Second Hope

by J. B. McDonald

  Emotions confused, she turned and headed toward the main barn. Chip’s bandages needed to be changed and he needed to be lunged at a trot to let the tendon start flexing out. Fathom’s hoof needed to be flushed and re-wrapped, Harley’s forelegs checked to see if the bowing was any better for the poultices they’d tried, and Daniel’s legs re-splinted to try and get the bone to grow straight. For that she’d need Shumway’s help. The foal didn’t appreciate their efforts to keep him from being crippled. Neither did his mother.

  Something metal banged against something else metal, and various equines started whinnying. She’d forgotten about lunch. Wincing, Nat hurried to help Shumway fill and disperse buckets.

  Cole didn’t finish with various jobs until nine that night, and his had been the easy work. Nat and Shumway were still out with the horses, though Nat had said they’d probably only be another hour. He could see the lights glowing from the indoor arena, and make out the occasional shape passing by the big windows.

  Aaron and Beth had remained at the vet for the colic surgery, calling to give them updates periodically. The last call had been to say that Buddha had gotten through it just fine. There had been an intestinal twist, too far up the tract for Dr. Reeds to have felt it by palpation. They’d removed eight feet of gut, snipped it out and sewn the ends back together, and wanted to keep him for twenty-four hours under surveillance.

  The air around the ranch had been one of quiet relief that he was, so far, all right.

  Cole stepped into the shower gratefully, washing away dirt and sweat and horse hair caught in uncomfortable places. There were shavings between his toes—and how that happened he’d never know, but it always did—and his skin was itchy with spray-on sunscreen. Water sluiced it off, and a good scrub made him feel something close to clean again, even if it did leave his shoulder throbbing. Most likely, though, his shoulder would have been throbbing anyway. He doubted handling horses was what the doctor had had in mind when he’d said rest.

  But most of the horses had been very well behaved. Kahaia had, true to Nat’s word, been a handful. She’d spent half the time prancing sideways rather than walking quietly, despite Cole’s best efforts to distract and calm her. Thankfully, whoever had broken her to lead had done a good job. While she pranced on the end of the line, and even occasionally kicked out in her enthusiasm, she didn’t pull on him. It had saved his injured arm, since he’d only needed one hand to lead her.

  She’d left the pulling to Hassel, a full grown Hanoverian who’d nearly yanked Cole off his feet on the way to the hotwalker. At eighteen hands—taller at the withers than Cole’s six feet—and built of bone and muscle, the dressage horse hadn’t needed to do much to get Cole swinging. While he hadn’t been leading the beast with his injured arm, when something yanked you that hard it tugged on every bone and muscle in your body. His shoulder had hurt for the rest of the day.

  A hot shower helped, and the pain medication he took afterward helped even more. A glance at the clock told him it was nine thirty, and headlights coming up the drive announced the return of Aaron and Beth. He resisted the urge to go talk to them, get the latest news and details, knowing that he’d hear about it sooner or later and he already had the important facts.

  Instead, he focused on digging up food for himself and Nat. Scrambled eggs and toast wasn’t much of a meal, but it was filling and easy. He diced tomatoes and tossed those in, too, figuring it added a little more flavor.

  Nat walked in then, trailed by the other three hands. They all looked even more exhausted than Cole felt, shoulders slumped, streaked with dust and sweat, tracking shavings into the house. Not even Nat stopped to pull off her shoes, just collapsed on one of the barstools.

  Wordlessly, Cole cracked the rest of the dozen eggs and dropped those into the pan, pulling out the loaf of bread and stuffing four more pieces into the toaster when the first four popped.

  “They figure if he’d lost much more intestine he wouldn’t have been savable,” Beth muttered, slouching onto another barstool and leaning heavily on the counter. “They had some trouble getting to all of it as it was.”

  “Any idea what caused the twist?” Cole watched the four exhausted figures litter themselves on stools—the closest seats they could get to.

  Beth’s eyes flicked up to him, though her head, propped on her hand, didn’t move. “Gas.”

  “Jesus.” Cole flinched, looking back down at the sizzling eggs. Any one of their horses could have that problem; it was always a little terrifying to realize that at any moment, your pet and companion could be brought down by something so simple.

  They all sat in silence, staring at nothing, too tired for conversation. When the toast popped Cole pulled it out and piled the slices on a plate, ladling up eggs and plunking them down alongside. He found several forks and put them out, then put four more slices of bread into the toaster and pushed the lever down again.

  The people at the bar stared for a long moment before Aaron seemed to grasp the concept and picked up a slice of bread, piling eggs on top and taking a big bite. The tomato Cole had diced was almost lost in the mass of yellow, but he didn’t have the energy to dice another.

  “Thanks, man,” Aaron mumbled around a mouthful of food.

  “No problem.”

  The eggs popped and sizzled. The oak tree out back rustled with the faint breeze. Wind chimes sang shyly, there and gone again. Beth picked up a piece of bread and dabbed eggs on top, eating idly, her thoughts elsewhere.

  With a deep breath Nat roused, scrubbing a hand over her head and loosening her braid. Hair frizzed out from it, masking the careful twining of locks in a cloud of dust-coated black. “I’m going to go shower,” she said at last, pushing away from the bar and sliding unsteadily to her feet. “Save me some food.”

  There were murmurs of assent, then crunching of toast as someone chewed. The new slices popped, startlingly loud. Cole put them aside and didn’t bother putting more bread in. It looked like they’d all reached the point of exhaustion where they weren’t even hungry, bodies too weary to digest. When the eggs were cooked he slid the last of them onto the plate, then piled some onto a piece of bread and ate methodically.

  “I’m gonna go crash for the night.” Beth rose, rubbing the heel of her hand against her temple. Shumway reached out to brush his fingertips between her shoulder blades, silent support even as exhausted as he was.

  “Good idea,” Aaron murmured, and stood as well. “Thanks for dinner, Cole.”

  Cole nodded, watching as Beth and Aaron left. Shumway silently piled two more pieces of toast with scrambled eggs, balancing them carefully on one large hand, and followed the others out the door.

  It wasn’t long before Nat emerged from the back rooms in boxer shorts and an oversized T-shirt. Cole had shifted everything to the couch and coffee table, figuring it was a shorter distance to walk from the shower, and more comfortable to sit there than at the bar. Ranch work was never easy, and it was harder when you were down three hands and worried about a sick horse. He was halfway surprised any of them were as functional as they had been. He’d been known to crash into bed without bothering with food or a shower after a day that had gone wrong in every way possible, too tired to even care that he itched from dried sweat.

  “How’re you holding up?” He watched Nat settle gingerly into the corner of the couch, folding long legs underneath herself.

  “I’ll manage.”

  He offered her a slice of egg-covered toast, guessing that left to her own devices getting food might be deemed too difficult.

  She took it wordlessly, staring for a moment as if she’d never before seen something edible and didn’t quite know what to do with it. It was almost visible when her brain clicked over, giving her a thought. “How are we doing for food?”

  “Don’t know how the bunkhouse is doing, but we’re running low,” Cole admitted. Another thing to do on top of all the others.

  She nodded and took a bite, perfect white teeth meeting through a
makeshift open sandwich. “Could I bother you to go into town tomorrow? I’m sure I can come up with a shopping list. And there’s cash in the safe.”

  He nodded, idly reaching out for one of her folded legs. Her ankles were tiny, as delicate as her wrists. Despite her strength and the toned muscle that sleeked over her body, she was little. Thin collarbones, pianist’s hands, a narrow jaw. His fingers nearly circled the small bones of her ankle. It took only a gentle tug before she stretched her leg out, looking a little confused.

  Cole carefully placed her heel on his thigh, enjoying the long, smooth expanse of calf with its subtle curve, the way it tucked into her knee—scars there, though they’d gone white with age—before arching back out for the strong thigh muscles she used as a rider. The boxers cut off much more of a view, just left a tempting shadow under her leg before cloth and curves hid everything else from sight.

  He drew his gaze back down, brushing his fingers along her shin for a moment, watching goose bumps rise from her skin. “Are you ticklish?” he murmured, glancing up to watch her. Cream-colored flesh dusted with a light sunburn seemed paler for the wet, black waves of hair around it. Sooty eyelashes framed turquoise eyes that watched him, narrowing at the question.

  “Why?”

  He lifted his hand away, palm up placatingly. “I’m not going to tickle. But if you’re really ticklish, then I’ll keep my hands off your feet altogether.”

  She hesitated a long moment. He could almost see the internal argument: to trust or not? It was such a minor thing, deciding whether or not to believe someone might or might not tickle you. It was neither the beginning nor the end of a relationship if that sort of trust was broken.

  And yet, with Nat, he thought it would matter. There had been too many broken promises in her life, whether or not they’d been spoken.

  “Not very ticklish,” she said at last, her voice wary and filled with suspicion.

  Cole nodded and settled his hand on her ankle once more, a little enthralled with the dark, rough skin of his weather-worn hands against the smooth perfection of her leg. “Tell me if I do. I don’t mean to.” He moved his fingers down, thumb circling around into the arch of her foot and pressing hard enough, he hoped, to massage.

  She didn’t relax, her toast held forgotten in one hand, but she also didn’t yank her foot away and kick him in the face. He figured that was a good sign.

  Slowly, he worked his fingers up toward the base, and when she still didn’t pull away or snarl a laugh he shifted, changing his position on the couch to face her. He crossed his legs and braced her calf on his shins, and from there was better able to dig his fingers into the strong muscles along her ball, heel and arch.

  He relaxed when she started to eat again, tension slowly easing out of her body. Her eyelids drooped, toes flexing occasionally when he hit a particularly tender spot. He didn’t say anything until she’d finished the food, worried at how slender she was, how little weight she had to lose and how hard she’d been working.

  When the toast and eggs were gone, though, he spoke quietly, letting his voice thread into the softness of the evening. “Is Buddha one of yours?”

  Eyes half closed, the tips of her mouth curled up and she nodded. “He’s been here for about five years now. A gift from one of our clients, when he couldn’t race anymore. They thought he’d replace Jasmine, but…”

  “Nothing will ever replace Jasmine.” Cole understood that feeling. Every time one of Fleet’s foals was born he thought that would be the one, that he’d retire Fleet and let him live out his days playing in the sun and making more babies. It never happened, though. They were never quite right. He never had the same bond. They were good horses, no doubt about that, but…they weren’t Fleet.

  “Yeah.” Nat sighed and shifted, sprawling deeper into the couch, kicking her other foot free to put that in Cole’s lap, too.

  He chuckled and switched, strong fingers rubbing out the aches and pains that came from standing all day.

  “He’s a good horse. He’s a great horse. Every time the rodeo comes to town, or the city puts together any kind of horse fair, we enter him in every speed contest we can find. He’s not really built for barrel racing, but he gives it his best shot.” She chuckled, eyes falling closed. “Half the time he overshoots the barrels, but he’s so fast he usually makes it up.”

  “He’s a speed demon named Buddha?” Cole chuckled, watching the woman stretched out before him fondly. Her T-shirt had rucked up, exposing a tantalizing sliver of perfectly smooth flesh stretched over cords of muscle.

  Her smile was slow and sensuous. “He doesn’t act like a speed demon until you’re on him. Until then, he’s content to laze around and eat. Boy, can he eat. And the look in his eyes—like he understands the world, and is simply waiting for Nirvana.” Cole hit a knot of tension, felt it release under his fingers, and watched Nat melt farther into the pillows. “Screw that,” she murmured. “I think I’ve found Nirvana.”

  It pleased him far beyond reason. He searched up and down the arch of her foot with his good hand, hoping to find another such spot, but she’d gone boneless and there didn’t seem to be any more. He started up her ankle, pressing carefully against the tiny muscles that most people overlooked. He stretched a little, careful not to overextend his injured shoulder in the process, to reach her calf and the long muscle along the front of her shin. That muscle was overdeveloped in many riders and not something anyone thought about massaging. It took another horseperson to guess at that one, but he had yet to meet a rider who didn’t appreciate it.

  She hummed in satisfaction, lashes dark against her cheekbones. Cole watched her unobserved, drinking in the sleek lines of her body, hidden and revealed by the too big T-shirt pooled against her. An ex-girlfriend had once told him that clothing was an art form, that people who didn’t understand it wore outfits that were tiny to show off their shape, but that those who knew how to tantalize chose things that concealed, revealing the line of a hip here, or the curve of a breast there to tempt others into watching for the next glimpse of shape.

  He doubted very much that Nat used clothing as an art form, that she was even aware of what she was doing. It didn’t change the result, though; long legs stretched from baggy clothes, a too-big shirt hid most of her body, giving him a teasing glimpse of what she looked like underneath it only when the fabric fell just so.

  She was beautiful, and he was addicted to her. It wasn’t entirely a comfortable feeling.

  She had also fallen asleep while he watched, too exhausted to remain awake or maybe, he hoped, comfortable enough in his presence that he was no longer a threat. He was certain of the former, but hoped for the latter.

  Quietly, he slipped out from under her legs and padded into the hall, hesitating outside her door. It was closed, as it always was, forbidding entry into her private space. At last he looked into the linen closet instead, not wanting to breach the trust they’d so tentatively started.

  The closet had a pile of blankets, and he chose one at random and brought it back out, spreading it over her carefully. It was more difficult with one hand, and he regretted his arm being in a sling. If he could have, he’d have simply picked her up and carried her into her room, put her to bed and let her sleep. Without that ability, though, he did what he could and spread the blanket over her, leaving her as undisturbed as possible.

  He paused beside her head, crouching to see how she slept. Her breath was slow, deep. He brushed hair out of her face carefully, desire tightening through his body when she shifted, curling into the touch of his hand. Unable to quite stop himself, he leaned in and slid his lips over hers, the barest hint of a kiss. Her mouth opened, her breath whispering over his skin with a soft little sound.

  For a moment it was all he could do not to deepen the kiss, to slide his tongue over her lips and capture her dreams with arousal. Then he pulled himself away, reminded of the trust he’d so recently gained.

  Soon. Soon, maybe she’d welcome him like that—but not
tonight. Not half-asleep and unaware of all that was going on. This night, he’d be grateful for the comfort she felt in his presence, the ability to drop into slumber, and he’d work to continue to earn that trust.

  With a final brush of his fingers over perfectly sculpted cheekbones, trailing them down along the line of her jaw, he stood and went to his own room, leaving her in peace.

  Chapter Seven

  Buddha returned the next day, with a stitched-up belly and orders for stall rest for the next week to ten days. There was a sense of quiet relief about the place, expressed in easy laughter and a lightheartedness that hadn’t been there before.

  The sun had already peaked and was sliding down the sky when Nat found Cole in Emma’s stall, telling her still more stories about his childhood while he went over her body with a soft brush. She was nuzzling absently at a bucket of oat pellets, lipping up one or two here, chewing them or spitting them out as she felt like it.

  “And then,” Cole murmured to the horse, his voice alone bringing a smile to Nat’s face, “he dropped the stick and ran, leaving the twins to deal with the hornets.”

  She winced, coming close to lean on the stall door with folded arms. “How did the twins react?”

  He didn’t seem startled to hear her voice, though he turned with a warm smile that softened his face. “Lots of screaming.”

  She chuckled, torn between wincing again at the image and laughing outright. “The vet’s here. He’s taking X-rays of Fleet’s legs, to tell us how he’s doing. I thought you might want to know.”

  “Thanks.” He turned to the horse, giving her one last stroke down her reed-like neck. “You eat your grain, and maybe you can have fruit later.”

  “Do we have any fruit?” Nat asked doubtfully. They had a giant bag of carrots, half empty now, in the tack room, but fruit?