The Last Cowboy

Surprised, Jordana said, “Oh…” She hadn’t thought about that.

“You can go back to posting. It’s not a bad thing to do on fifty and hundred milers. It saves your horse’s back and it also allows you to rest a bit between strides, too—like you said.”

“Good,” Jordana whispered, suddenly smiling with relief. She leaned forward and threaded Stormy’s thick black mane through her fingers. The mare’s ears flicked.

Her hands were beautiful, Slade realized as he stood near the shoulder of the horse. Jordana’s rhythmic movements reminded him of water flowing gracefully in and around rocks. There was a slight sheen of perspiration across her brow as she pushed the brim of the black baseball cap upward. And her smile melted him in a way he could never have fathomed. What was it about this woman that made him feel like putty?

“Several things,” he growled. “All mustangs came from Spaniards’ horses who escaped from them when they came up here in the 1500s. The conquistador leaders had part-Arabian mounts bred with local horses in Spain. They were known as Spanish barbs and that’s what your mare is.” Slade studied Stormy’s fine head. “She even has the slightly dished face of an Arabian.”

Jordana nodded. “And she possesses that long, elastic trot of an Arab, too, but I’m sure you already saw that.” After all, he’d ridden Stormy two days in a row.

Nodding, Slade found himself enjoying Jordana’s knowledge. She knew her mustang well. “Yes, and that’s what will make your mare a potential winner. Arabians are the only breed with the extended trot where they naturally float, all four feet off the ground.” He held his hands up to demonstrate. “All other breeds have an extended trot, too, but they don’t float a foot or two farther with each stride when all four hooves are off the ground, like an Arab or mustang can. And it’s that one to two feet of float above the ground that gives Stormy a stride advantage. She can take on horses that are fifteen and sixteen hands high and still match their stride. The taller horses have longer legs, therefore, a longer stride. Mustangs and Arabians, however, compensate with this genetic gift only they have.”

“And that’s why,” Jordana told him, “so many Arabian and part-Arabians win the major endurance contests.”

Nodding, he said, “Right.”

“And Thor, your mustang stud, has the same type of stride. I’ve seen video on the internet of him when you’ve got him in the extended trot. He’s magnificent.”

Pleased by the sudden passion in her husky voice and the enthusiasm burning in her eyes, Slade privately arched a little over her praise. It struck him in that moment that he really had missed the soft warmth of a woman around him. There had been times when Isabel had been like that with him, but not very often. Scowling, Slade said, “Thor has won every major endurance event.”

Relaxing in the saddle, Jordana brought her leg up and over the saddle. “You and Curt Downing, who owns that black Arabian stallion, are always trading for first or second. I can’t tell you how many times you gave us an exciting finish.”

Mouth tightening, Slade snarled, “Downing is a son of a bitch and I don’t want to talk about him.” He held on to his simmering anger. Seeing the shock register on Jordana’s face, he added, “Whether you know it or not, Downing is a cheat and up to no good out on the trail when judges and spectators don’t see him.”

“What do you mean?” Jordana asked, confused. She saw anger come to his narrow eyes. This time, Slade was real easy to read. She was beginning to realize when his full mouth was thinned, he was upset about something. And the way his brown brows slashed downward, it was easy to see he was furious. With her? Jordana hoped not.

“Downing has no honor out on the trail,” Slade gritted out. “We’ve got the fifty mile Tetons Endurance ride coming up on September 1st. He’ll be there and so will I.”

“What do you mean no honor?”

Studying her innocent face, Slade said, “You’ve been in endurance races?”

“Sure, many, but they were fifty milers was all, and I was small stuff compared to the pros who rode their horses.”

“Did you ever see anyone strike a horse and rider with a crop? Crowd them off a narrow trail?”

“Why…no,” she admitted. “Is that what Downing does?”

Giving her a sour look, Slade said, “Oh, yeah, and worse.”

“You know this from personal experience?”

“I do,” he said in a clipped voice. “And so do a lot of the other pros who ride the top endurance circuit.”

“If Downing is as bad as you say he is, how come he’s never been caught doing these things?” she demanded. Jordana knew that the ranch next to Slade’s was owned by the Downing family. Was this a local dust-up? Two arrogant endurance champions who couldn’t stand one another from a competitive sense?

“Believe me, there’s plenty of endurance riders just waiting to catch him in the act. Once it gets beyond the ‘he said-she said’ and we’ve got cell-phone photo proof, he’ll be booted out once and for all. Until that happens, it’s one person’s word against another and the judges can’t move on that. Downing does his dirty work in areas where there are no prying eyes of spectators or judges.”

Jordana felt the anger in Slade. “I never realized that went on. All the contests I’ve ridden on, the riders were respectful and followed the rules.”

Giving her a quirked grin, Slade said, “There’s always a bad apple in every group. Downing is it. And you might as well know it because if you’re going to ride on the national circuit, you’ll be meeting him at every one of those endurance events.”

Shivering, Jordana ran her hand down her arm feeling the goose bumps Slade’s harsh words created. “I just can’t believe it.”

Whipping his gaze upward, Slade met and held her innocent-looking blue eyes. “You won’t have much to worry about. Your mare will never be able to keep up with his black stud or Thor.”

“We’ll see about that,” Jordana said, keeping her voice light. She saw the steel glint in Slade’s eyes. God help her, but she thought he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. He wasn’t pretty-boy handsome. He was a man’s man from the rugged cut of his sunburned features to the way he stood, walked and held himself. Despite his constant grumpiness toward her, Jordana allowed herself to at least appreciate him on purely a woman’s level. The words “eye candy” came to mind. Despite his outer armored toughness, she’d seen him deal gently with her horse. There was good somewhere deep down in this Wyoming cowboy. And inwardly, Jordana promised herself she’d find it. Not sure how, she kept that secret to herself.

“Enough talking,” Slade muttered. “Let’s repeat the gaits and figure eight in the other direction.”

“May I post this time?” she asked, smiling down at him. She saw his face thaw for an instant. And just as quickly become hardened. So, a warm smile got to him? Well, that was good to know. Maybe just being friendly was all she had to do around him. Jordana wanted a less acerbic teaching relationship with Slade. She saw enough irritable and angry people in the emergency room of the hospital. She didn’t need it out here, too.

“Post,” he agreed, gesturing for her to get out in the arena once more.

Later, after an hour’s worth of working Stormy in the arena, Jordana walked at Slade’s side as she led her mare back to the stall area to be unsaddled. The sun’s light was more westerly now, the thunder-clouds approaching the valley beneath the slopes of the Tetons. The wind was picking up, too. “Looks like we’re going to get that thunderstorm,” she said, wanting to see if he would make small talk.

Grunting, Slade gave her a brisk nod.

Ouch. Undaunted, Jordana said, “When I was in residency at a New York City hospital, I always loved the storms that came during the summer. It cooled the city down for a little bit.”

Staring at her, Slade almost stopped. “You’re from New York City?”

She heard the stunned disbelief in his tone. Why was he looking at her suddenly as if she was an alien from another planet? “Yes, I was born and raised there. Why?”

Clamping down on an expletive, Slade said instead, “You’re a city slicker.”

“That sounds like a curse,” Jordana teased lightly, taken aback by his scowl. Slowing up, she dropped Stormy’s reins just outside the tack room. Stormy had been taught to ground tie. When the reins dropped to the ground, she was to stand and not move. Jordana eased the flap of her saddle upward to reach the cinch.

Slade stood uncertainly, his mind whirling. Isabel had been from that same damned city, a spoiled brat pouting all the time when she didn’t get her way. She would throw a temper tantrum like a young horse who was saddled for the first time. And yet, as he watched Jordana release the cinch and unbuckle the breastplate around Stormy’s chest, he couldn’t help but stop the comparison. This woman was confident, mature and had a quick, easy smile that automatically felt as if her hands were smoothing down his irritable nature just as he’d touch a horse to calm it.

“Well?” Jordana prodded, smiling as she walked past him with the saddle in her arms, “am I a damned city clod in your eyes?”

Bristling, Slade opened the tack-room door for her. “It explains why you post. East Coast riders are taught English riding and not Western-style riding.” It wasn’t a lie. He just didn’t want to get into the painful and private parts of his divorce with Jordana. Oddly, as Slade watched her put the saddle over the aluminum rack on the oak wall, he thought Jordana might not only understand, but be sympathetic toward him. Isabel had taken him for everything. He’d lost so much in the divorce.

Jordana would clean her gear later. Right now, Stormy was wet and sweaty and needed to be bathed over at the shower barn. “Guilty on all counts,” she said, walking past him.

“Were you always around horses?” he wondered, walking with her to the shower barn.

“My father is a cardiac surgeon and my mother was an Olympic dressage champion. I feel like I got the best genes from both of them,” she told him, a warm feeling in her heart for her parents.

“They still live in New York City?” Slade liked talking with her a lot more than he thought he would. He saw her smile dissolve and her features become sad.

“They died in an airplane crash five years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Slade muttered, meaning it.

“So am I,” Jordana said quietly. She halted at the showering area. Dropping the halter lead, she slid the door open. Mustering a slight smile, she picked up the lead and asked Slade, “What about your parents? Do they live nearby? I’ve never seen anyone but you and Shorty here at the ranch.”

As Slade watched her lead Stormy into the shower stall and put the cross ties on her mare’s halter, he found himself wanting to tell her the truth. Walking around the horse and staying far enough away from getting splattered with water, he said, “Red Downing, who was Curt Downing’s father, crashed into my parents’ truck. They died instantly. He was drunker than a skunk.”

Jordana froze when she heard his words hesitantly tear out of him. She recalled Shorty telling her about his parents but decided to hear his version of it. Looking over, she saw pain in Slade’s face. For the first time, he’d unveiled his armor and she got to see the human in him. There was such grief in his eyes it tore at her heart.

“I’m so sorry, Slade. I really am. How tragic…”

“Yeah, it was. In more ways than one,” he muttered, crossing his arms. Leaning against the wall as she began to use the shower hose to wet Stormy down, he added, “Me and my fraternal twin brother, Griff, were orphaned at six years old. My parents had left us the ranch in their will, but we were too young to run it. My dad had two older brothers, Paul and Robert. Griff moved back East with Uncle Robert. I stayed out here with Uncle Paul and Aunt Patty. Together, they took over the running of our ranch.”

Jordana took a plastic brush and began gently scrubbing Stormy’s neck. She stood quietly, appreciating the tepid water. Looking over her back, Jordana realized that Slade was this way because of the early loss of his parents. She tried to put herself in his place. Wouldn’t she toughen up, too? Would the world look scary and uncertain to Slade and his brother? Very. Gently, she asked, “Is your brother Griff also an endurance rider?” She had never seen him on the circuit.

Giving her a jaded look, Slade felt helpless to stop from telling her about his painful past. “No. Griff went back to New York City with Uncle Robert and his wife. He’s never cared about the ranch.”

“Ah, this is where city slicker comes in?” she teased softly and added a smile. Slade’s face went dark, and he refused to meet her gaze. Oops. She’d said the wrong thing. Scrubbing Stormy’s withers with a soft rubber brush where the saddle sat, Jordana made sure to get all the grit and dust washed off her because it could cause inflammation and create a saddle sore if she didn’t.

Battling his sudden emotions that rose unexpectedly within him, Slade muttered, “My younger brother is a Wall Street broker. He got sent to Harvard and has an MBA. He followed in my Uncle Robert’s footsteps.”

“I see,” Jordana said, moving the brush and the water down the center of Stormy’s gray back. “Does he visit often?”

Shaking his head, Slade said, “Griff likes New York. He likes the East, the big money he makes, the power he has, the women who like to follow the money trail. He doesn’t have time for our family’s ranch.”

The hurt was so evident that Jordana couldn’t shield herself from his sadness. All of a sudden, she wanted to drop the brush and shower wand, run over to Slade and throw her arms around him. In that split second, he looked like the grief-stricken six-year-old who had had his family suddenly torn away from him. Privileged to see the real man, Jordana stood there unable to say or do anything. She couldn’t run over and embrace him. What Slade needed was to be held, rocked, nurtured and kept safe. Now, she was seeing a little of how he saw life. It was a hard life. It took those he loved away from him. And speaking about his brother tore away a new scab that hadn’t really healed at all. Moistening her lips, Jordana said, “Sometimes, life is harsh.”

He snorted, allowed his arms to fall to his side and glared at her. Scared that he’d opened up to this woman, who was really a stranger to him, had him feeling uneasy. “That’s right. It always is. I’ll see you in three days.”

Watching Slade leave, Jordana saw how quickly he closed up once more. His eyes, however, couldn’t lie. She saw such anguish in them that it made her want to cry. And he would never allow her close to him. Like the hurt animal he was, he’d bite anyone’s hand offering help. Sighing, she continued to scrub Stormy free of sweat and dust. The first clap of thunder rolled across the land. Looking up, she saw the churning gray and black clouds racing down upon the valley. Soon, it would pour rain in buckets. Was the sky already crying for the pain that Slade McPherson carried daily within him? No parents were here to love and guide him. No one to help him grow up safe and nurtured. No wonder he was a loner….

CHAPTER FIVE

AS JORDANA DROVE into the training facility, her heart leaped with surprise. There stood the most famous endurance rider and horse in the country— Slade and Thor. She wasn’t sure who was more masculine, proud and aloof: the stud or the man. Smiling with excitement, she forgot about the stress of hurrying out to Tetons Ranch to arrive on time. As a physician she had unexpected emergencies that she had to attend to before anything else. Jordana lived in continued anxiety that one day, she might be late. Slade wouldn’t tolerate tardiness.

Climbing out of her truck, she grinned. “Hey, seeing Thor in person, instead of in a photo, is astounding!” Thor had a “cap” of chestnut color splotched across his head and ears. That was known as a medicine-hat pattern. Native Americans considered such a horse as powerful, protective and lucky. Thor had sky-blue eyes, and Jordana knew it made him even more rare and beautiful. His white hair covered part of his face along with chestnut markings down to his pink-colored muzzle and wide, flaring nostrils.

Pride flowed through Slade. His stallion snorted, his chestnut-colored ears flicking as Jordana approached. The hot July sun beat down on them. “Get Stormy saddled up,” he ordered. “We’re going on a fifteen-mile run.”

Shocked, Jordana halted. “Really?”

Giving her a sliver of a one-sided smile, Slade said, “You brought your mare to me in top shape. Shorty said you were riding her fifteen miles twice a week. She’s ready for this.”

Swallowing her shock and pleasure, Jordana said, “I’ll be right there!” She trotted up to the training barn, her heart soaring with joy. Stormy greeted her with a friendly nicker as she walked down to the end box stall. As she placed her mare in the cross ties to be brushed and saddled, Jordana felt hopeful. Ever since meeting Slade, her days had taken on a new brightness and hope. Not wanting to look at that aspect too closely, Jordana told herself she was drawn to the cowboy because of his rugged good looks and that was all. Clearly, Slade had no women around here.

As she hurried to the tack room and picked up the thick pad and saddle, Jordana recalled talking to one of her patients who knew Slade. Tracy Border, a thirty-year-old mother of two who was trying to lose weight, had said Slade was called The Loner. That his wreck of a divorce had all but put his ranch into teetering foreclosure with the local bank. Further, Slade had been married to a brat of a woman who had no maturity. With that information, Jordana could understand why Slade was anti-female. He had to have time to get over a divorce.

The sweet smell of alfalfa hay wafted through the barn. Inhaling the scent, Jordana often wished that some perfume company would make the fragrance. She’d wear it for sure!

Releasing Stormy from the ties, she quickly placed the hackamore on her mare, clucked to her to follow and hurried out of the facility. Slade was already mounted on the restive, powerful-looking Thor. Jordana knew that the Native Americans felt the medicine-hat pattern, that was sometimes found on paint or pinto mustangs, was powerful. In fact, war chiefs often coveted such beautifully marked mustangs because they were considered the ultimate, courageous warhorses. Thor was pawing the ground, anxious to get on with the ride. He stood fifteen hands tall, which was rare for a mustang. Most were very small in comparison. His white body was splattered with chestnut markings that made her think of an artist carelessly throwing paint here and there across his athletic body. She liked the mixing of white and chestnut on his long, flowing mane and tail.

“I’m ready,” she called, grinning.

Warmth flowed through Slade as he sat relaxed on his stallion. “Mount up,” he told her. For a stolen moment, Slade watched like a starving wolf as Jordana easily vaulted up into her specially made endurance saddle. Today she wore a bright pink T-shirt, a beat-up black baseball cap and jeans. Her curves called to him, and Slade had to tear his gaze from her small breasts. Jordana’s cheeks were red, and he’d come to realize when she was excited, they colored to mirror her happiness.

Squeezing her calves against Stormy’s sleek gray barrel, she rode up and paralleled Slade. “What now?”

Lifting his hand, he said, “We’ll take the path between the pastures. At the end of it, we’ll go left and then we’ll be on Elkhorn Ranch property. Iris Mason gave me permission years ago to utilize her large ranch land to train my endurance horses. I only have fifty acres, which isn’t enough to toughen up an endurance prospect. On her property, there’s hills, slopes of mountains, as well as flat areas. We need all those to challenge the horse and get him…her…up to speed.”

“What a wonderful gift Iris gave to you!”

He nodded and brought the brim of his Stetson down more securely on his head. “She’s the matriarch of this valley and has a good heart. When I went to her and asked for her permission, she gave it right away. And she didn’t ask for any money. That’s the kind of person she is.” Slade was grateful that Iris hadn’t demanded money for the use of her land. She could have but known, as every other rancher did in this valley, he was nearly penniless. Iris helped out those who had less, and he was thankful for her kindness.

“I hear Iris is marrying Professor Timothy Varden from Harvard,” she said.

Nodding, Slade thought of the invite he’d just received to the event. “Yes, she’s in her eighties but she fell hard for the guy.” And secretly, Slade was happy for Iris. She was one of the stalwart leaders in the valley.

“One of my patients told me about her yesterday. I don’t think anyone dislikes Iris.”

“She’s special.”

“I heard that Senator Peyton was convicted and going to prison. I met Clarissa Peyton the other day over at Gwen Garner’s quilt shop. After Gwen told me what had happened, I felt very sorry for the woman.”

“Yeah, it’s been rough on Clarissa. Matt Sinclaire was his target. This year it’s been a mix of good, sad and bad news.”

“I met Casey Cantrell at a luncheon,” Jordana said with a wispy smile. “She and Matt just got engaged. They’re going to get married at Christmas. Matt felt that his daughter, Megan, would have the terrible memory of her mother killed in that arson fire erased by the happy one.”

“Matt has gone through hell,” Slade agreed, grim. The firefighter had lost Bev, his wife and almost lost his daughter Megan to Senator Peyton’s attempt to kill them. “I like Casey a lot. And Megan is speaking up a storm now. After the fire, she went mute. And it wasn’t until of late she started talking again.”

“I think it was due to Casey,” she confided. Slade’s face had softened and he was reflective. Jordana knew that this valley’s people were very close, and all had connections with one another like a larger family.

“I do, too. Megan calls her Mommy now and I think they’ll have a happy ending. Matt certainly deserves a break after all this hell he’s gone through.”

Nodding, she added, “I suppose you hear most of the town gossip? That Zach Mason, Iris’s grandson, has been caught driving drugs to and from Cheyenne with a gang? I’ll bet Iris is heartbroken.”

“There’s not much I don’t hear,” Slade drawled. “And Zach’s mother, Allison Mason, was just convicted of trying to murder her stepdaughter. Good thing she didn’t succeed, but her son Zach, swore vengeance.”

“I heard from another patient that Zach has been in drugs for a long time.”

“That’s true,” Slade said, running his fingers through Thor’s silky white-and-chestnut mane. “I’m more worried about the sister, Reagan. She had a real career ahead of her in movie directing but she’s sat tight here after the conviction. Word’s out that she’s going to get even with Kam Trayhern, the woman her mother tried to murder.”

Sighing, Jordana said, “That’s what Gwen Garner said. My heart breaks for those two kids. Why didn’t Allison Mason think about them before she tried this harebrained scheme to kill Kam Trayhern?”

Shrugging, Slade said, “People do funny things when they’re threatened.” Hadn’t he? After Isabel had left him, he’d turned into an angry bull, much like Diablo. Human feelings were tough to control sometimes. Slade lifted out of his thoughts and said, “I want you to take off in front of me. Walk Stormy to warm her up until we hit that left turn. Then, I want you to do a slow trot. At all times, I’ll be behind you. I want to size up your mare on the different geological areas and see how she reacts.”

“Okay,” Jordana said, feeling her heart swell with a fierce affection for the taciturn cowboy. “I was doing the same type of riding in the south Jackson Hole area.”

“I’m familiar with where you worked her,” Slade said. “But this has more altitude, is rockier and is far more challenging. If you want Stormy to compete in the top tier, she has to not only take this type of terrain on, but excel at it. Today is a test run. We’ll see how she does.” He didn’t say he’d also be watching how Jordana rode and negotiated the coming demands. As on every endurance ride, the rider never knew what was coming next. He’d get to see how Jordana “talked” to her mare and how the horse responded.