A Royal Fortune. Judy DuarteЧитать онлайн книгу.
in a shared moment—probably the only thing they really had in common. Then Jensen withdrew his pocket watch—a beautiful gold-embossed piece. She expected him to open it and check the time, yet he merely turned it over a time or two, then slipped it back into his pocket.
“Perhaps your grandmother is just enjoying a little camaraderie with Mr. Murdock and they’ve merely struck up a friendship of sorts.”
“You may be right. And if that’s all it is, I guess I shouldn’t worry. But Elmer always has some fool wager going on. And I’m afraid she’ll get hurt—emotionally, physically or even financially. Like I said, no good can possibly come from it.”
Jensen stiffened. “If the man has a gambling problem, I can certainly see your concern.”
“Well, it’s not as though he’s mortgaged his house or ran his credit into the ground. I think it’s all penny-ante stuff. But he’d wager a nickel or a postage stamp or the button off his shirt, just to make things competitive. And Gram is so honest and straitlaced, she wouldn’t take a shortcut home.”
Jensen placed his index finger under Amber’s chin in a move so sweet, so tender, that it should have been comforting—and it was—yet it stirred something in her blood, too. Something warm and sparkly.
“You’re a good-hearted woman, Amber Rogers.”
And...
She waited for what seemed to be the longest time for him to complete the thought—or maybe the connection he’d just made. But he did neither.
Doggone it.
But why would he? She and Jensen Fortune Chesterfield weren’t any better suited than Helen Rogers and Elmer Murdock. And she was a fool to even let her thoughts drift in that direction. Because, like Gram and her silly crush, no good could come of it.
* * *
On the last day in December, while Quinn spent the afternoon at home with Amelia, Jensen took the opportunity to go for another ride on Trail Blazer.
He was still getting used to the stockier quarter horse breed and the Western tack. And while he was an exceptional horseman, he was adapting slowly.
As he cantered along on the spirited gelding, he pondered the possibility of purchasing a saddle of his own to keep in his brother-in-law’s stable. In spite of his affinity for cowboy movies, he still preferred the English equestrian style for his own use.
He hadn’t anticipated doing much riding at all when he’d flown to Texas for his sister’s due date. But given the frequency of weddings and births taking place in America, he’d come to the realization that he would be most likely spending more time here in Horseback Hollow than he’d ever expected, so he didn’t see it as a foolish investment.
After he rounded a large oak tree, he spotted a lone rider galloping toward him. He recognized the long blond hair flowing beneath the rim of the cowboy hat and watched as the cowgirl urged her mount forward.
Amber Rogers was quite the horsewoman, and Jensen pulled back on his reins, slowing so that he could fully enjoy the sight of her.
“Good morning,” she said, as she pulled her horse alongside his.
“Hello, there. I thought I was still on Drummond land, but I must have crossed over onto your property line.”
“Actually, this is neither. The county owns this area. It’s full of riding trails, and if you follow this path far enough, you’ll end up at the Hollow Springs Swimming Hole.”
“A real swimming hole? Like that old movie with Marcia Mae Jones?”
At her confused look, he wondered whether Americans ever watched their own classic Western films.
But his excitement at seeing a true testament to the Wild West frontier couldn’t be diminished.
“I would love to see it,” he said. “How much farther do I need to ride?”
“About two miles. Come on.” She turned her horse toward the narrow trail. “I’ll take you up there.”
He followed her slow pace and tried to keep his eyes on the trail and not her shapely bum. Thank goodness she wasn’t riding at a quicker speed, otherwise he’d be completely useless ogling her graceful movements in the saddle.
When the trail widened and he pulled up alongside her, she said, “I didn’t realize you were such an avid rider.”
“Did you already have set expectations of me?”
“I really didn’t know what to expect. The gossip magazines show you walking the red carpet and attending fabulous parties all over Europe. Of course, you’re rarely smiling in those pictures, so I didn’t know whether you disliked the photographers or if you’re just one of those stoic Brits who doesn’t know how to cut loose.”
Did he really come across as that stuffy? Sure, he didn’t always fancy the parties and the social commitments that came along with being a Fortune Chesterfield. But he smiled. Occasionally.
At least, he used to. Before his father’s death. Yet, he didn’t think mentioning this served any purpose. At the very least, it would put a damper on the present mood.
“Well, even the Brits know how to have fun,” he said.
“And what, Mr. Jensen Fortune Chesterfield, do you do for fun?”
“I play polo. I attend the symphony. And I’m thinking about taking flying lessons.” There he went with another reminder of his father. But instead of maintaining that painful topic, he changed the subject. “What do you do in your leisure time, Miss Amber Rogers—no relation to either Roy or to Rod?”
“I suppose you could say that I train and ride horses.”
“From what I read online, you were one of the best barrel racers last year on the pro circuit.”
“Oh, come now, you of all people know you shouldn’t believe every news story you read.” A flush of pink stole up her cheeks.
Was she embarrassed by her achievements? Or humbled by them? The tabloids had certainly exaggerated or downright lied about the things they often reported. But he assumed what he’d read about her was true.
“So then you haven’t won several national titles?” he asked, wanting to hear more about her rodeo life.
“Not national titles. Just a few state ones. I was on track to go to the nationals in Las Vegas, but midseason, Pop passed away, and I left rodeoing to come back to the ranch and help Gram run things.” Her eyes dimmed somewhat and took on a wistful gaze into the distance.
So he’d been right. She was being modest. From all accounts he’d read, she’d done very well in a short period of time and showed enough promise that the papers had expected her winning streak to continue. But she gave it all up rather quickly, and Jensen was learning the reason.
“Your grandparents raised you?” he asked.
“I was actually born in Lubbock, but my father died when I was five, and my mother and I moved in with his parents, Gram and Pop, after the funeral. Pop was a retired rodeo cowboy who bred and trained cutting horses. He was the one who trained me and encouraged me to follow my dream.”
It sounded similar to Jensen’s own father, who had encouraged him to play polo rather than follow family tradition and join the Royal Air Force. In fact, he and his father had been in the process of purchasing a polo farm and investing in a couple of prize mares from Argentina when Sir Simon died four years ago, taking some of Jensen’s dreams along with him.
“So you’ve put your future on hold to help run the family business,” he said.
“Pretty much. Besides the rodeo, I’ve never had much of a plan for my life. I mean, it’s not like Horseback Hollow is jumping with opportunities for barrel-racing rodeo queens. I always figured I’d end up back on the Broken R someday anyway, working with horses.