She hesitated, her eyes brimming with tears. “I trust you,” she said. “And don’t worry about me. I know how to be a big girl.”
The urge to take her in his arms and kiss away her tears swept through Buck like a fever. He knew better than to try, especially with people and horses moving around them. But the temptation was there.
He was saved from making a fool of himself by the sound of Cheyenne’s phone. She answered, cupping her ear to hear over the background noise. After a few words, she ended the call and turned to Buck. “That was my brother, Stetson. He’ll be out front with our mother in about twenty minutes. I’ll need to meet them there and take her up to our room. Can you wait?”
“No need,” Buck said. “I’ll call my friend and hopefully arrange to have him pick up Fire Dance. You’ll want to leave the paperwork with me—that needs to go with the horse. Go and meet your mother. I’ve got your phone number. I’ll keep you posted by text. All right?”
“Yes. Thank you, Buck. I can’t believe you’re doing this for me.”
“Don’t thank me yet. We’ll see how things go. Now get moving, and don’t worry. I’ve got this.”
She strode off in the direction of the hotel lobby. For an instant, she paused, glancing back as if to see if he was watching her. Then she moved on.
Buck stood looking in the direction she’d gone, cursing himself for the way she made him feel. He knew it would be useless to want her. He was a good eight or nine years her senior, with more mistakes behind him than he caredto remember—not the sort of man she’d choose for anything more than a friend. And then there was the sight of her stepping out of her room this morning with Hayden in tow. Seeing them together like that, and guessing what must’ve happened, had gnawed at his gut.
So why was he knocking himself out to save a damaged horse that ought to be put down for its own good?
It was because he cared for the horse and the woman. He cared too damn much.
And it scared him.
With the Shootout going on in the arena, the hotel lobby was crowded and noisy. Cheyenne picked up a local paper at a newsstand and sat down in a quiet corner to read and wait.
There wasn’t much in the way of news—mostly just event scores and interviews. Anything about Darrin Culhane’s death would have to be covered in a future issue. But on page 2, an article caught her interest.
TEXAS HORSE BREEDER DIES IN CRASH
Chester (Chet) Barr, a well-known breeder of champion horses, died Tuesday morning after the crash of his small plane near Gallup, New Mexico. Also killed in the crash was his fiancée, Eva Marconi, who perished along with their unborn child. Mr. Barr was piloting his own plane en route to Las Vegas, where his son, Hayden, was scheduled to compete for the Cutting Horse championship in the Run for a Million. Funeral arrangements are pending.
The accompanying photo, a business-style portrait, showed a balding, middle-aged Chet Barr in a western shirt and abolo tie. Pale-eyed, with a double chin and an affable smile, he bore no resemblance to Hayden.
There was no photo of Eva Marconi. Hayden had claimed not to know her—his father’s pregnant fiancée. There had to be a story behind that—sadly, never to be finished. It would be up to Hayden to write his own version of the story.
Where was Stetson? He should have been there, with their mother, by now. Laying the newspaper on a coffee table, she checked her phone again. There was a voicemail from Stetson. A semi accident on the freeway had brought traffic to a standstill. He would let her know when they were moving again.
Cheyenne slid the phone back into her purse. At least, with extra time to wait, she could go back to the barn and check on Buck’s progress with Fire Dance. Roper might be there, too.
The walkway to the arena was jammed with people. But off to Cheyenne’s right was a hallway that led past offices, a mailroom, and a workout area. If she followed it to the end, it should take her back to the barn.
She had gone partway down the hall, which was long and straight, with doors on one side and a row of framed photos on the other, when she heard a familiar voice calling from behind. “Cheyenne! Wait!”
She paused long enough for Hayden to catch up with her. He was slightly out of breath, but grinning as if nothing had taken place between them earlier. Cheyenne resolved to be friendly but cautious.
“I assumed you’d be gone by now,” she said. “You’ve won your prize, and now you’ve got a funeral to plan.”
“I’m handling the funeral arrangements via long distance. Between the funeral home and the caterer, the planning’s pretty much done. Dad will be laid to rest in the family plot, next to my mother.”
“What about Eva—his fiancée—and her baby?”
He looked surprised. “How did you know about her?”
“She’s mentioned in the news article I read. Where will she be buried?”
Hayden shrugged. “That’s up to her parents, I guess. She’s got nothing to do with our family.”
Cheyenne began to walk again. The short hairs on the back of her neck prickled as Hayden fell into step beside her. Something about him wasn’t right. But maybe he was simply in denial about his father’s death.
“I’m surprised that you’re still here,” she said. “What about your horse? Don’t you need to get him home?”