Page 21 of Cowboy in Colorado
Will snorts. “Goddammit, Theo,” he mutters. “Her idea of a joke, I guess.”
“Why?”
“Because even I don’t ride Tink unless I feel like a challenge. She’s the most willful, stubborn, hot-tempered horse I’ve ever sat on, and once she gets it into her fool head that she wants to run, there ain’t a damn thing anyone can do to slow her down.” He frowns up at me. “You stayed on, though.”
I lift one shoulder. “Barely, and I’m not even sure how I did it.” I laugh. “Honestly, I don’t know if I’m capable of getting down. My legs are still clamped down and I can’t seem to make them let go.”
For that matter, my fists are still knotted in Tinkerbell’s thick black mane, and I can’t unclench them either.
“You ride a lot back East or wherever you live?”
I shake my head. “Closest to horses I’ve ever been are the mounted police officers in Manhattan.”
His eyebrows lift in surprise. “Yet you stayed on a runaway Tinkerbell?”
“It felt like hang on, or fall off and die. So I hung on.”
He strokes Tinkerbell’s nose with a gentling touch. “Well, she’s blowing pretty hard, so you may as well climb down. I’ll find a calmer horse to send you back on, and a hand to go with you.” He turns, and his gaze singles out a hard-bitten, shaggy-bearded, heavy-shouldered man a few years older than Will. “Clint. Take Tink back to the stable and switch the tack over to…Molly, I guess. She’s the most dead broke we got out here.” He glances at me. “Climb down, girl. What’d you say your name was? Brooklyn?”
“Yes, my name is Brooklyn, and I told you, I can’t get down. I’m all seized up from having clung to this damn horse so hard for so long.”
He frowns at me, and my stomach flips. I mean, I didn’t think it was possible for a man to look sexy while frowning, but Will manages it. He makes the frown seem like the gathering of thunderclouds, brooding and powerful. His eyes pin me again, and it’s hard to breathe for the fierce, wild, intelligence in his gaze.
“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.