Made For Marriage. Helen Lacey

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СКАЧАТЬ grabbed her sweater from the back of the kitchen chair and headed for the front door. Once she’d locked up she pulled her muddy riding boots off the shoe rack, quickly tucked her feet into them, snatched up her battered cowboy hat and placed it on her head. She turned around to find no sign of her visitor. Or the expensive-looking bicycle.

      Obviously the teenager wasn’t keen on following instructions.

      She put the keys into her pocket and headed for the stables. The large stable complex, round yard and dressage arena were impressive. Callie had spent nearly every penny she had on Sandhills Farm to ensure it became a workable and viable business.

       Okay kid—where are you?

      Tessa rushed from around the back of the house. Still a pup, the Labrador/cattle dog cross bounded on lanky legs and yapped excitedly. Obviously no kid was back there, or Tessa would have hung around for attention.

      So, where was she? Callie’s intuition and instincts surged into overdrive. Miss Too-Many-Piercings was clearly looking for trouble. She called the girl’s name. No answer.

      When Callie opened the stable doors and flicked the lock mechanism into place, a few long heads immediately poked over the stalls. She looked around and found no sign of Lily.

      Great—the kid had gone AWOL.

      And where on earth was Joe, her farmhand? She checked her watch. Six-twenty-five. He was late and she’d have to attend to the feeding before she could start the lesson with her missing student.

      First things first—find Lily … um … whatever-her-last-name-is. She clicked her fingers together. Hah—Preston. That’s right. Lily Preston.

       She’s got the father with the sexy telephone voice, remember?

      Callie shook some sense into her silly head when she heard a vehicle coming down the driveway. Joe … good. She swiveled on her heel and circumnavigated the stables, stopping abruptly, mid-stride, too stunned to move.

      Indiana—her beautiful, precious and irreplaceable Hanoverian gelding—stood by the fence, wearing only an ill-fitting bridle. Lily Preston was straddled between the fence post and trough as she attempted to climb onto his back.

      Think … and think quickly.

      Callie willed her legs to move and raced toward the girl and horse, but it was too late. The teenager had mounted, collected the reins and clicked the gelding into a trot Callie knew she would have no hope of sustaining.

      She’s going to fall. And before Callie had a chance to move, Lily Preston lost control, tumbled off the horse and landed squarely on her behind.

      She was gone. Ditto for her bike. Noah Preston cursed and headed back into the house. The last thing he’d told his angry daughter the night before, just as she’d slammed her bedroom door in his face, was that he’d take her to Sandhills Farm at seven-forty-five in the morning. She hadn’t wanted him to take her. She wanted to go alone. Without him. He should have taken more notice. The time was now six-thirty-three and Lily had skipped. In typical Lily style.

      “Daddy, I’m hungry.”

      Noah turned his head. His eight-year-old son, Jamie, as uncomplicated and placid a child as Lily was not, stood in the doorway.

      “Okay,” he said. “I’ll make breakfast soon. But we have to go find Lily first.”

      Jamie rolled his big eyes. “Again?”

      Noah smiled. “I know, mate, but I have to make sure she’s safe.”

      “She is,” Jamie assured him in a very grown-up fashion. “She’s gone to see the horse lady.”

      “She told you that?”

      His son nodded. “Yep. Told me this morning. She rode her bike. I told her not to.”

      The horse lady? Callie Jones. Recommended as the best equestrian instructor in the district. He’d called her a week ago, inquiring about setting Lily up with some lessons. Her soft, American accent had intrigued him and he’d quickly made arrangements to bring Lily out to her riding school.

      So, at least he knew where she’d gone and why. To make a point. To show him he had no control, no say, and that she could do whatever she pleased.

      Noah spent the following minutes waking the twins and making sure the three kids were clothed, washed and ready to leave. Jamie grumbled a bit about being hungry, so Noah grabbed a few apples and a box of cereal bars for the trip. He found his keys, led his family outside, bundled the children into his dual-cab utility vehicle and buckled them up.

      He lived just out from Crystal Point and the trip took barely ten minutes. Sandhills Farm was set back from the road and gravel crunched beneath the wheels when he turned off down the long driveway. He followed the line of whitewashed fencing until he reached the house, a rundown, big, typical Queenslander with a wraparound veranda and hat-box roof. Shabby but redeemable.

      So where was Lily?

      He put Jamie in charge of four-year-old Hayley and Matthew, took the keys from the ignition and stepped out of the vehicle. A dog came bounding toward him, a happy-looking pup that promptly dropped to Noah’s feet and pleaded for attention. Noah patted the dog for a moment, flipped off his sunglasses and looked around. The house looked deserted. An old Ford truck lay idle near the stables and he headed for it. The keys hanging in the ignition suggested someone was around. He spotted Lily’s bicycle propped against the wall of the stable. So she was here.

      But where? And where was Callie Jones? He couldn’t see a sign of anyone in the yards or the stables or in the covered sand arena to the left of the building. The stable doors were open and he took a few steps inside, instantly impressed by the setup. A couple of horses tipped their heads over the top of their stalls and watched him as he made his way through. He found the tack room and small office at the end of the row of stalls. The door was ajar and he tapped on the jamb. No one answered. But he could see inside. There were pictures on the wall—all of horses in varying competitive poses. The rider in each shot was female. Perhaps Callie Jones?

      Noah lingered for another few seconds before he returned outside. The friendly dog bounded to his feet again, demanding notice. The animal stayed for just a moment before darting past him and heading off around the side of the building. Noah instructed the kids to get out of the truck and told them to follow him. As he walked with the three children in a straight line behind him, he heard the sound of voices that got louder with every step. When he turned another corner he stopped. The breath kicked from his chest.

      A woman stood by the fence.

      Was this Callie Jones? Not too tall, not too thin. Curves every place a woman ought to have them. Her jeans, riding low, looked molded onto her hips and legs. Long brown hair hung down her back in a ponytail and his fingers itched with the thought of threading them through it. Noah’s heart suddenly knocked against his ribs. Lightning, he thought. Is this what it feels like to be struck by lightning?

      Noah probably would have taken a little more time to observe her if he hadn’t spotted his daughter sitting on the ground, her clothes covered in dust and a big brown horse looming over her.

      * * *

      “What’s going on here?”

      Callie СКАЧАТЬ