The Wrangler

by Pamela Britton

  “Go on with you,” his grandmother said, releasing one of Samantha’s hands and wiping her own eyes. “We were just having a little heart-to-heart.”

  “About what?” he asked.

  “Our mustangs.”

  And if Clinton had been near that damn couch, he’d have sank into it, too. Never. Not once. Not in all the years that he’d been alive, had his grandmother ever admitted to a stranger that their mustangs were more than local legend.

  “Gigi,” he said gently.

  “Sit down, Mr. McAlister,” she said, patting the couch. “We need to talk.”

  “About what?” he asked, preferring to move forward and sit in one of two armchairs across from them.

  “Don’t play stupid, young man. You’ll be gathering our horses next week. I want you to take Samantha here along.”

  Samantha gasped. “Oh, Mrs. Baer. I can’t do that!”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s too much of an imposition.”

  Well, at least one of them was acting sensibly. “Gigi, please,” he said. “She’s right. It’s not feasible, not to mention that it’s highly dangerous. Why, can she even ride?”

  She could be a reporter, he thought to himself. Or some kind of damn animal rights activist. Lord. The possibilities were endless.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” his grandmother said. “Of course she can ride. She’s from the east coast.” She said it as if everyone in that part of the country rode horses.

  “What the blazes does that have to do with whether she can ride or not?”

  “But I can ride,” Samantha said in a small voice.

  Clinton leaned back. He stared at the two women in front of him. Somehow, Samantha Davies had managed to wrap his grandmother around her little finger…and he wished he could figure out how she’d done it in such a short amount of time.

  “I won’t do it,” he said. “I won’t bring her along. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Poppycock,” Gigi said.

  “Gigi, think about this. We don’t even know this woman.”

  “She has a big heart,” Gigi said, taking the woman’s hand. “I can see it in her eyes.”

  “Thank you,” Samantha said.

  Clint released a sigh of frustration. “I’m telling you, Gigi, she might end up getting hurt. The spring gathering is tough. The weather’s unpredictable.” He motioned outside where the sun had started to pop through the clouds, the unsettled pattern typical for this time of year. “It’s a long ride. She’d have blisters on her bottom in two hours flat.”

  “Excuse me,” Sam said. “I’m right here in the room with you and I assure you, I can ride. I can ride really, really well,” she punctuated. “No blisters would be sprouting on this bottom.” She smiled.

  He ignored it. “Oh, yeah? Should we just take your word for that?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “You have horses here, right? Test me. Right now, if you like.”

  “Excellent idea,” Gigi said, standing. “Let’s go.”

  “Gigi,” Clint said, “this is crazy.”

  “It’s not crazy,” his grandmother said. “At least no more crazier than anything you’ve done in recent days, Mr. Ranch Manager. I want to do this.” She glanced in Samantha Davies’s direction. “For her.”

  Clinton didn’t have a choice. “Hell’s fires,” he muttered. This day just got better and better.

  Chapter Four

  Clinton stormed out of the house, so upset he nearly slammed the door.

  “Damn, foolish women.”

  Gigi had insisted Samantha go and change, which meant Clint had been left with the task of fetching her suitcase. “Of all the stupid, ridiculous ideas. Probably wants me to go saddle up a horse, too,” he grumbled under his breath.

  As it turned out, that’s exactly what his grandmother asked him to do.

  “Please,” Gigi added with a smile. Clint stared between his grandmother and his “guest” and envisioned a cartoon character of himself—one with an angry red light shooting up his face like a thermometer.

  “Sure,” he said sarcastically, having to resist the urge to slam the door a second time.

  The rainstorm had passed—gone as quickly as it’d come. He paused for a second in the barn’s aisle. He wanted to saddle up the rankest bronc he could find, but as much as he was tempted, he wouldn’t do that. He didn’t want to kill the woman, no matter that she’d seriously pissed him off by batting her big green eyes at his grandmother. It didn’t matter that he owned the ranch, either, and that he had every right to tell Samantha Davies to get lost. He wouldn’t do that, either, because the plain and simple truth was, he loved his grandmother. He would do anything for her. She knew it, too. Gigi Baer had been a rock in his life and if she wanted Miss Samantha Davies to go along on the spring gathering, he’d let her go along.

  If she could ride.

  He wouldn’t compromise her safety, the safety of his men and the safety of his livestock just because some city slicker had a wild hair up her you-know-what.

  “Oh!” he heard his grandmother say when less than ten minutes later, the two of them, Samantha and his grandmother, entered the barn, their footfalls clearly audible on the packed dirt. “You’ve saddled Red.”

  Clint was tightening the girth—Red on cross ties in the middle of the aisle—the smooth leather strap Clint held gliding through the metal ring. Samantha now wore jeans, he saw, and a light green shirt.

  “She said she could ride.” Red was at least sixteen hands, and about as wide as he was tall, too. Lots of power.

  When he glanced up, Samantha was staring at him. Horses chomped on the midafternoon snack he’d given them, their softly muffled snorts breaking the silence, and he thought to himself that she didn’t seem afraid of Red at all. She came right up to him, offering the palm of her hand for the horse to sniff.

  “Hey there, Red,” she said softly.

  The horse started to nibble at her palm—as if trying to eat an invisible treat.

  “Do you happen to have an English saddle?” she asked, green eyes shifting in his direction.

  “Excuse me?” he asked, leather girth forgotten.

  She was backlit, her short brown hair blond around the edges. “I usually ride English,” she said with a wide I-know-that-might-sound-strange smile. “The truth is, I can count on one hand how many times I’ve ridden western.”

  He dropped the strap, rested his arm on the chestnut horse’s withers and met his grandmother’s gaze. “You hear that, Gigi? The woman wants to ride in an English saddle.”

  His grandmother just shook her head. It was cool inside the barn, a gentle breeze blowing up the aisle. Gigi had tossed a tan jacket over her white blouse and jeans.

  “Just finish saddling that horse, Clint. If she’s been riding English, a western saddle ought to be a piece of cake.”

  Clint shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, and went back to girthing up the horse, wrapping the strap in and out of the metal loop before giving it a final tug. He’d hung the left stirrup over the saddle horn to keep it out of his way while he worked, but he released it quickly—too quickly—the thing slapping against Red’s wide body. The horse pinned his ears.

  “Maybe I can send for my own saddle if things work out,” she told his grandmother, smiling sheepishly.

  Only if she managed to control the horse beneath this saddle. But he found himself snorting nonetheless. The ranch hands would laugh themselves silly if they caught sight of someone riding one of his cow ponies in an English saddle.

  Over his dead body.

  “Excuse me,” he said, eyeing the tack room behind her. “I need to get Red’s bridle.”

  “Oh,” she said, taking a step back.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  He brushed past her, Samantha’s gaze darting to his body like a foam bullet from a Nerf gun. “Sorry,” she said.

  He paused for a heartbeat. Their arms had touched. That was all. It wasn’t as if his crotch had accidenta
lly crossed one of her no-fly zones. Yet it felt as if that’s exactly what happened. Worse, he felt a familiar buzz in that same region.

  Crap.

  He didn’t look at her, but he couldn’t deny that he fought the urge to glance back as he stepped into the tack room. The smell of leather filled his nostrils, it was such a familiar scent that it instantly soothed him.

  “Just been without a woman too long,” he muttered to himself. “Nothing to it.”

  He grabbed the bridle from the rack, turned.

  Gigi stood there.

  “What was that you were saying?” she asked. The look on her face was the same one he recognized from years of stepping in cow patties—and then entering her house afterward.

  “I said it’s been too long since I’ve cleaned this bridle.”

  That’s not what you said, his grandmother silently told him.

  That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it, he told her right back on his way out.

  The snaffle bit was the only piece of English tack he owned. Thing was, old Red wasn’t very responsive to the jointed piece of metal. But if she knew how to ride…

  Red stood still as he slipped the leather halter off his head, the big horse opening his mouth obediently. The metal mouthpiece clinked against his teeth, but it didn’t bug the sorrel gelding. They were used to that kind of thing, just as they were used to the leather headstall being tugged over their ears. Once he buckled the throatlatch, he stepped back.

  “He’s all yours,” he said with a smile as false as their ancient ranch hand Elliot’s fake teeth.

  “Thanks,” she said, reaching for the reins. She stepped up to Red’s left side, the correct side to lead a horse from, but not something a greenhorn would know. Clint had his first inkling that she might know a thing or two.

  “I saw an arena out behind the barn. Should I take him there?”

  “Sure,” Gigi said.

  Clint glanced at his grandmother, who shot Clint an I-told-you-so grin. This time it was Clint who shook his head.

  There was at least an inch of water on the ground, the horse’s hooves sucking at the earth in rhythmic plop-plop-plops. But it was still cool outside and that might present a problem, too. Cool weather was like a drug to horses—uppers. They could be slightly rambunctious after a cooldown like they’d just had.

  But Samantha Davies opened the arena gate without the slightest hesitation, yet another clue that she knew her way around a ranch. Most gates were made with the same type of latch. Someone who wasn’t familiar with them wouldn’t know how they worked, but she flipped the latch and then slid it loose with an expert turn of the wrist.

  Maybe he should have come up with another test. Like trick riding or calf roping or something.

  She closed the gate behind her as easily as she opened it. There was no fear on her face as she turned to Red, just obvious determination as she lifted her foot into the stirrup. Her jeans pulled tight across her bottom, and Clint found himself staring at the shape of her rear until Gigi nudged him in the side.

  “What?” he asked as Samantha Davies expertly pulled herself into the saddle.

  “I think you really have been without a woman for too long,” Gigi said with a wicked smile, and then—God help him—a wink.

  “WHERE TO?” SAMANTHA ASKED, picking up the slack on the reins and turning Red toward the rail. “You want me to do some figure eights or something?”

  Eugenia Bear had a grin on her face about as wide as the snow-capped mountains behind her. “Can you do a reining pattern?” she asked.

  “Gigi,” her grandson said. “She said she rides English. She doesn’t know what a reining pattern is.”

  “Actually, I do,” Sam said, trying to keep the wattage of her grin down. “I’ve watched more than my fair share at horse shows. I bet if you ran some of those cows over there into the arena, I could do some cutting for you, too.”

  Eugenia’s pleasure appeared to grow—if possible. “There,” she said to Clinton, “you see? She’s an expert.”

  “So she claims,” he said. “But I’d like to actually see her do the pattern before we move on to cows—if we move on to cows.”

  “Well, I don’t know the pattern, exactly,” Sam said, “but I have a pretty clear idea what to do. Let’s see what I can get this little cow pony to do.”

  “Little?” she heard Clint huff.

  “Most of the horses I ride are closer to seventeen hands,” she said. “They breed them big on the quarter horse circuit.”

  She pulled Red away before she could gauge Clint’s reaction. A reigning pattern was meant to showcase a rider’s ability to control a horse. Those patterns were always performed in a western saddle, but that wouldn’t matter. Patterns had been a big part of her training, and that gave her confidence as she guided Red toward the rail.

  “Come on,” she told the horse. “You gotta make me look good.”

  But Red didn’t like to go. That became apparent the instant she tried to squeeze him into a canter—or a lope—as the western people labeled it. He didn’t even want to trot, much less jog—or God forbid—gallop. But she hadn’t ridden over fences for nothing. Holding on over three-foot obstacles, sometimes higher, had given her the legs of a linebacker. She ground her heels into Red and made him behave.

  He did.

  Sam sighed. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, like riding a horse. She hadn’t ridden much in the past few months—doctor’s orders—but it was a lot like roller skating. Once you knew how, you never forgot.

  “Okay,” she called out, trying to ignore the saddle horn as she squeezed Red. English saddles didn’t have horns and so she was somewhat distracted by its presence. “Here I go.”

  The pattern was deceptively simple. Big circle at a lope, change of pace, then a small circle. Switch leads. Do the same thing going the other direction. Stop in the middle. Spin. Red didn’t like the spin, but she dug her leg into him and made him do it. All in all, it wasn’t a bad pattern, and she loved the last part where she got to run down the middle of the arena at a full gallop, coming to a sliding stop at the end. That part Red did beautifully.

  “Bravo!” Eugenia called out when she was done. “That was terrific.”

  Perhaps not terrific, Sam thought, but she gave Red a pat on the neck nonetheless. They’d hardly win points on the quarter horse circuit, but she was proud of her ride and, man, it felt wonderful to be back, almost as wonderful as the look on Clint’s face.

  “I bet I really could work some of those cows,” Sam said, riding up to where her audience stood.

  “How long has it been?” Eugenia said.

  “Not since the accident,” she said. She hadn’t had the heart when they’d finally given her the go-ahead, not when she was going to have to sell her horse anyway to cover her medical bills.

  Coaster, her beloved black gelding, was going to a new home soon.

  “Accident?” Clint asked. “What accident?”

  “The one that killed my parents,” Sam admitted.

  Chapter Five

  Her parents were dead?

  “What?” Clint asked.

  “They died four months ago,” she said. “Just before Christmas.”

  Damn. No wonder Gigi had taken an instant shining to her. His grandmother’s maternal instincts were legendary. Crap. It’s what’d gotten him through the death of his own parents.

  Gigi had never truly recovered from the death of her only child. To be honest, Clint had never truly recovered, either. Even though he’d lost his mom and dad years ago—ten, to be exact—he still missed them every day of his life.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his gut twisting as he recalled his own grief. “I know what that’s like. It’s not easy.”

  She nodded, Red shifting beneath her, but she controlled the horse beautifully. He was an honest man—something he prided himself on—and she had one of the nicest seats he’d seen on a woman in a long time, and he wasn’t talking about the seat she sat on. Although
that was nice, too.

  “You should stay with us.”

  Clint jerked his head up. He’d been leaning against the top rail of the gate and he damn near stumbled backward when he heard Gigi say the words.

  “What?” Samantha asked.

  Gigi nodded toward the woman on horseback. “You should say with us,” she said again. “You can help us prep for the gathering in a few days.”

  “Gigi,” Clint said in a low, furious voice, hoping the woman behind him was hard of hearing. “Are you crazy? We just met her today.”

  “Clinton McAlister,” Gigi said, turning toward him. “I can’t believe you would say that. Just look into that child’s eyes. She’s still grieving.” And this time it was his grandmother who lowered her voice. “And you know better than most what that’s like. Don’t be a complete ass.”

  Ass?

  His grandmother spent entirely too much time on the Internet.

  “Fine,” he said, because what else could he say? If he kept on protesting he would, indeed, end up looking like an ass. “But she stays in one of the bunkhouses.”

  His grandmother shook her head. “The boys’ll be using that next week. She can’t be staying in a bunkhouse with men. She’ll stay in the house.”

  “Gigi!”

  “Don’t you Gigi me,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “I’ve swatted your butt a time or two before and I’m not afraid to do it again.”

  “Wait.” Gigi and Clint turned to face Samantha. “You don’t need to open up your home to me, Mrs. Baer.”

  Her home? It was his home. But, of course, Samantha didn’t know that. Or maybe she did. Frankly, he didn’t care. She couldn’t stay with them. That was that.

  “Don’t be silly,” Gigi said. “If you’re going on the roundup, you’ll need to stay here. We don’t leave until later this week and there isn’t a hotel within twenty miles.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I won’t take no for an answer,” Gigi said, holding up a hand.