Cowboy in Colorado (Fifty States of Love) Read online

  Clint snorts. “Sure. You’ll follow that sign for a mile, maybe two, and then suddenly it’ll get faint and eventually vanish. They all set out at once, and at a canter, but then as they settle in for the ride to where the herd is grazing, they spread out and slow down, and suddenly there’s no more path, and you’re lost in the middle of the ranch, and I guarantee you won’t have a fuckin’ clue where Alpha Camp is, much less the Big House or anything else. And then you’re alone in the middle of ten thousand acres on a strange horse you don’t know how to ride, with no food, no water, no clue where to go, and no cell service.” He slows his horse to a stop without so much as pulling on the reins, as if the horse just knows what he’s thinking. “So, good luck with that.”

  I pretend I’m not scared out of my mind, that the thought of being alone out here isn’t utterly terrifying, that I’m not afraid I’m going to get lost and die alone, hungry and dirty and eaten by wolves or something. I pretend I’m fine, unconcerned. I ride forward, forcing my back straight and chin up, even though my spine feels like water and my stomach is roiling and my head is spinning and fears and doubts whirl like a tornado.

  “Well, I’m willing to take my chances. I have to talk to Will. No isn’t an option.” Because I don’t have a plan B. If this doesn’t work, I have to go back to the drawing board, and I’ve spent way too much time and resources on this to just let it go because of a couple of noes from a stubborn ranch owner.

  My determination to talk to Will has everything to do with my desperation to prove myself to Dad, to make this shot at earning his respect and trust work. It has everything to do with business, and nothing whatsoever to do with the fiery, piercing blue of Will’s eyes, or the tanned power in the corded muscles under his tanned, leathery skin, or the way his butt filled out his jeans or his arms stretched his sleeves, nothing to do with his wild, masculine scent or the rough, untamed animal spirit vibrating from his very pores.

  He packed more raw, masculine, primal energy into one quick, dismissive glance at me than all the men I’ve ever met in my life.

  But I’m definitely not following him across the ranch because of any of that.

  I’m not that foolish, not completely ruled by my hormones or desires.

  This is business, and I HAVE to get him to at least listen to my proposal, because I just know if he’d listen for ten stupid minutes—shit, five minutes, or even two—he’d come around.

  The sky, once blue and endless, is clouding over, and the horse under me is tireless in her slow, steady walk across the rolling grass.

  Eventually, I hear and feel Clint and his horse near me—behind and to the left a bit, out of the way but close by.

  True to what Clint said, after a while, the trail begins to fade and spread out, until there’s nothing but wind-bent grass. Fear claws at my throat, because if I were to want to go back to the camp, I would have to go in a nearly perfectly straight line, or I’d miss the little cabin and stable—the landscape here is rolling, with folds and hills and hidden creases in the grassland, and I realize you could all too easily miss something as small as Alpha Camp in this wilderness.

  I glance back at Clint, but his face is hard and expressionless, giving nothing away. “Well, as you predicted, the trail is gone.” I gesture ahead of us. “I don’t know about you, but my time is valuable to me. So, unless you want to waste the day riding aimlessly, you’d best just take me to Will.”

  “You’re gonna get me fired,” he grouses.

  “If he fires you, I’ll see that you get plenty of severance pay.”

  He snorts. “Severance pay? Lady, you may know how business works in the city, but that ain’t how shit goes down out here. No such thing as severance pay.”

  I glance at him. “Does the last name Bellanger mean anything to you?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Nope. Why? Should it?”

  I laugh. “No, I suppose not. My point is, I’ll see that you’re taken care of, should your boss prove unreasonable.”

  His answering glare is annoyed. “Taken care of? Lady, I do not need some damn city girl in silk pants and high heels to take care of me.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I start, but then realize I’m just going to dig myself in deeper if I keep trying that route, so I hold up my hand and gesture ahead. “My apologies. I didn’t intend to question your capability, Clint. I would appreciate your help in getting to wherever Will is, and if not, I’ll just have to hope he’s in this general direction.”

  With a supremely annoyed growl, Clint angles his horse to the left, breaks into a trot, and leads the way. He’s not waiting, and I’m not at all sure I’m ready for this, but…I nudge Molly in the ribs with my heels, and tell her to trot. Immediately, she lurches into a steady, bouncy trot that makes me feel relieved Will isn’t around to watch.

  He’d enjoy it far too much, probably, and that’s not at all business-like.

  I snort out loud, annoyed at the lasciviousness of my own thoughts. Stay on track, I tell myself. Business. Focus.

  Molly, fortunately, is every bit as gentle and obedient and calm as Will said she’d be, following Clint with basically no guidance needed from me.

  We ride for another fifteen minutes or so, Clint following a series of landmarks or trail markings that lead across the rolling hills. The longer we ride, the darker the sky gets, and I feel a vague worry about getting caught out here in the rain, but then realize that while it may be miserable, it’s not like my outfit can get any more ruined. So, I carry on and ignore the darkening sky.

  After a while, I begin to hear sounds other than Molly’s hoofbeats and the rush of the wind: voices, shouts, laughter, whinnies and snorts and stamping feet and pounding hooves. We crest a rise, and my breath catches—another scene lifted directly from a western film is spread out before me. A massive herd of horses, hundreds of horses in a many-colored swirl of movement like a cloud of primal movement, painting white and black and brown and tan across the verdant green hillside. They seem to soar, flying across a sky that is green rather than blue, on four churning legs rather than two pulsing wings. I watch as Will and a half-dozen other riders spread out in a curved line behind the herd, keeping them moving in the same general direction via shouts and whistles and movement—Will even has an actual bullwhip, which he cracks now and then. They’re guiding the herd toward a makeshift fence, made from split tree halves. The fence itself is, clearly even to me from here, meant to be temporary, and uses the natural bowl where a hillside curves in a U-shape, the tree halves woven in with trees and bracken and bushes. The fence is built in a wide oval, with one section of split rail left on the ground, open as a gate; I see a seventh rider, dismounted with an end of the makeshift gate in hand, ready to swing it closed.

  Occasionally, a few horses try to split away from the herd, but one of the riders is always there to cut them off and head them back toward the group and keep them running in the general direction of the makeshift pen. I sit at the top of the rise and watch as Will and his men work as a seamless unit to drive the herd into the pen. My heart is in my throat, caught and thumping. I’m not quite a hundred yards away, but I still recognize Will even at this distance. The way he sits on his horse, the breadth of his shoulders, the easy mastery in every movement—utter, brazen confidence in every action. God, he makes my heart palpitate and my palms sweat and my thighs clench around the saddle.

  Down, girl. This is business, and nothing else.

  I settle myself; push my errant thoughts and wayward libido way down, under the cold, hard facade of the businesswoman. Ice in my veins, I tell myself. I’m not a woman, when I speak to him—I’m a businessperson. Without need, without desire, without impulse, except for that which drives efficiency and stimulates profit.

  Gah, I should not have used the word “stimulation.”

  There will be zero stimulation.

  No matter how strong his hands. No matter what he smells like. No matter how tight and round his ass is.

  I wriggle
in the saddle, trying to ease the burn and ache—which is entirely focused in my seat, and not at all in any other part of my nether regions.

  Who’s hot and bothered? Not me, and not my horse.

  We’re cool. Calm. Collected. In command.

  I’m Brooklyn Bellanger, dammit, and I am master of my world and of myself. I need no man, and I am not ruled by desire.

  I snort, and Molly answers with her own snort, which earns me a wry grin from Clint. “Sounds like you and her speak the same language.”

  I just glare at him. “Thank you for your assistance, Clint.”

  And with that, I click my tongue and tell Molly to trot, and feel proud of how easy it seems. Molly angles down the hillside at a trot, and I’m easy in the saddle despite the soreness.

  The herd is nearly contained in the pen as I approach, all but a dozen or so horses who seem the most resistant to going in are trying to bolt this way and that, each time meeting a rider who yells and shout and whistles. Molly feels…antsy, under me. Her back seems to arch a little, and her trot speeds up without my urging, and she points herself toward a gap in the line of the other riders, as if automatically knowing where to go.

  “No, no, no, Molly, we’re not here to help,” I tell her, trying to tug her reins to get her away from the churning thunder of the last and most stubborn of the herd.

  I see Will, and he sees me, and his face is stormy and dark with raw fury, but he has no time for me. His men have gotten all but four horses into the pen, and the man holding the log, which will be the gate, is slowly walking it closed. The last four horses, however, are the smartest and most wily. They spin and stomp, eying each of us in turn, charging forward to test a gap here, a space there. Each time, one of Will’s riders is there to meet the wild horse, driving it back toward the pen.

  And now, Molly has included us in this dangerous dance.

  Maybe she knows what she’s doing, but I sure as hell don’t.

  The leader of these remaining, wayward horses is a huge black with a flying mane and wild white eyes and pawing hooves, all male, all dominant alpha. Snorting, stamping, wheeling, skidding and cutting, seeking an out, determined to escape, uncooperative, formidable and terrifying in his furious display of independence. He turns to face me, and Molly snorts, whinnies, and moves forward. My feet are away from her sides, my thighs gripping, the reins loose, but she’s acting on her own, on instinct and training.

  “GET OUT OF THERE, BROOKLYN!” Will shouts. “Get out! Fucking go, goddammit!”

  I all too eagerly obey, trying to rein Molly to one side as the massive, snorting black demon of a horse charges right at me. Molly refuses to be cowed, however, turning in obedience to my command but still somehow moving forward—she’s angling to cut him off.

  “LET HIM GO!” I hear Will shout. “CLOSE THE GATE, GODDAMMIT!!”

  Hooves pound, dirt and grass fly.

  All I see is the heaving, sweating black flank of the errant horse and his eyes fierce and wild as he thunders at me, and then he’s screaming, a deafening sound, forehooves raking the air in front of me. Molly’s answering whinny sounds scared, but she’s still moving, hind legs carrying her in a skidding circle, away from him even as he paws the air inches from my face.

  I think I’m screaming, but everything is a blur and loud and confused and I don’t know what is happening.

  The world spins and turns and flips, and then the sky is down and the grass is up and time is moving syrupy slow—

  SLAM!

  My lungs empty with a squeaking gasp as something crashes hard against me, knocking a whirl of white stars in front of my eyes, shaking me like a rag doll, sending me rolling. I blink and gasp, but I can’t breathe, can’t see. There’re dark gray storm clouds boiling overhead, angry and cracking thunder. Everything hurts. Something is still screaming and snorting—Molly is dancing away, just inside my field of vision, stirrups empty and jouncing against her belly, mane flying and whipping. I try to move, but I can’t.

  The ground shakes, rattles, and I blink and try again to breathe, to move, and I desperately, greedily suck at the air as my lungs start to work again—something massive and black and round rips into the grass near my face, and the next thing I see is the horse whom I’ve named Demon, rearing above me, front hooves slicing at the air over me, hind legs dancing a yard away from my legs. I am utterly paralyzed—

  For a split second.

  And then some panicked instinct deep in the most primal, survivalist core of my brain takes over and I roll and roll and roll…and feel those hooves the size of dinner plates crashing into the ground inches from my head, smashing and slicing and pounding inches away each time I roll—

  And then Will is there, on his feet, literally standing astride my prone form.

  7

  I can only lay on my back gasping for breath, staring up at Will as he stands over me like a warrior, guarding me. He has his ball cap in one hand, bullwhip in the other, and he’s swinging the whip overhead—CRACK!!—the tip snaps inches from Demon’s snorting nose, and he rears again, pawing furiously at Will, who stands his ground, utterly fearless, shoulders back, chin high.

  Another deafening crack of the whip, and he steps toward Demon. “I’m not scared of you, horse,” he says in a voice loud enough to be heard, but still in a soft, gentle tone. Not angry, not aggressive. “Back up. Back up.”

  Somehow, it works.

  Demon keeps his front paws on the grass, bobbing his head, snorting, pawing the ground, but he backs up. Will lets the bullwhip dangle in a coil at his feet, replaces his hat on his head, and steps toward Demon again, a slow, careful, wary sidle a few inches forward. He glances to one side, at one of his men—the one at the gate. Nods, a lift of his chin. The man at the gate quickly opens the gate, and several others spread out both on foot and on horseback, to block off Demon’s escape routes. Demon sees this, waggles his head, stops moving and examines all of us. His big black fury-gleaming eyes fix on me.

  “Stand up, Brooklyn,” Will commands. “Now.”

  I scramble to my feet, aching all over.

  “Stand beside me,” he says.

  I obey, moving to stand next to him. I’m shaking all over, from adrenaline still coursing through me, and from pure terror at the horse in front of me, glaring at me with hate-filled eyes, killer hooves raking at the grass.

  “He can’t get away with that,” Will murmurs to me. “You can’t let him make you cower.”

  “He’s terrifying,” I whisper, not at all ashamed of the high-pitched quaver in my voice.

  “He’s a wild stallion. He’s run this herd for three years, watching me cull his girls and the other stallions over time. He’s pissed. He’s defensive, and territorial, and just doing his job as the alpha.” He says all this without looking at me, without taking his eyes off Demon. He moves forward. “But I plan on catching him and breaking him myself. And he cannot, and will not, get away with terrorizing people. So you have to show him you’re boss. That you’re not afraid of him.”

  “But…I am.”

  “I know that, and so does he.” Will glances at me quickly; storm-blue eyes furious and boiling, seething, even as his tone is calm and collected. “You have to get past it and back him up into the pen.”

  “How?”

  “Act like you’ve got bigger balls than he does.”

  I laugh out loud at that. “His balls are the size of watermelons,” I say. “I saw them as he was trying to attack me.”

  “I mean figuratively,” he says. “Don’t be angry or try to scare him, just act dominant. Like you expect him to obey you, no matter what.”

  “Why can’t you do it?” I ask.

  “Because he didn’t attack me. He attacked you. If you let him win, you’ll know it forever, and so will he.” Will’s eyes demand obedience. “You wanted to follow me out here, where you don’t belong? Well, this is how things work on the range, Brooklyn. Let a horse trample you literally or figuratively, no horse that saw that will
ever forget it or respect you, and with horses, love and respect are everything. So walk his big butt backward into the pen. Now.”

  I swallow the diatribe in my throat, because I know he’s right. I don’t know a damn thing about horses, but I know that after what just happened, I don’t ever want to be around another horse again. It’s like when I got in a car accident when I was sixteen and newly licensed; I got sideswiped and spun around, rolled into a ditch, and by sheer luck escaped with only bumps and bruises. I didn’t want to drive again after that, but Dad made me. He sat in the car with me and talked me through it, and eventually I got my confidence back and resumed driving. It was terrifying at first, but if Dad hadn’t made me get behind the wheel again, I wouldn’t have had the courage.

  “Love and respect?” I say. “How am I supposed to love a horse that tried to kill me?”

  “You don’t start with love, you start with respect,” Will says. “You respect the fact that he’s huge, powerful, and capable of killing you, that he’s a wild creature. Respect that, but don’t fear it. He is, at the core of his instincts, a prey animal. Prey animals operate out of fear, and you use that. You’re the predator. He will respect you, but you have to earn it. And that starts by getting over your own fear and making him do what you want.”

  “Why can’t we just let him go?”

  “Because the rest of his herd is in there,” Will says, gesturing at the pen. “He’ll go nuts if he’s kept apart from them, and so will they. They need their alpha, and he needs them. Once he’s in there, he’ll calm down a bit, but his instincts are telling him to not let himself be cornered or caught.”

  I breathe slowly and force my legs to stop shaking. I lift my chin, and stare at the massive black stallion. He is, honestly, an incredibly beautiful animal, a creature of raw power and grace. He’s…regal. A wild king of horses.

  I force my foot forward. Toward the horse. “All right, Demon,” I murmur. “You scared me, but I’m over it.”