Page 22 of Cowboy in Colorado
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 Mollyspirited, 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.”