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She’d asked herself the same question at least a million times. “Have you ever seen freestyle reining?”
“I’ve seen a lot of things.”
“Then you know what it’s like. Breathtaking. I was hooked the moment I saw a video on YouTube over a year ago. It’s like pairs ice skating or synchronized swimming or a ballet performance. Your horse becomes your dance partner. You, the music and your animal. Dancing.”
She couldn’t see his eyes beneath the brim of his cowboy hat, couldn’t see if he understood. If she hadn’t known better she would swear he was hiding his gaze from her.
“It’s going to take a lot of work.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then let’s get started.”
* * *
ONE LESSON.
He’d said the words over and over again on the way to the Lazy A Ranch. He absolutely didn’t need a project, especially a female project and her horse. He had his own baggage to deal with—the ranch, all the repairs, his full rodeo schedule.
“Should I saddle him up?” she asked.
“Nope. We’re going to do some groundwork first.”
She glanced over her shoulder toward the young girl behind her, the one who tried not to be obvious about listening as she diligently cleaned her horse’s stall. The same spot she’d been cleaning the entire time.
“Do you mind if Laney watches?”
“Nope.” Colt glanced around. “This place have an arena?”
“It does.” He thought he heard her mutter, “Sort of.”
He glanced down at Natalie, sunlight reflecting off her short hair. She waved her young friend over, completely oblivious to the way he studied her. It had occurred to him earlier that her hair might be short because of her accident, and his friend Wes had confirmed it. She’d been wearing a helmet when she’d had her wreck during that jumping competition, but it’d been cracked clean in half. Video of the accident showed she’d been stepped on after the horse had flipped over on her. There’d been talk that she’d never ride again. Clearly she’d proven her doctors wrong, but just the thought of it, of what she’d been through, made him shudder. Wes said she had a scar on her head. Colt had scars, too, although his were mostly on the inside.
Don’t be getting soft.
One lesson. He had a busy life and he preferred to live it on his own schedule.
“So what are we doing?” Natalie asked.
“I told you, ground work.”
“I’ve already done all that.”
“Not this kind.”
“You going to teach Playboy how to bow?”
“Nope.” His dad used to teach his horses how to do that. But as Colt thought back to the methods dear old Dad had used, the way he’d tie a rope to a horse’s front leg, forcing it forward while at the same time pulling down on the halter—not just any halter, but one with metal staples in it—he resolved yet again never to treat his horses that way. Ever.
“Do you need me to go get a lunge line? I still have a surcingle, too.”
She’d stopped outside what he presumed was the arena, one with sagging boards and dirt footing. The wooden gate didn’t look as though it would open, and if it did, that it wouldn’t stay on its hinges for very long. It was rimmed by ramshackle wooden shelters and sad looking horses—like their own equine audience. Crazy. He suspected it wasn’t really an arena. More like a dirt patch everyone used because there was no place else.
“He’s wearing all he needs.”
The hinges held, miraculously, and the kid Natalie had signaled to earlier leaned against the top rail of a fence stripped bare of paint. Surprisingly, it didn’t collapse beneath her weight. Someone really should spend some money to fix up the place, he thought. He would swear they’d used recycled garage doors to make the horse shelters.
“Okay, now you’ve got me curious,” Natalie said.
“Go on and walk him forward.” He watched her for a moment. “Now stop.”
She did as asked, and just as he expected, Playboy took three or four steps past her.
“Make sure to say ‘whoa,’” he called out. “Do it again.”
She repeated the process one more time, only this time she used her voice. Didn’t help. The horse still moved past her.
“He’s not listening to your verbal commands.”
“Yes, he is. I’m barely pulling on the lead rope.”
“He should be stopping the second you do. Not one second later, and especially not two. Right away. Bam.” He slapped his palm. “He has to be listening to not just your voice, but your body, too. Once you’re in tune with each other, he’ll be able to read the direction of your eyes. You’ll be able to tell him which way to step with just a slight tip of your head.”
“He’ll follow my eyes?”
“He will. I’ll give you some exercises to help him with that, but we’ll start on the ground. Trot him out for me.”
She stared at him oddly. “Trot?”
“Up the middle of the arena.”
“As in run alongside of him?”
Why did she stare at him so strangely? “Yeah, that’s generally what one does when one trots a horse.”
She shifted her weight to her other foot. “Okay.”
She ran like a three-legged moose. He couldn’t believe it. She seemed so lithe and svelte he would have sworn she’d move like a ballerina.
“I don’t jog too well.”
She was out of breath and clearly embarrassed. That was an understatement. “We’ll need to work on that.”
“I’m sorry.” She sounded so sincere, so genuinely contrite that it made Colt feel like a jerk. She might run like a drunk, but she was still beautiful. Still in need of his help. Still clearly desperate.
“Good thing you already know how to ride.”
Her chin ticked up a notch. “I can do better.”
“Okay then. Let’s try it again. Be sure to use your voice. Tell Playboy to stop.”
She did as he asked, and maybe she ran a little more gracefully this time, but it was hard to tell.
“I’ve never really been good at running,” she admitted after a few more attempts. “Maybe there’s another exercise we could try?”
There it was again—the apology. She really was trying. Even so, Playboy had a hard time reading her body language with her wobbling this way and that. Worse, after watching her a few times, Colt realized this wasn’t going to be one lesson or even two. She would need someone to teach her grace and fluidity, something he’d assumed she already had. That meant training. He might even need to ride her horse himself. That would mean interacting with her a lot more than he’d expected, and something about that made him uncomfortable.
Son of a—
This changed everything...and not for the better.
Chapter Three (#ulink_515125e0-2806-5d80-b5e1-feab935aa0c9)
Colt hadn’t looked happy. He’d given her three more exercises to work on and then left. Natalie wasn’t certain he’d ever be back.
“Damn.”
She watched his truck make a left out of the boarding stable’s driveway.
“Did you know he’s performed in front of royalty?”
Natalie turned to Laney, curious despite her disappointment. Once again she reached to shift her long hair over her shoulder, but it wasn’t there. It was like losing a damn limb, having her hair chopped off. She swore she’d never get used to her short-cropped locks.
“He has a website.” Laney held up her cellphone as if expecting Natalie to read the screen herself.
“Really?”
Laney couldn’t hide her excitement. “I stumbled on it while he was working with you. He has, like, all kinds of pictures and stuff on it. Did you know he’s a regular at the National Finals Rodeo? And that he’s a saddle bronc rider, too? He took over the family business when he left the military. He was twenty-six when he left the Army to help his dad, and four years later it’s more of a success than ever.”
Saddle broncs? That explained the cowboy swagger. And, yes, she’d known he was something of a big deal in the rodeo world—Wes had made that perfectly clear—but for some reason she’d been under the impression he’d done the rodeo thing for his whole life. Military? She’d had no idea.
“Next time he comes out here I’m, like, totally going to get his autograph.” The teen continued to peer down at her screen. “He has printable fan cards. I’ll bring some out here for you and me.”
If he ever came back out again. To be honest, she didn’t have much hope of that, and the admission caused the sick feeling to return. It was the same sickness she’d felt when he’d asked her to run alongside her horse.
“Come on. You can help me put Playboy away.”
Laney jumped to the task so quickly it brought a smile to Natalie’s face. She reminded her of Kate, one of the grooms she’d had at Uptown Farms, back when she could afford to pay someone to help her. Rather than fill her with bitterness, though, the memory served to firm her resolve. She wouldn’t let Colt quit on her. She would overcome her physical ailments. She had to.
It only took a couple of phone calls to find out where Colt lived, although her friend Jillian cautioned against dropping in on him. Natalie ignored her friend and two days later set off on a field trip of sorts. It dawned a perfect day for a drive. Blue sky—the kind of blue that only happened after a recent rain—so crystalline and vivid it seemed Photoshop had lent God a hand.
She pointed the truck toward a section of town where she’d always wanted to live, only she couldn’t, not even back when she could afford pretty much anything she wanted. Situated at the base of the mountains that separated the town of Via Del Caballo from the ocean, the land along the bowl-shaped valley had been owned for generations by ranchers. Parcels rarely became available in the low-lying foothills covered year-round by grass and majestic valley oaks whose branches brushed the ground. It took a half-hour to get out there, and as she approached she could see the Santa Ynez Mountains looming in the distance, as barren and brown as the valley was soft and green below.
There were so few driveways out to the east that it was easy to spot Colt’s, but even if she’d been in doubt as to whether or not she had the correct address, the sign above the entrance would have made it clear. An iron oval bearing the words Reynolds’s Ranch were suspended between two telephone poles, and below it stood a pair of ornate black gates, each with an R cut into it.
Jillian hadn’t warned her about this. Should she climb over? But she had no idea how far the ranch was from the front gate and all she could see from her vantage point were spotted pasture and old barbed-wire fencing.
She pulled out her phone and texted Jillian.
You don’t happen to know the pass code, do you?
What pass code?
To the electronic gate.
What gate?
I’m at Colt’s ranch, sitting outside the front entrance.
If her phone had been a cricket it would have been chirping into the silence. Clearly, either Jillian didn’t approve, or she didn’t know what to say. Natalie didn’t wait for a response.
“To heck with it.”
She hadn’t driven all the way out to Timbuktu, or spent money she could barely afford on fuel, just to turn around and go home. She pulled farther forward, but she hadn’t angled her truck properly. Her power steering had gone out recently, which meant getting her vehicle any closer to the intercom would be like wrangling a hippopotamus next to a mailbox. She opened the truck’s door, the hinges creaking in protest, and stepped out on the asphalt. She tried the obvious first, pressing zero on the keypad, and was surprised at the almost immediate “Hello.”
“Colt?”
Silence. She didn’t think he could possibly recognize her voice and so she said, “It’s me, Natalie.”
“I know who it is.”
He knew? How? Was there a camera, too? She glanced at the sign hanging overhead and smiled, just in case. “Can I come in?”
She felt like an idiot. Maybe she should have listened to Jillian. Maybe she should have called ahead first, made an appointment.
She pressed the button again and spoke into the intercom. “Hello?”
The gates started to open, a beeping sound emerging from somewhere. Natalie was impressed by the high-tech-ness of it all.
Well, all righty then.
She went to shove a hank of hair out of her face, only to realize—yet again—that she had none, so settled instead for running her fingers through the short strands. At least he hadn’t told her to leave. She was about to get back in her truck when she heard, “Veer right at the Y.”
She didn’t waste any time, gunning it so that her tires chirped on the blacktop, her struts and springs popping and moaning when the asphalt ended beyond the gate and turned into gravel. A glance in her rearview mirror revealed the gates already closing, which made her wonder if there were pressure plates. Somehow she hadn’t figured Colt to be a big fan of new fangled devices. Clearly she’d been wrong.
The road led toward some low-lying hills. Grass and trees were the only things she could see as she got closer, her truck leaving a rooster tail of dust behind her. But like theater curtains, the hills seemed to part. Up ahead the road split into a Y, the branch on her right ending at a place she couldn’t see. The road to her left, well, she couldn’t see where that went, either, at least not at first. Soon buildings came into view. Big house at the end of the road with a massive oak tree in the front yard, barn to the right. Huge rose bushes lined the front, the kind that had been there forever, the home seeming to have been randomly plopped down in the middle of nowhere. Prairie grass stretched as far as the eye could see.
She’d taken her foot off the accelerator, slowing down so she could observe. Trucks and trailers were parked in front.
Crud.
He had company. Oh, well, she thought. He wouldn’t have buzzed her through if he hadn’t wanted her to intrude.
She turned her attention to her surroundings. The two-story homestead seemed old, but she would bet at one point it’d been considered a mansion in these parts. It was painted white, and was perfectly square but for a small portion that jutted out on the right side in a hexagonal shape. There were windows all around it and the cutest little gingerbread roofline. Along the lower left side of the home sat an old-fashioned porch, the kind with blooming potted plants hanging between fancy scalloped braces. It wrapped around the side and front edges of the home.
Colt had parked his trailer next to the porch, which seemed dumb considering it probably blocked his view of the rolling foothills and nearby mountains. Natalie’s gaze moved to the barn to the right. Nothing fancy, just what appeared to be an old hayloft converted into a horse stable—she glimpsed stalls inside. By far the newest addition had to be the arena off behind the barn. State of the art by the looks of it, with a matching round pen outside. Both training areas had sand footing and high wooden rails that had been left natural in color so that they matched the big barn.
When she pulled up next to one of the four trucks parked out front she couldn’t help but admire their shiny exteriors. Her own truck was at least twenty years old and looked the part.
