Ned sauntered toward them, moving quickly despite his slightly bowed legs. He took off his hat, revealing a head of carrot red hair and freckles that covered every inch of his skin. A cocky grin broke out across his young face as he looked Monica up and down.

  “Who you got there, Ryder? She sure is a pretty little thing. ’Cept for those boots.”

  Monica glanced down at the oversize yellow boots and decided they were rather hideous. She looked like an extra in the Fireman’s Day Parade.

  “This is Monica,” Ryder said, a hard undercurrent in his tone. “Monica, this is Ned.”

  She raised her head to see a muscle jump in Ryder’s jaw. Her brows knit. Why was he suddenly so tense when all the boy had done was ask her name?

  “Ned helps out around here,” Ryder offered brusquely.

  Ned chuckled, keeping his gaze on Monica. “More than just helping out, these past few days,” he corrected. “Haven’t seen Ryder doing much of anything this week, what with his sister’s wedding and all.”

  Ryder didn’t seem to appreciate that comment, judging from the tautness of his arm around her back and his fingers digging into her side. She ignored his surly mood and extended a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ned.”

  He whistled. “Not nearly so much a pleasure as it is for me, ma’am.” He bowed over her hand, pressing a soft kiss to the top.

  She smiled, surprised to find such gallantry in a kid his age. He looked to be no older than eighteen or nineteen.

  “So what brings you to these parts?” he asked her, apparently noticing that she wasn’t exactly dressed in this area’s style du jour. “Come to buy a mount off the boss?”

  Ryder answered for her. “I was just showing her around, explaining some of her chores since she’ll be staying with us for a while.”

  “You’re gonna be working here? Really?” Ned looked like he’d just found a shiny new bike under the Christmas tree. “Great! If you need anything, just give a holler. I’m always around somewhere; I’d be happy to show you the ropes.”

  She started to thank him and explain that she really wouldn’t be around all that much longer, but Ryder cleared his throat, squinting at Ned. “She isn’t a hired hand,” he snapped. “She’s my wife.”

  Ned’s mouth fell open, and his eyes all but popped out of his head. When she glanced back at Ryder, he wore a nearly duplicate expression. He seemed as shocked as they that he’d blurted out such a thing.

  “Are you kidding me?” Ned’s glance darted from Ryder to Monica and back again like he was watching a Ping-Pong game.

  “No,” Ryder said. And then he tipped his hat back a bit and said in exasperation, “Look, nobody knows yet, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything. Especially to my folks.”

  Ned still looked astonished. “No. I mean, sure. I won’t tell nobody.” Then he slapped his knee. “Damn. I can’t believe you got hitched. Never thought I’d see the day.”

  “Yeah, well…” Ryder couldn’t seem to think of anything to say. “Don’t you have work to do?” he asked pointedly.

  The boy shrugged. “I just came in for another coil of wire. It can wait.”

  “No,” Ryder said, brooking no argument. “It can’t.”

  Ned looked at his boss then, finally sensing that Ryder didn’t want him around. “Okay. I’ll see you both later, then. Welcome to Rolling Rock Ranch, Miz Nash.” He replaced his hat and headed for the barn they’d just exited.

  “He seemed nice,” Monica said. “I can’t believe you told him we were married, though. It’s going to be awfully hard to get a quick divorce if everyone knows and tries to talk us out of it.”

  “We’ll worry about that later,” he said, taking her elbow to propel her forward again.

  Instead of entering the yellow barn through the big Dutch doors she’d spotted as they left the house, he took her around to the side where a large, sliding door had been left open. Once inside, he released her abruptly and left her to follow of her own free will. Which she had no intention of doing. She stood her ground and refused to budge, even when he moved several car lengths ahead of her.

  “What are we doing in here?” she called out. Her voice echoed in the high rafters and she almost winced. Ryder didn’t seem to notice. He just kept walking, leaving her farther and farther behind.

  When he turned into a doorway and disappeared from view, she began to panic. She could have gone back to the house now that he wasn’t physically restraining her, but her feet wouldn’t seem to turn in that direction. She was too curious about where he’d gone and what he was up to.

  A low rumbling rolled through the barn, snaking up the back of her neck. She froze for a minute, afraid that if she moved, whatever had uttered that hideous growl would jump out and eat her. Surely he didn’t have lions or tigers boarded up in here. Did he?

  Curiosity might have killed the cat, but strange noises and invisible monsters were much more likely to kill her. She ran after Ryder, her floppy boots scuffling in the dirt and straw of the floor.

  She pretended not to notice the musty smell, the dust hitting her nostrils as she breathed, or the soft nickers from unknown corners. When a huge brown head poked over one of the stall doors as she passed, she screamed and jumped back against the opposite wall. Gasping for air, she stayed as still as possible and prayed for Ryder to reappear before she had a heart attack or ran into some other prancing, snorting beast.

  Something came from behind and nuzzled her hair right at the nape of her neck. She let loose another blood curdling scream and sank to the floor, covering her head as though she expected something to bite it off.

  “What is all the damn commotion?” Ryder stepped back into the main runway of the barn, a scowl drawing his brows together.

  Monica pointed upward and took a quick peek herself. A white horse stood above her, head hanging out over the door of the stall. His nostrils flared, the whites of his eyes showing from all the noise she was making.

  “That thing tried to eat me,” she told him, embarrassed that her voice quavered over what now appeared to be a simple, fairly harmless horse.

  Ryder came forward and took her arm, lifting her to her feet. “That’s Chynna, and she wouldn’t swat at a horsefly if it bit her on the ass. Especially so close to foaling.”

  Monica brushed a stray strand of hair out of her face and close to Ryder’s side, afraid of what else might pop over the edges of those walls with no warning. “Folding what?” she asked.

  He gave her a strange look.

  She squared her shoulders and brushed dirt from the back of her jeans. “You said she was close to folding. Folding what?”

  Ryder stared at her a moment longer, then burst into deep, full-belly laughter. He slapped his thigh and bent at the waist, gasping for breath.

  Pursing her lips, she stood back and waited for him to finish finding her so funny. It took a minute, but he finally straightened and ran the back of his hand across his eyes. “You really are a city gal, aren’t you?” he said, amusement still evident in his tone.

  She didn’t bother answering. Of course she was a city girl. And he was a backwoods, inbred, redneck hillbilly. She’d like to see how he handled himself in Chicago. Those busy streets and skyscrapers would have him crying for his mommy by sundown.

  “She’s about ready to foal, not fold. A foal is a baby horse. She’s pregnant.”

  “Oh.” Monica tried not to look at Ryder and hoped he wasn’t looking at her. She just didn’t get this farming deal and didn’t appreciate being made to feel stupid because of it. If Ryder were in one of her studios, he’d probably be just as clueless about all the lights, cameras, and backgrounds.

  Although she did sort of wish she had some kind of cowboy encyclopedia to refer to. For definitions of things like “chop” and “foaling” and “how to kill a cowboy and bury his body where no one will ever find it.”

  She slanted a piqued glance at Ryder, who was gently rubbing Chynna’s nose and murmuring soft words in her ear. Yeah, be nice to the horse and treat me like chattel. My hero. Her eyes moved upward in exasperation, but stopped in mid-roll as he looked back at her.

  “This is the stable,” he said, still stroking the now-calm mare. “We have about a dozen horses here at any one time. Some are mine, some are boarders, some are here for stud.”

  Her brows arched at that. She didn’t know much about horses, but she knew what “for stud” meant. Before Ryder could spot the slight blush heating her cheeks, she turned away and pointed toward the doorway where Ryder had disappeared and then reappeared after her near-death by horse breath. “What’s in there?”

  “That’s the tack room.” He opened the door and led her inside.

  This room held no similarities to the one in the other barn where Ryder had found her hat and boots. Large where the other was small, this tack room was also neat, free of spider webs (and spiders, she hoped), and filled with saddles so clean, they shone. The smell of leather and saddle soap permeated the air. The dark colors of assorted saddles gleamed in the light from the one bulb in the center of the ceiling. All different styles of bridles and bits hung from hooks on the walls.

  “Have you ever ridden?” he asked.

  “No,” she answered, shaking her head for emphasis. She knew the difference between English and Western saddles, could tell a bit from a hoof pick, but all of that knowledge came secondhand from books and television, or the one western-wear photo shoot she’d done. She’d never been near a horse—except for Chynna back there—and didn’t care to alter that situation this late in her life. Having one of those creatures chewing on her hair had been traumatic enough. Climbing on top of one was about as high on her wish list as napping on train tracks.

  It wasn’t that she disagreed with the lesson behind the saying that when you fall off a horse, you should get right back on. No, her issues came from the thought of falling off in the first place.

  “As long as you’re here, you should learn,” Ryder said.

  She didn’t bother reminding him that she didn’t plan to stick around much longer or share any more of what he was sure to think were overly feminine, city-girl phobias. She simply ran a hand over the horn of a nearby saddle and ignored the suggestion altogether.

  When Ryder turned, she followed him out of the tack room, glancing into each of the stalls as they passed. Except for those with very pregnant mares in them, most were empty, and Ryder explained that the horses were let out to pasture during the day. From there, they could be brought in individually or in groups to ride, train, shoe, groom…

  The horses were rounded up and stabled each night, but the cows were often left out, called to the barn only when they needed to be chopped or slaughtered. Unfortunately, Monica now knew the difference between the two terms.

  Ryder ended his tour where they’d entered the barn and handed her the pair of big leather gloves he’d gotten from the tack room.

  “What are these for?” she asked.

  “To keep you from getting blisters on those dainty little hands of yours.”

  She shot him a questioning glare, but he only leaned behind her, grabbed something from beside the wall, and handed it to her. She looked down to find a pitchfork hanging from her fingers.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked. She’d seen pitchforks before, but never actually held one. She didn’t have the faintest idea what it was used for.

  “Muck,” he said.

  Her eyes rounded. Had he just cursed at her? “Excuse me?”

  He moved something that looked like a bucket on wheels next to the first stall on her right.

  “Wheelbarrow,” he said, setting the thing down with a thump.

  “Pitchfork.” He pointed to her hand.

  “Horse shit.” He motioned toward the floor inside the open doorway in front of her.

  “Now muck.”

  Chapter Eight

  When you’re pickin’ flowers, everybody gets along. When it comes time to muck the stalls is when you find out how true your love really is.

  Ryder left Monica to her first dirty stall, walking away as though he didn’t care one whit whether she cleaned it or not, or how she was handling what was likely the only bout of manual labor she’d encountered in her entire pampered life. He took his time crossing over to Chynna, giving her a scratch under the chin before reaching into a nearby bin for a handful of feed. While the horse nibbled, he unlocked the door to her stall and let her take her time moving to the middle of the barn, where he hooked the cross ties to her halter.

  If anyone saw him, they’d think he was simply moving through the regular motions of his daily chores, but in reality, he was watching his new bride like a hawk. From the corner of his eye, he could see everything she was doing…as well as the way she was doing it.

  She might be an uptight city gal dressed in his clothes that hung on her like burlap sacks, but damned if she didn’t make them look like million-dollar threads. Or at least like they’d been made for her. The way she tied the tails of his shirt to leave her stomach bare and emphasize her boobs. And though the pants were baggy as hell, they did amazing things to her ass when she bent over…which she did repeatedly as she forked up horse droppings and dumped them into the wheelbarrow.

  He could stand here watching her do that all day. Never mind that it gave him a hard-on he had to hide behind Chynna’s considerable girth, or that brushing down the mares wasn’t really his responsibility. Grooming was normally left to the ranch hands, and there were dozens of other tasks he, as the boss, should be doing. None of which were going to get done standing in the barn.

  But even though Monica seemed to have the hang of things, Ryder couldn’t find it in him to walk away. He just stood there, running the curry comb round and round in circles over Chynna’s soft fur and observing his new wife through the open stall door.

  His wife. Now there was a scary thought. He still didn’t know what the hell had possessed him to go along with her idiotic proposition. Ryder wasn’t usually one to go off half-cocked or follow in the footsteps of anybody who did. But something about her had gotten under his skin from the very start. There were so many things about her that should send him running in the other direction, but she just kept roping him in.

  He wished he could blame it on his dick or the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid in a while, but though that may be one of his most painful troubles right this second, physical attraction was only part of the problem…and he couldn’t quite put his finger on the rest of it. There was just something about her.

  How terrible would it be to let her go? Did he really need to “hold her hostage,” as she called it, just because she’d signed a marriage certificate and dubious business deal she had no way of following through on?

  Face it, she’d pulled a bait-and-switch. If she was telling the truth about giving Matt her life savings—which he may or may not have run off with; Ryder hadn’t decided if he believed that part of her story or not yet—then there was no way he was getting the fifty thousand she’d promised him. And keeping her on the Rolling Rock wouldn’t change that. The smart move would be to call it quits on their hasty marriage, tear up the hastily scrawled contract they’d worked out over the hood of his pickup truck, and leave her in his rearview mirror.

  Definitely the smart play.

  So why wasn’t he doing just that?

  Hell if he knew. Except that some niggle in his brain told him that if he kept her around, he’d figure out a way to get her to pay up. Or at least find out more about her to give himself a little more leverage.

  If they went their separate ways, he got nothing. Worse than that, he’d still be in hock up to his eyeballs, and out a couple hundred more thanks to the newly minted Mrs. Nash’s brilliant notion to elope in Las Vegas. She’d paid for the marriage license online, but everything else had come out of his pocket.

  Maybe there was no future for the two of them—and by “future” he definitely wasn’t thinking along the lines of matching rocking chairs on the front porch while they watched their grandchildren grow. No, the only future that interested him was the one where they stayed hitched until she found a way to scrape up fifty Gs and handed it over. But until he was damn sure there was no chance of money changing hands—hers to his, not the other way around—he just wasn’t prepared to cut his losses.

  The stall door banged against the wall as Monica came out butt-first, boot heels scuffling on the straw-covered floor, doing her best to steer the ungainly wheelbarrow with its load of horse shit and the pitchfork tossed on top. A decent man would offer to help. A gentleman would offer to take over for her. Ryder stayed where he was, half-hidden behind Chynna’s silvery height and width, while Monica lumbered her way to the next empty stall and got back to work.

  So maybe he was just okay.

  He’d give her one thing—she was no wilting lily. She might fuss, and her mind might flit from one thought to another like a butterfly on the breeze, but she was holding up a dang sight better than he would’ve guessed. For a city girl, she had gumption.

  Maybe that was why he wanted to hold her to their agreement, keep her around a bit longer. He wanted to find out just how much mettle was tucked away in that tempting little package…and if she had any other fun surprises like the belly button ring or the no, not on my butt tattoo she’d mentioned hidden in sexy places he hadn’t seen yet.

  …

  For the tenth time in five minutes, a cloud of sawdust blew up Monica’s nose. She coughed and sneezed and gasped for air. Not that she could breathe in the sweltering heat of this damn barn, even if she’d wanted to. Which she didn’t, since every time she inhaled, the most hideous odor known to man scorched her lungs.

  God, she hated horses. And barns. And flies. And Ryder.

  She slanted a glance over her shoulder to where he was lazily grooming Chynna. The horse stood still, letting him stroke her soft fur, her eyes drifting closed at the pleasant sensation. They both looked entirely too content to Monica.

  And the blasted man was whistling. She didn’t know what song it was or what he had to be so damn happy about. But he was whistling while she was dying.