A Cowboy's Pride

by Pamela Britton

  “Grab a brush. Get to work. If you get thirsty, there’s an office upstairs with a fridge. I can grab you something to drink.”

  “What if the horse pushes me over?”

  “He’s not going to push you over.” She finished tying Radical to the rail. “That horse has seen more people in wheelchairs than a handicapped parking spot. Now get busy.”

  She didn’t glance back at him again, just busied herself with her own horse, removing shavings from his mane, picking his feet, checking to make sure there were no bumps or bruises from his night in the stall.

  “Done,” she heard him say.

  She was half tempted to tell him to go grab the saddle, but she wasn’t that cruel—and it would be cruel. She might pretend otherwise, but there was a limit to what he could do. Maybe one day he could balance the saddle on his lap while he navigated the ramp, but not today.

  She chirped the word great and went to get what he’d need.

  “I’m not riding in that armchair thing,” he said as she walked by.

  “You’ll ride in it if I tell you to.”

  “I want a regular saddle.” She heard him roll up behind her when she turned back, dust mixed with early morning sunlight to shroud his shape. With his arms resting on his wheels, he looked like a gunslinger, his gray eyes blazing as brightly as the sun behind him.

  “You’re not ready for a regular saddle.”

  “Then I guess I don’t ride.”

  He could really get his back up, she thought. But at least she wasn’t drooling all over him and blushing like a teenager. She almost argued the point, but decided, what the heck? He might not want to believe it, but he had more use of his legs than he thought. He really shouldn’t need the specialty saddle.

  “Fine.”

  She saw his eyes widen, saw him lean back in his chair as if she’d literally blown him away. Once again she found herself biting back a smile. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe this might be fun.

  She used a buckaroo saddle, one with a deep seat and a high cantle in the back. The horn was double the size of a regular saddle, too.

  More for him to grab on to.

  He didn’t complain. She finished quickly, Trent watching the whole time.

  “Go on.” She motioned toward the ramp. “Head on over. I’ll load him into the stocks.”

  He glared. She smiled again. Yup, this would be fun, although maybe not so much fun for him. He looked a little intimidated when he made it to the top of the ramp and faced the western saddle. No strap. Nothing to catch him if he made a wrong move. Frankly, she wondered if she shouldn’t go and get the other saddle—to hell with his pride.

  Oh, yeah, and Trent would like that about as much as a bad case of poison ivy.

  She heard herself say, “Careful,” even though she hadn’t meant to say anything.

  He must have taken the word as a challenge, because he leaned forward and pulled himself into the saddle in the blink of an eye. He’d swung his leg around and straddled the horse so smoothly he looked as though he’d been doing it for months.

  “Good job.”

  She tossed the reins at him. He caught them and, unlike yesterday, didn’t protest when she turned away. She didn’t mount her horse, though. Instead she led her horse toward the arena, the white wooden rail looking extrabright in the afternoon sunlight. She heard Trent follow. Good, she thought, opening the gate. They were lucky; their arena was state-of-the-art. There were even two identical chutes to the left of the gate, and an alleyway outside so they could load the cattle for roping, and a stripping chute to the back of the arena. All of it was for Cabe and Rana’s benefit when they practiced. Opposite the gate, on the far side, they’d built a shed. Inside was an assortment of pylons and barrels and...there it was. She dropped the reins, Radical standing patiently as he’d been trained to do, and Trent pulled up his own horse.

  “What the hell is that?” she heard him say.

  “It’s a soccer ball.”

  Only it wasn’t. Not really. The oversized ball was as big as a beanbag chair...maybe bigger, but it had the black-and-white hexagonal patches in the tradition of a soccer ball. Alana kicked the thing toward Trent. He straightened as if expecting his horse to spook. Baylor didn’t.

  “We’re going to play a little game.” She went to the shed, pulling out pylons this time. In a matter of minutes, she had goalposts set up at either end of the arena.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said.

  When she met his gaze, his expression was one of dismay mixed with horror.

  She threw the reins over her horse’s neck. “You’re a competitive individual, Trent. I’m betting that once I kick your booty a few times, you’ll get into the spirit of the game.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Nope.” She swung herself up, patting her horse as a reward for standing patiently, then she picked up the reins. “I’m your therapist.” She wiggled in the saddle. “And I won’t take it easy on you anymore. Now. Let’s say we make this a little more interesting.”

  He was sitting in the saddle pretty well for a man who claimed to have lost all feeling in his legs, she noticed. He hadn’t lost his balance once on their way to the arena. That was telling all on its own.

  “How about a little wager?”

  He peered at her from beneath the brim of his hat. “You’re going to bet against a man in a wheelchair.”

  “That’s just it.” She clucked her horse forward. “You’re not in a wheelchair. You have four good legs beneath you, so use them.”

  She had a feeling if he’d had a fly swatter he would have used it on her. She’d be nothing more than a flattened mass of blackness.

  “That’s the problem.” He lifted his reins. “I can’t control the four legs beneath me.”

  “You’ll learn.”

  She was being harsh. She knew that, just as she knew it was for his own good. Sometimes a therapist had to put on the mean-girl panties. This was one of those times.

  “Okay.” She turned her horse toward the ball. “There’s only one rule. No loping or cantering. Trot only. Goals are on either side of the arena, and either one of them counts. Winner gets to ask the loser for something.”

  “What something?”

  “Anything.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I would wish for your head to explode.”

  She turned back, startled into a laugh. “Maybe you’ll get your wish. Come on.”

  She kicked Radical into a fast trot. The horse headed straight for the ball. Trent was left behind. Alana caught a glimpse of his face when she rounded the other side of the ball and faced the goal about a hundred feet away. Outrage. Frustration, and then the expression she’d been hoping for.

  Determination.

  He took the reins and slapped his horse with them. Alana gasped, prepared to ride to his rescue, but any fear she had that his legs really were useless was banished the moment Baylor jerked forward and Trent clung to the saddle just fine.

  A sigh of relief rushed past her lips. And, okay, maybe he wasn’t the prettiest rider in the world. He was a long way from what he used to be, something that filled her with momentary sadness. He kept himself horse-bound by sheer force of will. His knuckles were white, they gripped the saddle horn so tightly. His upper body was hunched forward, too, his legs flapping a bit, sure, but not anywhere near as much as she would have expected from a true paraplegic.

  She closed he eyes in relief. Thank You, Lord.

  She let him get close enough to give him hope before clucking Radical forward so that the horse’s knees kicked the ball out of his way.

  “Ooh,” she groaned, their two horses brushing past each other. Baylor was a veteran soccer player, but the horse took care to keep Trent safe. “So close.”

  H
e somehow managed to let go of the horn long enough to pull on the reins. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to, because she could see the frustration in his eyes.

  “Tell you what,” she called as the ball dribbled to a stop a few feet away. “First person to hit five goals wins, and I’ll spot you a two-goal advantage.”

  “I don’t need an advantage.”

  “No?” She kicked her horse forward again, calling out over her shoulder, “Your loss.”

  Radical knew how the game was played, too, the horse hardly slowing down as he trotted up to the giant ball, one of his front legs striking the ball square in the middle and sending it flying. She didn’t look back to see how Trent was doing as she pulled her horse up, turning him and lining him up with the ball so that the next hit would send it sailing through the pylons. With a cluck and a kick the ball flew forward again.

  “Ooh! Score.”

  She turned around in time to see Trent trotting up behind her, looking like a monkey clinging to a dog’s back, but he was still on board. He wasn’t slowing down, either. No. The man headed straight for the ball on the other side of the goalpost.

  Yes!

  Just as she’d hoped. His competitive spirit had kicked in. And, honestly, he was poised to kick the ball right at her. Surprise held her immobile as Baylor smoothly faced the ball and then kicked it right toward her.

  “Hey,” she said. “I thought you said you couldn’t ride.”

  Was that a smile on his face? Okay, maybe it was a teeny-weeny one, but she would take anything at this point.

  She pointed Radical toward the ball. The race was on from that point forward. Baylor was a bigger horse with a bigger step. Trent caught up with her quickly, but she reached the ball first, Radical kicking the thing out of his way, but she didn’t get there first by much. Trent’s horse played the game all on its own so all Trent had to do was hang on. And he did, but she still scored the point before him, with Radical kicking the thing so hard it bounced off the fence and back toward the middle of the arena again.

  “Sure you don’t want an advantage?” She pulled Radical up.

  “No.”

  Wow. He was a tough nut to crack. “Okay, then. Three–zip.”

  And they were off again, but Trent had the advantage, and Baylor knew exactly what to do. The horse kicked the ball toward the other side of the arena in an explosive move that sent it straight toward the goal.

  “Good one,” she cried, trotting toward the far side of the arena. “Three to one.”

  She almost scored another goal, mostly because the ball bounced in her favor, but Trent was right on it. Alana was surprised to realize she was enjoying herself. She had no idea how he managed to balance atop Baylor so well, but somehow he did. Probably his years of riding bulls. He had way more muscle control than he thought, and he scored a goal to prove it.

  She scored the next goal, but Trent anticipated the ball’s bounce so that he was poised perfectly to capitalize on the ricochet, and Baylor hit the ball so that it bounced through the goals, hit the arena fence, then bounced back toward her.

  “Not fair.” She pretended to frown, but inside she did backflips. Good for him.

  “Four to four,” he called out, turning Baylor around. She realized he might just beat her to the ball if she didn’t get a move on.

  She turned Radical around. They both raced toward the ball. In seconds he was on her, the two of them neck and neck. Baylor edged ahead, but her own horse’s competitive nature kicked in, the animal extending the trot. He struck it first, the ball propelled forward by the force of Radical’s left leg. She glanced at Trent, nearly pulling her horse up when she spotted him slipping to the side. Instead of slowing down, Trent urged Baylor onward, and Alana wondered if she might actually lose the match. His lack of balance was his undoing. She saw him clutch at the reins; Baylor instantly slowed. She surged ahead. It was all over then. With a mighty push, the ball went flying toward the pylons.

  “Hah!” She lifted her hands in victory. “Nothing but net.”

  “You got lucky.”

  “Yes, I did.” She pointed. “And you didn’t fall off.”

  “Because bull riding has taught me to hang on with my hands.”

  And how to balance with his still-working thighs, but she had seen his calves clench the side of the horse, too. Sure, it might be related to the movement of the horse, but what if it wasn’t? What if she really did have more to work with than Trent let on?

  “You owe me a favor.”

  To give him credit, he didn’t balk. He’d pulled up alongside her, straightening in the saddle once he’d stopped, wincing a bit as he threw his shoulders back.

  “What could you possible want from me?”

  The unspoken words were someone who’s crippled and useless.

  “I want you to give Rana lessons.”

  He frowned, clearly perplexed. “Lessons?”

  “She’s a breakaway roper. One of the best in the county. I’d like you to help her improve.”

  He immediately shook his head. “Impossible. I would need to ride alongside of her.” He leaned forward, as if he feared she might miss his next words. “Run alongside of her. I could barely hang on at a trot.”

  “Bull. You can coach her from the sidelines.”

  “That’s a half-ass way of doing it.” Sunlight hit his face head-on, illuminating the dent in his square chin and dazzling eyes. He sat his horse just like any other cowboy, and Alana was reminded of the cover photo she’d seen of him once upon a time, on some rodeo magazine, the man photographed just as he was now. Square in the saddle, one hand resting on the horn, the other holding the reins.

  Handsome.

  “Look, maybe you don’t think it’s a big deal, but to her it will be the most amazing experience of her life. She idolizes you, Trent. Didn’t you notice that yesterday? She would do anything for you. I’m hoping you’ll do something for her.”

  His eyes dimmed a bit, Alana spotting something that might just be shame.

  “She competes?” he asked.

  “Every chance she gets. She’s going to make it to the High School Rodeo Finals, or at least that’s the plan. I’m hoping you could help her get there.”

  “I don’t know what you think I can do.”

  She rode up to him, her leg brushing against his, though he didn’t seem to notice. She did, though. She felt the connection all the way to her bones.

  “You’re one of the world’s best cowboys. You are, Trent,” she insisted when she noticed the doubt on his face. “You might be a little down-and-out right now, but you still have it all right here.” She pointed to her head. “There’s a wealth of information up there just waiting to be shared. Please.” She leaned forward, rested a hand on his thigh. “Stop thinking of yourself as useless. You aren’t. You are a vibrant, talented, healthy male.”

  Boy, was he ever male. She could smell the sweat on him, the combination of man and horse causing her to pull back some.

  “She’s been having trouble lately, and we can’t figure it out. All it takes is one piece of advice, just one thing none of us might have thought of that you would spot right off the bat. Maybe that her horse is sore. Maybe she’s jerking on the reins. Maybe her horse isn’t running straight. I don’t know. My point is we need your eyes, and last I checked, those worked just fine.”

  He had the good grace to look ashamed. He turned away for a moment, his face in profile, and she could tell her words had gotten through to him. Finally. Now, if she could just forget about how he smelled, things would be even better.

  “What time do you want to do this?”

  She almost lifted her hands in victory again. Hallelujah and praise the Lord.

  “How about after dinner? That gives you the rest of the day to relax.”

 
; “Fine.”

  She leaned toward him again, and though she told herself not to do it, though she knew it was a terribly forward thing to do, she couldn’t seem to stop from brushing his cheek with her lips. He smelled so good, she hovered for a moment, simply absorbing the scent of him.

  What are you doing? You’re his therapist. For goodness’ sake, Alana, don’t make this personal.

  She centered herself in the saddle again, her cheeks ablaze.

  “I, um...aah. Thanks, Trent. This will mean a lot to her. Maybe you’re no longer the hero of the rodeo circuit, but you can be a hero to someone like Rana.”

  His eyes had widened from her kiss. She looked away, even more embarrassed.

  “Let’s get you off that horse,” she said before she did something else impulsive, like take his hand and squeeze it.

  “Yeah, let’s.”

  Chapter Nine

  Trent didn’t want to go...but he had to.

  He knew that, had lectured himself the whole way to the stables. So what if she’d kissed him? She hadn’t meant anything by it. He knew that. Had been able to tell by the look on her face that she didn’t think of him that way.

  What way?

  He felt his cheeks heat. The way he wanted her to think of him. The way he’d fantasized—as a man, one she found attractive and desirable.

  The man he used to be.

  “Where do you want me?” Trent asked as he slowly rolled to a stop near the entrance of the barn. Trent and Alana stood near a red roan horse that Rana was in the middle of saddling.

  “Wherever you want,” Alana said with a smile.

  “Trent,” Cabe said, nodding.

  “Cabe.” He met Alana’s gaze again. “I’ll be out by the arena.”

  He wheeled himself away before she could say another word. It was unreal what her kiss had done to him. And it’d just been a kiss on the cheek. Like dangling off a high-voltage wire, that’s what it was like. Hair on end. Skin charged by energy. All because she’d pressed her lips against him.

  Damn it.

  He made it to the arena without embarrassing himself, his gaze scanning for a place to watch. No ramp for a handicapped person. No platform for spectators. Great. If he wheeled himself into the middle of arena, he’d tip over.