Page 23 of Cowboy in Colorado

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 before 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.