Candace Carrabus - Dreamhorse 01 - On the Buckle by Candace Carrabus Read Free Book Online

that matters.  
    Anyway, Frank’s not exactly the hunk on the cover of the books she reads. She lives vicariously through the guys I know, some of whom could model for book covers. You couldn’t necessarily have a conversation with them, and some of them are gay, but I have known some very handsome men.  
    “He’s tall—over six foot, I’m sure.”
    “Yeah. Go on.”
    “He’s got longish light-brown hair with streaks of gold in it like a life guard.” I figured I might as well lay it on thick for her, not that I was exaggerating. “Blue eyes—with humor in them.” When he’s not being a prick . “You’ve heard his deep voice.”
    “Yeah, yeah. Go on.”
    I ticked off the rest. “Broad shoulders, flat stomach, strong jaw, high cheekbones, sexy when he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days. Looks great in breeches.”
    Penny moaned. “Oh my God, Vi, how can you stand it?”
    “I’ll manage. Pretty is as pretty does, you know. Anyway, he’s married.” But his wife wasn’t around, and I wondered what that meant. Somehow, I thought there was more to it than just visiting family. “Married’s off-limits, even for me.”  
    “I know. Anything else?”
    “Well,” I said, drawing it out. “There is one thing.”
    “Yeah?” Anticipation laced her voice.  
    I delivered the kicker. “He wears a kilt.”
    She dropped the phone.

- 5 -

    Later that day, another Midwestern-farm-grown example of male pulchritude strolled in, and the first thing I thought was, wait till I tell Pen.  
    He rolled up in a Ford pickup of indeterminate color—might have been green at one time, but it was mostly rust with dashes of primer. The right headlight hung down like a gouged-out eye, and the tailgate had gone missing. Half an antenna stuck up from the hood, duct tape criss-crossed the back window, and the roof looked like an elephant had danced on it. Baling wire held the driver’s-side door closed.  
    The guy who stepped out, after scooting across the bench seat to exit the passenger side, was tall and lanky with straight, dark hair and a smooth, well-trimmed beard. He was in much better shape than his truck.  
    I squeezed water from the sponge in my hand and rubbed at a persistent spot of sweat on Captain’s bridle. My visitor wore a green cap that said, “Nothing runs like a Deere,” a plain, white tee-shirt with an oil stain on one side and a tear on the other, and unlaced work boots crusted with mud. His jeans were so worn down the fronts of his thighs, they were white, and the knees were blown out. The faded blue fabric looked especially thin over the bulge at the base of his fly.
    When he entered the barn, Noire lowered her tail and growled deep in her throat. I trust her instincts. If my dog thinks someone’s not quite right, then someone’s not quite right. She’s better at that than I, but sometimes I ignore her.  
    He acknowledged me with a sweeping gaze that landed on Noire. “Mac around?”  
    “Out of town. Can I help you?”
    His eyebrows pushed his cap up, then he leaned one elbow on a rung of the ladder leading up to the loft and shook a cigarette out, started to light it.
    “There’s no smoking in the barn.”
    “Since when?”  
    I didn’t know him, and he looked great, so I decided not to bite. Noire planted herself between us, clearly less certain this was the right course of action. I smoothed her ears. She kept her eyes on the stranger. “Smoking is never allowed in horse barns,” I explained. “It’s dangerous.”
    “Really,” he said. He glanced at the cigarette, up toward the loft, then shrugged and shoved the cig back in the pack. “Never thought about it, but I see your point.”
    He dug a toothpick out of his pants pocket and stuck that in his mouth instead, rolling it with his tongue. Reminded me of a guy I saw careening down the Long Island Expressway once in a Cadillac Eldorado with a toothpick and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth at the same time.  
    “I’m