“You remember the den is to your left. This evening, we’ll confer there in greater detail about the breeding program.”
“I remember. Everything looks a bit homier this year.”
Trent clapped his hands once and rubbed them together. “Bet you’re ready to get to work.”
“Actually…got any coffee? I could use a cup.”
“Don’t know. Savina, is any left from breakfast?”
Bracing a hand on the counter, she sidestepped to the stove, lifted the metal pot, and hefted it to gauge the contents. Then she set it on a forward burner, all the while rehearsing her statement to reduce stuttering. “Reheated in three minutes.”
Chairs scooted on the floor a few feet away as the men selected their seats.
“Two dozen or so mustangs are grazing in the north paddock. How many should the men round up and drive to the corral?”
Savina grabbed pottery mugs from a cupboard and set them on the table. In other trips, she delivered the sugar bowl and collected the pitcher of milk from the icebox. Using the crutch limited what she could carry, but she tried not to disturb their conversation. While she waited for the sound of bubbling liquid, she made sideways glances toward the dark-skinned man. In her dance career, she’d worked with people from many ethnicities but none had such arresting features as the ranch’s visitor.
Mister del Vado looked at the sun streaming through the window. “Three for today. Double that number for tomorrow.”
“Good enough. Can’t wait to watch you work again, Estefan. Never seen anything like your methods.”
The gleam in her cousin’s eyes was one she hadn’t seen before. What could be so special about training horses? Wrapping her hand in a towel, she grabbed the coffee pot handle.
Mister del Vado jumped to his feet. “Here, I’ll get that.”
Shaking her head, she held up a hand. “This is my job. I request you sit.” The agreement she’d made with Trent was that, after the first week when the throbbing was too bad for her to move much, she had to be productive. Whatever she could do needed to contribute to the running of the household. He and his hired hands were grateful none of them had to cook and their time was devoted fully to the ranch chores.
As she returned to the meal preparation, she let the men’s conversation about heights measured in hands, lacy, gray or spotted coloring, and mottled skin fade into the background. Instead, she hummed, swayed, and bounced while measuring the other ingredients before stirring in the milk and eggs. Then she scraped the cornbread batter into an oiled rectangular pan and moved toward the oven. Turning, she realized the men had stopped talking and looked her way.
Trent wore a frown.
“Always glad to watch a person who enjoys her work.” Mister del Vado raised his mug in a salute and smiled.
Her brows crashed down as her body stiffened. This isn’t my work. I’m a ballerina. Why did she take offense at his words? For all he knew, being a cook was her life’s aspiration. “Only temporarily. I am a d-dancer.” She opened the oven door and slid in the pan with as much grace as she could muster. Movements she’d been completing for several weeks suddenly felt awkward and clumsy under the man’s dark-eyed scrutiny. Maybe because she’d seen how gracefully he moved while riding.
With the midday meal eaten and the kitchen tidied, Savina had an hour or so to herself. She carried a novel out to the back porch, settled into a worn rocker, and propped her healing foot on an overturned bucket. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep her attention on the printed page. Instead, she kept looking where her cousin and his handsome guest sat on the top corral rail.
Galloping hoof beats grew louder, sparking the men into action. The gate swung open and out, braced by Trent. Mister del Vado waited inside the wooden enclosure with a thin rope looped in one hand. Head down, he walked in a big circle around the stout pole in the center. As soon as the horses drew near, he stopped and faced the gate.
The cowhands, Hans, Ford, and Gordon, rode up to the corral, each leading a mustang with a lariat around its neck.
The men looked more flushed and their denims were dustier than usual. Maybe the horses put up resistance.
“Do you want them all in the corral?” Hans held the reins tight enough to whiten his knuckle, and his horse pranced a few steps to the right.
The trainer stood near the open gate, looking at each of the animals. “Bring in the one that fought the most while being lassoed. Tie the others outside, but not too far away and facing the enclosure.”
Because they’d done this many times before, Trent and Hans moved in synchronization as Hans led the roped horse inside, then backed his mount out the narrowing opening just as Trent locked the gate into place. Next Trent climbed a couple rails and stripped off the lasso.
The horse, a buckskin with black mane and tail and white accenting its rump, reared and shook its head.
A snap of the trainer’s rope at the horse’s feet sent it dashing along the perimeter of the wooden enclosure, head angled toward the top rail.
Sitting at the edge of her seat, Savina noticed how Mister del Vado kept pace with the horse, always facing it, his shoulders held taut. His whole body looked tuned to the beast, as if he stared it down.
Another snap of the rope sent the horse scrambling in the other direction, head high along the top rail and tail swishing. Only moments later, the horse’s pace dropped to a trot and its movements weren’t as frantic.
Although they weren’t along the corral itself, the men still blocked her direct line of sight of the action inside. What had happened? She missed seeing what the trainer did to change the horse’s pace. Savina traded her book for the crutch and made her way to Trent’s side. Being this close revealed the power of the untamed animal, muscles rippling as it trotted, and her breath caught in her throat. Within a couple minutes, the horse dropped back to a walk and lowered its head to only inches off the ground, its mouth moving like it searched for grass to chomp.
The trainer dropped the rope and shifted his body, his right side angled toward the horse. With his chin dipped close to his chest, he opened his hand and held his fingers in a loose position.
From where she stood, Savina saw how the trainer’s body had relaxed a bit, and his mouth gaped slightly. She recognized the position as one at rest, waiting. When the horse stopped then turned and faced the man, Savina’s heart almost pounded out of her chest. What would the wild animal do next? Would it charge toward him? Why was Mister del Vado still in the pen?
“Savina.”
Her whispered name barely registered. “Huh?”
“You’re pinching me.” Frowning, Trent pried open her grip from his forearm.
Wide-eyed, she tore her gaze from the pen and glanced at her cousin. She pressed her lips tight. “Sorry. This is exciting but scary.”
After nodding and winking, he again faced the corral.
When she looked back, the horse stood only inches from the man. Now the trainer walked in a circle with the horse trailing, its head at the man’s shoulder. No rope attached the two—the horse was moving of its own free will. How was that possible? He made a circle in the other direction, and the horse followed. Then Mister del Vado collected a bucket of water from just outside the railing and brought it back to the horse. He moved with a slow cadence, like walking to an internal drumbeat. Instead of setting the bucket on the ground, he held it out at arm’s length.
Savina had learned enough about horses during her stay to recognize the huge level of trust the man demanded by this action. She stiffened, bracing for an explosive reaction. For an animal that lived its whole life in the wild, free and distant from humans, to drink from a vessel covered in human scent was asking too much.
Within moments, the mustang stepped close, dipped its head, and loud slurps echoed from the bucket.
Goose bumps covered her skin. She’d been a witness to magic.
Chapter Three
Four days later, Estefan had worked with each horse from the new herd
twice and conferred with Trent on prioritizing the mares for breeding. This year’s foals from the Appaloosa mares Tronar studded the previous year looked promising. A couple had hints of the white lacy pattern covering the rump which he wanted to sustain and develop. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t know about their eventual coloring for another year.
Perry Melbryne, Trent’s father, made a smart decision a decade earlier when he bought six horses from the Appaloosa herd the Army auctioned off after capturing the Nez Perce tribe. At the time, Estefan hadn’t paid much attention to the plight of the Indians’ trek of 1,400 miles—what sixteen year old did? But he remembered his father lamenting the displacement of the natives and the loss of so many fine horses. Only since Estefan started working with the Appaloosa had he realized the breed needed support to sustain its numbers. This year his goal was to use one of the first year’s offspring as stud. He’d also learned of the Double B Ranch in Texas with a small herd of purebreds. Maybe he’d made a side trip on his southward return trek to Rancho del Cielo.
Today, he intended to inspect the small herd of three year olds he and Trent co-owned—results from the first year of his breeding program with Tronar as stud. Excitement fueled his movements as he walked from the house toward the barn. Each time he put the mustangs through their paces in the corral, he’d been aware of Miss Lombard being within sight, either on the porch or near the rails. Pride puffed out his chest as he remembered the look of awe he’d seen in her gaze after the first day’s training exercises. Over the years, other women had observed him interacting with horses, but he didn’t remember any being quite as responsive or appreciative.
As soon as he entered the shadowy barn, noises drew his attention. Not the normal sounds of contented livestock munching on grain or hay. Instead, what he heard was the scrabbling of shoes against wood accented with grunts and heavy breathing. Estefan reached the rows of stalls and after glancing both ways along the middle aisle, he spotted movement in the far corner.
A brown-haired head bobbed above the top of the stall on the opposite side and then disappeared.
Curious, he strode closer, reaching out a hand to stroke Tronar’s muzzle as he passed. After crossing the aisle, he stopped at the end of the stall and leaned his head over the gate.
Miss Lombard struggled to climb the inside wall, but her feet, encased in shiny slippers, kept sliding along the boards. Several hanks of hair hung loose from her haphazard bun.
Hadn’t she been limping just the other day? Had she taken his advice and used horse liniment on her foot? “What are you doing?”
Gasping, she stilled. Then she turned and glared, her green eyes flashing. “Getting on the horse.”
Eyebrows raised, he glanced at the chestnut’s bare back. Without a saddle? “Didn’t you see the mounting block?” He gestured toward a tree stump set against the wall of the tack room.
Clamping a forearm over the top of the wall, she glanced in the direction he pointed and scrunched her lips tight. “Oh.” With a grunt, she slid out of sight into the stall.
The chestnut with the white star on her forehead nickered, and straw rustled underfoot. A simple rope hackamore circled her nose.
Estefan moved back across the aisle to Tronar’s stall. “Hola, mi amigo.” As was his habit, he sang an old Spanish ballad in a low voice while combing the horse’s coat. The horses he worked with, tamed or in training, always calmed when singing people or strumming guitars were nearby. While he worked, he listened for any more sounds of her struggles. But he heard none. When the stallion’s coat shone, Estefan saddled Tronar and opened the stall door.
At that moment, the chestnut walked past with Savina balancing in a squat on the rump. Her arms stretched forward to grasp the end of the rope. “Uh oh.” Her body bounced sideways, and she threw out her right leg for balance.
Knowing what was about to happen, Estefan dropped Tronar’s reins and ran to catch her.
She dropped into his arms, skirts and petticoats flying. “Oh.”
Chuckling, he tightened his grip and stepped back so he could lean a shoulder against the closest stall. “If I’m expected to keep catching you, I truly should be granted permission to use your given name.” He slanted a grin her way, widening it at the sight of her narrowed gaze. The lady has spirit. And she smells of oranges and cloves. “Not that I mind rescuing you.”
Her cheeks flushed, and she batted at her dress to hide her bare ankles and satin slippers. “Thank you. You’re Trent’s g-good friend, so I suppose using first names will b-be fine.”
He’d not encountered anyone with a stutter, but she didn’t appear embarrassed by it. As he held her in his arms, he registered all the places where their bodies touched. And heated. Although she was long-legged, the woman weighed less than he expected. “Savina, what were you doing…exactly?” Shifting her body away from his, he leaned forward to set her down.
Staring at the straw and muck-covered floor, she gasped and threw an arm around his neck. “My boots.” Savina pointed toward the stall on the other side of the barn.
Estefan edged Tronar’s stall door closed with his foot then strode over to the stall she’d vacated. As he moved, he made a mental note to track down what happened to the chestnut mare. Inside the stall, a blanket covered a straw mound, and he spotted a pair of black ankle boots with a double row of metal hooks. Hardly the right type of footwear for a ranch. He lowered the arm cradling her legs. “Here, Savina?” He made sure to emphasis each syllable as he spoke her name.
She nodded, making tendrils of light brown hair swing along her neck. “The b-blanket.”
Curious how his name would sound spoken in her voice, he paused and looked down into her green eyes.
“This is fine.” Frowning, she jerked her head toward the blanket. “I’m too heavy for you to c-carry.”
“Not at all. You weigh practically nothing.” The devil stirred in his blood, and he waited, wondering how many moments would pass before she took the hint.
She scoffed. “Hardly.” Savina glanced upward, her gaze flicking between his eyes. After a couple moments, her mouth gaped, and a whoosh of air escaped. “Estefan.”
Warmth tickled his cheek, and a lingering scent of coffee and cinnamon from the breakfast rolls she served teased his nose. Before he succumbed to the sudden impulse to taste her soft-looking lips, he set her down in the center of the blanket and took a big step backward. Teasing her about saying his name was one thing, but almost stealing a kiss? Where had that urge come from? He had a breeding program to initiate and mustangs to train. A woman did not fit his plan. “You never told me what you were attempting with that stunt.”
From where she sat crossing the laces and catching them in the hooks, she looked over her shoulder. “B-bareback riding. I’m hope to learn how to trick riding.”
His body jerked. Of all the loco… He crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his gaze. “You don’t know enough about horses to accomplish that.”
“Then teach me.” After flashing a wide smile, she turned back to tying her shoes.
He had a schedule of his own to keep, and carrying out his father’s edict had robbed him of two weeks already. “No.”
“All right.” A thin shoulder shrugged before she stood and started re-pinning the loose hairs into her bun.
Her tone was too flippant. Hairs on the back of his neck rose. Years of listening to his two younger sisters give similar vague answers set him on alert. “By saying ‘all right,’ you’re acknowledging I don’t have the time to teach you.”
“I know.” She picked up the blanket, shook off a dozen pieces of clinging straw, and tossed it over the gate. Then she scooped up the slippers and started down the aisle, swinging the shoes in her left hand.
Well, her foot must be almost healed. He watched her saunter with only a slight limp toward the patch of gleaming sunlight near the entrance. “And you won’t try that again.”
“Not what I said.” Humming, she stepped into the bright light and dis
appeared.
For a moment, he stared, mentally going over what her words must mean. After opening the stall door, Estefan gathered Tronar’s reins and jogged to catch up. “Wait, Savina.” Blinking, he glanced around the yard and spotted her at the edge of the corral, petting the chestnut. At least the horse stayed close.
The sight of her pert nose and full mouth as she talked to the animal paused his step. Usually attracted to vivacious, dark-haired women, he couldn’t deny something about her delicate coloring and reserved manner caught his attention. Then he shook away that thought. Irritated that he was the one who wouldn’t let this conversation die, he sucked in a deep breath and kept his pace slow as he closed the distance. “Tell me what you meant.”
She inhaled then licked her lips before turning to face him. “Anyone ever c-call you b-bossy?”
A woman who spoke her mind…he liked that. During the week he’d spent providing training in Nebraska, he’d had to fend off the simpering Miss Annabelle Hampton and her thinly disguised attempts to monopolize his free time. “A few might have.”
“Only a few?” Eyebrow arched, she stroked a hand along the mare’s neck and ran her fingers through its mane.
Until this moment, Estefan never imagined he could ever be jealous of a horse. Her hands moved in graceful strokes, with a slight angle at the wrist and the fingers extended in a soft curve. The hand of a dancer. A vague memory of Trent’s explanation about her injury and her presence on the Rolling M surfaced. “Look, I need to ride out to the north paddock. Promise me you won’t try that again.”
Her lips pursed tight, and she shook her head. “C-can’t.”
Stubborn woman. His body tensed, his grip tightening on the reins enough that Tronar side stepped. Estefan reached out a hand to rub his horse’s nose. “Calmarte.” With that attitude, she’d probably be back on the horse as soon as he rode away. Unless he kept her in sight. “Ride out with me to see the herd. I’d appreciate the company.” Truth be told, she’d probably slow him down, but he wasn’t ready to call this conversation finished.
Montana Sky_Hearts In Rhythm Page 3
