July, present day
The stallion's scream of sexual frustration ricocheted
off the walls of a shed that smelled like fresh lumber and
honest sweat, both human and horse. The Last Chance Ranch
baked under a sun that shone with uncharacteristic ferocity.
Clay Whitaker, who'd recently been put in charge of the
ranch's stud program, wiped his face on his sleeve.
The new shed could use an air-conditioning unit— humans
would appreciate it, at least. The horses probably
wouldn't care, judging from the ardor of Bandit, the
black-and-white paint that claimed a higher stud fee than
any other stallion in the Last Chance Ranch.
Despite the heat, Bandit seemed desperate to mount the mare
contained in a small pen only a few feet away. He would
never get the chance. The pretty little chocolate-and-white
paint named Cookie Dough was a decoy. Instead of mating the
old-fashioned way, Bandit would have to make do with a
padded dummy so that Clay could collect the semen, freeze it
and ship it to a customer in Texas. Shipping frozen horse
semen promised to add an increased revenue stream to the
ranch operation, or so Clay projected it would.
Nick Chance, middle son of the family that operated the
ranch, was on hand to help. A large-animal vet, Nick,
co-owned the Last Chance along with his older brother, Jack,
his younger brother, Gabe, and their mother, Sarah. Clay had
known all of them for ten years.
Theoretically, sperm collection was a simple task. Nick
would keep a firm grip on Bandit's lead rope as the
stallion mounted the dummy, and Clay would move in with a
collection tube. Instead, Bandit seemed determined to get to
the mare, and both men's yoked Western shirts were
stained dark with sweat.
Nick glanced around the small shed. "We need to get us
some air-conditioning in here."
"That's exactly what I—" The rest of
Clay's response was drowned out by another scream from
Bandit, right before he did exactly as he was supposed to
and mounted the dummy. Grasping the tube, a
twenty-five-pound piece of equipment designed to keep the
semen at an even temperature, Clay moved in for the crucial
part of the operation.
When Bandit was finished, both men stood back to let the
stallion rest on the dummy for a moment.
Nick glanced over at Clay. "Shall I offer him a
cigarette?"
"Very funny."
"I invited Jack to watch, but he declined."
"I'm not surprised." In fact, Clay would have
been amazed if Jack had shown up for Bandit's session.
Jack didn't much like the idea of collecting and
shipping frozen semen, but he recognized times had changed
and had agreed to let Clay put his animal science degree to
good use.
Still, Bandit was Jack's horse, and Jack thought the
collection process was completely undignified. Maybe so, but
Jack couldn't argue with the income it would generate.
Being in charge of this new operation meant Clay had an
important job at the ranch he loved so dearly, but it also
allowed him to give something back to the only real family
he'd ever had.
Orphaned at three, he'd been shuffled through a series
of foster homes until turning eighteen. Then he'd come
to work at the Last Chance, where Sarah and her husband,
Jonathan, had treated him more like one of their sons than a
hired hand. But he'd formed the strongest bond with
Emmett Sterling, ranch foreman and the closest thing to a
father Clay had ever had. Emmett had recognized that Clay
had a brain, and encouraged him to save for college.
Working while he attended school had meant taking six years
to complete a four-year program, but now he was back.
Jonathan Chance's death from a truck rollover almost two
years ago had shocked Clay and made him even more determined
to use his education to benefit the family.
Bandit slowly lifted his head as if he'd recovered
enough to dismount from the dummy.
"Guess we're about done here," Nick said.
"I'll take him back to his stall and then get Cookie
Dough."
"Thanks." Clay hoisted the canister to his shoulder
and left the shed. On his way to the tractor barn and the
incubator he'd set up there, he had to pass by the horse
barn, and he glanced around uneasily.
Emmett's daughter, Emily, had arrived late last night so
she could help celebrate her dad's sixtieth birthday
tomorrow. Her white BMW convertible—sporting a
California vanity plate that read SURFS UP—sat in the
circular drive, top down and tan leather upholstery exposed
to the sun. Well, that fit the impression Clay had of
her—spoiled and irresponsible.
He'd met her at her father's fiftieth birthday, soon
after he'd come to work at the ranch; but Clay
hadn't seen her since. She might have visited while he
was away at college, though she'd made it obvious ranch
life didn't suit her.
Emmett had sent her large chunks of his paycheck every month
when she was a minor, so the guy was always broke. After she
came of age, everyone expected Emmett to have more money. He
didn't, and eventually it had come out that he was still
writing sizable checks to his daughter.
Although Clay would never say so to Emmett, he— along
with most everyone at the ranch—resented the hell out
of the ungrateful little leech. When he'd first met
Emily, he'd done what any normal eighteen-year-old guy
would do when confronted with a gorgeous blonde. He'd
flirted with her.
She'd said in no uncertain terms that cowboys
weren't her style. The rejection had stung, but her
disdain for cowboys in general had to be even more hurtful
to her father. Clay had vowed to forget her hot little body
and continue about his business.
Unfortunately the image of her Daisy Dukes and low-cut
blouses had stuck with him, no matter how often he'd
tried to erase the memory. He could still close his eyes and
see her prancing around like she was in some beauty pageant.
With any luck she'd packed on some pounds in the past
ten years and wouldn't look like that anymore. With any
luck, he wouldn't have direct contact with her at all.
So much for luck. Here she came, long blond hair swinging as
she walked out of the horse barn with Emmett.
Clay swallowed. Sure enough, she'd put on a few
pounds—in all the right places. Her black scoop-necked
T-shirt had some designer name across the front and, to
Clay's way of thinking, the designer should've paid
Emily for the display space.
Her Daisy Dukes had been replaced by cuffed white shorts
that showed off a spectacular tan. She'd propped
oversize sunglasses on her head and now she pulled them down
over her eyes as she glanced in his direction.
Clay had no trouble picturing her wearing a bikini and
sipping an umbrella drink while she lounged by the pool in
her hometown of Santa Barbara. He imagined her smoothing
coconut-scented suntan oil over every inch of that
gorgeous…
Whoa. He'd better shut down that video right quick. No
way was he lusting after Emily Sterling. That was a mistake
on so many levels. For one thing, he didn't even
like her, and he prided himself on only getting
involved with likable women.
Emmett looked at him and nodded in approval. "Looks like
you got 'er done."
"We did." Clay dredged up a polite smile as he drew
closer. "I'm glad your daughter arrived okay."
He made out the letters on the front of her shirt. BEBE,
with an accent mark over the last E. Probably French for
babe. Appropriate.
"She showed up about eleven last night," Emmett
said. "I never thought I'd be grateful for cell
phones, but I sure am when she's on the road. Emily, do
you remember Clay Whitaker?"
"She probably doesn't." Clay adjusted the
collection tube, that was getting heavier by the second.
"That was a long time ago. Anyway, nice to see you
again, Emily. If you'll excuse me, I need to—"
"Do what?" She motioned to the metal tube balanced
on his shoulder and grinned. "That thing looks like a
rocket launcher."
"Um, it's not. Listen, I really have to—"
"At least tell me what it is, then."
"Semen collector," Emmett said helpfully.
"Really?" Emily took off her sunglasses and peered
at the tube. "So did you collect some semen just now?
"
"Yes, and I need to get it into the incubator."
"And then what?"
"Oh, it's a whole process," Emmett said.
"Clay studied how to do it when he was in college, and
now the Last Chance can ship frozen semen all over the
country. All over the world, if we want."
"Flying semen." A ripple in her voice and a glitter
in her green eyes suggested she was trying not to laugh.
"What a concept. That canister is pretty big. Is there
that much of it?"
Dear God. Clay couldn't have come up with a
worse topic of conversation if he'd tried all day.
"Not really. There's insulation material,
and…and…"
"The AV," Emmett said.
"What's an AV?"
Of course she'd ask.
"It's an artificial va—" Emmett stopped and
coughed, as if he'd finally realized this really
wasn't a fit subject to be discussing with his daughter,
who hadn't been raised on a ranch and wouldn't be
used to a matter-of-fact discussion of female anatomy.
Clay stepped into the breach. "Artificial vacuum,"
he said. "It's an artificial vacuum."
"Huh." Emily's brow furrowed. "I'm not
sure I understand. Something's either a vacuum or
it's not."
Emmett put his arm around her shoulders. "It's
complicated. And very technical. Anyway, we need to let Clay
get on with his job."
"Right." Emily flashed her even, white teeth and
winked at him before replacing her sunglasses. "I
don't want spoiled semen on my conscience. See you
later, Clay."
"You bet, Emily." He headed off, cursing under his
breath and trying to ignore his gut response to that smile.
If he didn't know better, he'd classify that wink as
flirting; but that couldn't be right. She'd told him
once that she was a city girl who had no intention of
getting mixed up with a shit-kicking cowboy, and he
wasn't about to make the same mistake twice. The
perception that she'd flirted with him just now was only
wishful thinking on his part.
Stupid thinking, too. How could he have sexual feelings for
a woman who continued to bleed her hardworking father for
money while sneering at that good man's lifestyle? A
woman like that shouldn't interest Clay in the least and
definitely shouldn't stir his animal instincts. Ah, but
she did. Damn it, she did.
Maybe she presented a challenge to his male ego and all he
really wanted to do was take her down a peg. He was far more
confident around women now than he had been ten years ago,
and he realized that they found him attractive. Could be
he'd like to prove to Miss Emily that a shit-kicking
cowboy could ring her chimes better than any city boy.
He wouldn't follow up on that urge, though. Emmett had
been like family. The guy was his idol. That meant Clay
wasn't going to mess with Emily. End of story.
"Clay Whitaker seems to have turned out okay." Emily
congratulated herself on sounding vaguely interested, when
inside a wild woman shouted
Take me, you bad boy! Take
me, now!
She watched Clay walk across the open area between the horse
barn and the tractor barn. A girl could get used to that
view—tight buns in faded jeans and shoulders broad
enough to easily support a large canister of horse semen.
Horse semen, of all things!
She was dying to know how that process worked. Biology had
been her favorite subject in high school, but her mother, a
buyer for Chico's, had steered her into fashion design.
Unfortunately, she had no talent for it.
Collecting horse semen—now that would be interesting.
Apparently it was a sweaty job. The back of Clay's shirt
clung to his sexy torso and the dark hair curling from under
his hat made him look as if he'd stuck his head beneath
a faucet. The guy was hot in more ways than one, and
pheromones had been coming off him in waves.
He must have had those same deep brown eyes when he was
eighteen; but, if so, they hadn't registered with her.
Today was a different story. Looking into his gorgeous eyes
had produced an effect on her libido that was off the
Richter scale. Either Clay had acquired a boatload of sexual
chemistry over the years, or she'd been a stupid
seventeen-year-old who hadn't recognized his potential.
She wondered if she'd been rude to him back then. At the
time she'd been full of herself and full of her
mother's prejudices against cowboys. If she had been
rude, she hoped he'd forgotten it by now. He probably
had, after not seeing her for so long.
"Clay's developed into a top hand." Emmett
studied her as if trying to guess what was going on in her
head.
"That's good to hear." She didn't want him
to figure out what she was thinking, either. "I know
you're
fond of him." In fact, she'd been a little jealous
over the years when he'd bragged about Clay, although
she'd never admit that to her dad. On the other hand,
knowing Emmett had Clay had eased her conscience about not
visiting more often.
"He's a good guy," Emmett said. "So, do you
still want that coffee?"
"What? Oh, right! Yes. Absolutely." At home
she'd developed a midmorning Starbucks habit, something
she'd confessed to Emmett during their tour of the barn
when she realized she was running low on energy. But the
encounter with Clay had boosted her spirits without the
benefit of caffeine. Still, coffee was always welcome. She
fell into step beside her father as they continued on to the
house.
"I don't know if I told you that Clay got his degree
in animal science this spring."
"I don't think you mentioned that." She knew he
wasn't comparing Clay to her, but still, she'd
dropped out of college because she couldn't see wasting
the money when she didn't know what she wanted to study.
Her mother kept pushing retail, preferably involving
fashion. Emily's heart wasn't in it, and finally
she'd told her mother so. She'd briefly considered
marine biology and had volunteered in the field, but that
hadn't felt quite right.
Her current receptionist job couldn't be called a career
decision, either. She sighed. "When I see somebody like
Clay, who has his act together, I feel like a slacker."
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