horseback riding.”
“Or what?”
She gave him one of those stringent looks he’d gotten used to. They were more engaging than intimidating, and he fought an urge to tell her so.
“Or this, Mr. Niceguy,” she warned, turning away. “If you don’t show up, you’re a dead man.”
“I hope you realize murder can’t solve all of life’s little problems,” he taunted.
“Maybe not,” she retorted over her shoulder. “But it would sure put a dent in mine.”
Lucas sat back, watching the inviting sway of her hips as she marched away. A smile played on his lips in spite of himself.
9
Jess had never ridden a horse before becoming Mr. Roxbury’s assistant. Every year at the retreat, she endured the agony of bouncing around in the saddle, getting bruised and battered pretending to be a cowgirl. And, though she was getting better, she was still no Dale Evans. “Whoa, Snowflake,” she challenged, irritated that the horse had a mind of its own, and no matter how she tugged on the reins, she kept getting separated from the rest of the group.
Luckily, both Bertha and Bernie were excellent riders. And strangely enough, Lucas had turned out to be more than a glowering burden today. He rode well, maneuvered his horse like a man who’d done it before and done it well. He’d said he hadn’t ridden in a long time, but he hadn’t said he’d been extremely good at it.
She’d been too busy trying to keep from being scraped off her saddle under one low branch after another, or struggling to help one of the kids who were experiencing similar problems, to have any conversation with Lucas. But he was there, sitting on that horse as tall and broad-shouldered as John Wayne had ever been, chasing after straying horses and guiding them back into line. Except for her, of course. She was on her own, as far as he was concerned.
She supposed it was for the best. After all, she’d told him to leave her alone, and she wanted him to leave her alone. But right now, as Snowflake doggedly plowed under another low-hanging branch, she cursed the fact that she’d insisted she didn’t want his gallantry.
“Snowflake, darn you,” she groused under her breath. “I thought you were supposed to be docile. Don’t you know what docile means? It means you aren’t supposed to try to kill me every five minutes!”
Looking up, she realized she was once again separated from the others. Unfortunately, they’d entered the deepest part of the woods, and the trees were as thick as quills on a porcupine. She glanced around and sighed. “Thanks, you bag of ornery bones. Do you see any of the other horses?”
She could hear the kids laughing and shouting. But from what direction? Frowning, she tried to determine where the sounds were coming from. It seemed like they were off to her right. She kneed her untrusty steed, and shook the reins. Snowflake angled left. “No—no!” Jess complained. “Are you doing this on purpose? Go right! Right!”
Snowflake whinnied, arched her neck saucily and lurched to the left, lurching directly under a branch so low that Jess couldn’t crouch down enough to escape. In desperation, she slid from the saddle and landed in a heap on the ground, her foot still tangled in a stirrup. Groaning, she yanked it free. “Fine. My backside’s already hamburger, and now you hurl me down on the part of my anatomy that’s sorest, you—you escapee from a dog food factory!”
Snowflake who had smelled water, snorted and plodded toward the stream close by, to get a drink.
Jess gave the departing mare a murderous scowl and rubbed her painful hip. As she stood up stiffly, she thought she saw a glint of something white. She squinted and peered more closely. It looked like a white wooden wall with a green shutter. A cottage in the middle of nowhere? “Hmm,” she mused. “Hansel and Gretel’s place? Or, with my luck, it’ll belong to the wicked witch.” She started after Snowflake, who was drinking noisily in the nearby stream, but remembered that she and the horse weren’t on speaking terms. She left Snowflake, her nose down in the swirling water, and wandered off alone.
The little cottage wasn’t far away through the trees. It was surrounded by a white picket fence; the gate was locked. Inside the neatly trimmed yard, an ancient oak tree mushroomed high above the wood-shingled rooftop, and an old-fashioned tire swing hung from one of its sturdy lower branches.
There were big old azalea bushes