The Last Cowboy. Lindsay McKenna
giddy like a teenager. As she put on the brake, she saw his large gray eyes narrowing speculatively upon her. Suddenly vulnerable beneath that incisive, probing gaze, Jordana felt like Jell-O melting out in hot sunlight. Even her lower body was reacting to him! Good grief! What was this all about? Unhinged, Jordana suddenly felt unsure in this man’s towering presence. He wore a set of dusty Levis that perfectly outlined his long, powerful legs and thick thighs. His hands were long and large, draped over his narrow hips. The dark red cotton cowboy shirt did nothing but emphasize his square face that was burned dark by the sun. The slashes at the sides of his full mouth and the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes told her this man regularly challenged the weather in any condition—and won.
Her intuitive sense told Jordana he was armored up. The realization hit her in the solar plexus. Unexpectedly, her hands shook as she gathered up items from the seat in preparation to leave the truck. Jordana suddenly was taken back to when she was fifteen years old. It was at that age she had been struck by love for the first time. And how she felt then was how she felt now. Compressing her full lips, she tried to gather her strewn emotions. As hard and implacable as Slade McPherson appeared to be in person, Jordana knew she had to put on her physician’s face: strong, confident and detached. It would hide her present emotions that were a mix of excitement, desire and curiosity.
Climbing out of the truck, Jordana hastily walked around the front of it. As she faced the stony-looking Slade McPherson, she heard him snarl, “You’re late….”
CHAPTER TWO
JORDANA FELT AS IF she’d just been physically slapped by the rugged-looking cowboy who towered over her. She was only five foot six inches tall. He was like a Sequoia compared to her pine-tree height. Compressing her full lips, Jordana weathered his icily spoken words. As a trauma physician, she’d encountered people in all states of anger and irritability. Knowing that a soft, steady voice and appearing unflappable calmed emotional storms, she smiled and said, “I’m sorry. I’m Jordana Lawton. The road to your ranch was a little more rutted than I’d anticipated, and I slowed down so my mare wouldn’t get thrown around in the trailer.” She put her hand forward.
Slade absorbed the apology in her husky voice. The sound flowed over him like melting honey. Jordana’s hand was extended, and he stared down at it. She had long fingers, her hand as delicate-looking as her face. Obliquely he wondered if she had the stamina it took to gut out a fifty-or hundred-mile endurance ride. In appearance, she didn’t look like much more than a pretty black-haired, blue-eyed woman with a curvy body in all the right places. The sunlight danced across her shoulder-length hair, highlighting some of the reddish strands.
“Slade McPherson, Dr. Lawton.” He monitored the amount of strength as his hand engulfed hers. To his surprise, he found her hand strong and firm, just like his. Swallowing that discovery, he instantly released her fingers because red-hot tingles were soaring from his hand up into his lower arm. What the hell was happening? Slade had no idea.
“Call me Jordana,” she insisted. Giving him a bit of a wry smile, she added, “I am a trauma doc, but that’s my job. Out here, I’m just like anyone else. Please call me Jordana?”
Slade felt as if he was being pulled into her dancing, sky-blue eyes. There was warmth and understanding glinting in them like dapples of sunlight across the lakes found in the Tetons range. Her pupils were large and black, eyelashes forming a dark frame around them. Again, he swallowed hard. There was nothing to dislike about Jordana. She appeared to be around his age, although her face appeared to be that of a young twenty-something. Slade knew that doctors didn’t really get out of training until they were twenty-eight to thirty years old.
“I haven’t got much time,” he said abruptly, and he waved his hand toward the horse trailer. “Shorty said you have an endurance prospect you wanted me to evaluate?”
Wincing internally, Jordana had to stop the comparison between her former boss, Dr. Paul Edwin, who’d had the exact same acid, remote and cold personality as McPherson. That made her cringe inside. After a two-year sexual harassment lawsuit, Jordana had won the court case but she’d lost her position at a prestigious New York City hospital. That was why she’d decided to start all over and moved from there to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Now, she was being tested by a man who looked as harsh as the mighty Tetons range itself.
“Yes, I have a mustang mare name Stormy. I’d like you to evaluate her conformation. See if she has what it takes.”
“At what level?” he demanded, stalking around the back of the trailer and opening the latches.
Jordana quickly followed him. He flowed like water over rock. There was a fluidity to Slade that mesmerized her. She realized he was in top athletic shape to be able to move with that kind of boneless grace. “Level one, the Nationals,” she said. Jordana moved forward as the doors swung out and pulled out the ramp. Stormy whinnied.
Reaching up, Jordana patted the sleek gray rump of her mare. “It’s okay, Stormy. I’m going to get you out of there.” She walked to the side of the trailer and opened a smaller door. This allowed her to go inside and unsnap the hook attached to the mare’s red nylon halter. That done, Jordana eased around the end and stood where the mare was tied. She attached a nylon halter lead and placed her hand on the horse’s chest. “Back up,” she told the mare.
Stormy obeyed. In a few moments, Jordana and her mare were standing outside the trailer.
“Bring your mare over here,” Slade ordered. He walked away from the trailer into an area where the horse could be walked and trotted.
Jordana nodded and did as he asked. What a tough hombre he was! There were no articles that said anything about this man’s personality. Maybe that’s why, she thought. Anxious because Jordana wanted Stormy to be given the good seal of approval, she took the horse about a hundred feet away. McPherson stood with his arms across his chest, his face unreadable. The shade created by his tan Stetson emphasized the harsh lines gathered across his brow. What would he say about Stormy?
“Okay,” Slade called, “trot your mare in a straight line toward me.”
Clucking softly to Stormy, Jordana ran alongside her mare. She knew Slade was looking at how the horse’s legs moved. She knew Stormy had a good set of legs. He would be checking out whether her hooves moved straight ahead or winged out or came into a pigeon-toed formation. If the horse’s hooves winged outward, it was a sign of bad conformation. Stormy would never be able to take the hard, constant stress on her legs without breaking down and becoming injured.
Slade had one hell of a time keeping his eyes on the horse’s movement. Jordana wore a bright yellow T-shirt, jeans and cowboy boots. She moved as fluidly as the mare. Slade cursed—he did not want to be drawn at all to this woman! He’d automatically looked at her left hand and found no wedding ring on it. That didn’t mean much. Slade was sure she was hooked up in a relationship, anyway. Jordana was far too pretty, intelligent and professional to be alone out here in Wyoming. Just as well, he harshly told himself.
As Jordana drew her mustang to a halt about ten feet in front of him, Slade lifted his hand and growled, “Now walk away from me. Go the same distance and then turn around and walk back to me.”
“Right,” Jordana said, breathless. Stormy was feeling her oats, and she pranced as Jordana turned her around. Speaking softly to the mare, Jordana managed to get the mustang settled down and walking obediently at her side.
Slade groaned. He was watching the way Jordana swayed her hips. Her legs were long and firm. He’d been without a woman for some time now. And this one, for whatever reason, was fanning the flames of his monklike life. Forcing himself to watch the mare, he was pleased to see she was four square. That meant that at a walk, her rear hooves would land where her front hooves had previously been. That was a sign of the type of conformation Slade wanted to see in an endurance prospect. As the horse saying went: “No legs, no horse.” And in endurance riding, legs either carried you through the challenging hill and mountain conditions, or they didn’t.
As Jordana brought the steel-gray mare to a halt, he’d seen enough and changed his orders.