by Alexa Davis
I was still sitting at the table, mopping up syrup from my plate with a forkful of sausage, when my father found me. He sat next to me at the table and picked a piece of bacon off my plate, ignoring my grunt of complaint.
“You got much planned for today?” he asked, somehow managing not to show the food in his mouth as he talked. I shook my head and swallowed before answering.
“Just that interview for Edith,” I finally replied, before knocking back half of the glass of milk at my elbow. “After that, I thought I’d go help the guys fix the section of fence that came down in the storm last week.” My dad nodded and reached for more bacon. I feigned a stab at his hand with my fork, and he spluttered out a laugh.
“Don’t forget, anything in this house, technically, is mine,” he reminded me with a stern glare. I laughed and turned the plate to give him access to the less choice portions of meat left. “You may be my most responsible child, but I’ll never accuse you of being the most generous,” he complained. I held my hand to my chest and feigned heartbreak, which made him laugh again.
“When I’m done with the interview, I’ll stop by your office and let you know how it went,” I offered as he stood to go. He nodded and grabbed his hat from the hook next to the kitchen door, setting it forward on his brow and walking out toward the sick pens. I knew that was going to be the most likely place to find him, waiting for Pesky to foal. Her pregnancy had been a difficult one, and at her age, I’d told him it had to be her last.
It was a difficult decision, and one I didn’t take lightly. Many mares would have at least three or four more broods in them, but Pesky had lived up to her name and we were only going to get this third foal from her. On the flipside of that coin, however, was the pure beauty of those foals, far more valuable than some of our more prolific mares. So Dad agreed to help her at foaling-time, and then we were going to give her the retirement she deserved, roaming the high pasture or palling around with my mother, an accomplished rider in her own right, who loved to spoil her horses.
As though my thoughts conjured her, my mother found me in the kitchen as I was rinsing my plate and attempting to hide the evidence of my breakfast theft. She ran her fingers through my shaggy hair and made a sound of displeasure.
“You know, my offer to cut this mop of yours into something resembling an adult haircut still stands.” I shook my head in the negative.
“It’s okay, Mom. At my age, if a man chooses not to get his hair cut, he has a reason.” Granted, in my case, the reason was because I was lazy and kept forgetting, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. “Anyway, I don’t have time – my interviewee will be here any minute, so I really don’t have time today,” I replied, sticking my rinsed dishes in the dishwasher.
“You never have time to look respectable, but you have time to eat enough food for two men.”
“To be fair, Dad was here. So in essence, two men did eat that food.” I instinctively ducked at the smack that I knew from long experience was aimed at the back of my head.
“Oh, you brat.” My mother laughed and surprised me with a flick to the ear instead. When I looked at her wide-eyed, she laughed harder and commented with a shrug that raising five boys largely on her own, while her husband was always working, had taught her to be creative and think fast on her feet. I picked her up in a big bear hug, then set her down gently, realizing once again how tiny she was. Feeling a little nostalgic for the days when my mother seemed so tall, and my responsibilities were few, I exited the kitchen and kicked my younger brother Jackson out of the parlor to set up for my interview.
The clock on the wall read ten minutes before ten when I heard tires coming up the gravel drive. I let Patty, my mother’s personal assistant, answer the door and show in my one and only internship candidate.
I looked up, expecting to see a young man, possibly still struggling to cast off the shackles of puberty. The image in my mind’s eye of a pimpled, scrawny man-child were shattered by the curvaceous brunette that blushed at me when she smiled. I stood gaping like a fish out of water as she crossed the room and held out a hand. When I took her hand in mine, she was quick to grip and shake my hand properly, and I felt the work-won calluses on her palm.
“I’m Rachel Martinez,” the green-eyed beauty said. Her voice was low and breathy, and I immediately felt a physical reaction to her that startled and unsettled me. I was irritated with my bumbling lack of propriety and professionalism. When I frowned, she flinched as though I’d raised a hand to strike her, and I felt sick and embarrassed for frightening her. A split second later, my annoyance was turned on her. What right did a little field mouse have, to be out on a hard-working ranch like ours?
She recovered quickly, and I was astonished to watch her put herself back together. It was as though I watched her put up a wall around herself, brick by brick, until all I saw was a lovely, professionally courteous expression on her face and in her body language. Belatedly, I realized we were still standing and offered her a seat on the settee across from my chair.
“I understand that Dr. Green wanted you to spend some time out here with our stable master, Mr. Call,” I began, shuffling papers as though looking for information, when in reality, I just needed a moment to compose myself.
“Yes. I’ve a résumé for you to look at, if you wish,” she suggested, handing me a thicker folder than I was expecting from someone so young. “I’ve been lucky enough to have the opportunity to live in some of the racing centers of the country,” she added, opening the file on my desk and turning pages until she reached the newspaper clippings and certificates documenting wins for her horses, and even a few with her as a jockey in Kentucky and California.
“How did you end up training horses in such diverse circumstances?” I asked with genuine interest.
“My father was military, and we moved a lot for a few years. But I was fortunate enough to have occasion to train and ride nearly everywhere we went. In fact, given our family’s propensity for horses and riding, I felt it only natural to specialize in large animal veterinary care and animal husbandry,” she informed me. Her admission gave me an idea.
I looked at her clothes and had to admit, she certainly looked like she had dressed for a closer look at the ranch. With Dad still out caring for Pesky, it would give me the chance to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. I would be able to check out her horse-sense and let Dad watch her himself, saving me the effort of reporting on it to him.
“How worried about getting those clothes dirty are you?” I asked, closing her folder and setting it on the table next to me. She shrugged and shook her head.
“Not worried at all, actually. I dressed expecting a practical portion of the interview.” My esteem of her bumped up another notch. I was beginning to see why Edith Green liked her so much as a student.
“Just out of curiosity, what is your class standing?” I asked, aiming for nonchalance.
“I’m first in my class,” Rachel replied with candor. She didn’t seem to be smug or overly proud of the fact. I nodded and did my best to hide my growing excitement. I had to increase the chance that I was going to be able to get this beautiful, brainy woman out to the ranch for the summer, so I texted Jackson to join us out in the paddock where Pesky was resting and getting ready to deliver her foal.
“Well, I can see here that you are accomplished in animal husbandry.” I motioned to my notes as I spoke. “We have a small mare presenting with difficulty, at the beginning stages of labor. Would you like to check her out? If we’re lucky, you might get the chance to get really in on the action and get messy and I can gauge the extent of your understanding and training.” We stood and she set her purse under the table that rested between our seats.
“I’d love to, more than I have words to say,” she replied with a grin. I was again struck by the effortless beauty in her smile and the way she carried herself.
I led the way out to the stables and around the back to where we had Peaky separated from the other pregnant mares
and the rest of the herd. My father was still out there, as I had suspected he would be. He and Pete were comparing notes on which of Pesky’s previous foalings was the closest to this one. As we approached, both men turned to watch us, twin expressions of bemusement on their faces. Before either of them could comment on or question Rachel’s appearance by my side, Jackson jogged up from behind us.
“Did Pesky drop her foal?” he called out as he came within hearing range. I shook my head as Dad called back to him in the negative. He slowed to a walk and sauntered over, finally noticing Rachel after he hopped up on the paddock fence and looked down at us from his perch.
“Well, good morning, little lady,” he teased with an exaggerated drawl, tipping his hat to Rachel. She chuckled and dipped her head in a small bow in return.
“This is Rachel Martinez,” I introduced her to my brother. He jumped down from the paddock fence, and they shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. “She’s here today to interview for our new internship and I thought she could take a look at Pesky for us and show us her expertise.”
She shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “I am happy to oblige you in whatever is needed to prove my competence,” she offered. My father nodded and considered her thoughtfully. Rubbing his chin, he asked her a rudimentary question about the mechanics of breeding, which she answered with an almost injured tone, as though the basic nature of the question insulted her intelligence. Challenged, he gave her a wicked grin and fired questions at her with ever-increasing speed and difficulty.
When she was able to correctly answer a foaling question so obscure I didn’t even know the answer to it, I motioned to my father to stop and declared her the winner of that installment of “Who Knows More about Making Baby Horses.” My dad and Rachel both laughed, and I noticed that the mesmerizing effect she had on me was felt by the others, as well. Even my father, the most tunnel-visioned man I’d ever known, was struck dumb and standing there with his mouth open a little at the sheer pleasure of that smile.
“So, I have to ask,” Pete began. He rubbed the whiskers on his chin and considered her, looking at her from different angles.
“Yes?” Rachel finally prompted him to finish. It was obvious that his open scrutiny of her was making her uncomfortable. It was pissing me off, too, more than it should have. But, I reminded myself that she’d be dealing with men worse than Pete if she came out for the summer, and she needed to be tough enough to handle an inappropriate man on her own. As for my desire to kick his teeth in, I decided to file that away to deal with later, when I was alone.
“Your last name is Martinez, but you have green eyes and your skin is pretty light,” he remarked. “So what portion Latina are you?” He cocked his head to one side and kept staring at her thoughtfully.
“My grandparents are from Sinaloa,” Rachel replied with a laugh. “My mother was born here, and her father was white, but born in Mexico. So, I guess I’m one hundred percent Latina. The green eyes are a genetic thing. I have a few cousins who have green eyes, too.” Pete pursed his lips and nodded.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t really look Latina,” he informed her. “Of course, that means nothing out here, I was just wondering. It isn’t every day that a beautiful woman comes along who is also willing to go elbow deep into the birthing canal of a cow or horse. But, I do hope you speak Spanish, and aren’t shy about expressing yourself to men. You’ll need to be pretty damn clear with the boys out here, and not just on this ranch.” I agreed with him, but decided that if Ms. Martinez was going to be out on this particular ranch, I’d just have to lay down the law with the men before she even moved in.
“Thank you for the compliment, but I’m sure I can handle myself,” Rachel replied. “I’m sure the men won’t be as titillated once they’ve seen me covered in placenta. It never just stays on the arm you go in with.” She shook her head. “It gets everywhere. It took me a few times to figure out what you have to use to get it out of your hair.” She shuddered, and Jackson turned a little green as he apparently pictured the result for himself. My baby brother was a bonafide computer genius, but he’d missed out on the rancher genetics.
My father stepped in to save Rachel from Pete’s posturing – and the possibility of Jackson losing his breakfast on her shoes – and walked her into the birthing suite. The room was Pete’s brainchild, the result of a lot of years spent on his stomach in dirt and hay and muck while trying to turn breech or pull out difficult foals.
Rachel gasped as she walked through the door of the clean, warm room, lined with fragrant cedar and equipped with a vertical lift system in place for emergency procedures and a washing station. It was about three times the size of a normal stable, but included a smaller enclosure within the room to prevent mares from harming themselves or their caretakers. Outside the enclosure was a table for surgical implements that swung on a telescoping hinge and a large sink, as well as a floor drain and a hose hooked up to a spigot in the wall for ease of cleaning.
I couldn’t stop smiling as I watched Rachel walk the room, touching the walls and slowly making her way toward Pesky, who watched her from the enclosure, ears flicking nervously, but not rearing or shying away. Rachel stopped short of the enclosure, and I could hear her murmuring softly to Pesky, but couldn’t hear what she was saying. The mare’s ears flicked back and forth, and then she inched forward and hung her head over the top rail of the enclosure, nodding and shaking her mane.
“Well, look at that,” Pete chuckled. “Pesky wants a face rub, Miss Rachel.” Rachel clucked at the mare and held out her hand. Pesky chuffed at it and bumped the offered hand with her nose until Rachel gave in and petted her, stepping in close enough that Pesky could nuzzle her face and neck, while the girl giggled at the sensation.
“That never gets old, does it?” Rachel asked, a dreamy smile on her face. She looked at me and blushed at my scrutiny. “Meeting a new horse is like holding a new kitten. It’s almost a high, feeling this good.” I nodded and reached out to stroke the mare.
“She’s a good girl and turns out award-winning foals. But, this is her last. She’s only six years old, but she has more and more trouble with each foaling. So, she’s getting an early retirement,” I explained to the would-be intern.
“What do you mean, ‘retirement?’” Rachel asked in alarm. “Are you putting this beautiful creature down?” She backed a step away from me, but not out of slapping range, I noted.
“Oh God, of course not,” Pete exclaimed from behind me before I could speak.
“We’re giving her to my mother. She takes care of all the elderly animals around here. Pesky isn’t injured or sick, she just can’t keep being put through this.” I raised an eyebrow at her.
“Oh thank goodness,” Rachel sighed. She shook her head as if she was clearing a bad memory. It made me curious about who she’d worked for in the past. I’d known farmers, ranchers, and even race enthusiasts who were too quick to put down an otherwise healthy animal just because it was no longer profitable.
I looked at my father, who shrugged and scratched his head. I felt the same way. She was young, but she knew her stuff and she was clearly an animal lover. I was seriously considering telling her to just stay. At this point, it didn’t even have much to do with the way her jeans hugged her ass or how her hair fell in loose curls around her face.
“So, Ms. Martinez, how would you feel about getting to train with Pete here for a few months this summer?” I asked. “Obviously, you’ll get to help with a few births like Pesky here, and general care and maintenance of the horses, and perhaps other animals, while you’re here.” I looked at the men and got nods of unanimous approval. “We have a bunk you can use that’s separate from the ranch hands, and horses to ride…” I trailed off as she took a breath and held up a hand to me.
“Actually, I was hoping I could bring my thoroughbred, Peacemaker, with me, and maybe my dog, Skipper?” she asked timidly. “I’ve been going home weekends to visit them, and I don’t think I can go
a whole summer leaving them to feel abandoned, even for an opportunity like this.” I wasn’t sure about having a strange dog around my horses, but I was more than happy to watch her with her own animals, to see how she treated them and how they reacted to her. So, I agreed, with conditions.
“I’m fine with, what did you say, Peacemaker?” I replied. “I’m not sure about a strange dog, though. You’ll have to leash him until we feel comfortable with him around our livestock.” Rachel frowned a little, but graciously accepted my terms. We gathered her things from the big house. I walked her to her car and shook her hand.
“Thank you for the opportunity,” she said, quietly, but sincerely. “I hope I get to help with… with all the horses.” She looked over her shoulder toward the stables as she spoke.
“It was truly a pleasure meeting you,” I replied, still holding her hand in mine. “I can see why Edith Green was so hell-bent on us bringing you out here. I shouldn’t have doubted her.” Rachel’s face registered shock, then dismay, but she pursed her lips together and didn’t reply. “Thank you again for coming out. I will have employment paperwork emailed to you, and you’ll need to bring it and your identification with you next Monday when you come back.” She nodded, but the happy glow had disappeared from her face.
“Will that be a problem?” I asked, and she shook her head vehemently.
“No, that’s amazing. My mom will appreciate seeing me for a few days before I arrive. I’ll have my parents come with Peacemaker and his trailer, and I will see you next Monday.” She managed a nervous half-smile before I opened the car door and she slid in.
“Until then.” I winked at her through the open window and relished the flush that sprang into her cheeks.
