw the white stallion standing by the gate, his dark gaze fixed on Annabelle.

      She turned in the direction of the sound. “Oh, wow. That horse is beautiful. What’s her name?”

      “His. Khatar. He’s a stallion. Arabian.”

      And a sonofabitch, Shane thought. The kind of horse who wanted to make sure everyone knew he was in charge. Khatar’s previous owner had been too aggressive, trying to break the horse’s spirit. Now Shane had to fix the mistake, which was turning out to be a challenge. But he would do it—he had to. He had way too much money riding on the physically perfect animal.

      He turned back to Annabelle. Even in her four-inch heels, she barely came past his shoulder. He figured he could get her on one of his calmer geldings and have her riding in a week or two. As to the dancing, he would deal with that later. When he could speak in full sentences.

      “When do you want to start?” he asked, impressed he was able to string the words together.

      She turned back to him and smiled. “How about tomorrow?”

      “Sure.” The sooner they started, the sooner they would be finished. Better for both of them to get her out of his life. She could go on tormenting other men and he could stop acting like an idiot. It was close enough for him to call it a win.

      CHAPTER TWO

      ANNABELLE DIDN’T COMPLETELY understand the science of growing fruit. Not only had she been raised in a city, her ability to grow anything was hampered by having what she cheerfully referred to as the black thumb of death. If she got too close to a plant, it visibly recoiled. If she dared to take one home with her, the poor thing withered and died within a couple of weeks. She’d tried watering, feeding, sunlight and playing classical music. She’d read books on the subject. Nothing worked. It had gotten to the point where the Plants for the Planet, a small local nursery in town, refused to sell her anything except cut flowers. Something she tried not to take personally. So the agricultural cycle of life eluded her.

      What she did know was that fruit that grew on trees matured later than fruit that grew on vines, or bushes. That strawberries arrived first and that cherries, which grew on trees and therefore should have been later in the summer, were available by mid-June. She also knew that several families spent their summers living in small trailers by the vineyards and orchards. They worked the various crops and after the grapes were picked in late September and early October, they moved on.

      Annabelle drove up to the circle of trailers and parked. Before she’d even opened her door, children spilled out of the trailers, jumped off swings and raced from the grove of trees shading the area. They circled her car, laughing, pulling open her door and urging her out.

      “Did you bring them? Did you bring them?”

      Annabelle stood and put her hands on her hips. “Bring what? Did you ask me for something?”

      The children, ranging in ages from maybe four to eleven or twelve, smiled eagerly at her. One little boy darted behind her and pulled the latch that opened her trunk. Immediately the children hurried over and began searching through the bins of books she’d brought.

      “It’s here.”

      “That one’s mine.”

      “The СКАЧАТЬ