Taking the Reins (Roped and Wrangled) Read Free Page A

mom. If it wasn’t written on his birth certificate, he wouldn’t have even known her name. Just followed his father—a rodeo groupie to the core—around from state to state. Never settled down for any length of time. Always had to be ready to pick up and move when the rodeo dried up. Or slip out in the middle of the night because one of his father’s infamous cons had blown up in his face. Again.
    This lifestyle was his choice. He never took a permanent training position. He was a one-and-done guy. Moving from ranch to ranch, fixing problem horses or helping establish a more effective training regimen. Then moving on when things were back in order.
    Finding his saddle and tack, he started to load up his trailer. Though he didn’t have a horse of his own—easier to pick up and move that way—he had his own equipment. Too important not to keep his own.
    Always set on moving forward, his mind was busy thinking of where to go next. With a few phone calls and well-placed feelers, word would escape that he was back on the market, so to speak. And the offers would once again trickle in. He’d weigh each job, each location, the pay and the opportunities for growth. Didn’t matter what state it was in. He had no stakes holding him down.
    He headed out, turning east from Tanner’s spread. No real reason why. Just sounded good. He’d find a decent motel and hole up for a few days while he figured out a new plan. No hurry. He had enough cash to last him a good long while. He wasn’t in a rush to find a new job. Just the right one. In the end, it came down to a gut feeling. Always the gut.
    And why, just at that moment, did Peyton Muldoon’s ornery face, with those eyes blazing, slide into his mind? He’d said the right job. Not the absolute, no way in hell, don’t even think about it, cowboy, job. The woman had trouble written all over her . . . at least where he was looking.
    And he shouldn’t be looking at all. That was the problem.
    He resolutely kept the truck pointed east, away from the Muldoon spread. He’d head a few towns over before stopping, just to make sure he didn’t wander across Peyton’s path on not-so-accident.
    Trouble was one thing he had no need of.

Chapter Two
    “T im. Tim, come on. There has to be some hole. Isn’t that what you people do all day? Find loopholes?”
    “You people?” Tim, her family’s lawyer, slid his glasses off and gave her the Watch yourself, missy look.
    Peyton felt the heat rise up the back of her neck. But dammit, this really wasn’t the time to play semantics and get caught on PC bull. “So you’re saying that even though I’ve been doing everything for years, even though I’m the only one who stayed . . . doesn’t mean a damn. The M-Star is no more mine than it’s my brother’s. Or my sister’s.”
    “There’s a three-way split of the ranch, Peyton. Three siblings, three owners. That’s how the whole thing goes down.”
    “Why didn’t I know about this until now? Mama’s car accident was two months ago.” Not that her absence was felt with anything but relief.
    “At the time, you couldn’t make direct contact with your brother or sister. I warned you, if you recall, that you needed to get ahold of them. But you said you couldn’t.”
    “Couldn’t,” she echoed dully.
    “I see you’re wanting to make some changes, big ones, and that’s where the problem comes in.”
    “Problem.” Her voice sounded hollow, even to her own ears.
    Tim sighed and replaced his glasses, shuffling through papers until he found what he wanted. “As I said, it’s very cut and dry. Daily operations are still well within your control. But the overall responsibility—financial and legal—is split among the three of you. And any major decisions that need to be made must have all three owners in agreement.”
    “Major decisions. What the hell constitutes a major decision ? Hiring a new hand? Buying a new horse? Flushing the damn toilet?” Peyton felt the migraine