fantasy. And she has a special way with horses. Or at least that’s what Eleanor says. She’s a “gentler.” That’s someone who helps troubled horses and makes them safe.
She’s out there right now working with that devil horse, Black Jack. He’s black sure enough—in color and temperament. In the fifteen minutes I’ve been watching, he’s charged at Stephanie and tried to trample her. All she wants him to do is trot the circumference of the round pen. And he knows it. Yet he acts like she’s trying to kill him. That horse has got a screw loose, and someone is going to get hurt if she isn’t careful. If I could vocalize in human language, I’d suggest that she yield the battle and get out of that pen.
Why did Eleanor and Peter leave me here at Running Horse Ranch on the backside of nowhere? They told me to watch out for Stephanie. But who can protect a crazy broad who walks into a small pen with a homicidal equine?
This is going to be a long two weeks. I’m counting the hours until Eleanor returns and takes me back to civilization. It’s not that South Dakota isn’t spectacular. It is. It’s one of the prettiest places I’ve ever been. And the history here, in the heart of the Sioux nation, is fascinating. But it isn’t home. I’m just ready for autumn snuggles with my Clotilde. Ah, the sleek delight of her tricolored calico fur, and the elegant span of her whiskers. They way we spoon together in a sunny window and the way she grooms my face…
Such activities are not to be. I’m here with a raging stallion. Look at that black devil rear. He’s spectacular, in a bad boy kind of way. Flaring nostrils, flying mane and—Duck, Stephanie! He’s trying to kill her! He’s going completely nuts and is trying to strike her with a front hoof.
I’ve got to do something!
STEPHANIE DODGED THE HOOF by a fraction of an inch. She hit the ground and rolled toward the metal panel of the round pen, but there wasn’t enough room for her to slide underneath.
Instinct warned her and she scrabbled to her feet and dove just as Black Jack’s two front feet came down exactly where she’d been lying.
Stephanie had to admit that in the two weeks she’d been working with Black Jack, she hadn’t overcome his hatred of humans by one iota. Rupert Casper had really done a number on the animal. She didn’t want to know the details. She already despised Casper and everything he stood for. Her job was to bring Black Jack around. If she didn’t, Casper would most likely kill him.
But right now wasn’t the time to worry about the distant future. If she didn’t get out of the round pen, she wouldn’t have a future at all.
To her utter amazement, she saw the black cat dart between Black Jack’s back feet. It provided just enough distraction so she could hurl herself across the round pen. She had to get out. But when she was halfway up the metal panel, she saw the horse close the distance.
Ears flat and teeth bared, he bit her shoulder.
Pain shot through her, but she didn’t let go of the metal bars. If she fell under his feet now, he would stomp her to death.
The pain of the bite was so intense that she felt her hands weaken. She’d never seen a horse truly intent on killing a human. She’d heard stories, but hadn’t believed them. Something awful had been done to Black Jack, and it was going to take a lot to overcome it—if she lived that long.
Just when she thought she had to let go, the cat leaped onto the horse’s back, a move that made the stallion wheel and try to bite the cat. Stephanie heaved herself up the panel.
“Hold on.” The stranger came out of nowhere. With one vault, he was in the round pen with her. His arms closed around her hips and he hefted her over the panel and dropped her on the outside.
Before he could get out, the horse turned on him.
Lying in the dirt, heaving to catch her breath, she watched the horse and the man square off. The man made no threatening moves toward the horse, but he didn’t run. He held his ground, using the palm of his hand to indicate to the horse that he should come no closer.
To her amazement, Black Jack skidded to a halt. He pawed the ground and snorted. His eyes rolled, showing the whites, and he tossed his mane. While he was dangerous, Stephanie had to admit that he was also beautiful. As was the black cat, who’d come over to her and was licking her cheek with a sandpaper tongue.
“Easy, boy,” the stranger said to the horse. His voice was low, almost a whisper. He turned sideways to the horse and the two of them began to walk slowly around the pen, each ignoring the other. To Stephanie, it looked like a choreographed dance, performed by a troupe from some royal academy.
“You okay?” the stranger asked.
“Yeah.” She pushed up to a sitting position, her body feeling every thud she’d taken in the last ten minutes.
“You’re bleeding.” The man continued to pace the small enclosure. He made no attempt to move closer to the horse, but he gave no ground, either.
She looked at her shoulder. He was telling the truth. Blood had soaked through her shirt and was dribbling down her arm. “Doesn’t look life-threatening,” she said.
“Anybody ever tell you that it was stupid to climb in a pen with twelve hundred pounds of bad attitude?”
“Maybe.” She had no intention of explaining her actions to him. His behavior was unusual—she conceded that. But his dress, the worn jeans that hugged his lean body, the dusty boots and the blue chambray shirt that softened his hazel eyes—those things told her he was a cowboy. The one thing she didn’t need was a cowboy tending to her business.
“What’s this fella’s name?” he asked.
“Black Jack.”
“He’s a fine specimen, but his attitude sucks.” In two seconds, the cowboy vaulted out of the pen.
Black Jack stood for a moment as if he were trans-fixed. Then he charged the panel so hard he shook the entire round pen.
“What did you do to him?” she asked.
“That’s exactly the question I wanted to ask you. What the hell did you do to this animal to make him hate you so much?”
Stephanie arched her eyebrows. She wasn’t insulted in the least. It was exactly the question she would have asked had she come upon the same scene. “I don’t know who you are or where you came from, but that’s the right question. And you’ve got a keen sense of timing.” She pushed herself off the ground and stood. Her shoulder was killing her, but she’d never show it. “What’s your name?”
“Johnny Kreel.”
She held out her hand. “Stephanie Ryan.” She looked beyond him toward the barn. Parked beside it was a beat-up truck and horse trailer. She’d been so intent on Black Jack and staying alive that she hadn’t heard the cowboy drive up.
Familiar was at the truck and trailer, scoping it out. Eleanor had told her, and insisted it was true, that the cat was some kind of private detective. He did seem inordinately curious about things. Some would even call his brand of curiosity nosiness.
“I’ve been on the rodeo circuit,” Johnny said. “I saw your barn and wondered if you needed any help. Fence mending, building, things like that. And I can handle horses.”
