Cowboy Crazy (20 page)

Sarah strode past Lane as he held open the passenger door to his pickup.

“I’ll take my own car,” she said. “That way I can just go.”

He gave her Malibu a scornful once-over. “That car’s not made for the ranch roads. You’re going to get a flat.”

“That’ll be my problem.” The old car was like her—tougher than it looked. Besides, she doubted the ranch roads were much worse than the lane to the Love Nest.

She was wrong. The Malibu bottomed out twice on the rutted road. Deep truck tracks were carved into the surface, frozen, then dried to rocklike permanence. She steered to one side so at least two wheels were on a level surface, gritting her teeth as weeds scraped her door.

There was nowhere to turn around, and stopping would bring Lane to her rescue. He’d take her to the ranch and she’d be stuck there. She didn’t want to spend any more time in the company of horses than she had to. Or in the company of Lane Carrigan.

He turned onto a weed-choked two-track after about a quarter-mile, passing under a massive log ranch gate decorated with a set of elk horns flanked by two mule deer racks. It was atmospheric but not ostentatious, so it didn’t prepare her for the view as she steered the Malibu around a rutted bend in the road.

The barn rose up before her, tall, ancient, and weathered. Wide, welcoming doors at the front slid open to either side, offering a glimpse of the shadowed interior. A hay door at the top framed stacks of gleaming straw.

Generations of ranchers had embellished and added to the basic edifice. On one side, old lean-to additions tilted against its solid mass like chicks round a hen, but on the other a modern new addition stretched out, with wide windows over dutch doors that indicated nearly a dozen individual stalls. A few chickens and something that looked like a pheasant pecked in the driveway, adding a homey barnyard feel.

Old corrals built of a haphazard assortment of poles and boards created a free-form patchwork that stretched from the barn, undulating over the hills like a roughly stitched quilt. Linked in a complex network by every imaginable type of gate, each square was polka-dotted with horses in colors ranging from black to palomino. The corrals gave way to a pasture surrounded by miles of crooked, weathered fence, with more horses scattered over the yellowing grass that stretched to the horizon.

The place looked like a picture-book ranch—or a scene from her adolescent fantasies of some future paradise. She felt like a goose-girl again, a barnyard princess, and this was her kind of castle.

The house, though, was less of a dream and more of a nightmare. Someone had concluded that if
big
was good,
enormous
was better. The result was a place so grandiose that it looked absurd. The high stone front was set with massive carved doors that looked large enough to admit a herd of cattle. The stone section was topped by a cathedral-style log edifice that was mostly windows. Two-story log-and-stone wings flanked the center, and a round tower rose from one side. The top story of the tower was even higher than the cathedral roof, and it had windows all around. Sarah could only imagine the view from inside.

She heard Lane’s truck door slam behind her and the crunch of his boots on the gravel drive.

“Grandaddy grew up poor.” He gave the house a rueful smile. “He wanted to make sure everybody knew how much money he’d made.”

She shot him an irritated look. “You thought Trevor had to have this all to himself last night?”

He looked away, squinting toward the corrals as if he hadn’t heard her.

“This place must sleep about fifty,” she said.

“There are only twelve bedrooms. Each one has a different theme, so its fun to switch around.” He shrugged. “I wanted to give him his privacy. I hadn’t warned him I was coming.”

“You didn’t warn me either, and I had to keep a lot closer quarters with you.”

“Yeah, that worked out pretty well.”

“Dog.” She suppressed the urge to smile as he stepped up to the corral fence and rested his elbows on the top. Joining him, she propped one foot on the bottom rail and watched three horses sidle toward them. There was a pretty sorrel with a white blaze, a slightly bony palomino, and a roan that didn’t look to be much more than a yearling. The sorrel stretched her neck as she approached, testing the air.

“They’re gorgeous,” she said. “Well, except for the palomino.”

“That’s Tony,” Lane said. “He had a rough time. He’ll be a good-looking boy once he gets some food in him.”

“Poor thing. But they’re all quarter horses, aren’t they?”

“I’m partial to ’em.”

She couldn’t really blame him. The horses all had strong hindquarters, broad chests, and beautiful heads, wide at the forehead and tapering to an almost delicate muzzle. Their eyes were curious and soft, and she felt an urge stirring inside her—an urge she’d managed to suppress for over a decade.

Lane watched her stroke the sorrel’s nose, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his smile widened. “That’s Sadie,” he said. “She’s my project horse right now. Just turned three and learning fast.”

“She’s beautiful,” Sarah murmured.

“Want to ride her?”

Sarah pulled her hand away and stuck it in her pocket. “Nope. I told you, I’m scared.”

“You don’t look scared.”

“It only happens when I try to get on.”

It was the closest she’d come to telling anyone about what had happened, but Lane’s phone interrupted with a loud beep, startling the animals into jerking their heads back.

“I have to take this.” He turned toward the house as he flicked the phone open. “Be right back.”

***

Once they figured out she wasn’t bearing food, the horses lost interest in Sarah and went about the usual equine business of standing in the sun, rolling in the dirt, and taking turns nibbling the itchy spots on each others’ withers. She watched them a while, then moved past a couple of empty corrals toward the back of the barn. The sun felt good on the back of her neck, and the scent of green grass, hay, horse manure, and that indefinable mix of sage, dirt, and pine that defined Wyoming brought back memories of her childhood. Some of the horses reminded her of the ones she’d ridden in her childhood—chestnuts and bays, palominos and blacks. Even the path they were walking was familiar, a dirt trail pounded flat by the passage of boots about a foot from the fence line. Shoving her hands in her pockets, she kicked away a few loose stones and followed it for a while.

She was so lost in her memories that she didn’t notice where she was until she thought of Lane and looked back. He was nowhere to be seen, probably because she’d turned the corner of the barn and made her way past the farthest corral to a high-fenced round pen set off by itself.

Nostalgia squeezed and softened her heart. She’d spent some of the most meaningful hours of her life in her stepfather’s round pen. It was where you taught horses the basics—where you taught them to trust and work in partnership. Circling the walls, she reached the gate and glanced inside. There was a horse standing in the center of the pen, staring at her. She stared back, sucking in a quick, stunned breath.

Flash.

She’d lost her mind. Or maybe she’d really gone back in time. Because this was Coppertone Flash. Once you worked with horses long enough, they became as distinct from each other as humans. No other horse reflected sunlight with that gleaming shade of copper-penny red. No other horse had quite the same breadth between the eyes, the set of the ears, the tapered muzzle.

This was no flashback, no fond memory. This was the past rising up like a ghost from the grave in the form of a horse, stamping one foot and blowing as if he recognized her. She put a hand to her forehead in a vain effort to combat a dizzy spell and the horse lifted his head, startled.

“Flash,” she whispered.

He was just as she remembered him, his coat bright, the color tarnishing gradually to black on the legs and muzzle. His dark skin deepened the shadows that defined his powerful muscles, and the copper glow gave added definition to a build that was already incredible. He was a big horse, probably sixteen hands, with the solid presence only quarter horses had. He swung his head toward her and she saw the long-lashed eyes considering her as they always had, making up his mind whether he’d cooperate today. Evidently he decided he would, because he turned and walked slowly toward the gate, taking his time, his black mane fluttering in the breeze.

She couldn’t breathe. She needed to get her heartbeat under control. Horses sensed your mood, and hers was a mixture of wonder and fear that probably echoed the horse’s feelings as he paused with one hoof raised, poised to flee.

“Flash,” she whispered. “It’s okay.” She turned her body slightly away from him and looked away, resisting the temptation to make eye contact. Stallions sometimes saw that as a challenge, and Flash had been wild and unpredictable—even ill-tempered at times. But Roy had taught her that no animal had a truly bad nature. Every quirk of character had its roots in something—a past trauma, an ache or pain.

But they had never found the root of Flash’s problems. He’d been fast to flinch and quick to kick from the day they’d bought him. Roy had been convinced he could figure out what was bothering the horse and turn those hair-trigger reactions into something positive. But though Sarah had been able to ride the horse in several rodeos and rack up a few wins on him, Flash never really changed. No matter how they pampered him, he always seemed to be under some kind of strain, his coat shining with a little too much sweat, his muscles rippling and twitching with nerves. Once in a while he’d explode, seemingly at nothing, but Sarah had always managed to avoid the flailing hooves.

Her stepfather hadn’t been so lucky. But despite what had happened to Roy, Sarah had never seen Flash as a killer. When he kicked, it was out of fear or pain; they just could never figure out what was scaring him or hurting him.

Roy would have forgiven him. Roy forgave easily, totally and unreservedly. It was a quality Sarah envied and had never been able to imitate.

“Take your time. Easy.” She was soothing herself more than the horse. He watched as she got a grip on her nerves, breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth. If you thought about your breath, you centered and slowed, and a calm spirit drew horses like magic. If you were genuinely at ease, even the most frightened horse would want to trust you.

She kept Flash in her peripheral vision and tried not to think about the past, but the images flickered in her mind’s eye like a runaway movie on a tattered screen. She heard Roy’s shouts, saw him bleeding in the dirt at the bottom of the ramp. She remembered swinging the trailer door closed on the trembling horse before racing to the house to call for help.

Panic, loss, and regret swirled through her heart as she gripped the top rail of the fence with white-knuckled fingers. She’d mourned Roy in the weeks that followed, but privately, in her sixteen-year-old heart, she’d mourned the horse too. He’d been a teenaged girl’s dream, the stallion only she could ride, and she’d wept to think of some other trainer making him into the miracle she’d been praying for. She hadn’t known what had happened to Flash, and she’d told herself she didn’t care.

But the truth was, she’d cared a lot. And all that caring had simmered for years behind the mask of indifference she’d put on the day the check came.

Surely the buyer knew he’d stolen that horse. Flash’s conformation and bloodlines were unbeatable. He’d been remarkable in the arena on his good days, stopping and spinning with textbook perfection. She’d been sure she could ride him to a championship if she could just find the key to calming him. If she’d just had a little more time…

Breathe
, she told herself
Breathe. Breathe slow. Breathe easy.
Gradually her grip on the fence loosened and she felt her equanimity return. Along with it came her old confidence—a confidence she’d only ever felt with horses. Working with people was an effort; working with horses had been intuitive and easy.

The horse was three feet from the gate now. Stretching his neck, he sniffed the air in front of her face and took a step closer until they stood face to face, sharing breath. She closed her eyes.

This was the point in getting to know a green horse she’d always loved—the moment when her mind and the horse’s melded in a silent communion that was filled with promise and understanding. But in Flash, there had always been an underlying agitation, like a white-water stretch frothing over stones in a stream. It was a part of himself he hadn’t been willing to share, a secret fear he hadn’t let her see.

This horse didn’t have that. His mind was as smooth as a summer lake. It was obvious his confidence in himself had never been shaken. This animal’s past was nothing but cool breezes and sun on the meadow.

Somehow, somebody had saved her horse.

Sarah stared at the horse. If she’d died and gone to heaven, this was exactly what she would have wished for: a second chance with Flash. A chance to start him fresh, before whatever had damaged him had done its work.

But
it’s impossible. He’d be old. This horse isn’t old.

She shrugged off her doubts and fumbled to undo the latch. There was no point in second-guessing this. Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe she really had died.

She didn’t care. When the gate closed behind her with a metallic clang, she felt like she’d shut out the real world and walked into the dream. The round pen was its own universe, a place out of time.

She straightened her shoulders, an almost imperceptible movement, and took on the leader’s role in her mind. The horse reacted instantly, arching his neck and backing one step away. He stood stock-still, poised between submission and flight.

He chose flight. Good horses always did.

Sarah heeded him around the ring, keeping just behind his flank, urging him into a lope with nothing but her own intent and the subtleties of body position. He moved beautifully, his mane and tail sailing behind him as his hooves ate up the ground.

Anyone watching would have said they were just a woman standing still and a horse running, but there was so much more going on beneath the surface. They were testing each other, deciding who would lead and who would follow. She could feel the horse considering his options, and finally he slowed almost imperceptibly. The circle grew smaller as he bowed his body and eased into a trot, bobbing his head down once in a while and working his mouth.

He was getting tired of running. He was asking to stop.

But it wasn’t time yet. She stiffened slightly and took a step backward. Breaking into a lope again, the horse kept one eye on her, watching for permission to slow. She stepped left, and like a dance partner he caught the cue and dropped into a trot, neck arched and tail high. He was flirting with her, trying to charm her into giving way.

Not
gonna
happen, buddy
, she thought.
Not
yet.

She took another step and he dropped his head and smoothed out his gait. She remembered riding in the round ring while Roy stood in the center offering advice.

Move
your
right
leg
back. He’s not flexing.

Get
back
on
your
seat-bones, girl—you’re not a jockey.

Relax. Stop thinking so hard. Let it be.

She so wished he could share this moment, see this horse. She wished she could finish this training session and sit in the barn with him afterward, dissecting every move she’d made, talking technique, figuring out what worked for the horse, what worked for her. Roy had trained her like he’d trained the horses, with deep understanding and an almost eerie sense of what she was thinking.

God, she missed him. She blinked away tears, realizing she’d lost her concentration. To work with horses you had to be present, a conscious participant in the process. She’d broken that rule and the horse had stopped. She swiped at her cheeks, chiding herself for losing focus, but when he stepped up and pushed at her with his nose the tears started again.

The horse shoved the length of his muzzle against her arm and she rested her head on his neck, feeling a rare, easy kinship with the animal. She’d never been able to bond with Flash like this. Never. He’d always held a piece of himself apart. Now he was giving his whole heart.

She buried her face in his mane, breathing in the sweet scent of him and struggling to smother her tears. He stood patiently, letting her recover, easing her turmoil with his own level calm.

Stepping back, she sniffed and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. She didn’t know where Lane had gone, but she was glad he hadn’t witnessed her emotional breakdown. And she was glad she’d had a chance to be alone with this horse—whoever he was.

Because she knew it couldn’t be Flash—he was too young. Flash had to be his sire, so whoever had bought him had bred him.

“Where did you come from, baby?” she murmured to the horse. “And what happened to your daddy?”

She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

***

Lane stood a few feet from the gate, watching Sarah perform the intricate dance of teaching a horse to be tame.

Much as Lane loved rodeo, bronc bucking was a sad reminder of the old way of training horses—the fast, brutal method of riding an animal to a standstill. In the real world, a horse that had been bucked out gave up, and then he wasn’t a whole horse anymore. He’d be your servant, but he’d never be your partner.

The new methods were respectful but not soft. There was no doubt who was the leader and who had to follow, but neither horse nor rider was diminished by the process if you did it right.

And Sarah did it right.

He’d been worried the sight of Cinnamon Chrome would freak her out. There was no way anyone who’d ever seen Flash wouldn’t know this was his colt. It was like the sire had been reincarnated into the son—like Flash had come back to life again, whole and healthy.

Lane’s grandfather had offered to buy Lane a horse the summer he’d turned twenty-one, hoping the idea of training horses would lure him away from the rodeo ring before he got hurt. He’d been willing to pay a high price to keep his grandson safe, and Lane could have bought any horse at the sale.

But the moment he’d seen the big red dun snorting and racing in manic circles around the sale barn corral, he’d thought
mine
.

Flash had been his first rescue. He couldn’t figure out why nobody wanted the horse, but there was no telling where he would have ended up if Lane hadn’t bought him. Maybe he’d have gone back to his owners, whoever they were—but it was also possible he’d end up on a truck en route to a Mexican slaughtering plant.

He’d never been able to ride the horse—but he’d been able to breed him and keep those bloodlines alive. Cinn was just one of the colts that looked like clones of their sire.

He watched Sarah crying and resisted the urge to help her. She wasn’t the kind of woman who appreciated sympathy. He should go, give her time to recover.

But if she was going to have an emotional breakdown in the ring, somebody had to look out for her safety. You never knew how that kind of thing might affect a horse. Cinn didn’t have the unpredictable blowups that had made his sire so dangerous, but he was still a stallion.

Lane watched from a respectful distance as she rested her cheek against the horse’s neck. Judging from her heaving shoulders, she was having a hard time getting hold of herself. He’d never seen her like this—broken down and utterly beaten.

He was relieved when she bowed her head, blinked, and straightened her shoulders. She patted the horse a few times as if assuring the animal that she’d recovered. Then she stepped back and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

He moved toward the gate and Cinn whinnied in recognition. Sarah spun to see what had riled up the horse, and he was hoping she’d smile when she caught sight of him. But her face was still streaked with tears, and she looked anything but happy.

“Tell me where he came from,” she said, nesting her fingers in the horse’s dark mane. “Who bought Flash? I need to know. Because whoever bought him ruined my family’s life.”