Free The Glass Shoe by Kay Hooper Page A

Ryder. Still, she had to protest. "But he told me he wanted to nail the deal down before the competition could... could sneak in and outbid him."
    "Logical. But the competition's there, honey. He's used to fighting for what he wants. He isn't the kind of man who likes winning for its own sake."
    "Damn," she murmured.
    "I just wanted to warn you."
    "All right. Thanks, Uncle Edward. I'll get through it somehow."
    "Good luck."
    Amanda cradled the phone, staring at it without seeing it. How on earth was she going to "get through" this situation and emerge intact?
    "Amanda?"
    She forced the jumbled thoughts into the back of her mind. "Morning, Penny."
    "Morning. Doug just came up from the corral to say your horse was ready. But so is breakfast. Aren't you hungry? You missed supper last night."
    Amanda shrugged. "I don't have much of an appetite. Penny... could you do me a favor?"
    "Sure. Name it."
    "You're the only one here besides me who knows that Edward Wilderman owns this place; could you keep it to yourself for a while? There's a business deal in the offing."
    The housekeeper nodded incuriously. "Okay. Nemo's in the kitchen eating his breakfast, so you'd better slip out while he's distracted. It looks like he's adopted you, and he doesn't get along too well with the horses. Look, don't ride out too far or be gone too long. I just heard a weather bulletin and there's a storm coming in."
    That, Amanda reflected, was all she needed. "I'll be out only an hour or so."
    "I'll keep your breakfast warm."
    "You don't have to—"
    Penny cut her off with a dismissing gesture. "It's no trouble. Besides, if you start living on your nerves, we'll all be in trouble. From the looks of things, you're going to need your strength."
    Amanda was left to ponder that as Penny disappeared back down the hallway to the kitchen. She wasn't sure if the housekeeper had meant the problems of guests in a house under renovation, or if she had noticed other problems.
    The sound of a door closing upstairs sent Amanda quickly out of the house. It was quite definitely cold outside, the sun just rising on a clouded horizon, and she zipped up her quilted jacket and pulled on warm gloves as she made her way down to the corral.
    "Morning, Amanda," Doug called, emerging from the stock barn as she approached. He met her and, after a glance around to make certain they wouldn't be overheard by the few men who were doing the early morning feeding and watering of the stock, said, "Edward told me you might be working on this place, so I brought Whiskey up from Texas."
    "Oh, thanks, Doug." She felt instantly more cheerful, and smiled at the middle-aged foreman.
    Doug Chandler oversaw all the Wilderman ranching concerns, handpicking men and stock, then remaining at each place until it was established and he could safely leave someone else in charge. He knew Amanda well, since she spent several weeks each year on the Texas ranch.
    He nodded toward the big, heavily muscled quarter horse tied to the corral's top rail. "He's ready for you. But watch him. He's still sulking. I hauled him up with some other stock, and you know how he hates road travel."
    Amanda laughed. "Yes, I know. I shouldn't be out more than an hour or so."
    "Okay." He waved and headed back for the barn.
    She went over to the big sorrel, careful to approach his head. Whiskey was a definite handful with a low tolerance for people—and just about everything else. As a young stallion he'd been wildly savage, and though gelding had left him relatively manageable, he still retained his uncertain temper and his stubborn resistance to authority. He was ten years old now, and Doug had often sworn that if he hadn't been the best cowhorse in Texas, somebody would have taken a shotgun to him years ago.
    Amanda liked the horse because he kept her on her toes. He was apt to kick or bite, and had a number of other bad habits calculated to unnerve a rider. But he tolerated her more than most people, so the bite he aimed at