Making A Texas Cowboy (Home at Last Texas #1)

Chapter Seventeen

“T hat’s quite a picture on the wall in there,” Jackson said. He meant it. The dynamic, powerful duo of horse and rider practically burst out of the flat medium of the photograph, and when he’d first looked at it, he almost heard the echo of the roar of a Sunday rodeo crowd.

“It was a good year. Our best, in competition. That’s why I retired on it.”

“There’s a lot of trust in that image.”

She looked at him as if he’d startled her. Again. He didn’t want to think how bad her initial opinion of him must have been if every normal thing he said surprised her.

“Yes. Jet and I had a strong bond. I rode him for most of my competitive career. He was a great horse, with a ton of drive and spirit.”

Just like you, I suspect.

But he only said, “Was?”

A flash of sadness showed in her eyes for a moment. “Yes. We lost him last year. He was seventeen. He competed until he was twelve and still beat the younger horses.”

“He sounds like one of a kind.”

The sadness retreated, replaced by the glow of pride. Pride in a beloved teammate. “He was. I never would have gone as far as I did without him. And that career and reputation he helped me build is the foundation of what I have now. I owe it all to him.”

Jackson’s throat tightened a little. For her to give credit to what some called a dumb animal told him a great deal about the character of this woman. But he had to admit, he liked her earlier apology even better. Because she couldn’t have found a better way to say it.

...a kid like that couldn’t have the kind of man I assumed you were as a father.

It seemed when Nicole—Nic, now that he had permission—Baylor apologized, she didn’t mess around.

“Now,” she said, snapping him out of the reverie, “let’s find you a horse to ride.”

He lifted a brow at her. “Got any bucking horses around?” She gave him a startled look. He shrugged. “Just wondered if you’d slide one in on me to see what happened.”

“I wouldn’t do that!”

He kept his expression even. “I think you might have a few days ago.”

To his surprise, her cheeks pinkened. “I might have,” she admitted. “But not now. And you,” she added, her tone changing entirely as he let his grin creep through, “set me up for that.”

“Yep.”

For a split second, he wondered if he’d made her angry. If he’d set them back to square one with his teasing. But then she burst into laughter, and his worry vanished, to be replaced by a warm, expanding feeling that made his grin widen.

Still smiling, she said, “You want a challenge, or a horse you don’t have to worry about?”

Was this a test? “Depends. We taking a scenic tour?”

“I guess so,” she said. Then, with a wry quirk of her mouth—he was starting to like that expression on her—she added, “It won’t take nearly as long as it used to, since we’re not the size we once were.”

She said it as if a physical part of her had been removed. And he got the feeling that’s how she thought of it, so attached was she to this land she clearly loved. Losing a big piece of it had clearly hurt.

And seeing her hurt stung him a little, which made him say almost hastily, “How about no worries now, and the challenge next time?”

“Done,” she said, as if she was glad to move on quickly. And without, he noted, contesting that he’d be back.

They walked to a stall about halfway down on the right, and a dappled gray head popped out.

“Well, hi there,” he said, as the horse looked at him with interest.

“This is Shade,” Nic said.

It felt odd to him to even think of her that way, he’d been so careful about not using the nickname. And he felt a sudden qualm about that barrier having been removed. It had been a lot easier to ignore—or pretend to—those big eyes, that soft, kissable mouth, when that wall had been there. The wall of knowing she didn’t like him had been an odd sort of protection. A protection he hadn’t needed before, since no woman stirred him up anymore.

Until now.

The dark dapple gray nickered as if he’d recognized his name. He nudged at her until she rubbed his nose.

“Shade, this is Jackson,” she said to the animal. “He’s going to be yours for the day, so see to him, all right?”

The horse gave a whimsical-sounding snort, as if to say, Like I ever do anything else? Jackson couldn’t help smiling.

In the next stall, another head turned to look, a black-and-white paint horse that looked a bit like Jeremy’s favored pony in coloring.

“That’ll be the challenge,” Nic said when she saw him looking. “He’s not mean, just spirited. Takes a stronger hand than the ranch sweetheart here.”

She took the halter that hung on a hook outside the stall door and handed it to him. He took it, looked at her face, saw her very neutral expression.

“And so the testing begins,” he said. He saw the flicker in her gaze and added quickly, “Which is as it should be. You need to know, for the sake of the horse, if I have a clue.”

“Indeed,” she said, and he thought he heard a note of approval in her voice. That low, sweet voice he was really trying to deny had an odd effect on him.

He spent a couple of minutes talking to Shade until the horse nudged him, much as he had Nic. Only then did he slip on and buckle the halter, then open the bottom half of the stall door. The gray stepped out the moment he turned around, no pull on the lead rope required.

They followed Nic to the other end of the barn and the tack room. A glance inside told him there were a lot of saddles racked up. “The brown King is his usual,” she said, pointing to a well-used, but also well-maintained, saddle whose brand name happened to match one of his own. “But I don’t know if it’ll fit you.”

Her gaze had shifted to his belt and below. He knew she was just assessing how he’d fit in the seat of the saddle, but it was still a bit disconcerting. He looked away as he said, “Better it not fit me than him.”

“Good answer,” she said, and when he glanced at her, she was smiling again.

He’d expected her to watch his every move while he tacked up the gray, but she didn’t. She turned and walked back down the rows of stalls. Nevertheless, he went through his usual routine, given the horse’s back a brushing to be sure all the hairs were going the right direction, then lifting the saddle pad aboard and sliding it back before going for the saddle. He checked the stirrup length, knowing by experience it was too short for him; being six foot one had its drawbacks. But he got enough by dropping the length to the max, then hooked the right one over the saddle horn to keep it from essentially kicking the gray in the ribs on the off side when he swung it over.

He knew Nic was back, he’d heard the clip-clop of the hooves of the horse she led. But he’d have known, anyway, because he could practically feel her gaze. Still, he didn’t turn until he’d tightened the cinch just enough to hold the saddle in place for the moment, then went to get the bridle hanging on the same rack he’d taken the saddle from. He glanced at the bit, then at Nic. “Plain snaffle?”

She nodded. “Told you he’s a sweetheart.”

He smiled. “Lucky me.”

He looked at the horse she’d gone to get, and it didn’t surprise him that it was the same solid, muscular sorrel who looked as if he knew a thing or three. He liked the way the horse’s reddish coat was set off with a mane and tail that almost matched her sandy-blonde hair. Together, they made a striking pair.

“Problem?” she asked, and he realized he’d been staring.

“No,” he said quickly. “He just looks like Sorry, minus the blond mane and tail.” At her look he explained, “He’s the horse I rode the first season of Stonewall . He’s a sorrel, and the nickname just stuck.”

“Only the first season?”

Was she was thinking the horse had proved too much for him? For a guy whose business usually involved being assessed and judged, usually in a string of auditions, he wondered where this newfound sensitivity about it had come from.

“Turned out he was a little too spooky for the work. The noise and equipment set him off, and one day, while just waiting to start a scene, he got spooked, broke the tie line, and took off. Ended up in a mess.”

He thought he saw realization flash in her eyes. “The mud flat.”

So she knew. Maybe she’d even seen the video somebody had posted that had become a big deal, although he didn’t see why. Anybody who loved horses would have done the same.

“Yeah. That one.”

“Was he okay?”

He nodded. “Nothing that wouldn’t heal. But they didn’t have the time to wait for that, so they switched me over to Buck, and I’ve ridden him since. He’s a good horse, and we’ve really bonded, but I still felt... a connection to Sorry.”

“What happened to him?”

He grimaced. “They were going to get rid of him, and nobody would tell me to who or where.”

She went very still, and he saw that she knew as well as anyone that that was not a good sign. And when she repeated her question, her tone was grim. “What happened to him?”

He couldn’t stop the slight smile that went with his one-shouldered shrug. “I bought him.”