She’d be hopping mad. And she wouldn’t speak to him the rest of the day. That would probably be for the best. He could admit he hadn’t been looking forward to the dance and watching her with Hance and the rest of the men in town who’d be lining up to take a turn with her.

Maybe another argument with her would do him good and stamp out the interest that lingered even after doing his best to treat her as a friend and nothing more. Over the past week during the evenings he’d been home, they’d had a good-natured shooting contest, gone fishing, and trapped a couple of pesky raccoons. He loved that Ivy could do just about anything and make the experience interesting and enjoyable.

Yet somehow, all of the interacting had only made him want to be around her more. She was still just as easy to talk to as she’d always been, and he’d found himself opening up to her about his time in Chicago as much as he could, about missing his mother, and about the continued difficulty he had with his dad’s drunkenness.

It had gotten harder and harder as the week went on not to tell her everything about his job for Pinkerton, letting her believe instead that he worked with Dylan in the police department.

He hated the duplicity and feared that if he kept up the friendship, he would end up revealing the real reason he was in South Park. And that would be disastrous for both of them.

Yes, an argument was in order. All the more reason to join in the race.

Chapter
12

Ivy was gonna blister Jericho’s hide once she got a hold of him.

The whistles and cheers escalated as his horses thundered toward the finish line. Straddling the two, his strong, lean body radiated with determination. She’d always loved watching him race Roman-style. He made it seem effortless—riding as smoothly as if he’d been sitting in the saddle instead of standing and spanning two mounts.

But she knew from personal experience just how difficult the race was, keeping the bouncing rhythm of both horses, drawing them close enough together, maintaining a grip with each foot, holding two sets of reins, and guiding each creature separately while thinking on everything else.

She’d fallen a time or two in her early days, almost been trampled, nearly broken bones, and gotten plenty of bruises. The risk of injury was high. The possibility of death was ever present.

One of Jericho’s feet slipped, and her heart leapt into her throat. In the next instant, he righted himself, as self-assured as usual. With his loose grip on the reins, he shifted and gave more lean into the horse on his left, which was another good move.