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….

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