He shaded his eyes with his hand as he lifted his face to me. “That looked good from back there. Is he still giving you problems with that last fence?”
I reined Bentley to a halt. “He was but I think we finally chased away the goblins, the ones only visible to a horse’s eye. We’re going to take a trail ride to cool down.”
The buzz of motorcycles carried our attention, horse included, to the neighboring property. Dad huffed in irritation. “Just let me know if those bikes are a bother, and I’ll make a call to my friend on the city council.”
“No, they’re only out there on the weekends and in the evenings.” I pointed to Bentley’s pricked up ears. “Besides, it’s good for him. Exposure therapy, I like to call it. He’s way too sensitive to sounds. If I get back into showing, I don’t want to have to worry that a spectator’s cell phone buzz is going to send me shooting into the air like an astronaut without a rocket.”
Dad smiled. He was one of those men who was aging so gracefully Mom teased him that he looked even better now than on their wedding day. I had to agree he had the whole Clooney thing going on where each gray hair and wrinkle just made him that much more appealing. Across the way, the rider hollered, “Whooee” as he jetted off the lip of the ramp. He flew high in the air, tilting the bike so that it was nearly parallel with the ground before righting it and landing solidly on two wheels again.
“Sure wish the investor had done something useful with that property. Certainly didn’t expect it to be rented out to a bunch of hooligans on motorcycles.”
It was my turn to smile. I raised my fist and put on my crotchety old man impression. “Those darn hooligans.”
He nodded. “Yeah, yeah, Kensie, you’ve made your point. I’m an old curmudgeon, and I know it.”
“You wouldn’t be if you didn’t use words like hooligans and curmudgeon. But you’re a very cute curmudgeon. Now I better take this boy out on the trail. Oh, and I’ll try to stay out of any shenanigans.”
“Jiminy Cricket, you dog gone better.” Dad opened the gate.
I walked Bentley out.
“How is your knee, Kensie? You shouldn’t be pushing it if it’s still bothering you.”
“I walk like an old hunched over woman in the morning, but once I get moving, it feels pretty good.” I looked down at him and found the concerned, creased gray brow I’d anticipated. “Don’t worry, Dad, I’m not going to start competing again until I’m completely sound.”
He laughed. “I know you spend enough time in the saddle to get confused, but I don’t want my daughter to be sound. I want her to be healthy and safe and not heading for a middle-aged life plagued with arthritis and joint pains.” He rubbed his back. “Trust me, it’s not fun.”
I shook my head. “Yep, climbing in and out of those rowdy golf carts and lifting up those high-ball glasses can be pretty hazardous.” Aside from a short stint of time when I was thirteen and I knew absolutely everything, I couldn’t remember a time when I didn’t get along well with my dad. Mom was a different story, but the older I got, the more I learned to accept her quirks. And she mine. “Well, we’re going to head out. I’ll be up at the house to get back to work in an hour.” After college, I’d gone straight into working for the Modante Winery. I’d always looked forward to being a part of the business, and my accounting degree had been a perfect match.
“All right, see you in a bit.” Dad turned but then stopped and tapped his head. “Wait, I knew I came out here for a reason. Jeez, senility, not a pretty thing. Anyhow, a dozen red roses came for you. Think it’s that motorcycle hot head, Harkin.” His characteristic eye roll followed the name.
“No wonder it slipped from your head. You conveniently like to forget he exists.”
“Not true. I just think Keith is a better match for you. He’s already a junior partner at the law firm.”
“At his dad’s law firm,” I interjected. “Besides, Nate Harkin makes a lot more money racing motorcycles than Keith makes sitting behind his massive mahogany desk. Keith’s a nice guy, but I glaze over when he starts talking. He doesn’t make me laugh. He doesn’t make me feel anything.” I thought about the last few times I’d been with Nate. He’d made me feel small and crappy and I’d just about ended it. The roses were obviously an apology attempt. “Unfortunately, Nate isn’t scoring too many points lately either. Sometimes I think I’ll never be happy with anyone, Dad. And the weird thing is, I’m all right with that. I think.”
“I blame myself, Kensie,” Dad said in a completely serious tone. “I’m the male model in your life. So you’ve had to set the bar very high.”
I smiled. “Yes, that is the problem. Actually, that statement is not all that far off the mark. Mom was lucky the day you wandered into her designer shoe path. I just wish someone perfect would wander into mine. And I’m not asking for much, but Prince Charming would be a good start.” I lifted my foot away from Bentley’s side. “And instead of designer high heels, he’d have to be all right with poop covered riding boots.”
Dad’s mouth curled up into a hopeful smile. “What about Mark Levi’s son, Tyler, admittedly he’s no Prince Charming, but—”
“Dad, stop playing matchmaker and stick to what you do best—winemaking and keeping Mom happy.” I blew him a kiss and turned Bentley toward the trail.
Chapter 3
Cole
A bored Denver had walked back into the house long before deciding who’d caught the most air. The sun was bearing down pretty good, and I was about ready to call it a day too. I dropped my goggles around my neck and yanked off my helmet. I ran my fingers through my hair. It stood straight up with sweat.
Rodeo rode up next to me and pulled his helmet off too. He had to talk loudly over the stuttering bike motors. “I’ll race you around the perimeter of the property, along the dried riverbed and back to the garage.”
I looked down at the helmet in my hand. “Can’t put this back on. Think my head is swelling from the heat.”
“Leave the helmets. We’ll take it easy.”
“Right. You don’t know how to take it easy, Rodeo, but I’m game.” We rolled over to the wall and set down our helmets. Then we lined our front tires up. The property ended about three acres out. The landscape beyond the border was choked with tall weeds and spindly shrubs, the only plants in nature that could survive a drought. A shallow ravine that occasionally filled with water during one of the rare rainstorms neatly split my dad’s property off from the Modante vineyard. I was sure they hadn’t appreciated that the property next door had remained vacant, ugly and dry, like a neglected desert, for years.
Rodeo looked at me through his dusty goggles and nodded. I grabbed some throttle and took off. I wasn’t in the mood for massive brain trauma, and it seemed Rodeo felt just as naked without his helmet. The race idea quickly faded. It was no fun racing unless you could go balls out, full throttle, and since we weren’t on the track, it was hard to know when you’d come upon an unexpected obstacle.
I slowed down first and even Rodeo, who was rarely slowed by the worry of injury, dropped down to cruising speed.
Rolling along the back side of the property, you could catch more of the Pacific Ocean breeze, a constant source of relief in an otherwise hot place. The beach was about a twenty minute drive, and during the triple digits of summer, Rodeo, Denver and I had gone down to the coast to body surf in the evenings after work. My dad had always planned to build an elaborate estate complete with mansion and pool on the property, but since it’d never happened, we had to rely on the beach to cool off after a long, broiling day on the work site.
October brought with it the promise of less heat, and I looked forward to cooler weather, both on the construction site and at play. Motorcycle gear kept you safer, but it also made riding in the heat hard.