Lois Greiman - [Hope Springs 02] by Home Fires

looks like he’d be a nice ride.”
    “What’s wrong with the way Madeline rides?”
    He made a face at her. “My old piebald?”
    “Is there another Madeline?”
    “There was a Maddy in Albuquerque a few months back. Cute gal. Didn’t get a chance to ride—”
    “Yes, the piebald!” she snapped, then took a deep breath and calmed herself. “What’s wrong with your pinto?”
    He grinned. “She’s got a shoulder like a giraffe. It don’t make for the smoothest ride in the world. Like I said, rodeo will jolt the crap out of a rider . . . even a great rider like me.” That grin again, cheeky but somehow self-effacing at the same time. It was one of the things she hated most about him. And one of the things that had kept her sleepless on more than one long night. “I’m looking for something with a nice, easy stride.”
    “Oh.” She could almost believe that. The bay, though often fractious and frequently naughty, had a dreamy lope. Watching him canter across the pasture made her smile every time. “He is a pretty mover.”
    “What do you want for him?”
    “Oh, I don’t know.” She refrained from rolling her eyes. “Ten thousand should do it.”
    He nodded, shrugged, glanced toward the pasture again. “Okay.”
    “What!” she said and laughed out loud.
    Another shrug, just a slow lift of shoulders wide enough to make a lesser woman sigh. “I need a horse.”
    “Are you nuts? Six months ago you were hauling that bay up to the killer pens.”
    “Yeah, but you fattened him up. He looks real good now. Kinda catty. I think I can make something of him.”
    “You’re crazy.”
    He shook his head. “Buddy of mine is the number-two-ranked heeler on the circuit. His header took a header off his mare just coming out of the box.” He grinned at his own play on words. There was no one who found Colt Dickenson funnier than Colt Dickenson. “I figure if I step in, I can make a quick buck.”
    Casie scowled at him.
    Colt shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “A heeler’s the guy who ropes the steer’s hind legs,” he said. “The header ropes its—”
    “I know what team ropers do!” she snapped. “The point is, the bay isn’t trained. He’s basically worthless.”
    “Listen, Head Case . . .” He sharpened his glower. “I’m not sure you know how this horse-trading thing works. But see, I offer a price, you say you need more. I raise my price, you say you’ll—”
    “You just want to give me money.” The truth hit her like a hammer.
    “What?” he said. He sounded honestly aghast at the idea, which just made her madder.
    “Listen . . .” She shook her head. It was entirely possible that the anger spurring through her was unwarranted, but it was there nonetheless. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I don’t need your charity.”
    “What the hell are you—”
    “Or a patron.”
    “A—”
    “Contrary to your macho way of thinking, I neither need nor want a man to finance my lifestyle. In fact . . .” She stopped short and narrowed her eyes as a new thought struck her. “Emily called you, didn’t she?”
    “I don’t know what you’re getting so riled up about. Holy cow, every damn male between here and Montana is . . .” He stopped himself abruptly, though there did, in fact, seem to be someone pounding on something near the windmill. “I’m in the market for a roping horse. That’s all. You’ve got a perfectly good animal just frittering away in your—”
    “We don’t need your help.”
    “Yeah?” He leaned toward her a little, fully aggravated. “Well, maybe Ty does.”
    The world went silent. She drew a deep breath, steadied herself, found her center. Whatever the hell that meant.
    “Then I suggest you talk to Ty,” she said.
    Knocking the heel of his hand against the doorjamb, he glanced to the right, showing his profile. “Damned if you’re not just as stubborn as he is.”
    She blinked. Something softened in her gut at the quiet frustration in his