The Restless Virgin. Peggy Moreland

question came out of nowhere and caught Sam off guard. “W-well, no,” she stammered as she dropped Whiskey’s hoof and moved to pick up his rear one.

      “How come?”

      Sam felt heat creep up her neck. She bent her head over her work, digging the hoof pick under a clump of dirt and stone. “I don’t know. Too busy doctoring horses, I guess.”

      Colby grinned, showing off the gap where her front tooth should have been. “Maybe you could marry my daddy. He’s always telling me I need a mother.”

      Whiskey’s hoof slipped from Sam’s grasp. Mother? She hauled in a steadying breath and moved to the opposite side of the horse, out of sight of Colby. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. Your daddy would probably like to do his own choosing.”

      “Oh, he wouldn’t care. He usually lets me have pretty much what I want, anyway.”

      And Sam didn’t doubt that for a minute. Biting back a smile, she replied, “That may be true, but your daddy needs to do the choosing, just the same.” Before Colby got any more ideas in that pretty little head of hers, Sam quickly exchanged Whiskey’s halter for a bridle. “Where do you warm him up?” she asked, hoping to put an end to the discussion.

      Colby hopped down from the gate. “There’s an arena out back. Well, not an arena, really. My grandpa used it to work cattle, but it’s big and I’ve got barrels set up for practicing, so I call it an arena.”

      Sam chuckled, pausing to ruffle the girl’s hair. The child talked a mile a minute, giving her life history when a simple answer would suffice. “Okay, then. Let’s head for the arena and we’ll see what Whiskey can do.”

      Once outside, Sam used an old feed bucket as a step to mount the horse, while Colby climbed onto the fence. There was no way Sam’s long legs would bend enough to fit into Colby’s stirrups, so she simply let her feet dangle at the horse’s sides.

      Whiskey danced a bit at the unaccustomed weight, then settled down to a walk. Making smooching noises at the horse, Sam eased him into a trot, circled the arena a few times, then ordered him to lope. The horse responded easily to each change of command. Pleased, Sam reined him to a fast stop, then made him back up a few steps.

      She grinned over at Colby. “Nice horse.”

      Colby beamed. “Thanks. Are you going to run the barrels?”

      Though she hadn’t run a barrel pattern in years, the temptation was too much for Sam. “Do you mind?”

      “Heck, no! Whiskey’s fast, though, so you better be ready to turn and burn!”

      Sam laughed at the barrel-racing term as she guided the horse into position. Drawing a bead on the first barrel, Sam blanked everything else out. Beneath her, she felt the anticipation build in Whiskey. That he was a competitor was obvious in the quiver of muscle, the increased tension on the reins, the tossing of his head. Already seeing herself running the pattern, Sam squeezed her legs against the horse’s sides. He bolted forward and she had to keep a tight rein to keep him from getting away from her.

      Wind ripped her cap off her head just before they reached the first barrel and sent it spinning behind them. Preparing for the turn, Sam shifted her weight, while sliding her hand down the rein and squeezing her right leg against the horse’s side.

      Whiskey responded immediately, rating himself for the turn and digging into the freshly plowed earth with his rear hooves. He came out of the first turn and raced for the second. Subconsciously, Sam noted the smooth lead change, the bunching of finely honed muscles and the burst of power as he wrapped the second and headed for the third.

      Grinning from the sheer pleasure of it all, she turned the last barrel and gave Whiskey his head as he raced for home. Bracing a hand against the saddle horn, she reined him to a dust-churning stop, then tossed back her head and laughed.

      “Wow, Sam! You’re good!” Colby called out.

      “Whiskey’s a good horse,” Sam replied, turning him toward the fence where Colby waited.

      “He ought to be. I paid enough for him.”

      Sam’s smile slowly wilted as she realized that Nash had joined his daughter at the fence. He stood with one foot propped on the lowest rail, his arms braced along the top one. He’d removed his jacket and tie while at the house and rolled his shirtsleeves halfway up his forearms, revealing tanned skin and a smattering of dark hair. The wind played with his razor-cut hairstyle, blowing a tuft of it across his forehead. The result was a combination of mouthwatering maleness and little-boy charm.

      Maybe you could marry my daddy. He’s always telling me I need a mother.

      Remembering Colby’s words, Sam swallowed hard as she met Nash’s gaze.

      “You’ve obviously ridden barrels before,” he commented.

      Gray eyes watched her, measuring her while he waited for a response. Self-consciously, Sam tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “I started when I was about Colby’s age and quit when—well, when I went away to college.”

      “So what do you think of Whiskey?”

      Uncomfortable meeting his gaze, Sam ducked her head and leaned forward to scratch the horse’s ears. “He’s a good horse. Well-trained, even-tempered, but a competitor. The bit might be part of the problem. He seems to fight it a little. A combination might suit him better.” She lifted her head. “But before I can offer an opinion on whether he’s well matched with Colby, I’ll need to see her ride.”

      Colby twisted around on the fence, her hands pressed together prayerfully at her chest. “Can I, Daddy? Please? I promise I won’t fall off this time.”

      Nash eyed her, scowling. “I’ve already told you, Colby. I don’t want you on that horse.”

      “But Sam rode him and he didn’t act up. I promise I’ll be careful and besides, you’re right here if anything should happen. Please, Daddy? Pretty please?”

      How anyone could deny those brimming baby blues, that angelic face, Sam didn’t know. The child was obviously a charmer, and knew all the right buttons to push to get what she wanted from her father. But Nash stood firm.

      “I said no, Colby.”

      Tears that had brimmed, now spilled over. “But, Daddy,” she cried. “We made a deal. You said if I agreed to move to Austin and leave all my friends in San Antonio, that I could have my very own horse. And now you won’t even let me ride him.”

      Sam watched Nash’s shoulders sag in defeat. It seemed a little guilt heaped on his shoulders accomplished what Colby’s sugarcoated pleas couldn’t.

      “Oh, all right,” he said grudgingly. “But no running.” He wagged a finger beneath her nose. “You break a slow lope and you’re on the ground, understand?”

      Colby’s tears disappeared as quickly as they’d formed. “Yes, sir!” She scrambled down from the fence while Sam slid from Whiskey’s back.

      Cupping her hands, Sam bent over to boost Colby up. After giving the horse a fond pat on the rump, Sam stepped back out of the way. “Let her rip, cowgirl.”

      Laughing, Colby guided the horse to the starting position again. Sam folded her arms beneath her breasts and watched. She could feel Nash’s gaze on her back and tried her best to ignore him. “Remember, Colby,” she called. “Easy fingers. Use your legs. And don’t let him get ahead of you.”

      With a salute, Colby fixed her attention on the first barrel. Her expression turned intense as she prepared for the run. Sam felt her own heart thrumming against her ribs and she discreetly crossed two fingers against her forearm, out of Nash’s view. “Just stay in the saddle, Colby,” she whispered under her breath. “And I’ll take care of the rest.”

      Sam watched Colby ride, making mental notes of the girl’s movements as she guided the horse through the pattern. She’s leaning forward too much