Ben Buttars thundered down the stairs, a bit of dust rising into the air from his boots. Or maybe that was from the wooden stairs that hadn’t been swept in a while. The boss hired a maid service that came in twice a month, but once spring thawed and all the mud dried to dirt, not even a daily cleaning could keep the two-story house dust-free.
“Something smells good,” his oldest brother, Sam, said as he pushed through the back door and into the kitchen, where Ben had just entered. He snatched a pair of oven mitts from the counter and opened the door to a blast of heat.
Ben flinched away lest he get burned. “Soft pretzels. Your afternoon snack.” He grinned, though the memory of his mother always came with the sight and smell of the last snack she’d made for him before she died. Ben had perfected her recipe over the past ten years.
“Mustard?” Sam bent to look in the fridge.
“Already on the counter. Ketchup too.” Ben slid the sheet tray onto the stovetop and gazed down at the perfectly browned snack.
“No one eats ketchup on pretzels,” Sam said.
“I do.” Ben tossed him a grin just as both of their phones sounded. He groaned while Sam simply checked his without any alarm on his face. But Ben was supposed to have the afternoon off before meeting with the recreational director about…something his boss had seemed deliberately dodgy about. And he’d been planning to stuff himself silly with salty pretzels and ketchup.
“Horses out above pasture six,” Sam said, lifting his eyes to Ben’s. Out of his three brothers, Ben looked the most like Sam—the most like their father, who’d had eyes the color of russet potato skins and hair several shades darker than that. The twins, who sat in between Ben and Sam, had lighter hair and their mother’s darker eyes. All four boys had freckles and broad shoulders and a love for the outdoors.
Only Ben had been a minor when their parents had passed away. Only Ben had been forced to leave high school before he’d graduated. Only Ben hadn’t dated someone in the last decade.
“Right now?” he asked, and he hated that it sounded more like a whine than a question.
“Right now.” Sam started toward the back door, smashing his cowboy hat lower onto his head.
“But the pretzels—”
“They’ll keep.” Sam’s voice filtered back toward him just before the screen door slammed. Frustration threaded through Ben. “They’ll keep” was Sam’s standard answer for everything.
What should we do with Mom and Dad’s stuff?
It’ll keep.
Shouldn’t we go back to Wyoming? Sell the house?
It’ll keep.
Ben cast one last look at the steaming pretzels—which would be ten times better hot—before following his brother out of the house they shared. The blue May sky of Vermont stretched before him, the barns and public parking areas of Steeple Ridge Farm just steps from the house.
The pastures, however, lay to the north and west, in the same direction of the wooded area where Ben liked to let his horse wander after a long day of farm work. He strode toward the back barn, where they housed the farm’s horses, including his mare, Willow.
Her dark brown coat glistened, because Ben took immaculate care of her. He’d allow dust in the house, but certainly not on his horse. “All right, girl,” he said as he put the saddle on and cinched it. “Let’s do this quickly, okay? Because I made pretzels.” He led the horse out of the barn and swung onto her back.
Steeple Ridge boarded horses, and the five they had from a barn in northern New York had been nothing but trouble since they’d arrived last week. They seemed to have a knack for finding—or creating—weaknesses in fences and running wild through the woods until they came to the stream.
Bracken ferns grew there, and these New York horses seemed to have developed a taste for it, though if they ate enough of it they could experience a loss of nerve function. As the manager of the boarding stable, Sam didn’t much want to return nerve-damaged horses to the New York clients. With hot pretzels still on his mind, saving the horses from their own fern obsession was a toss-up for Ben.
He joined his brothers and they spread out into the woods, ropes at the ready. The owners of the farm, Tucker and Missy Jenkins, had gone into town to purchase supplies for the upcoming weekend barbecue, or they’d be saddled up and rope-ready too.
Ben whistled as he ducked under a tree branch. A rustling sound to his left drew his attention, and he had one of the New York devil-horses roped a few seconds later. One of them, though, eluded all the brothers until finally Ben couldn’t take it anymore.
“How about I take these four back?” he asked Sam, trying to make it sound like he didn’t care if he went or not. But he feared that if he didn’t go in the next five minutes, he wouldn’t even have time to scarf down a single bite of pretzel before his meeting with the recreational director.
He searched his memory for her name but came up blank. While he and his brothers had arrived at Steeple Ridge at the end of last summer, he didn’t get into town for much more than church. And even then, he didn’t always attend.
There was something soothing and peaceful about the woods, and sometimes the Sabbath simply found him communing with nature, which allowed him to feel closer to God. It had taken him a good five years to accept that God was still loving, still wise and omnipotent, after his parents’ plane crash. Sometimes being outside with only trees, birds, and sky reminded him of God’s power better than anything a pastor could say.
“Go on, then,” Sam said. “Darren, you stay with me. Logan, help ‘im get those horses properly secured. Lots of water.”
In another situation, Ben might have asked if his brother thought any of the horses had already consumed something poisonous out in the woods, but today, he didn’t. He simply set Willow toward the farm and urged her to go a little faster than he would have normally.
“Is there a fire?” Logan asked, coming up beside him.
“I made pretzels,” Ben said.
Logan laughed, a big, boisterous sound that filled the sky with noise—and Ben’s blood with annoyance. “You and your pretzels.”
“I don’t see you complaining when you eat them.” Ben nudged Willow again and she almost picked up her trot.
“Nope,” Logan said. “Never will. I don’t know how you get them so stretchy and crispy at the same time. It’s amazing.”
Some of the tension drained from Ben’s shoulders, and he grinned at his next oldest brother.
“Ah, spicy brown mustard,” Logan said. “We have some, right?”
“Dunno.” Sam did all the grocery shopping for the brothers. “If you put it on the list at some point, I’m sure we do.”
They arrived back on the farm and got the horses brushed down and properly secured in their box stalls. By the time Ben had Willow safe and secure, the very idea of a pretzel had faded to a dot on the horizon. Because he was now late for his appointment.
Sure enough, when he exited the barn, a shiny black sedan sat in the public parking lot. The car looked like it had never been on a farm.
“There you are.”
He turned at the feminine voice to find a tall, athletic brunette striding away from the house and toward him. She’d definitely never been on a farm either. Ben drank in the length of her legs, very aware of the pinch of interest in his chest. Her dark brown ponytail swung from side to side, and Ben wondered what her hair would feel like between his fingers.
He swallowed. This woman was so far out of his league, he couldn’t even get there in a rocket ship. She paused a healthy distance from him, cocked her hip, and folded her arms. “Which one of you is Ben?”
He glanced at Logan, who wore an expression of half-horror, half-surprise. “He is.” Logan hooked his thumb at Ben and walked toward the house. Once he’d passed the beautiful woman, he turned back and beamed for all he was worth, lifting both arms in victory. “I’ll save you a pretzel!” he called before turning around and hurrying into the house.
Ben waved at him like it was no big deal, that pretzels didn’t matter at all That river of desire built into something bigger even as he tried to tame it. “I’ve forgotten your name,” he said. “Missy told me, but.” He laughed, the sound so full of nerves he wondered how his brothers had ever figured out how to talk to a woman, hold hands with a woman, kiss a woman. Not that they dated all that much, but Sam had had a girlfriend or two, and Logan was definitely a charmer. He could talk to women all day, and Ben had watched him do it, trying to discover the secret. So far, he hadn’t figured much out.
His stomach twisted and his mouth went dry dry dry. He’d just forgotten his own name, let alone hers.
“Reagan Cantwell,” she said, coming forward again. She extended her hand toward him to shake. He did, trying not to notice the softness of her skin or the strength in her touch. Or the beauty in the lines of her face. Or the depth of her eyes.
She existed on another planet, where men with a lot of money existed. More talent. More brain cells.
“My friends call me Rae.”
“Like a ray of sunshine.” He smiled but when she didn’t, he wiped it from his face quickly, pure foolishness flooding him.
“So Missy tells me you’ll have all the info on the horseback riding lessons she wants the rec center to sponsor.”
When he stood there, his thoughts stampeding like those crazy New York horses, she lifted her eyebrows as if to say Well?
Ben stumbled back a couple of steps. “The horseback riding lessons. Right. Yes. I know about that.” And though he didn’t really know what a partnership would look like, he walked forward, drew in a deep breath of her scent and got a noseful of angel food cake and chocolate.
His mouth watered but he still managed to say, “I have all the details in the office in the house. You want to come in?” He’d never been more relieved than when she came with him. And the folder Missy had put on the desk in the office really calmed him. So he hadn’t looked at it yet. He could wing this meeting—as long as he didn’t look directly at Rae. If he did, he might not even remember how to ride.
