Prologue Wade

PROLOGUE

Wade

July

" I n my defense, it was the longest slow burn in history. I just lost track of time, and then there was a detour on the way here …"

I shuffle down the front steps of the big house, while this small, animated woman just rambles on beside me, trying to explain in way too much fucking detail the reason why she's late for her interview with me.

I stare out to the field wondering what the fuck she's talking about and what the fuck a slow burn is.

She continues laying out the entire damn plot as I breathe in the late morning Kentucky mountain air, knowing somehow that I'm going to regret asking this but fuck, I just need her to get to the goddamn point.

"Explain," I say.

"Explain? A slow burn? Or how the book made me late?" She doesn't even give me room to answer if I wanted to. "Slow burn is … you know, the part that leads up to … the spicy side of the book …"

Spicy?

She waits all of one millisecond for me to speak, and when I don't, she continues. "Anyway, the main character I liked the best, he had just kissed her, finally … because the other man she was with, he had just finished, they were roommates—"

I stop and spin around, startling her as I look down at her with a face that I'm sure asks her what on earth she's talking about.

She blinks and looks up at me, realizing she definitely has gone off the goddamn rails here. But for some reason she still keeps talking. "Well, what I mean is, he was about to get his own turn with her and …" She trails off for less than one second, looking down at her boots, then starts again. "Anywho … I'm here now, so I can find out later which one of them—"

Nope.

"Just … Jesus Christ … Do you understand what it means to be professional? At all?" I ask, stopping her from finishing that sentence because I somehow think that discussing her book—that sounds a hell of a lot like some kind of porn—might be considered sexual harassment, although at this moment, I think I might be the one being violated.

Her mouth pops open but she doesn't speak. I take that as my cue to continue walking.

"I'm sorry for being late, and for wasting your time, Mr. Ashby," she says in a much more professional tone, as if I'm giving up on her before the interview even starts. Which, until right this second, I was.

I grit my molars. Something about the way she says my name all defeated like that brings me down a peg. Maybe my family is right. Judging by how nervous this woman sounds right now, maybe I was too abrupt with her when she showed up for her interview all of six minutes late. I just didn't have the patience. All I want is to get through this goddamn day and take a breather after a long-as-fuck morning with my lawyers and my ex, Janelle.

I stop my long stride again, ready to turn and face this little spitfire, to tell her we'll start the interview over on a much more professional level. Before I can even speak, I realize she's moving too fast and she's not looking up so she doesn't even notice I've stopped until she plows right into me and stumbles backward in the grass.

"Fuck, shit. Fuck … I'm sorry," she offers as I grip her elbows easily in my hands to steady her.

"Look, Miss …" I let her elbows go as she regains her balance, trying hard not to notice how pretty her violet blue eyes are when she looks up into mine.

"Spencer." She says it as if it would be beyond rude that I'd forget her name. The one she just repeated when she met my family less than five minutes ago.

Okay, maybe it is, even for me.

"Right. Miss Spencer, I'm gonna cut the bullshit right now." I turn and start to walk again, and she keeps up as I approach my office doors and plow by two ranch hands that physically stop their work to check the woman out keeping pace beside me. I shake my head at them as we pass because they're all a bunch of fucking hornballs on my ranch.

"I'm not looking for somebody inexperienced here," I say. "Even though it's only temporary, I need an experienced trainer to take Sam's place."

I push through my office doors and she follows me. As I walk around the back of my desk, she stands on the other side, in her worn-in jeans, perfectly fitted black t-shirt and matching black cowboy boots, arms folded under her perky tits, holding them up like a little shelf. My eyes meet hers and I realize something I said pissed her right off.

"Oh, I get it, you're one of those? You think just because I'm young and a woman that I'm inexperienced?"

I take my hat off and toss it on my desk. Fuck me, I'm the furthest thing from one of those. This bratty little—

"I can see I'm wasting my time expecting better of you," she challenges.

I lean forward, placing my palms on my desk, speaking low so she realizes I'm done entertaining her attitude, and fuck, I'm the one in charge here—not her.

"It has nothing to do with you being a woman. Some of the most respected trainers in the industry are women. Hell, the trainer you're here to replace now, is a woman."

Something in her eyes softens and looks almost sheepish, as she drops her arms to her sides.

"Oh, I just assumed with the name Sam—"

"Samantha," I cut her off. "Assumptions most always get you nowhere," I add gruffly.

I rake my hand through my hair and sit down, leaning back in my chair. She's got a feisty attitude, I'll give her that, and she's probably the prettiest woman I've laid eyes on in, hell, a really long time. Alright, she's fucking breathtaking. I'm talking my-dick-stood-at-attention-the moment-she-tossed-her-long-raven-colored-hair-over-her-shoulder-as-her-boots-hit-the-dirt breathtaking.

Ivy Spencer . I look at her now and wonder how I could've forgotten her name.

She follows suit, relaxing a little as she sits down across from me. I take a breath before I continue. I wasn't intending for this interview to start off so intensely. I'm not actually an asshole. I just have so much going on all the damn time that I speak swiftly, and nine times out of ten, out of frustration just so I can move onto the next task.

"Look, if we're being honest here, you are young, you can't have more than what? Five years' experience?"

There's that defiant look again. Her heart-shaped face gives nothing away—high cheekbones, a slender straight nose, and plump pink lips, those features are all perfectly settled. It's her eyes. Her eyes are stormy and tell me she's fixing to put me in my place, and fast. If I wasn't so fucking exhausted today it might amuse me.

"Almost fifteen, actually. If you count all my intern hours, but even without that, I have a degree in Equine Studies from U of K, on a full scholarship, five years of training thoroughbreds at Bellingham Ranch …" She cocks a brow as if to ask, impressed yet, Mr. Ashby? "Three years at Nottingham Rehabilitation Center before that as a cooperative. Oh, and four summer internships with the American Quarter and Thoroughbred Association under Peter Sampson during high school and college." She mentions a well-known trainer that helped to train the 2015 Triple Crown winner.

Well, fuck.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you? Assumptions most always get you nowhere," she says. A coy little grin turns her pretty lips up, and something about it makes me want to do all sorts of things, most of which are highly inappropriate, to wipe that look right off her face.

I grunt and she seems to relax a little.

"Look, I'm good at what I do. I have a modern approach I'm guessing this ranch doesn't run with—one that might help you, especially if you're hoping to make another derby run at some point," she offers.

I look at her and wonder if she could possibly be the one to take over. Fifteen years? So she's been working with horses since she was … a kid? I shake my head, some compartment of my brain asking me why I'm so interested in her life story.

She stands up and motions to the door.

"You want to show me around this place while we talk or is this interview just going to be you sitting there judging me silently?"

My mouth falls slack for a brief moment at her sassy tone, then I get it together and return my hat to my head as I stand.

"Barns are this way," I huff out as I breeze by her.

Twenty minutes later, we're standing outside our large arena watching one of our trainers, Dusty, try to work with a nervous new colt. This colt is skittish, and just getting him to keep eyes and not spook has been a task.

Ivy stands watching, learning the horse's ways like she has a telepathic connection with him while I answer questions from three of my ranch hands. For some reason, all of a sudden they've decided they need to be working right where Ivy and I are. As if I don't know it's because she's the attraction of the hour.

One of my leads is chatting Ivy up like they're old friends. They laugh, and I instantly know this woman cannot work here. She's too distracting, too charming. These fuckers will never get anything done if she's here, and I'm all about productivity on my ranch. The last thing I need is one more thing to worry about on the daily.

"How's it going, Sarge?" Nash, my lifelong friend, claps me on the back, coming from breakfast at the big house with my mother and sister.

"Argh," I grunt out.

"That good?" he asks, chuckling. "You think maybe you're being too hard on her. Six minutes late? Really?"

"Maybe. Her resume is good." I give that much to him, watching as she grabs a training stick down from the tack wall and takes it upon herself to enter the corral.

Nash and I look at each other and then quickly go after her as she swings the gate open, making sure it's safe to enter.

"Mind if I try?" she asks Dusty boldly.

Dusty looks at her like, who the fuck is this? And then he smiles wide.

"Have at it, he's a stubborn bugger, won't let me assert any type of dominance with him."

She nods and takes her place in the ring in front of the feisty horse.

"You ever heard of the Parelli program?" she asks both Dusty and myself.

"Can't say I have," I say as I watch her take the leader rope from Dusty. She's a different person now than she was when she was all fired up in my office. This woman right here is calm, collected and perfectly at home around this antsy horse. She takes a moment to graze one hand down his nose and whispers something to him none of us can hear.

"It's the idea that horsemanship can be obtained naturally through communication, understanding and psychology, versus mechanics, fear and intimidation."

She takes the training stick and lets the string hanging off the bottom come up and rest over the horse's back before sliding it off gently. The horse spooks, but instead of her tightening up on his rope, Ivy simply raises a hand to him and then gives the horse more space.

"That's not the way we do it around here," I say to her as I lean up to the rail and watch her, because fuck, watching Ivy with this horse is almost mesmerizing.

"Why do you do it the old-fashioned way?" she queries.

To which I lamely reply, "Because that's the way it's always been done."

Ivy keeps moving, trading between trailing the string over the horse's back and swiping it in circles like a lasso in the dirt. Every time the horse spooks, she whispers something to him and then centers him by bringing the string back over his barrel, and fuck, after ten minutes of this continuously, he manages to keep his eyes on her and move with her for a solid thirty seconds, calmly rounding in a circle with her as she leads him.

"See, the way I've been trained is, you want to have a real partnership with your horse. That requires earning his trust and helping him to feel safe. And we can't do that with the old-fashioned, traditional training methods. What they do look for is safety and security. And if they don't find that with us, they will never trust us. They will never become willing partners."

"Sounds like some kind of new age, hippy shit to me," I bark out, without thinking, as Nash nudges me in the ribs with his elbow. Clearly, what she's doing is working. I just don't like being wrong, or out of control. Both of which I am right now.

Ivy takes the horse around the pen a few more times, continuing her method, and when she's satisfied he's had enough she unhooks the leader and lets him loose. Walking up to me she pushes the training stick to my chest, looks up at me with those blue eyes and says, "Hey, you're the Chief around here, I'm just telling you what's worked for me is all. Just like working with people, you gotta build respect, not just expect it. Thanks for the opportunity, I'd love to help your family's ranch while Sam is away." She breezes between Nash and me and turns to look back over her shoulder. "That is if you don't assume I'm not up to the task." She smiles as she says it.

Nash leans into me and whispers, "Fuck, Sarge. I think you just met your match."

I cross my arms over my chest and watch her go, knowing full well not only is she going to be trouble, but fuck, she pretty much just hired herself.