Mark and Floyd were seated on the top rail of the fence, and the guests who were gathered watched the horse within, a beautiful bay that was clearly untrained. It snorted and pranced nervously, eyeing Jackson, who was in the corral as well, trying to coax it closer.
Meg acknowledged the guests who looked over at her, and then she addressed Mark. “Nice-looking filly.”
“Yeah. Picked her up from Bob Zimmerman’s place a couple of hours ago. Your dad said she’s green.” He’d rested his lasso on his right thigh and his gloves were tucked in his back pocket.
“That’s the damn truth,” Floyd muttered. He caught himself. “Dang truth.” Floyd was built like a linebacker, and his nose was crooked from his days on the rodeo circuit. He was the kind of guy who didn’t say much, but who could stop a bar fight with a look. He was also old school about women, even types like Meg who’d taken her share of injuries over the years as part of a ranching life. Sometimes his cowboy code annoyed her, but he was a good hand, and respected her dad, so she knew he could be counted on to handle business right.
She watched as the filly danced out of Jackson’s reach and whinnied. “She’s smart.”
Mark grinned, the gap where one of his front teeth should have been giving him kind of a goofy look. “Knocked Floyd on his ass earlier. I had a go at her, too, but she knows about ropes.”
Meg climbed up next to him and held her hand out. “Give me your rope.”
“Gonna give her a go?” Mark asked as he handed her his lasso, humor in his blue eyes.
She shrugged and looped the rope over her left shoulder before she climbed down to the soft dirt of the corral. “Might as well get knocked on my ass, too,” she said, looking up at him. She pulled a pair of leather gloves out of her right back pocket as Jackson walked toward her.
He half-smiled, but then he glanced at the horse, disgusted. “I’ve been at this for a goddamn hour,” he swore. “Uh, I mean gol’ durn. Sorry, folks,” he finished sheepishly, glancing at the people watching through the rails of the corral. “Have at,” he told her. “I need a damn break. Uh, durn.” He climbed onto the top rail and positioned himself next to Mark.
Meg pulled her gloves on. No sense getting rope burns if the horse spooked. She took the rope off her shoulder and hefted it, almost meditatively. She generally threw with her right hand, but she also practiced with her left, so she was comfortable from any angle when she roped.
She studied the horse for a bit, letting her get used to a new person in the corral. After a couple of minutes, Meg flexed her wrists and allowed the loop of the lasso to play out a bit. She hummed softly under her breath, a little melody she always used around animals. The horse stopped and watched her then pawed nervously at the earth and tossed her head with a snort.
“C’mon, gal. Show us some a’ them skills,” Jackson called, teasing.
“Swing that rope,” Mark joined in.
She moved around the periphery of the corral, observing the horse’s movements and trying to pick up on any patterns this one had. She kept humming and moved slowly but deliberately, loop ready in her right hand, the lasso’s slack in her left. She focused on the horse, caught her eye once, and shifted her gaze to the horse’s neck. Yep. This one was smart. She seemed to be weighing her options as she watched Meg. Give in to the rope? Or knock another human on its ass? Meg stopped humming and instead started talking to the horse in a low, gentle voice about what a fine animal she was, how beautiful she was, how strong.
“Hey, Meg, bet you can’t get her in three,” Mark called.
The horse stopped moving and regarded her, sizing her up. Meg swung the lasso back and forth, slowly. The horse snorted and pranced nervously.
“Hell—heck, bet you can’t get her in five,” Jackson crowed, egging her on.
She ignored them. It was a game they all played, pushing each other in roping and riding skills. Their challenges made her better at both. She played more rope out, swinging the loop in a larger arc, moving it up above her head. She loved this part. The horse saw the lasso and quickly moved sideways and started a quick canter around the periphery of the corral.
She watched, gauging the horse’s speed and the way her legs lifted and fell, the way she tossed her head, and the rhythm of her movements. She saw an opening and with a flick of her right wrist, the rope snaked through the air. Too late, the filly dug her front hooves into the dirt, trying to shy away but the rope fell smoothly around her neck and Meg jerked to tighten it. She quickly looped it loosely around her right forearm as the horse reared, trying to pull her off her feet.
She released more slack, following the horse’s ploy. The horse tried running but Meg brought her up short, talking in a calm, low voice. The filly tried rearing and reversing direction but Meg anticipated her movements and made adjustments in the rope and her stance. Fifteen minutes later, the horse conceded the battle and stood, keeping her gaze on Meg, her flanks heaving with exertion.
“Good girl,” she said as she slowly approached. She pulled her left glove off with her teeth and shoved it into her pocket before she stuck her hand out so the horse could smell her. Then she reached into her shirt pocket for a molasses treat. Rusty always got a couple and she had a few left over from the morning’s ride. She held it in her palm for the filly to inspect. The horse sniffed tentatively then delicately lifted the treat off Meg’s hand with her lips. As she chewed, Meg briefly and gently touched her muzzle and the watchers erupted into applause. Meg looked up, bemused, losing her zone.
“Hell, you got us on that one, Meg. Wasn’t three or five,” Mark said, laughing. He climbed down into the corral and carefully approached. She handed the rope to him. The horse remained still. She gave her another treat, which the filly took as carefully as the first.
“You guys tired her out,” she said, stepping back to give the horse some room.
“Nah. You’ve got a way with ’em.” Jackson grimaced as he limped over.
She handed him a treat to give to the filly. “Show her there’s no hard feelings.”
He chuckled and offered the treat to the horse, who accepted it. “Thanks, Meg.” He lowered his voice. “And thanks for the show. The wanna-bes appreciated it.” He went to open the gate. She followed them out of the corral, watching as Mark slowly led the filly toward the stables, and smiled, embarrassed, as the guests expressed appreciation and awe.
“I told you,” a little girl said. “You’re a cowgirl.”
Meg recognized her as the girl from the Forster party. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She pointed at Meg’s hat.
“You’re wearing one, too.” She touched the brim of the little girl’s brand new felt cowboy hat. “Could be you’re a cowgirl, too.”
“But I can’t catch a horse like you.”
“Not yet. I’ve had lots of practice.”
“I’m going to have to agree with Samantha. That was some serious cowgirlin’,” Gina said behind her.
Samantha waved at her and Gina waved back before she scampered off toward her mom, who Meg saw standing near the corral.
She turned, fighting the little bolts of lightning dancing up and down her back. “It’s another prerequisite.”
“For?” Gina held a camera in her right hand and a small notebook in her left.
“All Wyoming kids. We have to ride naked and lasso a horse before we’re five.”
She laughed. “What else can you rope?”
“Fenceposts. Pretty good with those.” She smiled sheepishly. “I got lucky.”
“Lucky, hell,” she scoffed. “I got lucky with this assignment.”
She had no response for that, but Gina appeared not to notice.
“Can you give me a few minutes before we talk?” She held the camera up. “I’d like to put this away for a bit.”
“Yeah.”
“At the paddock okay?”
She nodded. Wherever Gina wanted to meet, she would’ve gone. Seattle? Sure. North Dakota? No problem.
&nb
sp; “Excellent. See you there.”
She tried not to watch Gina walk away, but she failed. Completely. With a mighty effort, she directed her steps to the office to check in with her dad. Twenty minutes later, she exited with Dammit and Moonshine, one of the other cattle dogs, at her heels as she walked toward the paddock.
She found Gina talking to Jackson and Davey. Crushes were like viruses, Meg decided, as she jerked her eyes from Gina’s face to her notebook. She felt hot then cold then sweaty then giddy then almost nauseated. Gina looked at her and smiled. It sent chills from her hat to her boots.
“Hey, Horse Whisperer,” Jackson teased. He stood a lanky six-two and the only time Meg saw him without his cowboy hat was at meals. He wore his sandy brown hair short and he never went unshaven. He had been married once, but his “damn gypsy cowboy life” ended that.
Davey gave her a nod.
Gina continued to look at her, an expression in her eyes like she knew something Meg didn’t and she might let her in on it. Meg’s heart skidded around her chest.
“Got a few minutes?” Gina asked her.
“Yep. These guys telling you the truth?”
“Define ‘truth’,” Jackson drawled, pulling on his chin.
“No worries,” Gina said. “I’ll make shit up, too.” She grinned and Meg’s throat went dry.
Davey laughed. “I think you’ll fit in just fine around here.” He slyly appraised her before he tipped his ball cap. “Got some stuff to do. If you need anything, let me know.” He headed toward the lodge.
“You seen your dad?” Jackson asked.
“Last I remember, he stood about this high—” Meg held her hand up marking a space about four inches over the crown of her hat, “and he was wearing—”
Jackson snorted. “Smart-ass.” To Gina he said, “Let one of us know if you need anything. Tell you a few more stories, too, if you want.” He grinned and touched the brim of his hat before he walked away.
“Better than being a dumb-ass, I’d guess,” Gina said as she wrote something in her notebook. She finished and closed it. “Things always this busy?” She asked as she slid the notebook and pen into one of her back pockets.
“No. It’s busy now because it’s summer and that’s the best time for guests. Not all years start this well, though. And winters aren’t so friendly.” She pushed the brim of her hat back a bit. “During winters, my dad, Alice, and maybe six or seven hands live here. I’m here between semesters, usually, and for at least part of the summer. Depends if I have a class.”
“Colorado State?” Gina watched her.
“Yeah. Good guess.”
“Not really. You were wearing a CSU T-shirt the night I got here.”
“Oh.” She remembered what Marjorie had said about journalists and observation.
“When do you graduate?”
“December.”
Gina smiled. “Congrats. Then what?”
“I want to go to vet school and they have a good one. I’m hoping to get in.”
“Impressive.” She leaned her back against the paddock fence and Meg struggled to keep her gaze on her face, and not on how well her well-worn blue tee fit her, or how her jeans hugged her waist and hips.
“I’m applying this fall,” Meg said. “Then we’ll see who’ll have me.”
“I don’t think you need to worry.”
“It’s really competitive.”
Gina shrugged. “You have a way with animals.” She gestured at the dogs, all four, lolling in the dirt near Meg’s feet. “Speaking of which, I know those two—” she pointed at Dammit and Bugoff, “but what about the other two?”
“That’s Moonshine—he’s a little slow on the uptake. And that’s his sister Booger. She’s a bit lazy. Dammit and Bugoff are the best of the bunch for actual herding.”
Gina chuckled. “How the hell did they end up with their names?”
Meg smiled. “Guests. When Dammit was a puppy, he peed on this guy’s shoes when he left them outside his door. Dammit figured whatever’s outside is his. Besides, ‘Dammit’ sounded better than ‘fucking hell’ for a dog’s name. Which is what the guy actually said.”
Gina laughed and the sound settled like sunlight in Meg’s chest as she gestured at Bugoff. “And one summer, this woman from England was here. Her favorite thing to say was ‘bugger off’!” She did a passable imitation of an English accent and was rewarded with Gina’s chuckle.
Meg continued, “She didn’t care much for dogs and she was always saying ‘bugger off’ to Bugoff and it stuck. Moonshine got his name because a kid from Alabama thought it was cool. And Booger. . .well, she really liked this little girl from Pennsylvania and she kept wiping her face on the girl’s pants. The girl would laugh and laugh and say ‘boogers’.” She shrugged. “Plus, they definitely don’t sound like the horse’s names, so nobody gets confused.”
“Practical.” She smiled. “And your name?”
She paused.
“Off the record,” Gina said.
“After my grandmother. My dad’s mom. Her name was Margaret. But that’s not really me, so my dad started calling me Meg soon after I was born. That stuck, too.”
“A family name. On the record, now. What abut the ranch? How far back does the Diamond Rock go?”
These were questions she could handle, since guests often asked them. She moved next to Gina so she, too, could lean against the fence. She looked out over the paddock. “My dad’s grandfather Joseph. He came here in 1890 from North Carolina when he was eighteen and built the lodge. We’ve updated since then, obviously.” She smiled. “But we do have an outhouse, if you want the full 1890 experience.”
“I might. How could I tell people I’d been on a Wyoming ranch and I didn’t use an outhouse a time or two?” She turned so she could look out over the paddock, though she kept her gaze on Meg. “Then what?”
“My grandfather Thomas—my dad’s dad—added the motel part where you’re staying. That was 1954. He had this crazy idea that people would go for a western dude ranch experience. His neighbors thought he was nuts. But what do you know? He was a visionary.”
“Did he start taking customers back in the fifties?”
“The early sixties were better, as word got out, but the fifties weren’t bad. Pop culture cowboys made people want to see if that was for real. Which, of course, it pretty much isn’t, but a lot of times, people liked the real thing, too.”
“And your dad continued the ranching and guest aspect.”
Meg nodded. “My dad was born in the original lodge in 1953. I was born in Laramie.” She stopped, gazing at the horses.
“You’re fourth generation. That’s amazing.” Gina’s tone softened. “My mom’s parents immigrated from Italy. They started in New York City but hated it and went all the way to California, where my family’s been ever since.”
“Wow.” She turned her head to look at her.
“Yep. Californians all, now.”
“That’s okay. I won’t hold it against you.”
She laughed. “I’ll try to move beyond any city slicker stereotypes you might have.”
“Hey, my mom was born in Louisville, Kentucky, then spent a good part of her life in Atlanta. So I won’t hold the city slicker thing against you, either.”
“Thank you.”
“And my mom doesn’t live here anymore. She’s back in Kentucky. Off the record, I think my dad and I drove her crazy.”
“That or the winters here. So I take it you don’t have any siblings.”
She stared out across the paddock. “I did. An older brother. He died three months after he was born. My folks didn’t want to try again for a while after that. But then I came along.”
“I’m sorry,” Gina said quietly. “I didn’t realize that would end up being such a personal question.” She put her hand on Meg’s arm and everything in the world faded and the only thing she knew was the warmth of Gina’s palm.
“It’s okay,” she said softly. “It was a few years
before I was born. My parents don’t talk about it much but he’s buried here. His name was Thomas, too. After my grandfather.” She hoped Gina would leave her hand there, and she did for a bit but then pulled it away, though she seemed to let her fingers linger gently on her skin. Or maybe she imagined that.
“What does your mom do?”
“She’s re-married to a guy who owns very expensive horses. She grew up on a horse farm and her family still raises horses, so they ran in similar circles. Some of her husband’s horses have run the Derby.”
“That explains the horse whisperer in you. You’ve got horses on both sides of the family.” She studied her face and Meg allowed herself a brief, luxurious swim in her eyes.
“Yeah. Seems that way. What about you?” she asked, though she didn’t expect Gina to answer, since she was here to extract information, not the other way around. To her surprise, she did.
“Mostly Italian, except for the poor souls who marry in. Loud, big family. Two brothers and three sisters. I grew up in Sacramento and moved to L.A. for school at USC. I majored in journalism and graduated two years ago.”
“You must be good,” Meg said, “to write for the Times already.”
Gina raised an eyebrow. “Careful with the flattery,” she said, a layer of teasing in her voice. “I might like it.”
Meg swallowed. Hard. “And would that be a bad thing?” Oh, hell. Did she actually say that?
“Nope.” Gina grinned.
“I’ll remember that.”
“I hope so.”
Oh, no. Here she went, digging another hole. “So what’s on your agenda for tomorrow?” she deflected.
A thoughtful expression entered Gina’s eyes. “A little of this. A little of that. More of you, I hope.”
Meg stared at her.
“I like your stories,” she said smoothly. She pushed away from the fence. “Thanks for talking. Hope we’ll do it again. On and off the record.” She raised her eyebrows in a question.
From the Boots Up Page 6
