Her Last Chance. Deanna Talcott

heavily against the back wall of the barn. Then he simply surrendered to the pain and bent over double. He gave it a good minute before he straightened or even tried to flex his leg—when he did, he promptly clamped his jaws around a swear word.

      In the back of his head, he could hear his mama scolding him.

      Bite your tongue, Chase Benton Wells!

      He gritted his teeth so hard, the enamel actually hurt.

      Just as quickly, determination rose in him like a challenge. He wasn’t one to give up, never had been, never would be. He’d spent his whole life working this ranch and he’d taken his fair share of lumps. He’d fallen out of the bed of a pickup at seven, turned the tractor over when he was twelve, been gored by a bull at seventeen, and nearly drowned trying to spur his stallion across a swollen stream at twenty-three. One contrary four-year-old wasn’t going to give him grief.

      He intended to tame that rambunctious little mare, or die trying. She was, by far, the most ornery animal he’d ever raised. Her mama, one of his prize Morgans, had taken a fancy to one of the wild mustangs that ran through the West and jumped the fence four years ago. When he’d recovered her months later, she was in foal with the little varmint who’d later come to be known as Peggy Sue. This mare, he observed ruefully, had apparently inherited her daddy’s bad temperament.

      A small, lopsided grin unexpectedly dented his face, as he thought about their daily run-ins. Yesterday, Peggy Sue had left her calling card: a hoofprint on his belly, in nicely colored bruises. The day before that she bit him.

      Using his shoulders, Chase pushed off the rough-sawn siding and tottered uncertainly on his one good leg. He yanked off his leather gloves and jammed them into his back pocket, before sinking his boot heel into the gritty dust of the barn floor and gingerly testing his weight. A groan immediately ripped through his lungs, and he shuttered his eyes against the unmerciful current of blue-black pain that exploded behind his eyelids.

      He was getting too old for this, that’s what. Thirty-four years old and hobbling around like a broken-down cowboy.

      Behind him, Peggy Sue kicked the boards of her box stall. Take that!

      Chase didn’t even give her the satisfaction of looking over his shoulder; he just staggered out of the barn and into the blinding Wyoming sunshine.

      He heard the hum of a car motor before he could actually focus on it. Squinting, he looked toward the house. Near the side porch of his sprawling log home, a snazzy little red convertible idled. Behind the wheel, with her blond hair floating over her shoulders, sat an angel.

      He stared, smitten with disbelief.

      Yup, that confirmed it. He’d died and gone to heaven. That little mare had kicked him into kingdom come.

      He expected the angelic-looking woman to float out of the car, but she got out the traditional way, door and all. He started limping toward her, figuring he might as well go meet his fate. It was pretty obvious she didn’t have her wings with her. Instead, she was wearing the softest, curviest white top, and sexiest little pair of jeans and sandals. She waved at him, and the bracelet on her wrist tossed off glittering sparks.

      He tipped his head, offering up his best Wyoming welcome, and wondering what the heck a woman like that was doing out in the remote country of Horseshoe Falls. Sucking in a deep breath, he made a conscious effort to shake off the pain and find out.

      “Hi,” she called. “I hope I’ve got the right place. You must be Chase Wells.”

      “I am.” He wiped his palm over his jeans, anticipating the introduction. He paused long enough to slide a lazy, assessing gaze over her. Right from the top of her wind-blown, tawny-streaked hair to the tips of her dainty feet and red-painted toenails.

      His first impression was mind-blowing. The woman was as smooth as her flawless complexion, her moves as silky as her cultured accent. She was slender and willowy, and she carried herself with a confident air. With her chin tipped high, the mannerism wasn’t quite enough to give her straight nose a snobbish tilt, but rather an implied awareness of her surroundings. Her eyes were incredibly blue—like matched sapphires—and her brows arched over them like a pair of exquisite frames.

      Then she smiled—and Chase’s pain ebbed and faded to a distant memory. His limp was reduced to a minor irritation. It struck him, oddly, how her mouth looked moist. Pink. Curving in just the right places, as if she knew how to make the most of a smile—and probably a kiss.

      In one insane moment, he wondered if she kissed booboos—because he certainly had acquired a bunch of them.

      “Hello,” she said, extending her hand. “I’ve had a terrible time. I took the wrong turn or something a few miles back.” The pressure of her grasp was negligible. She dragged her long, slim fingers across his palm, the tips of her ovaled nails sliding between his thumb and forefinger as seductively as a caress. “I’m Mallory Chevalle.”

      Chase branded the name on his fuzzy brain and, quickly assessing her stunning attributes and the intriguing inflection of her voice, realized there was something vaguely familiar about her.

      “You have a lovely home,” she continued, letting her gaze drift past his shoulders to the vista of mountains to the west, then to the lush valley behind the barns, the corrals and the house. “It’s more like a resort than a ranch.”

      “We’re comfortable.” Chase squinted, wondering why any woman who wore diamond studs rather than turquoise in her ears was looking for the Bar C.

      She laughed, an engaging little sound that seemed to bubble right up from the depths of her soul. “I honestly don’t know how you get any work done. I’d be saddling up every day for a ride.”

      “Working ranches don’t offer up a lot of time for pleasure riding.”

      “That’s a shame, especially when you raise such fine Morgans.”

      “You know about our stock?”

      “Of course. I was pretty impressed with how some of your mares placed at the stock show in California.”

      Chase nodded, putting two and two together. His partner, Bob Llewelyn, made the rounds this time of year, training and showing in all the big Morgan shows. Bob was an affable guy, he made friends with everyone. “And you came all the way out here to check us out?”

      “No…” She apologetically lifted a shoulder. “Your partner sent me.”

      Chase couldn’t beat back his surprise.

      “I told him I was looking for stock for my family’s stables, and he promised I’d find just what I wanted. Um…he mentioned, too, that you’ve even got some stock that’s part mustang. That you’ve worked with some of the free-roaming mustangs that have been captured and relocated.”

      Chase frowned and glanced back at the barn, annoyed that he hadn’t taken time to close the door. It wouldn’t do for her to come across that lame-brained Peggy Sue. “Yeah. I have. But what’re you interested in for your stables? Specifically.”

      She looked like she was about to say something, then stopped. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve got?”

      Something about her answer sounded a little hollow and didn’t ring true. Experience told him buyers always knew what they wanted. They either needed broodmares or a good show horse. They wanted a stud to improve their stock or a pleasure horse for their kids. He glanced at her suspiciously, not quite believing she drove hundreds of miles just to browse through the merchandise.

      She paused, the hint of a frown clouding her features, darkening her eyes. “You were expecting me, weren’t you?”

      Chase inclined his head, vaguely wondering if he should have checked the answering machine again. At that precise moment something near his heart started vibrating. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought this Mallory woman had created the stir.

      He pulled the snap on his chest pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “Excuse