“He looks good,” she called.
Her words must have been snatched by the wind because Colt didn’t appear to hear. He stopped in front of her a moment later and crooked his finger, urging her to ride. In the old days she would have avoided it on a day like today, but watching him work with Playboy gave her confidence. Still, when it came time to place her foot in the stirrup, she hesitated.
You’ll never ride again.
Yes, but she wore a helmet, and she could just as easily take a spill off a bicycle or a ladder or even stepping off a curb. So what if reinjuring her brain might lead to permanent long-term complications such as paralysis...or worse. She refused to live life as if she were Humpty Dumpty afraid to take a tumble off a wall.
So she mounted.
“Okay, so don’t collect your reins.”
Natalie forced herself to concentrate, thinking maybe the wind might have taken part of his words away. “What do you mean don’t collect them? Don’t hold them at all?”
“No.” He placed a hand on his head to keep his hat from blowing off. “Hold them like you normally would, just don’t collect the slack.”
She nodded. It seemed contrary to everything she’d ever been told and everything she taught her students, but she did it anyway.
“Okay, send him out to the rail.”
A quick glance toward the mountains revealed a band of rain headed their way, although the clouds above seemed to be moving slower than the wind on the ground. They would have to hurry, but that was okay. Riding with no contact left her feeling as anxious as the first time she’d ridden with Colt. What if a plastic bag blew in from nowhere and spooked her horse? How would she stop him?
“Just relax.”
Easy for him to say. Still, she closed her eyes, willing her body to do as it was told, the familiar swing of her horse’s legs calming her nerves.
“Now try a circle, but instead of using the reins, I want you to put your weight on the inside stirrup of the direction you’re turning.”
His words prompted her to look at him. He was a dark figure standing in the middle of the arena in his black hat and black jacket. Once again she wondered if she’d misheard him. Leaning into a circle also went against her teaching. Sit up straight, her coaches had always told her. Don’t tilt left or right. She closed her eyes. She trusted Colt and so she did as he asked, surprised and pleased when Playboy changed directions.
“If he starts to act up or move too fast, don’t be afraid to go to the reins,” Colt instructed. “But use your voice first. We want him to start responding to your words as well as your body language.”
She found it hard to lean in without getting really, really dizzy. Something to do with her inner ear, no doubt. Yet lean in she did, fighting back nausea, and Playboy did exactly as Colt had trained him to do in a matter of days. Amazing. She could feel Playboy move beneath her, and it was a revelation to realize she could sense where they were going even with her eyes closed. A lean right and she would be headed back to the gate. She opened her eyes to see if she was right, pleased to note she was. She tested herself again, leaning left and moving toward the left corner, never looking, and when she gauged herself close enough, she checked her progress. Right where she thought she would be. It must have been a sixth sense. With her eyes closed she became hyperaware of everything. The sting of wind on her cheeks. The smell of rain in the distance. The sound of Playboy’s hooves in the sand.
“I don’t have to touch the reins at all.”
Colt nodded, but said nothing. He liked to keep his emotions behind a mask of indifference, she realized. Pretend as if he didn’t care one way or the other how things went. Yet when she studied him, took in the way his face softened when he was pleased, or the way his shoulders relaxed when Playboy behaved, she could tell what he was thinking. It was very much like reading horses. You had to look at everything as a whole in order to glean what they thought.
“Do you want to trot?” Colt asked.
Just the thought sent a shot of adrenaline straight to her heart. She wasn’t certain she should do it, and perhaps she shouldn’t, not yet. But sooner or later she’d have to do more than walk, because if she couldn’t muster the courage for that, well, there was no sense in any of it.
“Do you think I’m ready?”
“I think you have to try.” His gaze seemed affixed to hers.
“Okay.”
Good Lord. Her hands began to shake and her heart beat so quickly it affected her breathing.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
She braced herself before saying the word, “Trot,” in as stern a voice as she could muster.
Playboy set off instantly.
She wanted—oh, how she wanted—to clutch at the reins, to pull them toward her and jerk her horse to a stop. It took everything in her power simply to sit there, to do as Colt instructed and lean when she wanted to change direction. And then, when the dizziness struck with a force that made her breakfast somersault in her stomach, to close her eyes...
And focus.
The dizziness faded. Calm returned.
“Keep your center of gravity,” Colt instructed.
It was like riding on a sled, a bouncy one. Trotting meant she had to keep her eyes closed all the time with only occasional glances to ensure she wasn’t about to mow down Colt. If she’d thought walking made her sick, it was nothing compared to trotting, but she managed it somehow.
“Okay, now try a lope.”
“What?”
“Do it.”
She couldn’t. No way.
He must have sensed what she was thinking because he said, “Go on. Just a few strides. You can pull him up immediately if you want.”
You used to jump fences five feet tall.
Yes, before. And Colt didn’t know about what she’d been told. He had no idea that if she fell...
Don’t think about it.
She gave the command to lope before she could talk herself out of it, her stomach lurching when Playboy immediately did as she asked.
Oh, dear heaven.
She clutched the reins. She didn’t tighten them, just held them in a firm grip. She needed to trust that Playboy would keep her safe and that he would listen to her. She peeked to make sure she wasn’t headed for the arena rail, surprised when her stomach didn’t flip and the dizziness didn’t return. In fact, Playboy moved so slowly, his lope so smooth and easy to sit that the opposite happened. She found she could keep her eyes open.
“I just need to keep my eye up.”
“Your what?” Colt called.
“It’s a jumping term. I can’t look down.”
“There you go.”
Yes, there she went. She tried turning her head, but that made her woozy, so she focused on staring between Playboy’s ears, a smile coming to her face as she sat in the saddle and guided him with nothing more than her weight.
“Whoa.” She backed up the word by leaning back.
The gelding listened, his back end dipping down as he all but skidded to a stop. Natalie couldn’t help but laugh.
“That was incredible,” she marveled.
She glanced at Colt. As usual, his face seemed impossible to read. Seemed. But she caught glimpses of his thoughts below the surface. He’d rocked back on his heels, his eyes a lighter shade of copper. His hands were relaxed now and one side of his mouth tipped up. He looked at her with what might have been called bored indifference, but beneath it all she spotted deep-rooted pleasure.
“I said you could do it.”
She nodded, stretching back so she could pat Playboy’s rump, her horse’s ears flicking in response. “You were right.”
Colt walked up to her, rested a hand on her thigh, and Natalie grew dizzy for a whole other reason. She stared down at where that hand rested, her senses clearly hyperaware because she could feel the heat of his fingers and the weight of his palm and the gentle swipe of his thumb against the surface of her jeans.
“Good job.”
Rare praise. She knew that. Colt didn’t hand out compliments easily. And here she was lying to him.
It was as if one of the clouds overhead had darkened and taken all the joy out of the moment. She knew she had to tell him the one secret she’d never told anybody. She just dreaded doing it.
Dreaded disappointing him.
* * *
SHE’D GONE QUIET.
Colt couldn’t figure out if she was just tired from her ride or if he’d been too hard on her.
“Look, if I’m pushing you too fast, just say the word and I’ll back off.”
“No, no.” She shook her head as she led her horse to the barn. The wind had kicked up even more, blowing her cropped hair across her brow. “It’s not that.”
So it was something else then. “If you’d rather not help me out at my sister’s, that’s fine. With the rain coming I wouldn’t blame you for bugging out.”
“No, I want to help.”
She said little else as they escaped the wind, Colt glad for the shelter of his barn. He got busy untacking her horse. The scent of sweaty animal filled the air. Some might dislike the smell, he thought as he pulled the saddle from Playboy’s back, but it soothed his soul. No matter how bad things had gotten with his dad, there had always been this—horses and the comfort of them. So he took his time, touching Playboy here and there as he removed the bridle and slipped a halter on his head, talking to him, being gentle.
Like he wanted to be gentle with Natalie.
“Ready?” she asked.
Her question brought him back from the brink of his thoughts or, more specifically, the memory of how hard it had been to stop himself from pulling her down off her horse. He’d wanted to kiss her after she’d conquered her fear of riding Playboy. He still wanted to kiss her.
“Let’s go,” he replied.
Something was eating at her, too, although what it was he couldn’t fathom. Was she mad at him for pushing her so hard? He wouldn’t blame her if she was. He had a tendency to do that. Got it from his dad.
Thoughts of his father made his own mood sour. “We’ll take my truck.”
The curtain of rain had slid over the mountains and into the valley. They would have a half-hour, maybe less, before they would get a soaking. Fortunately, Claire’s kennels were mostly covered, but the outside runs weren’t.
“We’d better hurry,” he said with a nod toward the hills. “Rain’s coming.”
His sister’s place wasn’t far from his own. No more than a five-minute drive. That would come in handy in the future, although he definitely didn’t want to think about it.
“How many dogs does your sister have?”
He shrugged. “It varies.”
“And she rehomes them?”
Sam must have filled her in. “Marcus was in the Army, too. Part of a canine combat unit. When he was forced to come back home because of his illness he had to leave his dog behind. It was something Claire never forgave the military for. That dog had saved his life more than once, but to the Army a dog is a commodity, and so Zero was given to a new handler. Claire worked hard to change all that after Marcus died. These days she takes the dogs that are no longer viable commodities and reunites them with their former handlers. Failing that, she rehomes them.”
Natalie had turned to face him, and even though Colt wasn’t big on conversation, he found himself thinking he didn’t like it when she sat there all quiet. He liked her animated. Talking. Happy.
And that was a bizarre thought.
“What about when the dog’s tour of duty ended? The military wouldn’t give them back to their handlers even then?” She asked.
“Nope.” His hand tightened on the steering wheel remembering how much his brother-in-law had loved his dog, and how hard it had been on him when he was forced to leave it behind. “Claire moved heaven and earth to get the military to work with her. Congressmen, senators, even writing to the president of the United States. I think they got tired of hearing from her and that’s why they gave in.”
“Did she ever get her husband’s dog back?”
It was a question he dreaded. Even after all these years the memory of that reunion evoked a near physical pain near his heart. “Yes, she did.”
For the first time since Natalie had gotten off Playboy, she smiled. “That’s great. A happy ending.”
No. Not really, but she didn’t need to know that. He decided not to share the rest of the story with her even though she might ask about Zero when she met the dogs.
“Why are you looking at me like that? What happened?”
“Like what?”
“As if you’ve lost your best friend.”
Because he had lost his best friend when Marcus died, and it blew his mind that she could read that on his face. “Nothing.” Just then a flat splotch of rain hit the windshield, the liquid dilating to a half-dollar size. “Looks like we’re going to get wet.”
As a change of subject, it didn’t work. “I can tell by your face that whatever you’re thinking about, it wasn’t good.”
They’d reached his sister’s house and he used the excuse to evade the subject. “Better move quickly.” He shut off the engine.
But she didn’t move, didn’t answer, just stared at him, her gaze as blue as the wings of a butterfly. Rain began to pound on the roof, the first drops like the taps of military drums.
“Tell me what happened.”
He didn’t want to, he really didn’t. Even now, two years later, he could still taste bile in his mouth.
“The dog didn’t make it, did it?”
He jerked his face toward her. How in the hell had she picked up on that? “What makes you say that?”
Her eyes flicked over his face. “You’re like a book. I can read you.”
He drew back, unsure what to say because he’d had the same thought about her earlier. Her admission disturbed him, and not because he didn’t like her ability to read him. No. What disturbed him was the way her admission made him feel. Pleased. Relieved. Curious despite himself. They had a connection, and the more time he spent in her company, the harder it was to fight it.
She was still staring at him, still waiting. He swallowed and forced his gaze ahead, away from her. If he stared at her...
“It was near the end of Marcus’s life.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel. Focus on your words. “Claire swears the news did him in. She had Zero’s body exhumed so he could be buried with her husband. Marcus loved that dog and Claire knew it. When it was all over and done with she vowed never to have the same thing happen twice. That’s how Combat Pet Rescue came into existence.”
He dared to glance at her, saw tears in her eyes, and had to look away.
“My sister’s a pretty remarkable woman.”
With all she had been through—the sadness of their childhood, the death of her husband—Claire could easily have become doubtful and disillusioned. But instead she was the eternal optimist. She believed Adam would be fine. They would all be fine. She believed one day Colt would find love. He’d never been able to convince her otherwise. She didn’t deserve what she was going through now.
“I’m sorry,” Claire said softly.
“Not your fault.”
He turned to look her in the eye and when he did, the urge to touch her made his fingers twitch. What the hell was it with her?
“No, not just about your sister and her dog. That, too, but I’m sorry for something else.”
He watched her lips move, wondered if they would be as soft and sweet as she was. He needed to get out of the truck. Away from her. Before...
“Can it wait?” His vocal cords didn’t want to work. He had to cough to clear his throat. “Those kennels are going to be a mess in a matter of minutes.”
She looked about ready to cry again. He saw her turn away, look out the passenger-side window for a second before she took a deep breath and faced him again. “I shouldn’t ride.”
“Not in this kind of weather, no. N
obody should ride in this.”
“No. That’s not what I mean.”
“You mean because it makes you sick? That’s okay. We’ll work on that.”
He saw her rake her bottom lip with her teeth as she shook her head. She looked him square in the eye and he saw it then, or perhaps he just finally understood. There was guilt in her eyes and sorrow maybe even a hint of defiance.
“My doctor told me never to ride a horse again.”
Chapter Ten
Natalie watched Colt’s profile. If he were a horse, he’d be on the verge of kicking out. He clutched the steering wheel as if he needed to hold on to something to keep from flying off the handle.
And then one word emerged. “Why?”
He spoke in a tone that was calm, but his body language told her he was anything but. His shoulders kept flexing, as did his fingers on the wheel.
“I could reinjure myself or...”
“Or?” he asked, his fingers finally relaxing, but only so he could drum them along the steering wheel.
“Or worse.”
“Worse how?”
She took a deep breath. “I could die.”
He expelled something that was half curse, half huff of anger. “Maybe you should explain to me exactly what the doctor told you.”
She hated talking about it, but she forced herself to say the words. “It’s called second impact syndrome. It happens after a severe concussion. It may take months for my brain to thoroughly heal or even years, or it might never be completely the same. The thing is there’s no way to know and so if I reinjure myself I could be dealing with mild symptoms, or the very worst kind.”
“You mean death.”
She nodded. “Dilated pupils, loss of consciousness and, yes, a high probability of death.”
Her Rodeo Hero (Cowboys in Uniform) Page 8
