Summer Nights (Fool's Gold #8)

Why couldn’t she have been the cardigan-wearing boring stereotypical librarian he’d been expecting? Or maybe librarians weren’t like that at all. Maybe they were all wild, like Annabelle, and the cardigan thing was a giant joke they played on a world too self-involved to see the truth. Either way, he was lost. Lost in a pair of green eyes and a sexy smile that hit him like a fist to the gut. Only it wasn’t a fist and the parts of him responding weren’t exactly his gut.

He wanted to say no, but he couldn’t. Not only because the bookmobile was a good cause but because his mother would give him a look that told him how he’d disappointed her. Despite crossing thirty a few years ago, he couldn’t stand that look.

“I’m a tough, macho guy,” he growled, then held in a groan as he realized he’d spoken out loud.

Annabelle raised her eyebrows, then stepped back. “I’m, ah, sure that’s true. Big horse man.”

He swore under his breath.

Before he could figure out how to extricate himself from the conversation and somehow recover what was left of his dignity, he heard a loud neigh from one of the corrals. He turned and saw the white stallion standing by the gate, his dark gaze fixed on Annabelle.

She turned in the direction of the sound. “Oh, wow. That horse is beautiful. What’s her name?”

“His. Khatar. He’s a stallion. Arabian.”

And a sonofabitch, Shane thought. The kind of horse who wanted to make sure everyone knew he was in charge. Khatar’s previous owner had been too aggressive, trying to break the horse’s spirit. Now Shane had to fix the mistake, which was turning out to be a challenge. But he would do it—he had to. He had way too much money riding on the physically perfect animal.

He turned back to Annabelle. Even in her four-inch heels, she barely came past his shoulder. He figured he could get her on one of his calmer geldings and have her riding in a week or two. As to the dancing, he would deal with that later. When he could speak in full sentences.

“When do you want to start?” he asked, impressed he was able to string the words together.

She turned back to him and smiled. “How about tomorrow?”

“Sure.” The sooner they started, the sooner they would be finished. Better for both of them to get her out of his life. She could go on tormenting other men and he could stop acting like an idiot. It was close enough for him to call it a win.

CHAPTER TWO

ANNABELLE DIDN’T COMPLETELY understand the science of growing fruit. Not only had she been raised in a city, her ability to grow anything was hampered by having what she cheerfully referred to as the black thumb of death. If she got too close to a plant, it visibly recoiled. If she dared to take one home with her, the poor thing withered and died within a couple of weeks. She’d tried watering, feeding, sunlight and playing classical music. She’d read books on the subject. Nothing worked. It had gotten to the point where the Plants for the Planet, a small local nursery in town, refused to sell her anything except cut flowers. Something she tried not to take personally. So the agricultural cycle of life eluded her.

What she did know was that fruit that grew on trees matured later than fruit that grew on vines, or bushes. That strawberries arrived first and that cherries, which grew on trees and therefore should have been later in the summer, were available by mid-June. She also knew that several families spent their summers living in small trailers by the vineyards and orchards. They worked the various crops and after the grapes were picked in late September and early October, they moved on.

Annabelle drove up to the circle of trailers and parked. Before she’d even opened her door, children spilled out of the trailers, jumped off swings and raced from the grove of trees shading the area. They circled her car, laughing, pulling open her door and urging her out.

“Did you bring them? Did you bring them?”

Annabelle stood and put her hands on her hips. “Bring what? Did you ask me for something?”

The children, ranging in ages from maybe four to eleven or twelve, smiled eagerly at her. One little boy darted behind her and pulled the latch that opened her trunk. Immediately the children hurried over and began searching through the bins of books she’d brought.

“It’s here.”

“That one’s mine.”

“The second and third book in the series? Sweet!”

By the time the kids had found their requested books and disappeared to begin the magic of getting lost in a story, the mothers had appeared, most carrying infants or toddlers in their arms.

Annabelle greeted the women she knew and was introduced to a few she hadn’t met yet. Maria, a slight woman in her early forties, leaned heavily on her cane as she gave Annabelle a welcoming hug.

“The children were watching the clock all morning,” she said, leading the way to a small outdoor table by the largest trailer. Maria’s husband managed the group of workers and spoke for them when dealing with the local farmers. Maria acted as unofficial “den mother” for the younger women.

“I’m glad,” Annabelle said, settling in one of the folding chairs. “When I was their age, summer was all about reading.”