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.
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.”
