The Last Cowboy. Lindsay McKenna
“I’m beginning to like him,” Jordana said, impressed. She knew a dirty cinch was only asking for trouble. A horse had hair, but any sawing motion could pull it out and leave the horse’s tender flesh open to being rubbed raw. And as a doctor, she was always aware of possible infection starting at such a site.
“Oh, he’s a stickler,” Shorty promised with a lopsided grin. “You’ll be spending a lot of time either in here or just outside the door cleaning your gear afterward. He don’t want you leaving the premises until you’ve bathed your horse over at the shower area and then cleaned your leather. Oh, and make sure your horse’s hooves are clean. If he finds any mud, manure or, worse, a stone lodged in the frog area of the hoof, he’ll give you one warning. The second time, he’ll release you as a student.”
“Got it,” Jordana said.
“Crud in the hoof can make a horse lame in a heartbeat.”
“Yes, it can. I’m a stickler on that, too.”
“Good to hear, ma’am.” Shorty scratched his chin. “Okay, let’s go over to the bathing area.”
Just outside the pole barn and to the left stood another enclosed area. It was painted red and made of an aluminum roof and wooden sides. Shorty led her down a thickly graveled path. He slid the door open. “Now, this is where you will bathe your horse after your training is done. It’s got solid rubber matting on the floor so the horse don’t slide or skid. We’ve got panic snaps on the cross ties that will be attached to both sides of your mare’s halter.”
“I like panic snaps,” Jordana agreed, stepping into the shower shed. It, too, was well lit. If a horse ever got scared or bolted while in the cross ties, all the owner had to do was jerk the panic snap open, and it instantly released the horse so it didn’t choke itself to death in the ropes. These hardy steel snaps had saved many a horse from such an awful and completely preventable death. Yes, panic snaps cost a lot more, and some horse people didn’t purchase them because of that. But what was the horse worth to them? For a little more money, they could protect their animal from such a fate. Jordana liked that Slade thought of all the details. It was obvious that he cared for the horse in every way possible. Would he care equally about the rider? That remained to be seen.
“Here’s the showerhead and hose,” Shorty told her, pointing up to the gear hanging on a hook on the right side of the shed. “The Boss doesn’t believe in hitting a hot, sweaty horse with shockingly cold water. You’ll find the water tepid, instead. He don’t want them traumatized with a cold temperature.”
“That’s impressive,” she murmured, deciding that Slade’s earlier demeanor didn’t carry through in his training philosophy. Maybe he just didn’t like her? Jordana frowned and hoped not. Still, he’d been this side of testy and rude to her. Maybe he was having a bad day, she thought.
Shorty gestured for her to follow him out. “The Boss treats his horses like himself.”
Jordana liked the warmth of the early July sun overhead. Having spent two winters in Jackson Hole, she had come to welcome the summer as never before. There was snow on the ground eight months out of the year. That was the part she didn’t like. When spring came, however, there was no place on earth as beautiful as this valley and the dragon’s teeth of the Tetons thrusting up out of the prairie.
“Now,” Shorty said, walking toward the huge rectangular corral, “the Boss will be riding your mare daily in here. It’s got two feet of fine sand as a base. That keeps your horse from pulling a muscle or, worse, a ligament or tendon. He’s going to be seeing what her strengths and weaknesses are this next week.”
“You mean he does all the riding?” Jordana was surprised. That meant ten horses a day were ridden. “I thought he had help.”
“No, ma’am, he does it all himself.”
“No wonder he was upset with me arriving late.”
Shorty grinned. “Time’s money.”
Nodding, Jordana now understood his frosty stance. “How long does he ride the horse?”
“Depends. At first, he’s not going to push your mare. He’s gonna see how she does at a walk, trot and canter. Might be on her for thirty minutes at the most, depending upon how built up she is or not.”
“I’ve been riding Stormy ten to fifteen miles every third day. He will want to know that.”
“Yep, he will. But when you come out the next time, he’ll cover all that with you. The Boss can tell how in shape or not your horse is by merely examining it and watching it work.”
That was true, Jordana decided. And Slade’s gray eyes had missed nothing. He was handsome in a rugged kind of way. She liked his full mouth even though it had been thinned with displeasure talking to her. His nose was strong-looking and had a bump at the root of it, telling her he’d broken it some time earlier in his life. She’d liked his broad, square face, his skin burned brown by being out in the sun so much, the creases at the corners of his eyes deep. Was that from squinting in the bright, white snow or sun? Or were they laughter lines? Jordana highly doubted Slade had any humor in his bones. Not once had he cracked even a slight smile toward her. No, he wasn’t Mr. Social, that was for sure.
“Oh,” Shorty said, “you need to know that the Boss will not allow a rider to wear spurs or carry a whip.”
“Not a problem. I don’t do either.”
“That’s good because the Boss believes that if the horse and rider have a good rapport with one another, you can get all the speed out of the animal because it trusts you. Don’t ever be seen carrying a crop. He’ll kick you out of here so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
Laughing, Jordana held up her hands. “Not to worry. Stormy hates crops. In fact, when I bought her from Bud two years ago, he told me she was combative if she even saw a crop. He thinks the BLM cowboys used whips to get her into a corral. No, Stormy hates crops.”
“The Boss will want to know that.”
“Good.”
Shorty walked her back to the truck. “I’ll help you bring in all your gear to the tack room and then you can leave.”
“Thanks for the help,” she said, appreciating the wrangler. Looking around the large operation, Jordana didn’t see McPherson. The robins were singing in the oak and maple trees that surrounded the one-story ranch house in the distance. There was no lawn, and it looked pretty shabby in comparison to the spotless pole barn and showering shed. Maybe being a single male was the reason. Jordana would have put in a small lawn, flower boxes on the front windows and a small white picket fence around it. A woman’s touch. But this hard cowboy wasn’t much for decoration. At least he cared for his endurance horses. And that was all that counted in her book.
“Now, you need to write out a check for the first month’s rent and training,” Shorty reminded her.
“As soon as I get the tack put away, I will,” Jordana promised him, opening up the trailer door to remove the saddle and bridle.
DRIVING AWAY from Tetons Ranch, Jordana felt happier than she had in two years. Hands firmly on the steering wheel of her three-quarter-ton truck that hauled the empty horse trailer, she drove out just as slowly as she had come in. Maybe McPherson had a tractor stowed away somewhere and would get Shorty out here to flatten it once more.
The sky was a bright blue. The sunlight made the Tetons mountain range west of her look tall, rugged and beautiful. By early July, the last of the snow was almost gone until September, when it would once more become a white cloak around each of the sharp, pointed peaks. Her mind ranged over the price of the training. As a physician, she made good money. Her savings was now gone. She’d spent it buying a house at the edge of town. Two thousand dollars a month for training was going to stretch her in a way she hadn’t counted on. Jordana wanted to put money back into savings, but this training fee wouldn’t allow it.
Grimacing,