by Vicki Tharp
After all the things I’ve done. I don’t think I qualify as a lady anymore. And in all honesty, I felt more comfortable around men than women. “That shouldn’t be a problem.” I sauntered over to Hank with mustered bravado and jabbed a thumb in his direction. “I’ll bunk with Pops.”
Hank jerked his chin up as if I’d landed an uppercut. “Pops?”
He had at least ten years on a couple of the other guys, who weren’t long out of the schoolyard at best. It wasn’t as if he was old, old. Just old enough I wouldn’t have to tell him more than once I wasn’t interested in a high country romance.
In Iraq, the men had learned to leave me be. These guys would, too. In time. But I needed rack time before I had the energy to deal with it. Besides, I figured I’d already pissed Hank off enough this morning that he’d be the least likely one to hit on me.
Hank eyed me with speculation, the brim of his hat shadowing his expression. “You’re no spring chicken either.”
I ignored him and let the comment slide, as well as the round of juvenile comments from the guys steeped with sexual innuendo. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before, and the guys weren’t meaning any harm, but if my bones didn’t ache and the muscle under the scar on my shoulder didn’t burn, I might have argued with him.
An ear-piercing whistle from behind me made me jump. The men quieted mid-laugh and a dog sidled up to my leg and leaned against me. I dropped a hand to its head and felt the quick lick of a hot, moist tongue on my palm. I turned and recognized the man I’d restrained this morning and the young girl walking up from the main house.
The girl’s smile was a quirky mixture of shy and amused. The man spared me a brief nod before turning his attention to the rest of the men. “Enough of that kind of talk. My wife and granddaughter live here. I expect you to behave like gentlemen, and treat them”—the man looked between his granddaughter and myself before glaring back at them— “and any other women, with respect. If you cannot manage that, then you’d best go now.”
The kid with the toothpick stared down at his boots and kicked sand onto the coals, and someone cleared his throat, but nobody bothered to leave. They had a leanness, a sparseness to them that spoke of a life of hard work without much left for excess. They may have been happy enough with a roof over their heads and a meal in their bellies.
The old man from the diner took a spot next to the foreman and introduced himself as Dale Cunningham, the ranch owner. “My wife is Charlotte, but people call her Lottie. This here is my granddaughter, Jenna.”
With a negligent wave of his hand, he then introduced the man next to him. “My foreman here is Link Hardy. I expect you to follow his orders as if they came from me. There’s been mischief in the past, but that’s behind us now. Disloyalty to the brand or stealing from me or mine won’t be tolerated.”
All the men nodded, as Dale, in turn, caught each of their eyes. I bobbed my head as well. After all, loyalty and following orders came second nature to me.
“Breakfast and dinner will be served at the main house,” Dale continued. “There are groceries in the bunkhouses, so lunches are up to you. You have thirty minutes to stow your gear and pack a lunch. Daylight’s wasting and we have fences to check, cattle to work, and horses to round up.”
Dale turned and headed to the barn without any fanfare. I figured that meant I, as well as the rest of the men, was hired. The men went to grab their gear from their trucks. Two had their own horses in a stock trailer and they headed over to offload them.
The horses’ hooves tapped a nervous, deep staccato on the trailer’s wooden floorboards as they backed out and steel clanked on steel as the rear door banged against the shaking trailer.
The bunkhouses were downhill from the campfire, so I straddled my bike and coasted down the ranch road after Hank, trying to pry my eyes off the firm curve of his jeans-clad ass.
* * * *
When asked, I had no cabin preference, so Hank chose the further of the two bunkhouses. I followed. None of the other men did. Then again, Hank didn’t exactly exude warmth and welcome.
If his foul mood had bothered me, I would have bunked with the others, but after bending Dale over the café’s counter this morning, I figured the fewer people around me at any given moment, the better. And despite our little run in that morning, he didn’t strike me as a man I needed to worry about.
I’ve met enough of the bad kind to know the difference.
A small stand of trees shaded one side of the bunkhouse and provided a modicum of privacy from the other one. I assumed because this cabin was farther from the main house—and meals—the other three men didn’t argue our choice.
The cabin was constructed with rough split logs, the chinking thin and weathered—and light years away from the modern-rustic designs that resembled giant Lincoln Logs play sets.
There was a hitching rail for a couple horses and a water trough out front. A small covered porch provided enough shelter to take your boots off and stay out of the rain and snow. Though this late into the spring, I didn’t expect snow to be a big problem.
The door had no lock. I stepped inside with an armload of my gear and dumped it on one of the two double bunks, one on each sidewall. The set of hooks and a small footlocker at the head and foot of each bed provided ample storage.
Modern conveniences included a bathroom roomy enough to turn around in, but not much more. Since indoor plumbing was a treat for me, you wouldn’t hear me complain about the size. The door leading to the bathroom was off to one side; its long wall was directly across from the front door and supported an apartment-sized refrigerator, a sink with a microwave above, and a two-burner stove. A homemade wooden table with two chairs completed the furnishings.
I tossed my tarp and two thin blankets I use as a makeshift bedroll onto the top bunk to get them out of the way. I hung my jacket on one of the hooks. My clothes I dropped on the bed’s quilt—a hodgepodge of flannel, blue jeans with the occasional scrap of T-shirt thrown in. Lottie’s handiwork, probably.
I figured the other cabin was equipped like this one. Which meant the other cabin had an empty bunk.
“Looks like there’s room in the other cabin for one more,” I said.
“All yours if you want it.”
A gentleman would have bunked with the other men and let me have my own place, but that meant preferential treatment. I didn’t need or want that. I respected the fact he treated me like any of the other hands.
By the time I’d finished stowing my gear, Hank had coffee dripping into the small carafe and eight slices of bread spread out on the table, a generous dollop of mayonnaise spread across four faces.
“Chicken or ham?” he asked. His hat was off, but that was the extent of his unpacking. His duffel lay untouched on the lower bunk on his side of the cabin.
“Chicken,” I replied without much thought to the decision. “I can make my own.”
“I don’t doubt that, but my mother managed to beat a few manners into me. Easy enough to make a couple more sandwiches while the ingredients are out. You get the coffee.”
I turned to the pot without comment, poured a couple mugs, brought them to the table, and watched as he piled thick slabs of ham on two slices of bread and the shredded pieces of chicken onto two others. Well-muscled arms with large hands made quick work of the job.
Hands that had wrapped around Jenna’s wrists this morning.
From deep down, I felt that low-level hum, the slow simmer of anger that has been my constant companion since I’d returned to civilian life. I wasn’t quite sure what fueled it or what made it grow, but it had been a constant battle to keep it from taking over my world.
Then the relief valve popped, and words flew out of my mouth, circumventing my verbal filter. “Your mother taught you to make sandwiches for others but didn’t teach you to keep your hands to yourself?”
He sno
rted out a clipped laugh, then slapped on the top slices of bread and shoved his sandwiches into a plastic baggie.
“What’s so funny?” I said.
“Keep your hands to yourself,” he mimicked, even getting my indignant inflection correct. A muscle tensed at the corner of his jaw as if biting back his words. Weak, ambient light leaked through the drawn front curtains, yet the flash of anger in his eyes was blinding. “You’re a fine one to talk. I’m not the one who bent an old man over a counter this morning. You’re outta line.”
Probably. ‘You’re outta line’ could have been my theme song for the day. I should sell the rights. Taylor Swift could spin it into a hit. I pursed my lips at the truth. “Look, I’m so—”
“Save it.” He ignored his fresh mug of coffee, stalked to his bunk, grabbed his hat from the hook, and snugged it down on his head.
When he opened the front door, he turned to me and opened his mouth to say something. He must have thought better of it because he closed it again then he swept his gaze up and down my body—not so much as if he was interested but as if he was taking my measure—before he stepped through the door. Just as well. Some things are better left unsaid.
His momma had taught him more manners than I’d given her credit.
* * * *
By the time I’d made it to the barn, the horses stood saddled, which was fortunate because I’d never saddled a horse in my life. When the time came to unsaddle, I’d pay close attention to what went where and then just do the reverse when it came time to saddle up again.
Hank untethered two horses and led them toward me. The one in his left hand was a striking dark palomino with a thick, flowing mane and tail that followed him like a puppy. The other was the blue roan the color of cattle dogs and danced at the end of his lead as if it had mainlined a gallon of coffee minutes before.
In fact, the animal more closely resembled a dragon as thick plumes of condensation blew out of his flared nostrils into the cold air. Twenty feet away, Hank dropped the palomino’s lead. The horse stopped and dropped his head to munch on a clump of grass.
I realized then Hank intended for me to ride the blue dragon.
I swallowed a lump of apprehension. It would be a real shitter to have survived my tour only to be killed by a horse.
Though I’m confident in my abilities to do many things, riding a thousand pounds of snorting, fire-breathing flesh and blood that spent more time with his feet in the air than on the ground left me rattled. The smirk on Hank’s face said he knew I’d never make eight seconds on this horse’s back. But I wouldn’t chicken out now. I was determined to pass this test.
Really, how hard could it be?
Damn hard was the answer I didn’t want to hear.
Okay, so maybe I should have given this cowboy career more consideration before I’d jumped in with both Harley Davidson boots, but a little desperation goes a long way in the job selection process.
And it wasn’t like I’d never been on a horse before, but I don’t think a nose-to-tail trail ride in Vail as a kid or the carousel pony in front of the grocery store counted for much.
I reached for the lead rope and tried to recall everything I knew about riding horses. Which wasn’t much, so it didn’t take long to run through the list. Something about horses being able to smell fear jumped to the front of my mind. I didn’t know if it was true or not, but I took a deep breath anyway and did my best to relax and calm my breathing and heart rate like my rifle instructors had taught me back in basic training.
I must have closed my eyes for a fraction of a second, because as my hand went to close around the rope, my hand came up empty.
The next thing I knew, Jenna was marching the horse backward toward the barn, double-time. As soon as Jenna stopped, the horse did too. Then he lowered his head and started licking his lips. Jenna glanced at me over her shoulder and said, “Come with me and we’ll saddle another horse. Angel has a loose shoe.”
Hank stood with his hands on his hips, clearly annoyed with Jenna for ruining his fun.
I glared at Hank, who sported an innocent “what?” grin.. His deep chuckle washed over me like jet fuel, and I was the match.
Chapter 2
Jenna wasn’t small, but this horse positively dwarfed her. I followed the two of them into the barn and stayed a safe distance away while she stripped the tack off the horse and turned him out into a small paddock.
While she was gone, I glanced around. Wood pole barn with a metal roof. Eight stalls, concrete aisle with a wide center for saddling. Tack room full of saddles and other horsey stuff. The light grassy scent of the hay in the loft above rained down. Individual runs came off the backside of the stalls and emptied into a large pasture that disappeared over a hill.
Jenna returned, leading a small black and white paint horse. The horse wasn’t in any particular hurry as it ambled down the aisle behind her. The only change to Jenna’s wardrobe since I’d seen her this morning was the addition of a well-worn cowboy hat on top of her head. The brim at the front and rear angled down to give her protection from the sun and the bandanna she’d had in her back pocket now circled her neck.
The horse followed her without a halter and lead rope and when she stopped, the horse stepped forward to the rail and gave a heavy sigh as if bored with the whole ordeal.
Jenna stepped inside the tack room, poked her head out a second later, and said, “Catch,” as she tossed me first one brush and then the other. “Use the curry comb, the round one with the metal teeth, to get the chunks of dirt off and the softer brush to get the loose stuff,” she added before disappearing inside again.
As I loosened the caked-on mud on the horse’s right side, I realized how Jenna had been keen enough to notice I lacked horse experience. She came out with a saddle and other necessary gear and placed them on a foldout rack within easy reach. She took the soft brush from me and followed behind with short, competent strokes.
“Thanks,” I said as I finished brushing the second side.
“What for?”
I jerked my chin toward the front of the barn where Hank and the other men were waiting. “Angel doesn’t have a loose shoe, does he?”
Jenna grinned at me over the top of the horse. “I owed you one for this morning,” she said. “But in Hank’s defense, he wouldn’t have let you climb on. He was just waiting for you to call his bluff.”
“Good to know.” I’d suspected it had been his version of a cowboy initiation, but I still would have swung my leg over that saddle.
“Okay, so horse saddling 101,” Jenna said as she threw the thick saddle pad over the horse’s back. “Saddle pad first, bring it up over the horse’s withers, the pointy part where their back meets their neck, then comes the saddle and the cinch.”
She saddled and cinched then bridled the horse before moving on to cleaning out the hooves. “You’ll want to check the cinch one last time before you get on. Sometimes the horses will hold their breath to expand their chest so by the time you go to get on the cinch is loose again,” she explained.
As we led the horses to where everyone was waiting outside, she said, “The mare’s name is Sierra. She taught me how to ride, and will take good care of you on the trail.”
Jenna positioned the horse for me to mount. The men mounted up and headed toward one of the gates, giving Jenna a chance to give me the Cliffs Notes version of Horseback Riding for Dummies.
There was a lot more to riding than I’d ever imagined, and I only had the most basic information. It made me a cowboy much the same way as knowing the parts of a rifle made you a sniper. Still, it wasn’t like me to back down from a challenge.
The rolling motion of Sierra’s long-striding walk felt foreign, and even though I’d been riding my steel horse for nearly a year straight, the western saddle made my Harley’s seat feel like an overstuffed recliner. Somewhere in the near future was a saddle
sore with my name on it.
Link Hardy, the foreman, was waiting on his horse by the gate with one of the other new hands. At the campfire this morning, Link had stood a little bowlegged, as if he’d been born with a horse between his legs. Unlike me, he looked at home astride the animal.
Jenna was a horse length ahead and stopped beside Link. I tried my newfound skills to stop Sierra. I don’t know if she stopped because of anything I did or because she was going to stop anyway. Hopefully, it looked like stopping had been my idea.
“I want you to take Parish and Santos with you,” Link instructed Jenna. “Check the fences on the west side to Harper’s Cave then cut across to the catch pens down by the creek. Repair what you can and mark the rest. I don’t want to lose any head when we round up the calves for branding.”
Jenna’s eyes narrowed and her lips tightened into a thin line. I thought she was about to protest, but Link’s face hardened and Jenna must have decided against it. She turned her horse to the west without a word and Sierra followed without any input from me. Santos fell in behind us.
Jenna blew a sharp whistle. “Come on, Dink,” she hollered out. The cow dog blasted past me out of nowhere and settled into an easy trot beside her.
“Keep your eyes out for trouble,” Link yelled at our backs.
My heart skittered faster for a couple beats before I remembered Dale had said he believed all the ranch’s troubles were behind them. I needed the job. I needed the money. I needed to get the hell back on the road.
I didn’t need any trouble.
Dale hadn’t gone into specifics, but how much trouble could there be in the middle of America? I moved to Jenna’s right and spotted the rifle in the scabbard on her saddle.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
* * * *
I had no clue what had upset Jenna. I didn’t know if she was mad that she had to drag two new hires along with her—one of which barely knew the front end of the horse from the back end—or if she wasn’t happy with the scope of her work. But like a good soldier, she’d kept her mouth shut and followed orders. I admired that about her.