Her Rodeo Hero. Laura Marie Altom
have you done with him?”
She tried not to let her embarrassment show. “Not a whole bunch lately. I was flat on my back for a while, but when I climbed back onto him last month he seemed to remember everything I’d taught him.” She was the one who’d had problems...still had problems. Balance. Vision. Equilibrium.
“And you tried to ride him without a bridle?”
His look seemed to say it all. And, okay, maybe it hadn’t been one of her best ideas.
“Before my accident I was riding him every day,” she said in her own defense. “He was listening to vocal commands and everything, but when I took his bridle off, he seemed to forget everything.”
“Let me guess.” A small smile came to his face. “Runaway pony.”
“Something like that.”
She hoped he didn’t see the momentary flare of remembered panic that came to her eyes. She thought he hadn’t, but then, just as quickly as it’d arrived, his grin faded away.
“How’d you get him stopped?”
“I had a friend in the arena with me.”
He crossed his arms. He wore the same black outfit as before, right down to the hat, and she wondered if he’d come straight from a rodeo performance. It was the weekend and late enough in the afternoon that she supposed it was possible.
“You mind me asking why you picked reining? Surely Western pleasure would be better?”
She’d asked herself the same question at least a million times. “Have you ever seen freestyle reining?”
“I’ve seen a lot of things.”
“Then you know what it’s like. Breathtaking. I was hooked the moment I saw a video on YouTube over a year ago. It’s like pairs ice skating or synchronized swimming or a ballet performance. Your horse becomes your dance partner. You, the music and your animal. Dancing.”
She couldn’t see his eyes beneath the brim of his cowboy hat, couldn’t see if he understood. If she hadn’t known better she would swear he was hiding his gaze from her.
“It’s going to take a lot of work.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then let’s get started.”
* * *
ONE LESSON.
He’d said the words over and over again on the way to the Lazy A Ranch. He absolutely didn’t need a project, especially a female project and her horse. He had his own baggage to deal with—the ranch, all the repairs, his full rodeo schedule.
“Should I saddle him up?” she asked.
“Nope. We’re going to do some groundwork first.”
She glanced over her shoulder toward the young girl behind her, the one who tried not to be obvious about listening as she diligently cleaned her horse’s stall. The same spot she’d been cleaning the entire time.
“Do you mind if Laney watches?”
“Nope.” Colt glanced around. “This place have an arena?”
“It does.” He thought he heard her mutter, “Sort of.”
He glanced down at Natalie, sunlight reflecting off her short hair. She waved her young friend over, completely oblivious to the way he studied her. It had occurred to him earlier that her hair might be short because of her accident, and his friend Wes had confirmed it. She’d been wearing a helmet when she’d had her wreck during that jumping competition, but it’d been cracked clean in half. Video of the accident showed she’d been stepped on after the horse had flipped over on her. There’d been talk that she’d never ride again. Clearly she’d proven her doctors wrong, but just the thought of it, of what she’d been through, made him shudder. Wes said she had a scar on her head. Colt had scars, too, although his were mostly on the inside.
Don’t be getting soft.
One lesson. He had a busy life and he preferred to live it on his own schedule.
“So what are we doing?” Natalie asked.
“I told you, ground work.”
“I’ve already done all that.”
“Not this kind.”
“You going to teach Playboy how to bow?”
“Nope.” His dad used to teach his horses how to do that. But as Colt thought back to the methods dear old Dad had used, the way he’d tie a rope to a horse’s front leg, forcing it forward while at the same time pulling down on the halter—not just any halter, but one with metal staples in it—he resolved yet again never to treat his horses that way. Ever.
“Do you need me to go get a lunge line? I still have a surcingle, too.”
She’d stopped outside what he presumed was the arena, one with sagging boards and dirt footing. The wooden gate didn’t look as though it would open, and if it did, that it wouldn’t stay on its hinges for very long. It was rimmed by ramshackle wooden shelters and sad looking horses—like their own equine audience. Crazy. He suspected it wasn’t really an arena. More like a dirt patch everyone used because there was no place else.
“He’s wearing all he needs.”
The hinges held, miraculously, and the kid Natalie had signaled to earlier leaned against the top rail of a fence stripped bare of paint. Surprisingly, it didn’t collapse beneath her weight. Someone really should spend some money to fix up the place, he thought. He would swear they’d used recycled garage doors to make the horse shelters.
“Okay, now you’ve got me curious,” Natalie said.
“Go on and walk him forward.” He watched her for a moment. “Now stop.”
She did as asked, and just as he expected, Playboy took three or four steps past her.
“Make sure to say ‘whoa,’” he called out. “Do it again.”
She repeated the process one more time, only this time she used her voice. Didn’t help. The horse still moved past her.
“He’s not listening to your verbal commands.”
“Yes, he is. I’m barely pulling on the lead rope.”
“He should be stopping the second you do. Not one second later, and especially not two. Right away. Bam.” He slapped his palm. “He has to be listening to not just your voice, but your body, too. Once you’re in tune with each other, he’ll be able to read the direction of your eyes. You’ll be able to tell him which way to step with just a slight tip of your head.”
“He’ll follow my eyes?”
“He will. I’ll give you some exercises to help him with that, but we’ll start on the ground. Trot him out for me.”
She stared at him oddly. “Trot?”
“Up the middle of the arena.”
“As in run alongside of him?”
Why did she stare at him so strangely? “Yeah, that’s generally what one does when one trots a horse.”
She shifted her weight to her other foot. “Okay.”
She ran like a three-legged moose. He couldn’t believe it. She seemed so lithe and svelte he would have sworn she’d move like a ballerina.
“I don’t jog too well.”
She was out of breath and clearly embarrassed. That was an understatement. “We’ll need to work on that.”
“I’m sorry.” She sounded so sincere, so genuinely contrite that it made Colt feel like a jerk. She might run like a drunk, but she was still beautiful. Still in need of