Ambushed!. Vicki Lewis Thompson

As for their mom—well, Sarah had chosen to wear shades for the occasion. Good call.

      Thank God Jack had vetoed Nick’s typically sappy idea of tying Gold Rush, their dad’s butterscotch paint, behind the Last Chance wagon driven by Emmett Sterling, the ranch foreman. Talk about maudlin. As a compromise, Nick was riding Gold Rush, because a Fourth of July parade wouldn’t seem right without that flashy horse prancing down Main Street.

      Nick kept close to the wagon because his main squeeze, Dominique Jeffries, was riding in it. She was a photographer based in Indiana and was only here for the long weekend, but from the way those two lovebirds were acting, Gabe predicted she’d soon relocate.

      Naturally she was shooting a bunch of pictures of Nick on that horse. She’d never met their dad, so she had no reason to be sentimental today, but every time Gabe looked over at Gold Rush all tricked out in his dad’s silver-studded saddle, a baseball-size lump clogged his throat. He needed a distraction and he needed one now.

      Well, hallelujah. Just beyond the staging area a gorgeous redhead was struggling to control an Appaloosa. The gelding first tried brushing her off against a post. Then he headed for a patch of grass several yards away and paid no attention as she attempted to steer him back.

      Gabe rose in his stirrups and pointed to the redhead as he hollered over at Jack. “I’m gonna help her out. I’ll be right back.”

      Jack gave him a stern look that was pure Jonathan Chance, Senior. “Don’t get lost. Parade starts in fifteen minutes.”

      “I’ll be here.” Gabe wasn’t crazy about the way Jack was issuing orders these days, but their dad’s will had put his oldest brother solidly in charge of the ranch. That set Jack and Gabe on a collision course, because Vicki Lewis Thompson suddenly Jack was questioning whether the Last Chance should fund Gabe’s cutting-horse events.

      Their dad had always said that Gabe’s presence on the circuit boosted sales of the ranch’s registered paints, and Gabe’s horse Top Drawer was only ten grand shy of the required earnings for the American Cutting Horse Association’s Hall of Fame. But apparently Jack viewed Gabe’s summers away as a drain on the system. Maybe the lack of support was affecting Gabe’s concentration, because he wasn’t winning as much prize money on Top Drawer this summer, which made for a vicious cycle.

      He’d unwittingly brought the issue to a head during an unscheduled trip home with an injured mare he’d saved from the slaughterhouse. Jack had seized the opportunity to keep Gabe at the ranch for a while.

      Gabe figured he could change his brother’s attitude eventually, but for today he’d set the conflict aside. It was a holiday, one that made them all super-aware that their dad was gone. He’d try to keep the peace, mostly for his mother’s sake.

      But that didn’t mean he couldn’t walk Top Drawer over and assist the redhead battling a gelding that didn’t seem to like parades. Because Gabe was following the woman, he had a chance to read the embroidered back of her white satin Western shirt. Morgan O’Connelli Real Estate.

      He recognized that strange last name from somewhere. He even remembered that it was a weird-ass combination of Irish and Italian created by parents who hadn’t wanted to hyphenate their kids’ last names. But he wasn’t sure why he knew that.

      Before he had a chance to reach the woman, the Appaloosa took a notion and started to trot, nearly dislodging her. She lost her cool but not her seat, although clearly she was now merely a passenger and the horse was in charge, probably headed back to the barn.

      Gabe nudged Top Drawer into a canter. Luckily he’d chosen to ride this particular horse today. The roan paint had some thoroughbred in him and was much faster than Finicky, Gabe’s other cutting horse.

      When the Appaloosa gathered his speckled hindquarters and put on his own burst of speed, Gabe decided he was done playing games. Leaning over Top Drawer’s neck, he urged his horse on and caught up to the gelding easily. “Hang on!” he called to the woman as he came up on her left.

      She abandoned the reins and gripped the saddle horn.

      Grabbing the Appaloosa’s bridle, Gabe braced himself. “Whoa, son! Whoa, there!”

      The horse slowed in tandem with Top Drawer, proving that he was schooled well enough, but had chosen to take advantage of an inexperienced rider. The two horses stopped in the middle of the empty street.

      “That’s better.” Switching his grip from the Appaloosa’s bridle to the knotted reins hanging around the horse’s neck, Gabe glanced over at the redhead to see how she was holding up. “You okay?”

      She flashed him a big smile, but her jaw was clenched tighter than a strap on a hay bale and her face was almost as white as her shirt. “Fine!” She barely moved her lips.

      He decided she was in shock. “Stay right there and I’ll come get you.”

      “Fine!” She had a deer-in-the-headlights look and only a faint ring of blue-green showed around her dilated pupils.

      Keeping a firm grip on the Appaloosa’s reins, Gabe maneuvered Top Drawer until he had room to dismount. Then he ground-tied his horse so he could concentrate on helping the redhead out of the saddle.

      She had a death-grip on the saddle horn and was breathing fast, fast enough that she drew Gabe’s attention to the front of her shirt. He had a special fondness for big-breasted women, but he knew it was politically incorrect, not to mention rude, to let his gaze linger there. Still, he couldn’t help noticing that the top three snaps were undone and a fourth was threatening to pop any minute.

      He glanced up at her. “Ready to come down?”

      “Sure!” She favored him with another big smile.

      “Want any help?”

      “No, thanks!” Without any preliminaries she swung her right leg over the horse’s spotted rump. But the Appaloosa was tall and she wasn’t, so unless she loosened her grip on that horn …

      As the dismount started going bad, Gabe stepped in and caught her around the waist. “Easy does it.”

      Just then he heard a pop and figured the fourth snap had given up the ghost.

      “Shitfire!”

      He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as he set her on her booted feet with her back to him. Then he stepped away so she had the privacy to refasten her shirt.

      In between muttered swear words, she clicked the snap. “Stupid shirt’s one size smaller than I ordered. By the time it came in the mail, I didn’t have time to get another one.”

      “These things happen,” he murmured.

      “There!” She spun to face him and she most definitely had her game face on. “Now I can properly thank you for riding to my rescue, Gabriel Chance. That was awesome.”

      “You know my name?” He gazed into eyes that were neither green nor blue. He was reminded of the turquoise of tribal jewelry, and again, a memory stirred. He’d swear they’d met before.

      “Everybody knows the Chance boys. But besides that, we had one semester together at JHHS our junior year.”

      “You’re Morgan O’Connelli!” He pronounced her surname with an emphasis on the last two syllables, as an Italian would.

      “That’s me. The daughter of Seamus O’Conner and Bianca Spinelli, the infamous pair who created the confusing last name of O’Connelli, thereby assuring that their children would suffer through each and every class roll call.”

      “But it’s distinctive.” She hadn’t changed it, either, so she must not hate it that much. Now that he knew who she was, Gabe started sifting back through his memories. “Didn’t we work on the junior-senior prom together?”

      “We did. We spent the afternoon before the prom blowing up helium balloons and sniffing a little gas now and then so we could sing like the Chipmunks.”