Mariah (MARIAH and SHANE Series Book 1) Read online

  MARIAH

  Part one of two

  MARIAH & SHANE's Story

  A Horse Whisperer Novel

  by

  Carol Devine

  copyright © 2017 Carol Devine Rusley

  All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts for review purposes as described by U.S. and International copyright law, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means including reverse engineering, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, film, lyric, video or otherwise without the prior written consent of the author at authorcaroldevine.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  ISBN 13: 9781535015929

  ISBN-10: 1535015926

  DEDICATION

  To Meg and Jo

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  i

  1

  Chapter One

  1

  2

  Chapter Two

  20

  3

  Chapter Three

  47

  4

  Chapter Four

  58

  5

  Chapter Five

  86

  6

  Chapter Six

  109

  7

  Chapter Seven

  140

  8

  Chapter Eight

  162

  9

  Chapter Nine

  184

  10

  Chapter Ten

  192

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  If you find errors in my work, please let me know by contacting me at: [email protected]. As an Independent publisher of my own books, I take great pride in delivering a product that is comparable in quality to the big publishing houses. I treasure hearing from my readers and a review on the site where you purchase this book allows me to continue to produce romantic stories like this.

  I thank the creators of the British TV Series, Doc Martin, which inspired me to create the fictional town of Grizzly Springs and populate it with characters both quirky and sublime. Beta-readers of this book include Steve Rusley, Barbara Trexler, Angela Keane of Story Preserves, the BooksGoSocial network of Indie writers, Mary Clark and especially Sue Paluska, who definitely knows her copy editing stuff. Colleen Collin's HOW DO PRIVATE EYES DO THAT helped me with the heroine's character. Janel Clarke and Facebook's Friendly Horse Questions helped me with the horse research and, along with Nancy Cole and Lou Casteel, inspired the formation of many of the characters in this book.

  authorcaroldevine.com currently sponsored by Weebly.

  Cover design by Sabre, Gray & Bane Cover Studio

  Cover Model Photography by

  RLS Model Images Photography

  CHAPTER One

  "Take the bait, you stupid trout!"

  Mariah McBride muttered expletives under her breath and recast her line, flying it out over the white water in the middle of the creek. She aimed for the eddies around a shallow area filled with cattails. Flicking her rod, she picked her way among the wet rocks piled along the bank, intent on spotting her next meal. A half pack of powdered donettes and a bottle of Muscle Milk did not a decent breakfast make.

  Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity, her FBI motto, had given way to the ole Benjamin Franklin classic, A penny saved is a penny earned.

  Fortunately, the sun cut heat through the cloud cover on occasion, warming her enough to withstand the May chill. Her water-resistant outerwear seemed to be holding up well, even though the last time she wore it was twelve years ago. Why Bird had squirreled it away, she didn't know. Didn't care.

  "I know you're in there," she whispered, measuring the distance while watching for a tail fin. Deeper water rushed through the middle of the creek, faster than she liked. The angles for casting were better there though. Edging out, she reeled in and recast.

  She never saw the horse and rider coming. The steady roar of water muffled the sound of galloping hooves. A giant black horse skidded on the bank, rearing. A tall man jumped off, cowboy-hatted in black. He wore jeans and a denim jacket, and his sudden appearance with the big black horse scared her into slipping backwards.

  She fell, fanny first, into the area filled with white water, strong enough to drown and punish her body. She gasped, stung by the freezing cold inside her waders. Heart pounding, she sprang forward, scrambling over slippery rock on her hands and knees, making it to the shallows.

  Her fishing rod swept by, caught in the current. Lightning quick, he hopped the bank and grabbed the rod, tossing it into the clearing. He reversed, switching gears, and slapped the hindquarters of his horse to get it out of the way. It whinnied and leapt the bank in one jump, disappearing behind the trees.

  By the time Mariah got her feet under her, he'd stretched his arm, reaching for her, mindless of his cowboy boots in the mire along the shore.

  She scrambled sideways to avoid him, mortified at being caught unawares. She had floundered in a few feet of water like a beached rainbow trout, her waders filled with gallons of water and her clothes, saturated. She stood, furious.

  "Who do you think you are? Sneaking up like that? I'm completely soaked!"

  "I didn't sneak up--"

  "Yes, you did! How else did I land in the creek? Look at this!"

  She kicked off her boots and undid the suspenders holding her waders. The water weight inside made them fall around her ankles. Dirty water gushed out, leaving her sinking in a mud puddle. Stepping out, she tripped and landed on her knees, forcing her hands into god knows what else.

  "Dammit!"

  He hooked her arm. "Let me help you up."

  She shook him off, whipping her ponytail and sending it flying like strands of blonde caramel across her face. Swiping her hair back, she encountered a crap load of slime, infuriating her further. "Just go away, will you? You've done enough damage for one day."

  Slowly this time, she began the careful rise to her full and indignant height. His was several inches taller, an athletic and rangy build, lean and broad-shouldered, set in the well-balanced stance of a cowboy. His eyes, shadowed by the black brim of his hat, had so much blue they reflected the sky, and his face, shaped by concern, showed calm in the face of her ongoing storm.

  "I can't just leave you here," he said. "Like you said, you're soaked. You need to get out of those wet clothes. Where are you parked?"

  Mariah pointedly said nothing and managed to kick the waders out of the way so she wouldn't trip over them again. The cold was biting. Her socks made a squishing sound as she slogged up the bank.

  Already she was shivering from the breezy air. Her pants clung to her legs, having lost their water-resistant properties. She waddled like a toddler in diapers, aiming for her front pack. He beat her to it, shouldering past her.

  "I'll take care of your stuff. You go dry yourself off."

  He scooped up rod, tackle box and pack in the time it took her to halt. She glared at him.

  "Give me my gear."

  "Are you parked by the trailhead?" He started in that direction.

  "No."

  "No? Where then?"

  "I'm not parked."

  He stared at her, clearly surprised. "You walked in?"

  "I live close by."

  "Only body that lives close by is Bird McBride and you're definitely not him." He appraised her more carefully, making her more conscious about how wet and dirty she must look. He, on the other hand, loo
ked fine.

  Too fine.

  With the western shirt and boot cut jeans, he could step into the leading role in the latest Hollywood incarnation of the American West. That Clint Eastwood squint of his was sizing her up. Her wet, clingy clothes forced her to take refuge behind formality. "May I have my gear back, please?"

  She held out her hands, dripping water at his pointy-toed, cowboy booted feet.

  "You do look a little like Bird. Long-legged, blue eyes, same blond hair. You his daughter?"

  Her jaw clenched. "Yes."

  The wind gusted. She clamped her arms to keep from shivering. He dropped her gear on the ground and started unbuckling his belt. "You're hypothermic. Take off your clothes."

  Appalled at the suggestion, Mariah turned to find the trail. She suppressed her chattering teeth. "N-never mind. I'll come back later."

  Three long strides and he was blocking her way. He pulled off his belt and worked the buttons on his jeans. "I'm taking off my pants and you're taking off yours and putting mine on."

  "Who do you think you are?"

  "The guy who's gonna keep you from freezing to death. Off with the pants. I mean it, McBride."

  Fly undone, he hopped on one foot and removed one cowboy boot, then the other, revealing red wool socks. Dropping his jeans, he held them out.

  Shuddering with cold, Mariah still had the wherewithal to give him the you-are-absolutely-crazy look.

  He shook the jeans at her. "What do I gotta do? Put 'em on you myself? You know I'm right, 'less you're so deep into hypothermia you're nonsensical."

  Struck by his use of such an old-fashioned word, she replied with the most force that could be mustered when one's lips were blue. "What did you say?"

  "Nonsensical. Not making sense. Take off your pants."

  She noted the plaid flannel shirttails that didn't quite conceal his baby blue boxer shorts and made another monumental effort to speak clearly. "You look ridiculous."

  "No more ridiculous than you. Your butt is sagging with water. Go on. Strip."

  He was right about the butt. The pants were sliding down because of the water weight, sliding to the point where they might fall down by themselves. And he'd made a good point about hypothermia. Pure snowmelt fed the creek, making the water temperature close to freezing. Human beings couldn't survive in such conditions.

  Worst problem was, he was right and she was wrong, and she absolutely hated being wrong.

  Disgusted with herself for being in this humiliating situation in the first place, she stripped off her sodden socks. Fumbling with the front of her pants, her numbed fingers struggled with the canvas belt. He stepped forward to help but she twisted away.

  "Don't," she said.

  "Hold this," he said. He pushed his balled up jeans into her hands and grabbed her waistband just as her frozen fingers registered the warm, dry denim.

  He undid the belt, zipped down the fly and yanked her pants down. It shocked her, how easy it was for him to do and how quick. He started yanking down her soaked underwear, too. Mariah dropped the jeans to stop him.

  "I said, don't!"

  "I'm not looking, okay?"

  His grip on the underwear was much better than hers and he won the fight before it really got started. He knelt on the ground in front of her and his hands closed around one of her lower legs, forcing her to raise her ankle as he peeled off the wet clothes from one foot, then picked up the jeans and inserted the same foot inside them. She started helping him, finally, using his lowered shoulders for support. She maneuvered her second foot out of the wet and into the dry.

  She tried to pull the jeans on with her shaky hands but he was the one who did it, rising to his feet to snug them over her hips and waist.

  "34 inseam, same as me. 34 waist is way too big, though. Need the belt for that."

  He lassoed her with his leather belt and cinched it below her waist to ensure there was a good two inches of fabric sticking above the belt. The knot he tied in the leather robbed her of breath.

  "Too tight?"

  He loosened and retied it like he knotted thick leather every day; which he probably did. She finally had an inkling about who he was. The most famous and favorite son in Grizzly Springs. His name eluded her but she was pretty sure this man was the one who owned the town stables after a rather storied career winning the World Championship of Rodeo seven or eight times.

  "I'm giving you my jacket, too."

  His hands burrowed under her Henley shirt, peeling it away from her stomach and spine. The shirt turned inside out as he pulled it over her head, with the wet sleeves forcing her arms to straighten towards the sky.

  It was a humiliating position to be in, standing exposed in front of a relative stranger. She tried not to picture what she must look like to him. Unfortunately when stressed, her imagination heightened her self-consciousness by a factor of ten. She was wearing one of those underwire, seamless t-shirt bras, devoid of lace or other support features. The wet material was unabashedly see through.

  Seeking to ensure he was indeed adhering to his promise not to look, she dwelled on his face. It had the character of most cowboys: strong-jawed and clean-shaven, lined in attractive ways by sun and wind. The ends of his hair picked up shades of burnished brown under the hat brim. But his eyes were striking, thickly lashed and an unholy blue, and glinted with good humor.

  Cowboys were supposed to live by an uncompromising code of honor, hard work and loyalty to kin and country, and somehow the wealth of expression in those eyes didn't quite fit. It sparked a memory, a suggestion of a name.

  Either that or the cold had numbed her brain.

  He whipped off his jacket and tossed it over her shoulders. The sheepskin warmth shook her knees. She groped for the armholes.

  "Wait," he said. "Your bra."

  He was looking, studying the water-logged bra clinging to her like a second skin. He reached under the jacket, snaked his hand up her back and unhooked the bra like an expert, pulling it down her arms and tossing it on the ground. At that point, even if he had been leering at her, she didn't care because she needed to get her arms inside the sleeves of his jacket and absorb what was left of his body heat.

  "Thank you," she said.

  "All in a day's work. We're not done yet, though." He whistled shrilly and his horse appeared, trotting in from the other side of the clearing and stopping beside him like a trained dog.

  "Look, you've done enough," she said. "I can get home on my own."

  "Bull-headed as you are, you probably could. But I want my clothes back. No cowboy worth his salt would ride home to the ranch without his pants."

  Fortified by body heat, she responded in kind. "Mercy me. After what you've done, I guess I can't let you make such a dad-gum fool of yourself."

  "I was hoping you'd say that."

  He smiled, including the crinkling of his eyes. It tempted her to smile back. But no matter how attractive or nice he was, she wasn't interested.

  "Bend your knee," he said. "I'll give you a leg up."

  "Uh... you don't expect me to ride that thing, do you?"

  "Bird's place is a good two miles away and you said you were done arguing."

  "I never said that."

  "I'll be up there, too, steering and making sure you stay on. Up with the leg."

  He boosted her into the saddle. She tried to look dignified despite her rookie status, towering above him in the borrowed clothes and bare feet. It made her mouthier than usual. "Just for the record, I don't like to be bossed around."

  "Me, neither."

  He gathered the reins and tugged the horse, leading it to where he'd discarded his boots. Tipping back from the horse's move, Mariah grabbed the saddle horn.

  "Stand," he said and dropped the reins. The horse stayed in one place but dropped its head to snuffle at its owner as he sat on the ground, removed his socks and then pulled his boots on over his bare feet. Rising, he shook out one sock and moved close to put it on her foot.

  She
spread her toes out wide. "You don't have to do that. I'm warming up fine."

  He wiped the dirt off her foot with his shirtsleeve and kept trying to put on the sock. "Anyone ever tell you, you like to complain?"

  "I don't need your socks."

  "But you're getting them just the same."

  Uncooperative as she was, he ended up pinning her ankle against the side of his horse to get the sock on. Fearful of kicking the horse and making it go by mistake, she let him.

  He went from one side to the other, pulling them on. "Thanks for not fighting me on this one."

  "There's no point in wasting energy when I'm freezing. And since you're naked from the waist down, you're probably not much better."

  "Hey, it's Sunday, so I've got my silk boxers on. Traps the heat." Gathering the reins, he pushed her left leg forward and used the stirrup to mount the horse and slide in behind her. "Walk on."

  The horse plodded forward, leaving Mariah aware of the mastery of the man behind her. "I know who you are, by the way."

  "If that's true, you should tell me your name."

  "McBride, like you said."

  "Okay, McBride. Do you have a first name?"

  "Mariah."

  "Which do you prefer, Mariah or McBride?"

  "Which do you prefer, Kelly Shane or Youngblood?"

  "I suspect you know Kelly Shane is the name I used in my pro rodeo days. My first name is Kellen but most folks around here call me Shane."

  "Call me Mariah."

  "Pretty name."

  She bristled at the compliment, disliking the flirtatious way he said it, as though she'd solicited it somehow. From the corner of her eye, she could see his bare legs snugged up against hers. The only barrier between them was denim. She was practically sitting in his lap. Every movement of the horse forced her shoulders to sway against his chest. She didn't want to think about his boxer shorts, undoubtedly stretched thin.