Cowgirl, Unexpectedly. Vicki Tharp

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      Jenna blew a sharp whistle. “Come on, Dink,” she hollered out. The cow dog blasted past me out of nowhere and settled into an easy trot beside her.

      “Keep your eyes out for trouble,” Link yelled at our backs.

      My heart skittered faster for a couple beats before I remembered Dale had said he believed all the ranch’s troubles were behind them. I needed the job. I needed the money. I needed to get the hell back on the road.

      I didn’t need any trouble.

      Dale hadn’t gone into specifics, but how much trouble could there be in the middle of America? I moved to Jenna’s right and spotted the rifle in the scabbard on her saddle.

      What the hell have I gotten myself into?

      * * * *

      I had no clue what had upset Jenna. I didn’t know if she was mad that she had to drag two new hires along with her—one of which barely knew the front end of the horse from the back end—or if she wasn’t happy with the scope of her work. But like a good soldier, she’d kept her mouth shut and followed orders. I admired that about her.

      We followed a dirt road wide enough to ride two abroad, so Santos brought his horse level with mine. Jenna and her dog were about fifty yards ahead and gaining ground. I didn’t attempt to catch up because she probably needed a few minutes to settle her temper. Besides, the walk was much more comfortable than a trot.

      Luckily, Sierra didn’t fuss when left behind. She plodded along with her head down low, ears flopping to the sides, while Santos’s mount trotted in place beside me like one of those über-dedicated joggers who can’t stand still at a crosswalk waiting for the light to change.

      I was a newbie to horses, but the head tossing and the occasional sideways trotting from Santos’s horse told me his horse wanted to catch up to Jenna. Still, Santos stuck with me and rode out his horse’s antics as if he were John Wayne himself.

      The sun was rising higher in the sky. I could no longer see the vapor when I exhaled and the other ranch hands had disappeared over a rise. Santos’s horse worked himself into a small lather along his neck before he settled into a walk a couple miles from the barn.

      “Taco is learning fast,” Santos said, with a chin bob toward his horse. “Last month he threw me when the other horses went ahead.”

      I pegged Santos to be in his early twenties. He wasn’t big, but he wasn’t small either. His hat sat high on his forehead, revealing thick, black brows, dark chocolate eyes, and a large mouth full of straight white teeth. “Jorge Santos,” he said as he extended his hand in introduction.

      I leaned over to grasp his hand. The handshake lasted a fraction of a second as his horse bunny-hopped to the side. “Mackenzie Parish. My friends call me Mac.”

      Santos scooted his horse back in line with mine. “First time on a horse?”

      “I thought I hid it so well.”

      His grin flashed Chiclet-white and a dimple popped up on his left cheek. “We’ll have many hours and many days in the saddle. If you don’t quit, you’ll get better.”

      It wasn’t a resounding endorsement, but I’d take it. “I’ll settle for not knocking a filling loose or dislodging a kidney every time I trot.”

      “You have to relax,” he explained, drawing the word relax out a couple of beats. “Move with the horse.”

      He demonstrated both the slow and the fast trot on his horse then slowed again until I caught back up with him. “You try.”

      He made it look easy. I was pretty sure it wasn’t.

      Jenna was much farther ahead because she’d moved into a steady, ground-covering trot. I practiced both the slow and fast trot, and Santos had tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks as I tried to mimic what he’d shown me.

      I didn’t hold it against him. What I lack in skill, I make up in perseverance, and I silently promised Sierra an extra helping of grain when we made it back to the barn, a small thank-you for not dumping me on my ass.

      By the time we made it to the west fence, only every third or fourth stride ended with a jarring trot step. I was improving, but we hadn’t been in the saddle long and already my quads hurt and my butter-soft jeans had turned to sixty-grit sandpaper against my inner thighs.

      I tried to concentrate on the rolling hills to keep my mind off the nagging discomfort. The brush was short and scraggly in this area, small rocks plentiful, and the view of the craggy, snow-capped mountains ahead of me could have made the centerfold of National Geographic.

      I eyeballed the fence for signs of damage, but not particularly hard, because there were three of us watching the same fence line. Not a three-person job, but it gave Santos and me the opportunity to start learning our way around the ranch.

      My mind wandered back to this morning and my luck in getting the job. Dale must be desperate for warm bodies to fill the saddles if he’d actually taken the chance and hired me on. Not an auspicious sign.

      A sharp, high-pitched yelping jerked me to attention. Adrenaline buzzed, not a surge, but a soft spike that kicked my heart into the next gear and widened my focus. Santos dug his heels into his horse and galloped off. In the distance, Jenna yanked her rifle from its scabbard before disappearing over a rise.

      The yipping continued unabated, loud and so intense that even from a distance it threw me back to the streets of Iraq, to the screams of pain, the zing of bullets, and the brain-numbing concussive forces of the explosions.

      Sierra skittered sideways, anxious to join the others, and I grabbed onto the horn, gave her her head, and catapulted down the trail like an F-18 Super Hornet off an aircraft carrier. I didn’t know the old girl had that kind of speed. The brush and rocks screamed by in a blur; the speed flushed my cheeks and constricted my lungs and plastered a smile on my face.

      Sierra and I flew over a rise and almost plowed into Santos. My horse slid to a stop in half a stride, and my momentum propelled me out of the saddle. It was only because of my death grip on the saddle horn that my feet flew out of the stirrups first and I was able to crash-land on my feet a nanosecond before my ass and then my side hit the ground with a jaw-jarring thud, my left arm going out to help break my fall. My left shoulder pulled, bringing tears to my eyes and reminding me that maybe I wasn’t as well healed from my previous injuries as I’d fooled myself into believing.

      The dog’s howls came in waves, rising to a frantic, glass-shattering pitch before sinking to an eerily quiet before the next rise. My ears rang, muffling my panting. I spat dirt out of my mouth and scooted the remaining few feet to where Jenna sat with her arms wrapped around the dog. She’d pulled him into her lap, hugged his head and neck to her chest, and murmured reassuring words into the dog’s ears.

      Santos was using all of his muscle to depress the springs on a leg-hold trap. The rusty metal jaws—the size of which looked big enough and strong enough to hold a bear—bit full force with shark-like teeth onto the dog’s right foreleg. Blood dripped steadily into the thirsty ground. The bone was a chewed, mangled mess.

      I added my strength to Santos’s and together we released enough pressure on the jaws for Jenna to pull Dink’s leg out. The yowling immediately quieted to a pitiful whimper as Jenna buried her tear-streaked face into the СКАЧАТЬ