Cowboy in Colorado (Fifty States of Love)

by Jasinda Wilder

  “Demon?” Will chuckles.

  “That name popped into my head when he started charging at me,” I explain.

  “Demon.” Will nods. “Works for me.” He has his whip coiled in his hand now, and he’s watching me, watching Demon. “Keep going. Talk to him, and walk toward him. Don’t take your eyes off him not for a second. Soft body language. Don’t march at him, don’t stomp, just go easy and quiet.”

  Soft body language? Working with horses is a lot more complicated and sophisticated than I’d imagined.

  I try to remain calm, to keep my breathing slow and steady. Soft and gentle. I mimic the calming tone I’ve heard others use to talk to horses. “Come on, boy. Let’s back up into that pen, Demon. Go on, now. Get in there with the rest of your herd. You know you want to.” I step forward, keeping my movements slow and obvious—not spooking him is the key, I realize. If he thinks he has reason to fear me, he’ll start up with the defensive act.

  Demon snorts, shakes his head, swishes his tail. He’s not taking his eyes off me any more than I am him. When I step forward, he steps back. Step, and step. Step, and step. I keep talking, saying whatever comes to mind.

  “You think you’re big and bad, don’t you? Big old bully, that’s all you are. I’ve dealt with men like you, all bluster and bravado. But something tells me you have the balls to carry through with your actions, don’t you? Not like those crusty old businessmen I’m used to. They’re all bark and no bite. Show ’em you won’t be cowed or intimidated, and they’ll quit trying to bully you. Not so different from you, huh? Except you actually do have the bite. I prefer you, to be honest.” Another step forward, and this time, Demon doesn’t back up.

  His ears swivel forward, pricking up and facing me, whereas before they’d been laid back on his head.

  “Wait, wait,” Will mutters. “Hold up, Brooklyn. Don’t move.”

  “I thought we wanted him to back up.”

  “Yeah, but look at him. His ears are up and facing you. His back is down, and he’s looking right at you. He’s curious.” Will digs into his pocket—I can just barely make out his movements in my peripheral vision. He hands me another of those peppermint candies, keeping the wrapper from crinkling. “Offer him this. Flat palm, like a plate. Don’t shy away. Just let him approach you.”

  Oh hell no.

  I don’t want this vicious brute of a horse anywhere near me. I want him in the pen and I want to go home and figure out something else. This was a stupid idea, and I’m in way over my head. Bravado and bullshit…that’s me, clearly.

  I snarl to myself, silently: No. I am the ice queen. The bitch you do not mess with. You don’t intimidate me, no matter who you are.

  I do not intimidate, and I do not back down, not for men, and not for horses.

  I make a show of unwrapping the peppermint and hold it on my palm, arm extended.

  “Bring your arm closer to your body. Make him come to you.”

  Posturing, it is all posturing.

  I lift my chin and bring my hand closer to my body. Demon’s ears swivel, and he shakes his head and looks around.

  “Hold your position,” Will says. He’s now turned around, facing the horse. “Patience.”

  My heart is thundering in my chest, and my whole body is trembling like a leaf. I ignore the fear, swallowing hard past the lump in my throat. Demon lifts his head high, turns it to one side and looks at me with one eye. Dances forward a step, two steps. Extends his neck, and I can see his nostrils flaring, ears pricked, lips wiggling for the treat. I almost laugh at the sight of this big, dominant, scary animal wiggling his lips trying to get the candy without having to come too close.

  “Let him take it.”

  I lock my knees to prevent them from giving out, and ignore my watery gut. Demon shuffles forward another step, his head shaking and looking around, ears moving and pricking, always returning to focus on me. He snorts, whickers low in his throat. And then whiskery lips tickle my palm and I feel the warm wet swipe of a huge tongue, and then Demon is happily crunching the candy.

  Will presses a few more wrapped candies into my hand. “Give him more. Lure him closer. See if he’ll let you touch his neck or nose. Slow movements. Don’t startle him.”

  No one is moving except me and Demon. The other men have all turned their back to him, focused on keeping the horses in the pen without closing the gate. Turning their backs to Demon is also a posture, I realize. If he’s a prey animal, putting your back to him would be an act of disinterest. Nothing to fear.

  Like lulling a bullish owner into thinking you’re just a ditz instead of a barracuda.

  It’s me and Demon. No one else exists.

  When I woke up this morning, if you’d told me I would be luring a wild stallion the size of a small elephant with peppermint candies, I’d have said you were crazy. Yet here I am.

  No time to think. Demon sees the candy and hears the wrapper, and his ears prick up and swivel toward me, and his entire posture is one of hesitant, wary curiosity. I unwrap a candy and put the rest in the pocket of my blazer. I keep my palm flat, close to my body. Demon snorts, nostrils flaring. Suspicious of a trick, probably. Looking at me, assessing. He steps forward, extending his neck again, lips reaching and wriggling, and this time I do laugh.

  “You’re just a big old funny guy, aren’t you?” I say, in a soft, quiet, high-pitched voice, the tone I use for my dad’s surly old Chihuahua. “You just want the treat, huh? Well, you gotta come and get it.”

  He responds with another shake of his head and a derisive snort, but his big hooves shuffle closer, and his nostrils flare and his lips reach. I keep it back, toward my body, and he finally takes a full step closer. Now he’s towering over me, head high, looking at me with one big black eye, head bobbing warily, body shifting and dancing. Then, with one last chesty murmur, he dips his head and nuzzles my palm, taking the candy.

  “Touch him,” Will hisses. “Slow, careful.”

  I slowly lift my palm—he’s standing less than a foot from me, munching and crunching, watching me. He tosses his head once, but then brings it back down to sniff my outstretched hand; I press my palm to his nose, gingerly, my eyes on him. His nose is soft and silky, his breath warm and damp.

  “Good, very good. Now step toward him. A shuffle. See how close he’ll let you get.” Will’s voice is behind me, faint, as he’s still facing away.

  “What if he stomps on me?”

  “He won’t. Move slowly.”

  “This is crazy. He’s a wild animal.”

  “Not totally wild. He’s not an actual wild mustang—he was born and raised on this ranch, and he’s been around people his whole life, but this herd is all unbroken yearlings and two-year-olds, a few three-year-olds. The best of the best. These are the ones we’re going to train and sell, and your boy Demon there is the biggest and best of them all, with the best pedigree.” A dry laugh. “Bitch of it is, he likes you. I’ve been trying to get close to him for six months, and he won’t let me within twenty damned feet. You, a green city girl, have him literally eating out of your hand within minutes.”

  I feel a little swell of pride, even though I know it has nothing to do with me. He just chose me for some reason I don’t begin to understand. I unwrap another candy, and this time I don’t offer it to him until I’ve taken a slow step toward him. He dances back, but then forward again, sidling sideways. I open my palm and hold it against my ribs, and when he takes it, I move up against him, and he lets me rub my hand along his neck while he crunches the peppermint.

  At that moment, my hand on his neck, rubbing his hot, silky fur, thunder booms like a cannon overhead, startling him. He whinnies in fear, dances backward and rears up, spinning on his hind legs. He doesn’t go after me, though—instead, he charges forward, into the pen with his herd. The second he’s in, the ranch hands close the pen, leaving me shaking, standing alone in knee-high grass.

  Will is beside me. His eyes fix on me. “That was impressive, I gotta say.”
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  I’m trembling, and now my legs, which had been locked, finally give out, and I collapse, fighting hyperventilation. Will’s arm goes around my waist, holds me up, and his body is hard against mine, big, and warm, and powerful, and he smells like horses and dust and sweat and his eyes are as stormy as the sky overhead.

  “You’ve got real balls, Brooklyn. Coming out here alone.”

  “Clint followed me,” I murmur, trying to get my feet under me.

  “Yeah, well, I’m gonna have words with Clint. He was supposed to take you home.”

  “He tried. I wouldn’t let him.”

  “He should’ve put you over his saddle horn if he’d had to.”

  That puts steel into my spine. “He’d have ended up with a broken wrist if he’d tried that,” I say. “I’m a brown belt in Krav Maga.”

  Will’s arm unwraps, and I’m standing on my own again. “I’d have paid to see that,” he says. “Regardless, you should’ve gone home. You’re lucky to be alive right now. A few inches and Demon’s hoof would’ve crushed your skull like a grape.”

  I swallow hard. “Trust me, I’m well aware how close it was. I’ll have nightmares for weeks, probably.”

  Thunder cracks overhead, and then a raindrop plops on my head, followed by another, and then there’s a bright flash of lightning and another sky-splitting, ear-shattering blast of thunder.

  “Boss?” a voice calls from near the pen. “This ain’t no simple thunderstorm. Look at the sky to the west.”

  I follow Will’s gaze, and the violent, angry gray-black of the thunderheads are tinged green, roiling and billowing. “Shit,” Will mutters. “Not good.”

  “What?” I ask.

  Will smacks his thigh with his hat. “No fucking good at all.”

  “What?” I demand, picking up on the sharp tone in his voice. Not fear, but something like it.

  He gestures at the sky to the west. “That. That’s ugly, real ugly. If it ain’t a twister, it’s something bad. Gotta get under shelter, and quick.”

  “There’s no shelter within miles,” I say. “Took me twenty minutes to get here.”

  Will glares at me with irritation. “This is my ranch, Brooklyn. You think I don’t know where every last stick and twig and blade of grass is with my damned eyes closed?” He waves a hand the way I came. “Big House is too far. Even Alpha Camp is too far. We’re gonna have hail at the very least.”

  “Hail?” I say, my voice squeaking, hitching. “If we’re out in the open and it starts hailing…”

  “No shit.” He lets out a sigh, and then reins his horse around to face his men. “Boys, starting riding for Alpha. You get caught out in what’s coming, you’ll regret it.”

  Clint surges forward from the line of hard-bitten ranch hands. “What about her?”

  Will hisses. “You let me worry about her. You shoulda gotten her back to the Big House already, Clint, and we both know it. You let a city girl ride herd on you, and don’t think I’ll be forgetting it any time soon, bud. Now git. All of you. Ride hard and don’t slow till you’re at Alpha and your horses are seen to.” He reaches up and takes a walkie-talkie from the nearest person, hooking it onto his belt.

  “What about me?” I ask. “I survived one crazy gallop across this ranch, I don’t think I have the strength to hold on for another. Just being honest.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re not riding,” he says, his voice annoyed and pissed off. “Not alone, anyway.”

  “Then what—?” I start.

  I’m cut off by a piercing whistle from Will’s lips and his horse, the white one with black spots dappling her flanks, trots over to him, her reins looped around the saddle horn. Will swings up into the saddle, and extends his hand down to me. “Get on up here, girl.”

  I stare up at him, realizing what he wants. “Oh, no. No way.” The hell I’m riding on the front of his saddle like a damsel in distress from some silly old Hollywood Western.

  Will glances at the sky, dark and furious and seething. “Fine. Suit yourself.”

  I glance to the side, where the ranch hands are, and realize they’ve gone—the howling wind and constant cracks of thunder drowned out their departure.

  And they took Molly with them.

  “You wanna be out here alone in this? Be my guest.” He has to shout to be heard, gesturing at the pen, the churning herd of horses, pointing at the stand of trees, a mix of aspen and pine—their trunks are bending in the wind, which has picked up now, violent, dangerous. “Your best bet is to hide in there. We built the pen around that stand of trees so they’d have shelter. You’ll have to share with them, but you oughta be safe enough.”

  My hair is whipped out of the tight bun I had it in, and my clothing is pressed hard against my skin. Suddenly, I can barely stay on my feet, and I have to reach out and cling to Will’s stirrup to stay upright. I stare up at Will, hating this situation, and hating my hormones for secretly, desperately wanting to be up on that saddle, to feel his body behind mine—

  At that moment, the sky splits apart in another peal of thunder so loud and so close overhead the very ground shakes under me, accompanied by a blinding flash of lightning striking so close my skin prickles and I smell ozone and taste metal. Rain sluices down, then, pouring in a river from the sky.

  There’s no choice. Grousing under my breath, I reach up. Will’s hand is twice the size of mine, hard and callused and leathery and powerful. His grip around my forearm is gentle but unbreakable, and he hauls me up the side of his horse one-handed. I have to act fast, swinging one leg over as he plops me down on the saddle in front of him. I feel every inch of him pressed up against my back, his chest hard, muscular thighs crowding my hips. His arms reach around me, settling the reins in his left hand, his right arm wrapping tight around my middle, a very careful, calculated placement on his part.

  “Hang on tight,” he murmurs.

  “To what?” I breathe, panic boiling in my stomach.

  The sky is flashing with strobes of lightning and shaking with thunder, the air itself turned green and is hazed with a solid curtain of driving, wind-whipped rain, each droplet stinging. I’m already soaked to the bone.

  He guides my hand to the front edge of the saddle. “Hang on here, and with your legs.”

  “Will—”

  “And just trust me.”

  Something white and round and hard pelts my shoulder, the size of the peppermints I gave Demon. “Will?”

  “You thought the ride on Tinkerbell was rough?” He laughs, and I realize he’s adrenalized by the danger. “She couldn’t catch my boy Gopher on her best day.”

  “Gopher?” I ask, laughing despite everything. “Your horse’s name is…Gopher?”

  “Long story,” he answers. “Now. Hang on.”

  He clicks his tongue and I feel him wiggle his butt forward in the saddle, nudging Gopher’s side with his left foot. “Let’s go, boy.” Gopher eases into a walk, and then Will clicks his tongue again, another nudge with his left heel, and then Gopher is trotting, but the trot only lasts for a few hoofbeats. “Gallop, Gopher. Go, boy.”

  Thick walls of muscle begin to churn, and I can feel the truth in Will’s statement—Gopher is running faster than Tinkerbell, by a long shot. And with each stride, I can feel him putting on more and more speed, until it becomes obvious that Gopher would be more aptly named Cheetah. The world is a blur, and all I can do is cling to the saddle and to Gopher’s whipping white mane, and be grateful for Will’s arm like an iron band around my middle, keeping me clutched hard against his body. He moves with Gopher, not just sitting on the horse but actively working with his strides; I can feel Will’s core contracting and shifting against my spine. Rain splatters painfully against my face, and hail pelts me like a dozen bee stings to every inch of my body, and the wind howls, snatching at me. My hair is now completely loose, and my blazer is being ripped backward. Thunder booms and cracks, like a barrage of cannon fire, each crash accompanied by a blinding blast of lightning.

&
nbsp; I’ve never experienced a storm like this in my life, and it is utterly terrifying. I am an insect beneath the fury of this storm, as helpless as an ant.

  Will is immoveable behind me, and under us, Gopher is tirelessly thundering onward, hooves throwing clods of dirt and grass skyward. His head bobs, neck reaching. I’ve been in a speeding car before, and on a motorcycle, but it’s nothing like this. The sense of speed turns my stomach to quivers, and the power of the animal beneath me makes me feel weak and small. Will clutches me in an unbreakable grip, and despite the danger all around, I feel safe, sheltered in front of him, his broad shoulders behind me, his thick strong arm around me.

  How long do we ride? I don’t even know. For the second time today, I’m on the back of a galloping horse, bound for who knows where.

  Although, it’s clear both Gopher and Will do know where they are headed, because the path we take is unwavering, a straight line over hills and between trees, and I can feel Will providing very little by way of guidance—Gopher is heading home on his own. Even I can tell it is away from the Big House, away from Alpha Camp, away from everything. Farther and farther from anything, acre after acre.

  The hills grow higher and steeper and more rugged, the grass taller, the trees thicker, more pine, and less birch and aspen. Gopher’s pell-mell gallop takes us up a hill, and then finally he slows and angles across the hill to follow the ridge, and now we’re on a recognizable path, a track in the grass under the tree cover. The trees provide a little shelter from the storm, but hail is loud on the tree trunks and leaves, thudding against the grass. The pieces of hail are larger now, and the ones that make it through the foliage more than just sting when they hit me, they downright hurt, more like pebbles thrown at me from close range.

  The danger we’re in is all too real. If the hails gets any larger, or comes down any harder or more thickly, we risk serious injury. As it is, I’ll have bruises. Will is urging Gopher on, and trees whip past on the left and right, branches slapping at my face and ribs, tearing at my clothes and ripping at my hair, and hail crashes against me like handfuls of gravel, mixed with stinging blasts of rain. Thunder and lightning crash and flash nonstop, all around. Fear claws at my throat, and god, I’m sick of being scared today.