take you on, Dr. Lawton. It’ll cost you plenty of money. And I don’t put up with anyone who’s late. You show up on time or I’ll send you packing.”
“I’ll be on time from now on,” Jordana gritted, glaring up at him. His rugged features were shadowed by his tan Stetson. There was nothing forgiving about Slade McPherson. In the back of her mind, Jordana wondered what course in life had molded him into such a hard person.
“We’ll see,” Slade said. “Shorty, my wrangler, will show you to the training barn. You’ll be writing me a check today for two thousand dollars. One thousand a month for the box stall, hay, special feed and one thousand for training you ten times a month out here at the ranch.”
Two thousand dollars. Jordana blanched inwardly. Two years ago she’d settled the lawsuit against Dr. Paul Edwin. The settlement had been four hundred thousand dollars. Part of the agreement had been that she had to leave her position at the New York City hospital. Then, the recession occurred, and she’d lost all her stock savings in the crash of the stock market. Jordana had ended up broke and out of a job when it was all over. The settlement money had bought her a home here in Jackson Hole.
Slade watched her waffle, her eyes downcast. He had doubled the cost of his services in hopes of getting rid of her. If he couldn’t argue her out of it, then he’d raise his price so high she couldn’t afford it. He stood there feeling badly, but he really didn’t want to have to teach a woman. They were nothing but trouble.
Mind whirling, Jordana lifted her head and said, “That’s fine.”
Stunned, Slade kept his face carefully arranged. Two thousand dollars more a month would be a godsend. “Good.” He pointed to Shorty who was walking toward them. “Go with my wrangler. He’ll assign your mare to a box stall.”
Jordana felt dizzy. What had she just done? Two thousand dollars was a lot of money! At what price did she want her dream? And with a man who obviously disliked the fact she was a woman and her horse a mare.
CHAPTER THREE
“THIS WAY, Miss,” Shorty said, coming up and doffing his head respectfully toward Jordana.
Slade walked away. If he stayed, he’d be staring at Lawton like a lovesick puppy. Her face was arresting. And what drew him, dammit, was her fire and gutsiness. He wondered if that would translate into her endurance riding or not.
Smiling, Jordana held out her hand. “Hi, Shorty, I’m Jordana Lawton. Nice to meet you.” She saw Slade walk away as soundlessly as a cougar on the prowl. Disappointed he wouldn’t stay around so she could talk more to him about the training, she pulled her attention back to the bowlegged wrangler.
“Howdy, ma’am. Come with me. The Boss has one box stall left in his endurance-training facility and your purty steel-gray mare gets it.” He turned and walked quickly to a pole barn painted the same color of red as the massive barn that sat next to it.
Excited despite the gruff manner of McPherson, Jordana felt a weight lift off from her shoulder. The trainer had tried to get rid of her. Why? Stormy was an excellent endurance prospect, in her opinion. Was it because he disliked mares? Or worse, women? She saw no wedding band on Slade’s hand. Stormy walked at her side and Jordana decided to find out.
“Shorty, is Mr. McPherson married?”
Chortling, Shorty gave her a sly grin. “No ma’am, he’s not. I’m afraid he had a run-in with a filly a while back. He’s divorced four years ago and likes to keep it that way.”
They walked up the slight gravel slope that led up to the pole barn. Both doors had been slid open to allow maximum air circulation throughout the building. Jordana worked to keep up with the fast walking and talking wrangler. “How long have you been working here, Shorty?”
“Too long,” he laughed. Then, getting more serious, he said, “I worked for Mr. McPherson until he was killed by Red Downing, another rancher, in an auto accident. At that time, Slade and Griff, who are fraternal twins, inherited this ranch. But they were too young to take over as six-years-olds. Slade was adopted by his uncle Paul McPherson and Griff went with uncle Robert McPherson, who was a Wall Street broker in New York City. When Slade was ten, his adopted mother died of cancer. Then, Paul drank himself to death and he died when Slade was seventeen.” Shorty halted at the concrete floor opening to the pole barn. His voice lowered. “At seventeen Slade had to take over this ranch. His brother didn’t want anything to do with it. So, he struggled by himself to keep it going.”
“That’s a lot to ask of any seventeen-year-old,” Jordana murmured.
Motioning, Shorty said, “Follow me down the breezeway here. Your mare’s stall is the last one on the right,” and he pointed toward the other end of the long, clean barn.
Digesting the information about Slade, Jordana set it aside for later. Right now, as Stormy clip-clopped down the concrete aisle, horses on either side nickered in a friendly fashion to her. Jordana counted ten box stalls. She was the last student. Feeling lucky and happy, she followed Shorty.
Each roomy box stall had iron bars across the top half of it and sturdy oak below. Shorty slid the door open. Jordana was pleased to see that not only did the floor have thick black rubber matting to make it easy on a horse’s legs, but also fresh cedar shavings were strewn over it. She brought Stormy to the opening and allowed the mare to look around, study and sniff it first. Mustangs were wild, and Jordana knew that Stormy had to check out her new surroundings before she’d ever step into the well-lit box stall. To try and force the mare into it, without giving her time to inspect it, would have been a mistake. Stormy would have balked and fought her instead.
“She’s a mighty alert horse,” Shorty noted, standing and assessing Stormy.
“Pure mustang,” Jordana murmured.
“I can see.” Shorty nodded toward her legs. “Got the zebra stripes on her legs. Good sign she’s got seriously good mustang genes.”
“I agree,” Jordana said with a smile. “And her name is Stormy.” The mustang stepped into the stall on her own. Following her mare, Jordana slid the door shut and unlatched the rope attached to the mare’s red nylon halter. “You want me to leave her halter on, don’t you?” she called to the wrangler.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Stormy moved around sniffing and checking out the shavings. She touched noses with the curious big black horse next door and then went straight for the huge water dispenser located at the front of the stall. The mustang drank deeply and then smacked her wet lips afterward. Laughing, Jordana patted her mare. “You like your new digs, girl.”
Shorty slid the door open for Jordana. “She looks purty happy in there. She a beaver?” He shut the door after the owner stepped into the passageway.
A beaver in horse language was a horse that chewed on wood areas of the stall when it was bored. And that could cause wind colic or worse. Jordana knew that in those cases, they would paint the wood with a foul taste that discouraged such a bad habit. “Nope, she has no stall problems.”
“Well,” Shorty said, “we don’t have bored horses around here. The Boss works them every day, and by the time they’re done, they’re tuckered out and glad for a rest. On the days the students come out to ride their horses, they get a solid workout.” He smiled a little and studied the rows of stalls. “Nope, none of these horses have much time to become
