headstrong sorrel colt Wes Randall swore no man could ever break.
Tom gripped the rope in his
hand and grinned as the colt trotted, drawing a large circle around his trainer.
“That’s a good fellow,” he called out, keeping his voice calm and soothing. Too
many cowboys thought breaking a horse meant shouting commands and keeping a
heavy hand on the rope, trying to compel the animal to submit to the trainer’s
demands. Tom knew better. A horse, especially a young horse, was like any other
living creature. Patience, gentleness, and a willingness to guide rather than
force was the secret.
He lowered the rope, held
out his hand and invited the sorrel to come toward him for a lump of sugar.
“So, you’ve got this one
trotting around in circles and eating out of your hand, I see.” Wes Randall
stood at the corral gate, leaning on the post. “Proved me wrong, that’s for
sure.”
A short, dark-haired Mexican
stood beside the ranch owner. His name was Gustavo, but nobody called him by
his name. He was just Goose. He grinned and the morning sunlight flashed on his
white teeth. “You know, señor ,
why he’s so good with the horses, no? What I hear is that he’s thinks he’s one
of them. Born right in the barn, they say.” Goose grabbed a stalk of weed and
chewed on it. “ Verdad ,
Henderson?”
For the life of him, Tom had
no idea where and how the lazy-eyed cowpoke from below the Rio Grande had heard
the sorry particulars of his birth. Denial wouldn’t work. Too many others knew
the story of how his mother had made that wrong turn on that April morning
after leaving the outhouse. Thought she was headed back to bed, but ended up in
the horse barn, giving birth to her son on a pile of dirty straw.
Later she laughed about it,
and all the while he was growing up, she pointed out that his fate had been
sealed at birth. He’d never amount to a damned thing. Or actually, a hill of
beans, as she put it. For some reason, it seemed to almost make her proud. All
it did for Tom was make him ashamed for her. For himself, too.
Goose’s question didn’t
deserve an answer, but even if Tom had chosen to reply, he wouldn’t have gotten
the chance. Before he could open his mouth, a ruckus rose up from the general
direction of the drive that led from road to ranch. All the old dogs hanging
around took up barking and howling, and the chickens that usually strutted
about squawked and flapped and ran around like they’d just lost their heads.
Even Mousy, the old grey cat who usually didn’t move more than once or twice a
day—and then, only if food was involved—lifted his head and looked around
before closing his eyes again and going right back to sleep. Whatever was
coming, Mousy didn’t care all that much.
But Tom saw what was
coming—or, who was coming—and he did
care. The wagon belonged to Lucille McIntyre, and from the way she was
barreling up that long stretch of drive, she was hell-bent to get there in a
mighty big hurry.
Chapter Four
She saw him at once,
actually spotted him from a good distance. He stood near the corral, surrounded
by a colorful group of cowpokes in chaps, bandanas, and broad-brimmed hats.
Of course, it would be hard
to miss a man like Tom Henderson. He stood taller than the other men gathered
around him, but it was more than his physical height that gave him such a
commanding presence. Maybe it was that unruly shock of blond hair, or the
startling clearness of his gentle blue eyes, but the morning sunlight seemed to
pick him out of the crowd and fall upon him alone.
And why not? Dear Lord, the
man was gorgeous!
Lucille choked back the rush
of emotions that that threatened to swallow her whole. Flames of desire
flickered over every inch of her skin even as embarrassment set her to
blushing. Sparks shot through her veins, making her blood burn. Her body
tingled from head to toe.
How could one man make a
woman feel all those sensations all at once? It was wrong.
Tom gripped the rope in his
hand and grinned as the colt trotted, drawing a large circle around his trainer.
“That’s a good fellow,” he called out, keeping his voice calm and soothing. Too
many cowboys thought breaking a horse meant shouting commands and keeping a
heavy hand on the rope, trying to compel the animal to submit to the trainer’s
demands. Tom knew better. A horse, especially a young horse, was like any other
living creature. Patience, gentleness, and a willingness to guide rather than
force was the secret.
He lowered the rope, held
out his hand and invited the sorrel to come toward him for a lump of sugar.
“So, you’ve got this one
trotting around in circles and eating out of your hand, I see.” Wes Randall
stood at the corral gate, leaning on the post. “Proved me wrong, that’s for
sure.”
A short, dark-haired Mexican
stood beside the ranch owner. His name was Gustavo, but nobody called him by
his name. He was just Goose. He grinned and the morning sunlight flashed on his
white teeth. “You know, señor ,
why he’s so good with the horses, no? What I hear is that he’s thinks he’s one
of them. Born right in the barn, they say.” Goose grabbed a stalk of weed and
chewed on it. “ Verdad ,
Henderson?”
For the life of him, Tom had
no idea where and how the lazy-eyed cowpoke from below the Rio Grande had heard
the sorry particulars of his birth. Denial wouldn’t work. Too many others knew
the story of how his mother had made that wrong turn on that April morning
after leaving the outhouse. Thought she was headed back to bed, but ended up in
the horse barn, giving birth to her son on a pile of dirty straw.
Later she laughed about it,
and all the while he was growing up, she pointed out that his fate had been
sealed at birth. He’d never amount to a damned thing. Or actually, a hill of
beans, as she put it. For some reason, it seemed to almost make her proud. All
it did for Tom was make him ashamed for her. For himself, too.
Goose’s question didn’t
deserve an answer, but even if Tom had chosen to reply, he wouldn’t have gotten
the chance. Before he could open his mouth, a ruckus rose up from the general
direction of the drive that led from road to ranch. All the old dogs hanging
around took up barking and howling, and the chickens that usually strutted
about squawked and flapped and ran around like they’d just lost their heads.
Even Mousy, the old grey cat who usually didn’t move more than once or twice a
day—and then, only if food was involved—lifted his head and looked around
before closing his eyes again and going right back to sleep. Whatever was
coming, Mousy didn’t care all that much.
But Tom saw what was
coming—or, who was coming—and he did
care. The wagon belonged to Lucille McIntyre, and from the way she was
barreling up that long stretch of drive, she was hell-bent to get there in a
mighty big hurry.
Chapter Four
She saw him at once,
actually spotted him from a good distance. He stood near the corral, surrounded
by a colorful group of cowpokes in chaps, bandanas, and broad-brimmed hats.
Of course, it would be hard
to miss a man like Tom Henderson. He stood taller than the other men gathered
around him, but it was more than his physical height that gave him such a
commanding presence. Maybe it was that unruly shock of blond hair, or the
startling clearness of his gentle blue eyes, but the morning sunlight seemed to
pick him out of the crowd and fall upon him alone.
And why not? Dear Lord, the
man was gorgeous!
Lucille choked back the rush
of emotions that that threatened to swallow her whole. Flames of desire
flickered over every inch of her skin even as embarrassment set her to
blushing. Sparks shot through her veins, making her blood burn. Her body
tingled from head to toe.
How could one man make a
woman feel all those sensations all at once? It was wrong.
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