If he’d ever set foot on this property, Sam would have been horrified. The barn wasn’t flawlessly painted and kept, but it sure wasn’t what I would have called rundown. It showed its age in a few places—faded paint, some uneven spots in the packed-dirt aisle, a few chewed doors that didn’t quite hang straight on their rails—but what building full of half-ton termites didn’t have a few teeth marks? Well, besides one where a co-owner went crazy whenever anything showed the slightest disrepair. Heaven forbid a barn look lived-in.
Just walking through this place, where horses had kicked and gnawed here and there, I couldn’t help feeling more weight sliding off my shoulders. Like it was finally settling in that I didn’t have to ride on eggshells anymore.
John continued showing me around. The indoor arena was attached to the side of the barn by a short aisle. It was a nice-size arena with excellent footing, but there wasn’t a jump in sight and certainly no letters on the arena walls for practicing dressage tests. From what I’d gathered in the thirty seconds I’d spent reading up on this place before jumping on the available job, Dustin King mostly bred, raised and trained stock horses. Some for competition—both western pleasure and working western—and some for use on ranches. He probably had as much use for jumps and dressage letters as I did for chaps and cattle chutes.
The sliding door at the end of the barn groaned as John pushed it open. Fences extended as far as the eye could see over rolling hills, and there was an outdoor arena and round pen not far from the barn, but immediately outside the rear door was a smaller pasture with a single horse in it. The boards and posts were dark brown, almost black, and gave off that familiar more-bitter-than-sweet odor of creosote.
John led me to the pasture and rested his elbow on the fence. Beaming at the horse on the other side, he said, “This is Ransom. King’s Ransom. He’s Dustin’s foundation stud. Ain’t ya, buddy?” He patted the stallion’s neck as Ransom put his head over the fence.
Ransom had a lovely quarter horse profile. In fact, he was a beautiful stud all around. Dark bay, almost the same color as the boards penning him in, without a speck of white on his face. Fit and stocky, with good solid legs and big, well-proportioned hooves instead of the little teacup feet a lot of quarter horses had these days.
He was friendly too. When I held out my hand, Ransom searched my palm for treats, brushing his prickly chin whiskers across my skin.
“He’s gorgeous,” I said, wondering if my voice sounded as flat to John as it did to me.
If it did, he didn’t notice. He just patted Ransom’s neck again and said, “He is and he knows it. Throws foals that look just like him too. Three of his babies are headed to the world championships this year. One’s defending a title there.”
“Impressive.” And he was, but as I watched Ransom examine my hand like a curious puppy, I wondered when simple things like this had stopped making me smile and swoon. There was a time when I couldn’t interact with a horse without feeling some kind of warm, fuzzy connection. Now? I felt nothing. I knew enough to draw my hand back before lips became teeth, and I knew how to reach up and mechanically stroke his neck without startling him, but…that was it.
Maybe, I’d told myself when I’d sent the e-mail inquiring about this job, I could find that connection again. Every horseman in my family would be horrified knowing I’d gone from a respected trainer to a lowly—in their eyes—farmhand, but my gut feeling, impulsive as it may have been, said this was the way to go. A Hail Mary to bring back a piece of myself that may have been dead already.
This could work. It had to. And in its own way, this made perfect sense. Now that I wasn’t interacting with the horses as their trainer, I wouldn’t be asking anything of them. They wouldn’t be asking anything of me. Maybe that would clear the way for me to reconnect with them.
Or maybe it was just a convenient excuse to take off and disappear for a while.
I winced. My husband’s untimely death was hardly something I should be calling “convenient”. Truth was, I should have left long before that night, and I—
Enough, Amy. It can’t be changed.
“Ms. Dover?”
I shook my head and looked at John. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I asked if you wanted to have a look at the rest of the property?”
“Sure. Yeah.”
He showed me all over the vast acreage, explaining when and where various horses were turned out. There was a schedule in the barn, he assured me, but it was good to know where the gates were and which gates required some jiggling and swearing to get open. New ranch, new routine.
New ranch, new horses too. Paints, quarter horses, even the odd Appy grazed in the broad, grassy fields. There were some thoroughbreds and I swore I saw an Arab too, so I guessed those were clients’ horses. Boarders, maybe.
I really was in a different world now. Dover Equestrian may as well have been on another continent instead of two hundred fifty miles and some mountains away. The place even smelled different—dust and grass instead of pine trees and beauty bark—and the air was dry and hot instead of cool and wet like I was used to. I still wasn’t entirely sure what I was doing here.
“That’s not fine, Amy,” Mariah’s voice whispered in my ear. “That’s going off the deep end.”
“Well, maybe that’s what I need to do, then. Maybe I need to go off the deep end.”
And here I was. If there was a deep end, this was it, and I hoped to God I wasn’t just digging myself into an emotional—and professional—hole I’d never be able to get out of.
A flicker of sunlight on metal turned my head, and I looked to see a black-and-red pickup with a sleek, matching two-horse trailer pulling a dust cloud down the long driveway.
“That would be Dustin,” John said in his thick Texas twang. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
Chapter Two
Dustin
I was lucky I didn’t snap off the goddamned gearshift when I put the truck in Park. Even if I had, I wouldn’t have cared. That or I would have just been more pissed off than I already was, so whatever.
I shut off the engine and picked up the travel log from the passenger seat. I’d write down the mileage later, but at least wanted to jot down the time before I forgot.
Behind me, the trailer shook as hooves slammed against rubber mats. I closed my eyes and sighed. God help me, if I had to drug these two to get them out of the trailer, I’d drive back to Klamath Falls just to choke the man who’d given them to me.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered, tossing the travel log back on the seat before grabbing my hat and getting out of the truck. I brushed some dust off the black felt brim just to do something with my hands that wasn’t putting a fist through a wall.
With my hat on and blocking out the blazing sun, I looked at the trailer. A twinge in my left side reminded me of every place on my rib cage that was probably black-and-blue by now, and my right kneecap still smarted. And that was from after the gelding had been sedated.
Calm down, I ordered myself. Just calm the fuck down and take care of the horses.
Calm down. Right. Easy. Especially when every breath reminded me of the debacle of getting the horses into the damned trailer in the first place.
The trailer rocked, and the stomping and snorting made me curse into the dusty summer wind. I willed myself to stay completely calm. I could release my frustrations later. Now was not the time.
Most of the commotion came from the left side of the trailer, so I went around to that side, stepped up onto the running board and opened the top door above Blue’s manger.
He swung his black head out, nearly knocking me off the running board. His eyes were wide, showing damn near as much white as brown. His nostrils flared, and he snorted loudly, the sound echoing off the nearby barn and startling him.
“Hey, easy,” I said softly, and slowly held out my hand. “Easy. Calm down, buddy.”
He eyed me warily and fidgeted again, but when he snorted this time, it was with les
s enthusiasm.
“That’s it.” I stroked his face. “Take it easy.”
So he was here now. He’d made it into the trailer and across the two hundred miles between McBride’s farm and mine. Now, how to get him out of the trailer? It had taken two sedatives just to get him in, and even then he’d put up a fight. If I had to give him an injection now, when he was already confined and claustrophobic, he was liable to hurt himself, not to mention me or Star, who stood calmly on the other side of the divider.
A tube of Calm & Cool might take the edge off, but it had taken four people and a twitch on his upper lip to get both tubes into him at McBride’s place. And even then, on the way into the trailer with a double dose of that herbal shit along with two injected sedatives in him, he’d still managed to inflict a few bruises and rope burns on all of us in between getting a long—but fortunately shallow—gash on his own shoulder. No point in trying to give him that or a medical sedative now.
I idly smoothed his unruly black forelock as I played out every possible scenario in my head. A horse like this, anything could happen once the door opened. He could surprise us all and back out calmly. Or he could take two steps back, then freak out, fly up, hit his head or tumble backward down the ramp. If he tried to spin around inside the trailer—and I’d seen panicked horses do it—there was a chance he could fall and get tangled up in Star’s legs, which could be a two-horse disaster. If I took Star out first to keep her out of the line of fire, Blue could come unglued because she was gone. Leave her in, she could get hurt if he freaked out.
Running my fingers through his forelock, I looked in his wide, scared eye and thought, and once I get you out of the trailer, then what do I do with you?
I sighed and stroked his face again. As I did, I looked past him. The trailer’s rubber pads were covered in the same sweat that drenched the gelding’s blue-gray coat. He hadn’t touched the flake of alfalfa in his manger. Judging by the way he kept licking his lips, he was probably thirsty, but I doubted he’d touch any water he was offered until he was out of the trailer. All the more reason to get him out sooner than later.
Blue’s ears pricked up, and he snorted again, and the crunch of boots on gravel behind me told me why.
“Need a hand?” Dad said.
“I could use all the hands I can get,” I said over my shoulder.
“Well, I’ve got two sets for ya,” he said.
I turned around, and had I not been hyperaware of the agitated animal I was trying to calm, I probably would have jumped clean out of my skin.
Who the hell was this? No way I’d seen her before, because a woman like her, I would have remembered. Clearly. Her hair was dark and gathered into a loose ponytail in the back of a blue baseball cap, and maybe it had been too long since I’d let myself look at a woman, but I did give myself a second to take in how her jeans held on to her slim legs and curvy hips.
“This here’s Amy.” Dad gestured at her as if I could have possibly not seen her. “She’s our new farmhand.”
“Our—” I blinked. “You’re the new farmhand?”
“I am,” she said with what sounded like a mix of irritation and amusement.
“Oh.” I cleared my throat. “Well. Great. Welcome aboard.” Blue stomped and fidgeted in the trailer, so I turned back to calm him down again. And maybe calm myself again, because holy hell.
Focus, Dustin. Focus. Horse, not girl.
Horse. Not incredibly hot girl who’s going to be here, on my farm, and—
Horse. Trailer. Now.
To Dad, I said, “I am going to strangle that son of a bitch McBride.”
“What’d that idiot do this time?” Dad asked.
I looked over my shoulder. “Told me these two were almost done being rehabilitated. Totally ready to be finished under saddle.”
Dad groaned. “They’re basket cases, ain’t they?”
“Ooh, yeah.” I shook my head. “I had to sedate this one just to get him into the trailer, and he still just about took McBride’s arm off.”
My father sniffed. “Serves him right if he told you he was almost finished with these two.”
“No kidding.” I grimaced sympathetically as I watched Blue warily take in his unfamiliar surroundings. “At least they’re sound. Guess it took a good two years to get the gelding’s feet and legs back on track.”
“What happened to them?” Amy asked.
“Abuse cases,” I said. “Both came from a Tennessee Walker trainer in California.” I stepped off the running board and reached into the tack compartment below Blue’s manger. As I pulled out a pair of lead ropes, I said, “Let’s get ’em out of the trailer before he rips it apart.”
“Where do you want ’em?” Dad asked. “Stalls nineteen and twenty are both empty but have bedding in them already.”
I nodded. “Nineteen and twenty are fine. Probably help these two adjust if they can see each other.” I set one of the lead ropes aside and gestured at Blue. “We should take him out first. The mare’s not quite as fired up, so I think she’ll be okay staying in for a few minutes after he’s out. Assuming he doesn’t throw a fit and hurt her in the process.”
“You’re the boss,” Dad said.
I opened the escape door on Blue’s side but didn’t get in with him yet. I clipped his lead rope to his halter while Dad and Amy lowered the ramp and opened the rear doors. Blue stomped and danced, swinging his head back to look behind him. Breathing faster, eyes wider than before, he tried to go backward, snorting and fidgeting each time he hit the butt bar.
I tugged his lead to keep him facing forward and spoke softly to him. “Easy. You’ll be out in a second. Take it easy.”
“Ready?” Dad asked.
“Yep.” Moving as carefully as I could, I unclipped the chain connecting him to the trailer and eased that into the manger. Keeping my every move as calm as I could, I stepped into the trailer with Blue. He eyed me but stayed still.
I reminded myself to breathe slowly and evenly in spite of my pounding heart. If things went badly from here, both horses and I could be in a world of hurt, and if Blue caught even the slightest hint of uncertainty from me, things could go badly in a hurry.
Dad and I made eye contact over Blue’s back, and I nodded.
Dad unfastened the butt bar.
He barely had time to get out of the way before the gelding flew out of the trailer backward, nearly tumbling off the side of the ramp before skidding to a halt and spraying gravel against the side of the trailer, which startled him all over again.
I followed him out, holding the lead rope by its knotted end and trying to keep as much slack in the line as I could so he didn’t jerk against it and scare himself further.
Blue halted. His legs twitched like he was ready to take off, but he didn’t move. Snorting loudly, eyes still wide and nostrils still flaring, he looked around.
“Well, my, my,” Dad said. “Ain’t you a looker?”
I grinned as I slowly approached the horse. “He is, isn’t he?”
For all the work it would take to get him ready to sell, one thing I definitely couldn’t say about Blue was that he was unsightly. He was a striking blue roan, and he’d be even prettier once the uneven black mane tumbling over one side of his neck grew out. His abusive past didn’t show in his physical condition—the show horses were still fed well and generally cared for, anyway—but it was undeniable in his demeanor. The exposed whites of his eyes contrasted sharply with his mostly black head, and his muscles quivered like he was this close to bolting.
“Easy, Blue.” I still kept the rope slack and continued my slow approach, keeping my free hand extended and palm up. “Take it easy.” I inched closer, pausing whenever the horse tensed. I stopped when my hand was maybe six inches from the gelding’s mouth.
He finally sniffed my hand. He was still agitated, but with the trailer ordeal over, he calmed down.
Over my shoulder, I said, “Amy, get him some water. Half a bucket, no more.”
Behind me, Dad said, “There’s a bucket by the hose. Go ahead and use that one.”
Amy didn’t say anything, but the quiet crunch of gravel beneath boots answered well enough.
While I waited for her, I looked Blue over again. Good Lord, but he was a gorgeous animal. He didn’t have that Roman nose a lot of Tennessee Walkers had. Instead, his profile was straight and smooth. He stood about fifteen-two, so not huge, though he must have been immense when he still had the massive shoes and painfully long hooves during his show days.
Sons of bitches, I thought as I patted his neck.
A smear of partly dried, partly fresh blood darkened his blue-gray coat just above his shoulder. I rested a hand on his neck and leaned in to take a better look at the cut.
“Hurt himself in the trailer?” Dad asked.
I nodded toward the trailer’s open door. “Caught himself on a latch while we were trying to load him. Looks like he managed to get it open again while he was flailing around on the trip.”
Great. That’ll make him that much easier to load in the future.
Amy returned with a bucket just slightly under half full of water. She approached slowly and then carefully set the bucket in front of Blue so the water didn’t slosh more than absolutely necessary. Blue regarded it suspiciously for a moment before he shoved his head into the bucket and drank heavily, draining it in a few quick, deep gulps.
I patted his withers and looked at Amy. “Take the hay from his manger to his stall and make sure he’s got enough water in there.”
Without a word, she went to the trailer and pulled out the untouched flake of alfalfa. She disappeared into the barn, but not before I sneaked a quick look at her. Damn, she was just as hot from the back as the front. And I was supposed to be a consummate professional while she was around? Not in this lifetime…
“Should I get the mare out?” Dad asked.
“Uh, yeah. Go ahead.” I shifted my attention back to the horses. “She’s pretty mellow about this sort of thing.”
All the King's Horses Page 2
