As he watched them move around the arena, Slade scowled. His ex-wife had been a dressage rider, too. It was easy to recognize how quietly Jordana sat, her shoulders back, spine straight, her hands low in front of the saddle. She had the exact same posture. Yet, Slade couldn’t draw a comparison between her and his ex-wife. Isabel had been a petulant child who’d used pouting and throwing temper tantrums in order to get what she wanted out of him. Jordana didn’t seem fazed by his cold, hard manner. She took it in stride, listened to his orders and then seamlessly executed them. That made him curious about her. The last thing he needed, however, was to be drawn to a woman. He’d been successful these last four years of ignoring the opposite sex. His focus was trying to hold his beleaguered ranch together one month at a time.
“That’s good enough,” Slade called to her. “Come on in.”
Jordana slowed Stormy down and guided her mare over to where Slade was standing. His face looked like stone. What did he think? Was Stormy’s conformation good enough? And why was she so drawn to this glacial cowboy? Dismounting, she took the reins over Stormy’s head.
“Unsaddle her.”
Jordana nodded, dropped the reins and went to lift the stirrup to reach the cinch around the horse’s sweaty barrel. She lifted off the saddle and the blanket, settling them across one of the rails of the pipe fence.
“Lead her out to the center of the arena.”
Picking up the reins, Jordana walked, and Stormy followed her like a dog at her heels. Jordana turned and stood beside her mare’s head. She watched as Slade approached. His gray eyes were narrowed, and she knew he was now critically assessing Stormy. Crouching beside her, he spoke softly to the mustang before gently laying his hands on the top of her front right leg.
Stormy’s ears twitched back and forth to the softened male sounds. She stood perfectly still as Slade ran his hands knowingly down the length of her leg. He also examined the health of her hoof.
Shocked at the change in his demeanor, Jordana could only stand there keeping her mouth from dropping open. She watched as Slade’s large, scarred hands moved with knowing skill down Stormy’s sweaty leg. Hands that moved with such ease that Jordana swore she could feel them caressing her at the same time. Shaking herself out of the shock that Slade wasn’t a coldhearted bastard like Paul Edwin had been, she allowed herself to take a deep breath of relief. Slade had a soft side to him after all! Even if he only unveiled and utilized it with horses, that was fine with Jordana. She could take his military-like demeanor if only he treated her horse with loving care. And he was doing just that.
Slade moved quietly around to the other side of the mare. He placed his hands on her other front leg. One never squatted down at the side of a horse’s rear. If something spooked them, they could kick out in a semicircle arc and nail the person. Slade had seen people kicked in the head for doing just that. Straightening up, he walked toward her rear legs. He placed his left hand on the animal’s rump and then, with his right hand, leaned down and stood close to the mare so she couldn’t kick and injure him. In this way, it was safe, and he could continue to perform a thorough examination.
Jordana watched in silence. Slade’s calloused hands were sun-darkened from being outside most of his life. Stormy stood quietly. She trusted the large cowboy. More relief filtered through Jordana. After Slade had examined Stormy’s legs, he then came to her face and gently moved his fingers around her ears and her poll, the top of her head. Jordana knew he was looking for bumps, scars or cuts. Once more she felt his hands flowing across her. It was a crazy sensation! What was it about this hardened cowboy that unstrung her as a woman?
Gulping, Jordana forced herself to remain silent. She knew Slade was tactically memorizing every part of Stormy’s conformation. He was building an anatomical picture of her body in his mind. And once he was done, he would have his decision for her. She saw him slide his fingers across the black dorsal stripe down the center of Stormy’s back. Mustangs often possessed this stripe. Plus, Stormy had horizontal curved black bars on the back of her lower legs. It made her look somewhat like a long-lost relative from the zebra species. But she wasn’t. These were genetic markers mustangs carried strongly throughout the breed.
Slade rounded the mare and then stood about six feet away from Dr. Lawton. She looked concerned and serious. He understood why. Seesawing back and forth inwardly, Slade didn’t know what to do. Lawton was pretty in a natural kind of way. She had an oval face with a stubborn chin that spoke to her ability to finish what she started. There was no extra flesh on her body that he could see. That meant she was riding daily. Endurance riders put in ten to fifteen miles a day on their horse to keep it in shape for the fifty-and hundred-mile contests. She was a woman, and Slade tried to avoid the opposite sex like a plague. His other students were men. And that’s the way he liked it.
“Your mare has a problem,” he stated bluntly, drilling her with a hard look. Instantly, her eyes opened wider, and a stunned expression came to her features. He pointed down at the horse’s front left leg. “There’s scar tissue on her pastern that indicates she’s suffered a serious cut in that area at one time.”
“But,” Jordana said, “that shouldn’t stop her from being an endurance horse.”
Scowling, Slade said, “That cut was deep. What do you know about it?”
“I’ve owned Stormy for two years, Mr. McPherson. She had that cut there long before that.” Watching his expression, Jordana felt frustrated. All she could see was the glittering shards in his gray eyes. It was obvious he was going to turn her down.
Not if she could help it! “Stormy was captured out in Nevada in a government roundup. She was sold to Bud Hutchinson, who lives here in Jackson Hole. He told me when I bought his house that the mare came with the deal. When I had the vet check her, he noted that scar on her pastern. Bud said the mare came to him with it. The vet thought she probably cut her pastern a year earlier, so no one really knows the extent of that injury.”
Grunting, Slade said, “Well, it’s her Achilles’ heel, Dr. Lawton.”
“What about the rest of her conformation?”
“She’s sound and she has good legs. But that scar makes her questionable. If she cut a tendon as a yearling out in the wilds, and it healed, that tendon is always going to be weak and suspect of breaking down.”
“But you don’t know if it was a cut tendon,” Jordana countered strongly. She wasn’t going to let this cowboy run over her.
Shrugging, Slade muttered, “That’s true.”
“And her legs are fine otherwise?”
“Yes, they’re good.”
“What else?” Jordana prodded. She saw him scowl, his thick, dark brown brows moving downward in a slash because of her needling. Maybe he was the type of trainer who wanted to see his students have courage to confront him. Maybe he wasn’t. She wasn’t sure. All Jordana did know is she wanted a chance to train her mare with this man, no matter how sour and antisocial he appeared to be. At least he was gentle with Stormy. Jordana had gone through residency and taken plenty of blows from men who were threatened by her presence as a woman and a doctor. She’d weather Slade McPherson, too.
Surprised at Lawton’s sudden backbone and fearlessness to confront him, Slade growled, “The worst strike against her is your horse is a mare.”
Mouth dropping open, Jordana snapped it shut. Her hand tightened on the rope. Stormy’s ears flicked back and forth as she read her mistress’s reaction. “A mare? Oh, don’t tell me you’re one of those people? Mares compete in endurance against geldings and stallions and win!”
The power and force of her tempered anger hit Slade directly. Eyes narrowing, he saw the blue fire in her eyes. “Mares are fickle, just like women. They’re made up of unstable hormones.”
Real anger fired through Jordana. How dare this man! Mouth tightening, she lowered her husky voice. “That’s an old saw and it doesn’t work anymore, Mr. McPherson. If you’re going to turn me down because my horse is a mare, that
’s a lousy excuse.”
Squirming inwardly, Slade realized Dr. Lawton wasn’t going to take no for an answer. If he said, “you’re a woman and I don’t like training women,” then she’d explode into rage for sure. “Mares are just more difficult,” he snarled. “But it’s your choice. I don’t really care.” And he didn’t. His students had gone on to win major endurance rides over the years.
Brows moving up, Jordana said, “Then, you’ll accept us for training?”
“You aren’t going to get far,” Slade warned. “Your mare has a weak pastern due to that old injury. She’ll break down before she ever gets to an endurance contest.”
Angry, Jordana said, “And I disagree with you.”
“Just because you’re a doctor of humans doesn’t mean you know animal anatomy,” Slade reminded her. She really got under his skin, and he recalled Isabel had exhibited that same capability. Grudgingly, Slade admired Jordana because she had fire, passion and wasn’t afraid to fight for what she thought was right. Isabel always sneaked around behind him, manipulated him and then pounced. Lawton wasn’t like that. In fact, he admired her fearlessness because even men didn’t take him on. Slade had one hell of a reputation of winning any argument he chose to defend. And he was losing this one to this banty rooster of a woman with fiery blue eyes and a stubborn chin.
Stormy moved restlessly, and Jordana placed her hand on the mare’s damp neck. Instantly, the mustang quieted. “You’re correct about that, Mr. McPherson. There is no test that can conclusively show that Stormy partially cut a tendon in her pastern or not. I’m willing to go on faith that she didn’t.”
“Okay, it’s your money and time,” he drawled.
“Then, you’ll train us?” Hope rose in Jordana’s voice. She knew McPherson was going to be a hard, demanding trainer, but she’d endured the toughest job in the world as a resident and made it. She’d make this a success, too.
“I’ll 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 bored.”
“That’s good,” Jordana said. “Can you tell me the training schedule, Shorty?”
“The Boss didn’t?” he asked, surprised.
Shaking her head, Jordana pulled out a small notebook from the back pocket of her jeans and opened it up. “No. And I’d like to know.”
“Why, sure you do, ma’am. Let’s amble down to the tack room at the other end of the pole barn. You’ll be putting your saddle, bridle and tack box in there.”
Jordana followed. The wrangler was so different from the owner it was stunning. Shorty was jovial, kind and open. All the things Slade McPherson was not.
“Starting tomorrow, the Boss will have me put Stormy on the hot walker for half an hour.”
Mechanical walkers were a must in training. Jordana saw the machine in another nearby corral. It had four long metal arms sticking upward with a thick rope and snap on the end of each one. She knew four horses at a time would be snapped on to each rope and then the speed would be set by the operator. The circular walker looked more like a space vehicle to anyone who didn’t know what it was used for. The covered motor was located in the center. The operator could make the horses walk or trot.
The Last Cowboy Page 3
