The Last Cowboy. Lindsay McKenna
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Stormy’s legs, Jordana swore she could feel those rough, callused hands exploring her at the same time.
“Phew!” she muttered. “This is crazy!”
Was it? What adventures waited for her two days from now when she began her first lesson on Stormy with tough Slade McPherson?
CHAPTER FOUR
JORDANA TRIED TO calm her nerves as she rode Stormy out into the huge rectangular arena where Slade McPherson stood. Her heart wouldn’t settle down. It was July 3, the late afternoon sky filled with threatening clouds. As she looked toward the ragged-edge Tetons, she saw a massive thunderstorm over their sharp peaks. It might come their way if it was strong enough. The wind was up, and Stormy was more alert.
Today was the first day of her training with the implacable McPherson. Why had she had two dreams in a row about this hard-looking cowboy? As Jordana pressed her calf into Stormy’s side to make the turn into the sandy arena, she had mixed feelings. Wasn’t it enough she was working twelve hours a day either at her clinic or the hospital? Since the settling of the lawsuit, she had no desire to get entangled with a man. She was still too raw from the experience, the trauma of the move west and trying to get some sanity back into her life.
“Take her at a walk around the arena to the left,” Slade ordered, his voice carrying across the distance.
Nodding, Jordana took in a deep breath and tried to relax. She knew that Slade was going to be damn tough on her. Stormy had already had two daily workouts. The mustang mare seemed completely oblivious to her anxious state, just plodding along on a loose rein.
“Quit slouching,” he called. “Straighten up.”
Instantly, Jordana took the bow out of her back, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin slightly. Quirking her mouth, she wondered if McPherson was going to always yell at what she did wrong, but offer no praise for what she had done right. Many trainers were like that, she’d discovered. If she didn’t have confidence built up over years of being a resident, she might wither away under such an unfair training system. At two thousand dollars a month, Jordana wasn’t going to let his snappish orders scare her away.
Slade eyed the pair as they walked around the arena in a relaxed fashion. He tried to keep his eyes off Jordana, but that was impossible. His job was to see how she rode, how she sat in the saddle and how she handled her horse. He’d been dreading this moment for days. Having a woman among his male students was like a thorn in his side. He didn’t want her or her runt of a mare, but he needed her money. Guilt niggled at him. Jordana was sincere in contrast to his greediness. Slade didn’t like that about himself. She had come to him honestly. So what did that make him?
Not looking at the answer too closely, he enjoyed watching her lower body move in sync with the horse. Wearing jeans, boots and a dark green T-shirt, she was all woman. Curvy in all the right places, Jordana was a fit athlete. “How long you been riding in endurance events?” he asked.
“Two years,” she called.
Grunting, Slade nodded. “Slow trot,” he ordered.
Pressing her calves to Stormy, Jordana felt the mustang mare instantly obey. Although a small horse, Stormy had long legs. Jordana posted, which meant she lifted her butt off the saddle with every other stride of the animal. That resulted in less pounding on her mare’s back. She knew it was the English way of riding a horse. The Western style was to sit the trot and flow with the horse.
“Sit the trot,” he called.
Grimacing, Jordana did. She hated not being able to post. After going halfway around the arena, she called, “I’d rather post. It’s easier on the horse’s back.”
“Sit the trot.”
Growling to herself, Jordana complied. It took a lot of work to keep her legs against Stormy, her thighs strong and clamped solidly to the saddle and horse. If she hadn’t done so, she’d be bouncing and flying all over the place. Was he testing her strength? Was that what this was all about? The wind sang through her hair. Lifting her hand, she pulled the black baseball cap a little lower over her brow. The wind would pull it off if she didn’t.
“Do a series of figure eights at a sitting trot.”
Jordana knew without a doubt he was seeing just how much strength and control she had over Stormy. A figure eight required her to do a circle over one half of the arena and, once they trotted down the center of it, to turn the other way and complete the second circle. This was easy stuff for her. Stormy wasn’t breathing hard at all, her ears flicking back and forth. When her ears moved back, she was listening to Jordana’s silent leg, weight or hand signals.
“Canter the figure eight,” Slade ordered, his deep voice carrying strongly across the wide expanse. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, Jordana had a lot of good riding habits. It grated that she was using dressage, but that was only because Isabel had been a dressage rider. A well-trained horse became fine tuned with dressage training, and it wasn’t a bad thing to have in an endurance horse. There would be times that Jordana would have to use her weight or legs in tight places. Why the hell was he aching to kiss this woman? Slade hadn’t liked his dreams of the past two nights. Both involved kissing this doctor, who exuded quiet confidence. No way. Just no way. Keep it impersonal, he ordered himself.
“Go the other direction now,” he called.
By the time he ordered her into the center of the arena to rest, Jordana was feeling the intense workout. She halted Stormy in front of him and dropped the reins to allow her mare to lower her head and rest, too.
Slade studied Jordana’s face. He had a tough time seeing her as a physician. She just didn’t look like the type. Moving to the horse, he thrust two fingers beneath the horse’s cinch. It was tight but not too tight. She was so close. He liked her long legs and the way her firm thighs curved against the horse.
“Why don’t you let me post?” Jordana demanded. “It’s easier on my horse’s back and it also allows me to rest between beats.”
Slade stared up into her narrowed blue eyes. She was tough, but then, in endurance riding, that was a good trait. “I wanted to see how your mare took to it.”
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