Sarah's Legacy. Brenda Mott

Arab name?”

      Trent shrugged. “He has some fancy stuff tacked onto it.”

      Bailey rubbed the gelding’s forehead. “It fits him. I like it, and I love his coloring. It looks like he has freckles.”

      “He’s a flea-bitten gray.”

      She glared at him. “How can you insult such a pretty horse?”

      He laughed. “It’s not an insult. That freckled pattern is called flea-bitten gray.”

      Bailey flushed. “Oh. Guess I need to read up on my colors a little more.” She continued to stroke the horse, and Star responded by closing his eyes and nudging her with his head. “I think he likes me, too. So, is he for sale?”

      Trent looked at her with surprise. “He’s blind in one eye. You wouldn’t really want him, would you?”

      “Why not?” Bailey challenged. “Is he ridable?”

      “Yes. He’s a little shy on his near side, but as long as he trusts his rider, there’s nothing he won’t do for you. I guess that’s why I’ve kept him. He’s a good horse.”

      “Well, then, I’ll have to try him out later.” She gave the gelding one last pat, then walked back to stand beside Trent. “But for now we’ve got a fence to fix.”

      “I told you, I can take care of it.”

      “I wouldn’t feel right not helping,” Bailey said firmly.

      “All right, if that’s what you want,” he said. “But it’s too late to get started now. Come back in the morning. Then, if you like, you can ride any of the horses you’re interested in.”

      For a minute, she wondered if he was simply putting her off, not wanting her help, but the look in his eyes seemed genuine. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. And thanks for showing your horses to me.”

      “No problem.”

      Bailey walked across the pasture toward the downed wire that separated her ranch from his, furious with herself at the disappointment that welled inside her. Surely she hadn’t been enjoying Trent’s company that much. Yet the prospect of going back to her empty house didn’t hold quite the appeal now as it had when she’d driven home from work a short while ago.

      Bailey gave herself a mental shake. What was wrong with her?

      She reached her front porch just in time to see a huge gray cat leap onto the railing, snatch her forgotten sandwich from the plate where she’d left it and sprint across the lawn into the bushes bordering the yard. At the same time, a mournful howl from the barn split the air. Bailey sighed and placed her hands on her hips, rolling her eyes heavenward.

      Why was it she always seemed to attract—and be attracted to—strays and misfits?

      She knew the answer. She just wasn’t sure she liked it. Years spent convincing herself she’d left her past behind hadn’t really changed anything. Her whole life she’d felt unwanted, unloved; a misfit that people simply passed off whenever they could.

      It didn’t matter. She had a chance for a brand-new start here in Ferguson. She just had to remember that taking in strays and misfits was okay…as long as she drew the line where it needed to be drawn. She couldn’t let Trent Murdock step across that line, nor could she let herself. Keeping her distance shouldn’t be a problem. It was obvious from the time she’d just spent with him that Trent didn’t want pity. He was far too strong for that.

      Yet when she’d looked deep into his eyes, she’d seen a haunting pain that she could relate to.

      Relate to or not, he doesn’t want you getting close. Bailey’s inner voice spoke sensibly. He wasn’t one of her misfits to be taken in and watched over.

      Which was a good thing, since she had no intention of doing so anyway.

      Stray dogs were one thing.

      Cowboys with haunting eyes were quite another.

      CHAPTER THREE

      TRENT COULD NOT SLEEP. What was it about a woman who took in stray dogs and stood up for the rights of a blind horse that had him tossing and turning all night? He neither needed nor wanted a woman in his life, much less Bailey Chancellor, yet he still couldn’t stop thinking about her. She fascinated him.

      She’d tried to seem nonchalant, but she was obviously drawn to the animals she perceived as needy. She’d taken a harder look at Star than any of the other horses he’d shown her; and most people would’ve called animal control and let them deal with a dog like the blue heeler-mix rather than feed it and lock it in the barn to save its sorry hide.

      Trent shook his head. As much as he loved dogs, he’d come close to phoning animal control himself when he’d first noticed the heeler, for the dog’s sake if nothing else. A stray could get into all kinds of trouble, not to mention that the animal had no way to fend for itself. He’d never understood why people thought they could simply turn an animal loose in the country and it would be okay.

      He might have left food out for the dog if it hadn’t looked so much like Jax. He’d brought Jax home to Sarah just before they found out she had cancer. The blue heeler–border collie cross had become her constant companion. Amy had taken the dog with her when she left, and Trent hadn’t bothered to get another one.

      But somehow Bailey had managed to distract him from all that with her unplanned visit to Windsong. Hell, he’d talked more to her than he had to anyone in a long while, other than the buyers who came to see his Arabians. He’d tried to tell himself that Bailey, too, was simply a potential buyer. But he knew better. Deep down, he had to admit he’d enjoyed her company far more than he wanted to. Why, he wasn’t sure, and that disturbed him more than anything.

      Trent got out of bed at six, ready for his morning routine: feed and water the horses, check the foals, have some coffee, then head back outside to work on halter-training the colts and fillies, which varied in age and in stages of learning. He didn’t know what time Bailey planned to come over, but he was fairly certain it wouldn’t be any time too soon. City people generally started their days when business hours began. They had no concept of rising with the chickens, so to speak.

      As he went outside, a sharp ringing, like something striking the ground repeatedly, came from Bailey’s place, the sound carrying easily on the clear mountain air. Curious, Trent walked to a high point of ground where he was able to look down on the small valley in which Bailey’s ranch nestled. He could just make out the woman who’d kept him awake much of the night. She was in the backyard, and from the looks of it, she was wielding a posthole digger. Surely not. What on earth was she doing?

      There was only one way to find out.

      Rationalizing that he was being neighborly not nosy, he headed across the pasture, through the gap in the fence, onto Bailey’s property. As he drew near, he saw the blue heeler-mix tethered to a rope tied to a tree not far from where Bailey was digging. The dog acted like someone had just kicked the daylights out of him. A mournful expression on his face, he crouched on his belly, ears flat, tail tucked, the rope pulled as taut as it could possibly get without choking him. Trent doubted Bailey had done anything to him. He was probably just afraid of the rope.

      Trent turned his attention to Bailey. She was indeed digging a hole, a pair of gardening gloves protecting her hands, her hair in a French braid. She wore cutoff jeans, and a white tank top that showed off a tan he wondered how she’d had time to acquire, given that her job kept her indoors all day. Probably a tanning salon. But as Bailey glanced over her shoulder and smiled at him, she somehow seemed at home gripping the posthole digger, more than a city woman should have. More like a woman who’d come by her tan honestly.

      “Good morning,” she said, blowing out a puff of air and sweeping her damp bangs out of her eyes with the back of one hand. She leaned against the posthole digger, and the morning sun silhouetted her every curve.

      Trent sucked in his