“Just let go, Brooklyn. One finger at a time,” he says, his voice now the soft rumble of thunder in the distance.
I try, but my hands are shaking and it requires all my effort to make them uncurl even slightly.
“Just loosen them,” he says. “Don’t force it, relax them.”
“Easier said than done,” I mutter. “You ever cling to something for your very life for nearly an hour?”
He nods, no trace of mockery in his expression. “Chased a colt up into the mountains one time. Thunderstorm hit, and I toppled off the edge of a cliff. Clung on by my fingernails and toes to a ledge about six inches wide and six inches deep…for eight hours, until Jimbo came looking for me on the back of a mule.”
“So you know.”
He nods. “Couldn’t uncurl my fingers for a long time.” He sighs, irritated. “Fine. Here, let me see.” Those big, hard hands of his with long, thick fingers, scarred and scratched, reach up to mine, and gently pry my fingers open one by one, and he takes the reins, pulls them over Tinkerbell’s head, and hands them to the shaggy, bearded man named Clint. Then, before I have a chance to protest, he reaches up and his paw-like hands wrap around my waist, lifting me easily off the horse and settling me on my feet. My knees immediately give out, and I collapse forward against him, my nose and cheek flattening against his chest. He smells like horse and man-sweat, and his chest is firm and his shirt warm.
Never in my life have I felt such a strong desire to just…stay like this, his hands on my waist, and his chest under my cheek.
It’s fleeting, a split second at most, and then I’m upright and locking my knees and trying to put some distance between me and this very confusing man.
Who is now glaring at me with irritation and no small amount of anger.
“Still haven’t explained what you’re doing out here.” I never knew blue eyes could look so stormy.
“I did. I’m here to talk to you. I have a business proposition to discuss with you.” I brush my hair back with still-shaky fingers, wiping sweat off my brow with the palm of my hand.
He growls wordlessly. “Theo was out here yesterday, saying something like that.”
“Yes, she was. She said you wouldn’t even hear her out.”
“Right, because there’s no business proposition you could bring that I need or want. Not taking any new clients, the ranch ain’t for sale and never will be, and no part of our land is, either.”
“Just hear me out.”
“No.” With that, he turns away, dismissing me entirely, making that the last word, as far as he’s concerned.
I follow him, or try to—the spikes of my heels sink into the soft dirt, making walking nearly impossible. He heads for the stable—they seem to differentiate between a stable and a barn, but darned if I know the difference. This stable is long and low, made from old weathered wood and faded shingles—it’s old, well-worn, built to last and has stood the test of time. There’s a single set of doors in the middle of the structure, standing open to show a dark interior. Inside, there are stalls lining both sides, but these are small, dirty, and cobwebbed in comparison to the bright, open, gleaming stalls at the main barn. The pungent scent of horse and manure is so strong here it is a physical, tangible thing, a scent so thick it almost makes my eyes water, yet is not, somehow, entirely unpleasant; horses peek their heads over the stalls here and there, hoofs stomp and stamp, and there are whickers and whinnies. Will snags a bridle kind of thing made from some kind of cord or rope, with a thicker rope attached to it; he approaches a stall near the end, yanks the bolt away and opens the stall door just enough to admit himself, tugging it closed behind him. I approach close enough to watch him, but I have to watch my step as well, for the floor here is covered in a thick layer of wood chips and straw, liberally dotted with balls of horse poop both old and fresh. Clearly, this is a functional facility, and cleaning it is low on the priority list.
Will spends a moment talking to the horse in a low, soothing murmur, his voice soft and even loving—decidedly friendlier than he’s spoken to me. “Hey there, Molly, how ya doin’, girly? Got some good hay this mornin’, huh? Some fresh stuff, too—just baled it last week. Did Clint give you an apple? Hmmm? We’re gonna go for a nice easy ride today, okay? Got a greenhorn city girl to take back to the Big House.” He slips the rope bridle over her nose, flips an end of the rope over her neck behind her ears, slips the end through a loop on the other side, and knots it in a quick, practiced, movement; the whole process took less than fifteen seconds. He scratches her ear, and then nudges the stall door open with a foot, leading her out.
He sees me standing in the hall, and snorts. “Didn’t figure you’d come in here. Gonna ruin those fancy shoes of yours.”
“They’re already basically ruined,” I snap.
“Well, nobody asked you to come here.” He pats Molly on the neck—the horse is reddish-brown in color, similar to my own hair, actually. “She’ll take you back. Clint’ll make sure you get there okay.”
“Is Molly spirited, too?” I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “If I see Theo, I’ll be sure to tell her thank you for taking a year or two off my life.”
“Is that how she put it? Calling Tink spirited is like calling the ocean a little wet.” He scratches Molly’s ear, and she leans her head against his shoulder, nudging him affectionately. “Nah, Molly is about as spirited as an old blanket. She’s dead broke, and sweet as molasses.”
“What does dead broke mean?” I ask. “Hector explained the difference between unbroken and green broke.”
“Hector?” He frowns at me. “What was Hector doing explaining things to you? He’s about as friendly to outsiders as I am.”
“He gave me a tour yesterday,” I say. “He showed me Luis working with Ringo, your new horse. And then we saw your family tack room, and your private stable. And he was perfectly polite, I’ll have you know.” Unlike you, is the undertone.
“Wow. Well. Dead broke just means Molly has been trained as completely as possible. You won’t jump her or do dressage or fancy footwork, I don’t mean that kind of training, but you could sit on her back and shoot a rifle, and she wouldn’t spook. I have, too, matter of fact. She’ll stay as calm as she is now in the middle of a war zone, just about. Thunder, stampedes, fireworks, snakes—she won’t spook, and she’ll do just about anything you ask of her. You can ride her bareback, wearing nothing but a hackamore.” He clearly feels great affection for this horse.
“She sounds amazing.”
“She’s the best,” he says this to her, rather than me. “Hop on, Brooklyn, you’re leaving.”
I cross my arms, and immediately regret it, because the act of crossing my arms props my breasts higher, and his eyes flick to them—usually I’d ignore the look or call him out for it, but I don’t do either, because something about his eyes makes my knees quake and heat gather low in the pit of my belly.
I narrow my eyes at him, summoning every last ounce of self-possession I have. “I am not going anywhere until you hear me out.”
He hands me the lead rope. “Suit yourself. But I got work to do, and I ain’t waitin’ around for you. Follow along, stay here, I don’t much care. But I ain’t listening, because there’s nothing you have that I want. End of discussion. The only business I’m interested in is selling horses, and unless you’re looking to buy some culls for a starter herd, all my stock is either spoken for, or not ready to be sold.”
With that, he breezes past me, and god, his scent is intoxicating. I follow him, momentarily forgetting the horse I’m leading. I’m reminded of her when she nibbles at my hair, tugging it with hot, whiskery lips and a huff of horse breath. I squeal, shake my head and duck out of the way, but she remains standing stolid and unaffected, staring at me with one big brown eye. She wiggles her lips at me, bobs her head, and nudges me.
I laugh. “What?”
She shakes her head, whickers quietly, as if in answer.
“Well, I’m sorry, but I don’
t speak horse. So, if you’re trying to tell me something, I don’t know what it is.”
An amused bark of male laughter surprises me. “She wants one of these.” I look up in time to see Will, sitting on a lean, elegant horse, cream-coated with black spots; his bridle and saddle are plain, utilitarian black leather, no frills, nothing fancy. He tosses me a peppermint, the circular red-and-white candies you often find in glass dishes in the homes of grandmothers. “Horses love peppermint, and Molly’ll love you forever, as long as you feed her peppermints whenever you see her.”
I catch the candy and try to unwrap it without letting go of the lead rope, but Molly has other ideas. She tries to take the peppermint, wrapper and all. “Hey! Hold on a second!” I say, laughing at her. “Let me unwrap it first, you big silly creature.”
I manage to get the candy out, and she takes it from my fingers with a shockingly delicate touch of her lips.
“Molly is the gentlest and most well-mannered horse you’ll meet,” Will says, “so she’ll never bite even by accident, but if you ever feed another horse something from your hand, always hold it in your palm, flat as possible. They don’t always realize their teeth could hurt you, and they’re liable to nip you by accident.”
Will has the reins in one hand, his other hand resting in a loose fist on his powerful thigh. His eyes rake over me yet again, and I realize I’m facing away from him enough to allow him a look at me from behind. He doesn’t do anything other than look, once, and then his eyes flick up to mine—his are hard to see, now, hidden under the shadow of the curved brim of a dirty, dusty, faded green Colorado State University ball cap. No cowboy hat for him, it seems, although despite the lack, he seems to belong here on this land, on that horse.
He wheels his horse around, nudging with one heel, calling over his shoulder. “Saddle her up for Brooklyn, Clint!”
And then he’s gone in a cloud of dust and the thunder of hooves, and I’m alone, holding the lead of the horse, watching Will and the rest of the hands ride off.
Clint—tall, broad, and dark—has Tinkerbell’s bridle, and when the worst of the dust has cleared, Tinkerbell is still dancing, stepping this way and that, tugging on the reins. Clint grabs the reins close up under her chin, murmuring “whoa” to her under his breath, and leads her into the stables. A few moments later, he returns with the bridle and reins over his shoulder and the saddle in his hands. I watch, interested, as he takes a thick oval brush with a strap instead of a handle, sticks his hand through the strap, and uses it to brush Molly’s back, sides, belly, and flanks.
“Why brush her?” I ask.
He glances at me, pauses, and then extends the brush to me without a word. I take it, slip my hand through it, and take over brushing, using long smooth strokes with the lay of the fur, as he’d done.
“Bonds you to the horse, and makes sure her coat is flat under the saddle. If the fur’s messy, it’ll bother her.”
I realize he’s not even holding Molly’s lead rope, just letting it dangle, and yet she’s standing utterly still, barely even swishing her tail. When I’ve brushed her for a few minutes, Clint takes the brush, shoves it into his back pocket, and juts his chin at a thick padded square blanket on the ground near the saddle.
“Put that on her.” I do so, and glance at him, but he shakes his head. “Other way.”
I rotate it so a natural fold in the middle is over the ridge of her spine, and he nods. “Up a bit higher.” He reaches past me and tugs the pad up higher, nearly to the base of her mane. “Now the saddle.”
It’s heavy, and she’s almost too tall for me, but with a lot of struggling, I manage to get the big hunk of leather on Molly’s back, sitting more or less centered on the padded blanket. Clint adjusts a few things, pushes it higher, makes it straighter, and then gestures at a thick, wide belt. “Buckle it up. Nice and tight.”
I reach underneath her, find the other end of the belt, and feed the belt through the buckle. I pull it tight, but when I do so, there’s too much belt by double. Clint shows me how to loop it through the ring attached the saddle, creating a pulley, letting me get it tighter. I have to loop it like that twice more before the holes line up with the buckle prong, and even then, Clint checks my work with a tug, and the saddle nearly comes off.
He tightens it more, fastens it, ties off the remaining end, and then sticks his forefinger in under the belt near her belly. “Up to the first knuckle,” he says. “Any further, and it’s too loose.”
“It’s so tight, though. Doesn’t it hurt her?”
“Nah, not a bit. She’s got layers of hide and fat and muscle, so she don’t feel it. And if it is too tight, she’ll tell you.”
“How?”
He chuckles. “Try to get on with the cinch strap too tight, you’ll find out.”
“By getting bucked off, I assume,” I say, my voice dry and unamused.
He nods. “But, that’s how you learn.”
“By getting bucked off?”
He shrugs. “You ride horses, you’re gonna get thrown. There’s an old saying among horse folks: you ain’t a rider unless you’ve fallen off seven times. Another way I’ve heard it is, fall off seven times, get up eight. I been riding horses my whole life, and I’ve fallen off, been thrown off, and just plain ol’ jumped off from pure fright more times than I can count. Hundreds, maybe, and that ain’t counting getting thrown trying to ride a bronc.” He has been checking the horse over as he talks, fiddling with the bit and the bridle and the reins, the saddle, the stirrups, the cinch straps. Finally, he pats the saddle. “All right, get on up there, Miss Brooklyn.”
I wince, resisting the urge to massage my sore, aching backside. “I just got off a horse. I was hoping to have a longer break before I had to get back on another one.”
He chuckles. “Saddle sore, huh?”
“Yes, just a bit.”
A horse whinnies inside the stable, and he cocks his head to one side, listening. “That’s Tink, shoutin’ to be let back out. She hates being in stalls. You rode a galloping Tinkerbell all the way here, too, didn’t you? So I bet your ass is almighty raw about now, huh?”
I have no wish to discuss my bottom with this man, so I just nod. “Like I said, I’m not exactly eager to mount another horse.”
He gestures at the fence. “Well, you can walk back. Follow the fence back the way you came. It’ll take you, oh…two hours, maybe more, depending on how fast you walk.”
“I don’t want to go back at all. I have to talk to Will. I think if he were to simply give me five minutes and an open mind, he’d—”
Clint shakes his head, cutting me off. “Barking up the wrong tree, sweetheart. Boss has a hell of a lot of good qualities, but an open mind ain’t one of ’em. Once he makes up his mind, you may as well argue with the mountain.”
“I’m not interested in arguing. I’m interested in a mutually beneficial arrangement, one which even his parents have agreed is a good idea.”
He shrugs. “Ain’t me you gotta convince. My opinion don’t mean shit, lady. I’m just a ranch hand—my job is to ride herd and check fences.”
I sigh, realizing I’m wasting my breath talking to him about this. “Fine. Where did he go?”
Clint blinks. “Um. You’re going back. Boss said.”
I grit my teeth, steeling my resolve. If I could stay on Tinkerbell while she was galloping like Satan himself was after us, I can stay on this horse. I really, really wish I’d worn better clothing for this, however. This outfit is ruined—sweat stains mar the blouse and the blazer, my shoes are covered in dust and horse poop and who knows what else, my slacks are ripped in at least one place, sweat-stained, and coated in dust and more poop. Essentially, the word of the day is POOP.
I plant my totally ruined, once-favorite red patent leather Louboutin heel in the stirrup, grip the saddle horn in one hand and the back of the saddle seat in the other, and swing up. Or rather, the idea was to swing up. What actually happens is that I have to half jump several times befo
re I manage to get enough momentum to make it all the way into the saddle.
While I have some misapprehensions about my skill on a horse, I am very confident in my own tenacity. So, once I’m astride Molly and settled, reins in hand, and sure the creature won’t bolt, I reaffirm my resolve, pretend my butt isn’t screaming in pain, and nudge Molly into a walk.
“Um…Miss Brooklyn? You’re going the wrong way.” His gravelly, smoke-roughened voice is baffled, uncertain.
“No, this is the way Will went.”
“But, you, um…you have to go back to the Big House.” A pause. “Will said.”
“He’s not my boss.” I’m clutching Molly’s sides with my legs for dear life, but so far, she seems utterly content to just amble slowly in the direction I have pointed.
I hear boots trotting across the dirt, and then leather creaking, and hooves clopping, and then Clint is beside me on a big tan horse with a dark mane. “Lady, you don’t even know where Will was going.”
“Nope,” I say, faking a bright, cheery tone. “But I’m sure I can find him.”
“Don’t be so sure. Out here, you miss him by fifty feet, you may as well have missed him by a mile.”
I smile at him, a coy, flirty grin I have rarely used on males, but which I do know for certain works like a charm. “Well, then, Clint, you’ll just have to make sure I find him, won’t you? Wouldn’t do for you let an innocent city girl get lost out here in the wilderness of a big, bad ranch, would it? And on your watch to boot. Why, that would just be terrible.”
He glares at me. “You’re a devious one, aint’cha?’
“I’m sure I have no idea what you mean,” I say.
“Don’t bullshit me, Miss Brooklyn.”
I sigh, and drop the smarmy, flirty grin and attitude. “I’m going to have my ten minutes with Will, no matter what it takes.” I gesture at the ground ahead of us. “I may be a city girl through and through, and barely know which end of the horse is which, but even I can see plain as day which way they went.” There’s a wide path of trampled grass and thrown clots of sod and soil, as good as a big flashing arrow to where they went.
Cowboy in Colorado (Fifty States of Love) Page 8