love.”
“How dare you speak of love,” she hissed at him, keeping her voice low. “You walked away. You were the one who left!”
“And you stayed. And married within—How long did you wait for me, Callie? A month? Two months?”
He had left her first, but she didn’t dare argue the point. She didn’t want him counting the months between her marriage and the birth of his son. “Nolan loved me. He didn’t want to wait to get married,” she said defiantly.
“And he gave you a son,” Trace accused, “that should have been mine.
Mine
, Callie, not his.”
He believes Eli is Nolan’s son.
Callie felt a profound rush of relief.
Before she could change the subject, Trace said, “That kid of yours is as rank a colt as I’ve ever seen. It’s been a while since Blackjack had his shins kicked.”
“Eli doesn’t normally fly off the handle like that,” she shot back in defense of her son. “He was provoked. Blackjack shouldn’t—”
“I don’t blame him for jumping into the fray. In fact, the kid reminded me of myself once upon a time.”
Callie was terrified Trace would make a physical comparison and blurted the first thing that came into her head. “You mean knobby-kneed and skinny as a sapling?”
His lips curved in a wry smile. “I was thinking full of fire and brimstone, ready to fight the world. With his teeth bared like that, and his eyes …” He waited until she looked at him and said, “He has your eyes, Callie.”
Callie’s throat tightened with emotion.
And your nose and cheeks and chin. Oh, Trace, I wish
…She tore her gaze away and stared down at her hands, which were twisting the rolled-up sales brochure into a tighter spiral. Callie cursed herself for a fool. She couldn’t afford sentiment. She couldn’t afford to wish and dream about what might have been.
“I suppose the boy must be missing his father,” Trace said. “I’m sorry for your loss, Callie.”
Her hands stilled. Callie swallowed painfully over the knot in her throat. She didn’t want Trace’s sympathy. She didn’t want him being kind. She met his gaze and said, “Eli loved Nolan. And so did I.”
She wanted Trace to know she’d gotten over him. She wanted him to know she’d gone on with her life. She wanted him to know that she’d even loved again. That she’d borne another man’s children. She wanted to hurt him with the knowledge of all he’d missed by leaving her behind.
She looked into his cold blue eyes, searching for the pain she wanted him to feel. And saw a flicker of something that might have been anguish.
“Callie … I—”
She jerked away when his fingertips grazed her cheek. “Don’t!” She struggled against the hand he had clamped on her arm to keep her from bolting. “Let go of me, Trace.”
A two-year-old filly whinnied with fear. Callie’s eyes were drawn by the terrified sound. She saw the whites of me animal’s eyes and then the number
6
painted on its hip. She froze in place.
“Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered, fumbling to unroll the curled-up brochure. “That’s one of the horses I’m supposed to bid on.”
She and her father had evaluated all the animals before the auction, and she’d written $40,000 in red Flair pen as the amount above which it was no longer profitable for her to bid on the number six animal.
In the cutting horse business, the price of an animalwas tied not only to how well the horse for sale had performed, but equally, or even more importantly, to how well the previous two generations had performed as cutters, how much money they had won, and how much their progeny had won.
The number six horse, Hickory Angel, was by Doc’s Hickory, AQHA High Point Cutting Stallion, NCHA Futurity semifinalist, and Equistate #5 All-Time Leading Cutting Sire, siring the earners of nearly twelve million dollars, and out of Osages Little Angel, sired by Peppy San Badger, NCHA Open Futurity and Derby Champion, NCHA Open Reserve World Champion, and #1
“How dare you speak of love,” she hissed at him, keeping her voice low. “You walked away. You were the one who left!”
“And you stayed. And married within—How long did you wait for me, Callie? A month? Two months?”
He had left her first, but she didn’t dare argue the point. She didn’t want him counting the months between her marriage and the birth of his son. “Nolan loved me. He didn’t want to wait to get married,” she said defiantly.
“And he gave you a son,” Trace accused, “that should have been mine.
Mine
, Callie, not his.”
He believes Eli is Nolan’s son.
Callie felt a profound rush of relief.
Before she could change the subject, Trace said, “That kid of yours is as rank a colt as I’ve ever seen. It’s been a while since Blackjack had his shins kicked.”
“Eli doesn’t normally fly off the handle like that,” she shot back in defense of her son. “He was provoked. Blackjack shouldn’t—”
“I don’t blame him for jumping into the fray. In fact, the kid reminded me of myself once upon a time.”
Callie was terrified Trace would make a physical comparison and blurted the first thing that came into her head. “You mean knobby-kneed and skinny as a sapling?”
His lips curved in a wry smile. “I was thinking full of fire and brimstone, ready to fight the world. With his teeth bared like that, and his eyes …” He waited until she looked at him and said, “He has your eyes, Callie.”
Callie’s throat tightened with emotion.
And your nose and cheeks and chin. Oh, Trace, I wish
…She tore her gaze away and stared down at her hands, which were twisting the rolled-up sales brochure into a tighter spiral. Callie cursed herself for a fool. She couldn’t afford sentiment. She couldn’t afford to wish and dream about what might have been.
“I suppose the boy must be missing his father,” Trace said. “I’m sorry for your loss, Callie.”
Her hands stilled. Callie swallowed painfully over the knot in her throat. She didn’t want Trace’s sympathy. She didn’t want him being kind. She met his gaze and said, “Eli loved Nolan. And so did I.”
She wanted Trace to know she’d gotten over him. She wanted him to know she’d gone on with her life. She wanted him to know that she’d even loved again. That she’d borne another man’s children. She wanted to hurt him with the knowledge of all he’d missed by leaving her behind.
She looked into his cold blue eyes, searching for the pain she wanted him to feel. And saw a flicker of something that might have been anguish.
“Callie … I—”
She jerked away when his fingertips grazed her cheek. “Don’t!” She struggled against the hand he had clamped on her arm to keep her from bolting. “Let go of me, Trace.”
A two-year-old filly whinnied with fear. Callie’s eyes were drawn by the terrified sound. She saw the whites of me animal’s eyes and then the number
6
painted on its hip. She froze in place.
“Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered, fumbling to unroll the curled-up brochure. “That’s one of the horses I’m supposed to bid on.”
She and her father had evaluated all the animals before the auction, and she’d written $40,000 in red Flair pen as the amount above which it was no longer profitable for her to bid on the number six animal.
In the cutting horse business, the price of an animalwas tied not only to how well the horse for sale had performed, but equally, or even more importantly, to how well the previous two generations had performed as cutters, how much money they had won, and how much their progeny had won.
The number six horse, Hickory Angel, was by Doc’s Hickory, AQHA High Point Cutting Stallion, NCHA Futurity semifinalist, and Equistate #5 All-Time Leading Cutting Sire, siring the earners of nearly twelve million dollars, and out of Osages Little Angel, sired by Peppy San Badger, NCHA Open Futurity and Derby Champion, NCHA Open Reserve World Champion, and #1
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