How to Handle a Cowboy (22 page)

Two days later, Sierra could hardly resist the urge to hum as she shrugged into her leather jacket and pulled on her flowered cowboy boots. Everything seemed to be going smoothly between Riley and Ridge. Ridge hadn't complained, and all Riley had talked about when Sierra called was how much work the house needed and how hard she was working. Sure, she was complaining, but there was an undercurrent of pride in her voice as she rattled off terms and talked about insulation and wiring and how to varnish the floors.

The last few times she'd come into town, she hadn't even stopped to see Sierra. Ridge had loaned Riley the old ranch truck, and Sierra would see it parked right across the street at the hardware store. Riley would exit the store, laden with purchases, and drive away with barely a glance at Phoenix House.

Some people might have been insulted by that, but Sierra smothered the little flame of hurt in her heart and reminded herself that this was what she wanted for Riley: a job that made her feel productive and gave her a feeling of wholeness so she didn't need Sierra—or anything else.

Besides, Sierra had her own life to live. And this morning, that life included heading out to the ranch for the boys' second riding lesson. Hopefully, seeing Ridge would be as easy as last time, and they'd be so busy with the boys, they'd barely have a chance to look at each other.

Because if they did look at each other, she knew what they'd each be seeing. That night, those tousled sheets, those bodies twining together in the waning light…

She pushed those images out of her head and stood at the foot of the stairs, hollering up to the boys.

“Come on, guys! The horses are waiting!”

A thundering cavalcade of kids responded to the call, four pairs of running shoes hitting the stairs along with one pair of pink cowboy boots. Jeffrey had been teased at first for wearing “sissy boots,” but his response had been silence. For once, Sierra wished the boy would fight, but the teasing had stopped.

The rest of the kids had no problems fighting. Isaiah and Carter had claimed the back-facing rear seat, and Josh was whining that it was
his
turn to “watch where they'd been.” Sierra brokered a peace agreement that put a very smug Josh in the rear-facing seat, along with Jeffrey, while Isaiah and Carter looked forward to taking the first rides once they arrived at the ranch.

There was the usual bickering on the long drive, fading to silence as the boys grew bored and maybe a little bit carsick. But they livened up on arriving at the ranch, spilling out of the car and racing around.

Meanwhile, Sierra watched Ridge. She couldn't help it. Things had run more smoothly than usual at the house over the last few days, and that had left her too much time and mental energy to devote to memories of the time she'd spent here the night she'd come for her phone, and the night after dinner at the Red Dawg. And then there was the shirtless tug-o-war game he'd played with the dogs…

She'd decided it was okay to enjoy those memories. They were too good to throw away. Someday, in the distant future, she'd
want
a serious relationship, and she'd be able to judge the contenders by comparing them to Ridge, with his honesty, his generosity, and his hot, hot body that was always ready for action.

Hot, hot…
stop
it.

It was okay to enjoy those memories, but it was
not
okay to look at Ridge, because if she looked at him, he might look back and then he might notice she was staring—and maybe drooling a little.

So she watched the boys as they gravitated toward the parts of the ranch that interested them. Jeffrey went straight for the corrals. Carter and Frankie headed for the hayloft, where they'd built a fort out of the heavy bales, while Josh, surprisingly, was petting Sluefoot and examining his bad eye like a budding ophthalmologist. Isaiah had found an old tractor with its engine exposed and was tracing the path of various hoses and wires.

So she had a cowboy, a vet, a mechanical genius, and maybe a couple of soldiers. Not bad.

She looked around for Riley but saw no sign of her. She worried that the mechanical whine coming from the house might be her friend tearing into something with power tools, but she couldn't leave the boys to find out.

She jogged to catch up with Ridge, who hailed the boys with a whistle as he headed for the barn. Naturally, they started their efforts to imitate him again, driving old Sluefoot to distraction. The old horse pawed at the gate, nodding his head in frustration. Ridge had evidently found a latch that was Sluefoot-proof—at least for now.

“Where's Riley?” Sierra asked.

“In the bathroom,” he said. “Or what
used
to be the bathroom. She tore out the tile and now she's cut a goddamn hole in the wall. I sure as hell hope she knows how to put it back together once she's torn it apart.”

“How's she doing?” she asked. “Is she paying her way?”

“Yeah, she is.” It was a grudging admission. “She's made a big difference already. I'm not sure how, since she spends all her time in town with you. Maybe you could talk to her about it or just send her back here. You can't have that much time to take away from your job.”

“Ridge, she's not spending any time at all with me. I haven't seen her in a week. I feel like we're kind of growing apart.”

“Well, she's spending it somewhere. When I send her into town for supplies, she doesn't need to spend hours and hours visiting,” Ridge grumbled. “With the drive both ways, that makes half the day. Meanwhile, I'm waiting with a hammer in my hand because she can't get home with the nails.”

“Sorry,” Sierra said. “Does she act like she's drinking or something?”

“Don't think so. She's tired, though. I figured you had her doing side jobs at Phoenix House.”

“No, honest. It's not me.”

“Well, she's up to something. I'm about to the point where I won't loan her the truck anymore. She'll just have to tell me what she needs, and I'll pick it up.”

Sierra knew Riley would have a fit if she ended up trapped on the ranch with no transportation.

“I'll talk to her about it. Believe me, I'll talk to her. She can't lose this chance.”

***

Ridge watched Isaiah circle the ring. The kid had a tendency to boss the horse around too much, and he was going to find himself in the dirt if he didn't change his ways.

Ridge was tempted to let him learn his lesson the hard way. Lessons that ended with the aspiring cowboy on the seat of his pants tended to stick. But Sierra probably wouldn't approve, so he held up a hand in a “stop” gesture.

“Whoa.” Isaiah pulled hard on the reins. He still had his brows drawn down and wore a fixed scowl of rebellion that probably had more to do with life in general than controlling the horse. But Dusty didn't care where the rough treatment came from. The horse pinned his ears, tossed his head, and pranced his front legs, almost rearing.

“Whoa. He's gonna throw me,” Isaiah said, tugging the reins harder. “This horse don't behave.”

“That's because you're not behaving.”

“What?” The kid was instantly on the defensive. “You told me to stop; I stopped. He's the one that's being bad.”

“Remember I said to get in his head, work with him, not against him?”

Isaiah shrugged.

“You're trying to steer him like a car. He's not a machine. It's a two-way conversation. You tell him to turn, he'll turn. You don't have to drag him around.” He stepped into the center of the ring. “Press on him with your left leg. Just barely, not hard.”

Isaiah obeyed and the horse did a reluctant but serviceable side pass toward the rail. His ears were still pinned, and his expression was as sulky as his rider's.

“Now the right. Just a gentle pressure. No heel, just your leg.”

The horse stepped right.

“See? He's a flight animal. He doesn't fight pressure; he moves away from it.”

“He's a sissy, then.”

“No, he's smart. Horses aren't made for fighting, so they've found a way to live where they don't have to.”

“What about when wild stallions fight?”

“That's the exception, not the rule. Mostly, horses follow the rules of the herd and live peacefully.”

Isaiah muttered something that might have included the term “chickenshit” but Ridge chose to ignore it. “So when you use the reins, they're not like a rope you drag the horse around with. They're a signal, not a weapon. Same with shifting your weight or touching him with your heels. It's a special language, and he knows what everything means, so you don't have to force him to do anything.”

Isaiah didn't look convinced.

“It's like if I was standing beside you, and I wanted you to move. I could just touch your shoulder and ask you to move. I wouldn't have to shove you.”

“You better not.” The scowl darkened.

“Well, that's what you're doing to Dusty, and he doesn't like it any more than you would. Now tell him to walk on and touch him—just touch him, don't kick—with your heels.”

Isaiah obeyed.

“Now rein left, but don't pull his head. Just lay the rein across his neck. Keep your hands down.”

He went back to the rail and watched as Isaiah and the horse began to communicate better. Soon the kid was riding on a far happier horse, and he looked a little less dour himself. Meanwhile, Josh and Carter sat on the fence like an experienced pair of ranch hands, contributing to the lesson with occasional good-natured insults.

It felt good, having the kids here. The more time he spent with them, the more he knew this was what he wanted. Every one of these boys was having his life changed, at least a little bit, by the horses. He wanted to devote his life to making that change possible.

Sierra stepped up to the rail behind him.

“Look at that,” she said. “It's amazing what happens when you get a kid on a horse. Look how relaxed he is and how gentle he's being.”

Ridge grinned and nodded. “Yeah, it's like a miracle. All I have to do is stand here.”

Sierra didn't catch the sarcasm. She shook her head. “Amazing.”

He moved closer, nudged her shoulder with his own. “You're amazing.”

She looked down, flushing. “No. You're the one who's teaching them to ride.”

“You're the one who's taking care of them every day.”

Somehow they'd turned to face each other, and they were standing inches apart. He reached out as if to touch her face then remembered the rules and pulled away.

She smoothed her hair, as if he could have messed it up by looking at her. It made him wonder what she was thinking. With her skin flushed pink and her eyes glowing with feeling, she looked so pretty, he wanted to lift her in his arms and carry her off to the hayloft.

“Thank you,” she murmured. And again he had to resist the urge to touch her.

Frankie and Carter had quit their good behavior and were climbing the rail like a couple of monkeys, knocking each other down from the top rail, laughing uproariously, then trying again.

“Hey, quit it. You guys are making Dusty nervous,” Isaiah called from the saddle. “He's a flight animal, you know. He's liable to flight himself right out of here and take me with him if you guys don't behave.”

***

Sierra thought back to the day the boys were playing in the junkyard, when Isaiah had talked about how much he wanted to get away from here—
just
drive
and
drive.
Now it sounded like he wanted to stay.

She had Ridge to thank for that.

All the kids loved it at the ranch—Josh and Carter, climbing on the fence and laughing like they hadn't a care in the world; Isaiah in the riding ring, his scowl relaxing as the horse obeyed his commands; Jeffrey—

Where was Jeffrey?

She looked right then left, her heart fluttering with alarm.

“Ridge? Have you seen Jeffrey?”

“Nope.” He turned to face her, and when he saw her face, his own changed expression. “Don't tell me he's missing.”

The flutter in her heart turned to hammering, and for a second, she thought she might faint. “Okay, I won't tell you. But could you help me look for him?” She hollered to the boys on the fence. “Carter. Frankie.”

Actually, only Carter was on the fence. Frankie was on the ground, choking with laughter. He scrambled to his feet and ran to her, right behind Carter. Josh, huffing and puffing, followed along behind.

“Have you guys seen Jeffrey?”

“Sure. He was right here.” Josh looked around, then grimaced and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Guess he's not now, though.”

Ridge approached with a sour-faced Isaiah, who obviously didn't like having his riding lesson interrupted.

“Quit sulking,” Ridge said to the boy. “You were done anyway.” He turned to Sierra. “Maybe he's with Riley. You check the barn and the house; Isaiah and I'll check the corrals and sheds. Whistle if you find him.” With that, he was off, striding toward the barn so fast Isaiah had to trot to keep up with him.

Sierra was glad to have the boys with her. They swarmed over the barn's interior, climbing to the hayloft and searching the stalls while she thought of all the terrible things that could befall a quiet little boy on a ranch. She bit her tongue half a dozen times, resisting the urge to warn Carter and Frankie about climbing too high, to warn Josh about getting splinters, to warn them all to stay close.

Because losing them, any one of them, would break her heart.

Carter and Frankie reported back to Sierra like little military recruits on a mission.

“He's not in here,” a flushed Carter reported.

Josh emerged from the back of the barn with dust on his cheek and his glasses askew.

“We've been over every inch of the place,” he proclaimed. “At least I think we have. On
CSI
, they'd make a grid of the place, and each of us would…”

“Never mind
CSI
.” She thought of all the grisly missing children's stories she'd seen on television and shuddered. “Let's check the house.”

The boys raced ahead of her, taking the porch steps two at a time and slamming the screen door behind them. The sound of the old door slamming reminded her of summer days at her grandparents' old house, and she wished the boys were racing into the house for a different reason, for ice cream or to play some summertime game.

She found Riley in the downstairs bathroom, wearing oversized plastic safety glasses, a mask over her nose and mouth, and a bandanna over her blond hair. She was wielding a crowbar like a weapon, tearing into the wall like it was responsible for every injustice she'd ever suffered in all her twenty-one years.

“Riley?”

Riley shoved the crowbar into the ever-growing hole she'd made in the drywall and levered out another chunk. She apparently didn't hear Sierra over the rending, tearing noise of destruction.

“Riley?”

Sierra minced over the detritus littering the floor of the bathroom and tapped her friend's shoulder. Riley whirled, crowbar extended. With her goggles and her mask, her weapon ready to strike, she looked like a space warrior from some science fiction movie.

Sierra raised her hands in surrender. “I come in peace!” she said.

Riley lowered the crowbar and tugged earbuds from her ears. Only then did Sierra notice the white wires trailing down her neck and into her front pocket, where an iPod made faint screaming noises.

“Sorry, I couldn't hear you,” Riley said.

“Man, she almost
killed
you.” Frankie sounded almost happy about it. Sierra knew not to take it personally. Disaster was better than nothing when you were a kid—anything to break the monotony of everyday life.

“I kind of get lost in what I'm doing. Especially during the demo phase.” She grinned. “Demolition.” Through the scratched plastic of the safety glasses, her eyes glowed as she waved toward the crumbling wall. “What do you think?”

“Well, it's demolished,” Sierra said.

“It's
cool.
” Frankie and Carter had crossed the littered floor to examine the copper plumbing and electrical wires snaking through the exposed two-by-fours.

“Don't touch anything.” Sierra turned to Riley, keeping one eye on the boys. “Have you seen Jeffrey?”

“Jeffrey.” Riley's glasses moved slightly, and Sierra assumed she was wrinkling her brow in thought under the bandanna. “One of the kids?”

Sierra nodded.

“Nope. You lose him?”

Sierra felt her stomach clench. “Yup. Come on, guys, let's keep looking.”

All the while, she'd been listening for Ridge's whistle, praying he'd find Jeffrey wandering in the pastures and corrals. As she turned to resume the hunt, the long-awaited sound split the still air.

Relief hit like a tsunami and she almost collapsed on the floor. She hadn't realized how anxious she'd been until the weight of worry lifted.

Frankie and Carter had already shot out the door and were rocketing over the dirt path to the barn by the time she got to the porch. She pounded down the steps and took off after them with Josh right behind her.

But there was no one in the barn. The whistle must have come from outside.

“Ridge!” She put her fingers to her lips and whistled. Even Riley could probably hear that.

But there was no answer.

She looked at the three boys, biting her lip. If she let them out of her sight, she was liable to lose them both. But Ridge could be anywhere. A network of corrals and outbuildings stretched from the barn, along with sheds and chutes and narrow walkways. It had probably started out as something sensible, but it looked like every generation had added on until it was hopelessly convoluted. And Ridge was nowhere in sight. He and Jeffrey had to be in one of the sheds, all of which seemed to face away from the barn.

The boys ran ahead, ignoring the gates and swarming over fences. They called Jeffrey's name, their voices thinning as they moved away from her.

Sierra used gates when she could, her fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar latches, but it was almost easier to use the kids' method and go over, under, and through the fencing.

She was only halfway across when Frankie ran back to her. “We found him.” His face was alight with triumph. “He's over in that corral at the side of the barn. He found one of the horses and he got
on.
He's in trouble, huh? He was riding
by
himself.
”

“Yes, he's in trouble,” Sierra said, but she couldn't put any heart in it. She was too relieved.

Somehow, getting through the gates seemed easier once she knew Jeffrey was safe. Carter and Josh joined her at a whistle, and her hands finally stopped shaking. Following the dirt path around the barn, she turned the corner and saw Ridge standing a few feet from a fence.

“Why didn't you answer my whistle?” she said a little shrilly. “I've been…”

He turned slowly and set his finger to his lips, but it wasn't necessary. Her words were trapped in her throat as she saw what was in the enclosure and nearly choked on horror.

***

When Sierra had set off for the barn, Ridge had led Isaiah through the corrals. The boy gamely clambered over fences when necessary and closed gates behind them when needed.

“Maybe he went to see that horse,” Isaiah said.

“What horse?”

“The yellow one. He liked it a lot. Remember he called it
golden
?”

Ridge did remember. Knowing how unpredictable Moonpie could be, he'd put him in the farthest-flung corral this morning, but he knew in a flash Isaiah was right.

Ridge stepped up his pace. As the tallest of the boys, Isaiah had no trouble keeping up. When they rounded the corner of the barn and Moonpie's enclosure came into view, Ridge stopped and put a hand on the boy's shoulder, squeezing slightly to signal silence.

Isaiah had been right. Jeffrey had found Moonpie.

Later, Ridge would cuss himself out for letting this happen—for not watching the boy better, for not realizing right away, as soon as Jeff disappeared, that his breathless fascination with the horse would lead him straight to the sunny corral where Moonpie grazed, out of sight of the other horses.

Ridge had moved the horse only partly to hide him from Jeffrey. He'd also figured Moonpie might calm down if he didn't have the mares to impress, and he'd hoped the horse would get lonesome in the large enclosure so far from the barn. As herd animals, horses hate to be alone, and a period of isolation makes them far more likely to bond with a human.

But right now, the horse wasn't alone. He was calmly cropping the grass on the far side of the enclosure with a boy on his back.

Jeffrey wasn't riding the horse. He was lying on the horse's back, with his arms stretched around the animal's neck, his head resting on its withers and his legs dangling dangerously close to its flanks. For one brief moment, Ridge enjoyed the sight of the boy and the horse savoring the sunshine. If you didn't know the horse was dangerous, if you didn't know the boy was troubled, you'd think you were looking at a scene straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

Actually, knowing the truth made the scene even more beautiful. These two troubled souls had somehow found each other, and found a way to take comfort in each other's understanding.

But this was no time to get sentimental. Ridge was in trouble. Big trouble. So was Jeffrey if things didn't go right. And Moonpie was in the biggest trouble of all. A killer horse couldn't be tolerated on a ranch that hosted children.

“That horse is mean, right?” Isaiah whispered. “He might throw Jeffrey. Stomp him, even.”

Ridge nodded. He wasn't worried Moonpie would throw the boy. Boys got thrown all the time. Boys bounced.

But Isaiah was right, although he sounded a little too excited at the prospect of watching a stomping. Moonpie bit. Moonpie kicked. And this morning, when he'd been moving the animal, he'd seen a glint in the horse's eye and known Moonpie was one of those horses who saw red sometimes, who were subject to a fear so intense it turned to rage and overwhelmed all their other senses. Ridge had owned horses like that before, and when the red veil obscured their world, all their training, even their inborn instincts, gave way to an urge to crush whatever set them off.

He knew he could help horses like that. He'd had that feeling himself sometimes when he was a boy. He'd felt like he had no say over his own life, no control, and it seemed like every time he'd found his place in the world and placed his feet firmly on the ground, someone would come along and yank him off-balance again.

He had no doubt Moonpie felt the same way. Ripped from his herd, forced into confinement, he had every right to be angry. Ridge's goal was to make the horse feel safe and convince him that cooperating with humans was his own idea, not something he'd been forced to do.

The big buckskin was doing better. He'd let Ridge lead him this morning, and he'd allowed himself to be soothed back to sanity when a sharp noise had startled him into a bucking, snorting dance of fear. But there was no way to know when Moonpie might decide his truce with humankind was over.

“Stay here,” he whispered to Isaiah. “And I mean
stay
.”

He moved carefully toward the enclosure, making sure the horse saw him from a fair distance before walking slowly to the fence. Keeping his hands at his sides, he was careful not to look the animal in the eye.

And still, the horse jerked his head up and rolled his eyes as Ridge neared the corral. A warning snort and the stamp of a hoof told him he was close enough.

“Hey, Jeff,” Ridge said softly. “Looks like you found a friend.”

Jeffrey sat up, blinking, and rubbed one eye with a fist. Had the kid been
asleep
?

He heard the faint piping sound of a whistle in the distance. Sierra. He couldn't answer, that was for sure. A whistle would send Moonpie into conniptions. He couldn't leave the boy, either. He needed to get him off the horse and out of the enclosure, fast.

“Just stay there,” he said. “Stay right there.”

He couldn't tell if the kid could hear him or not. In any case, he didn't listen. Reaching up and tangling his fingers in the horse's mane, he slid from the horse's back.

So far, so good. The boy stood at the horse's shoulder. If the horse so much as tossed his head, he'd toss the boy. If he reared—well, there was no point in thinking about that unless it happened.

“Come on over here,” Ridge said, nodding toward the gate. “Slow and easy.”

Once again, Jeffrey ignored him. He seemed mesmerized by the horse and stood silently smoothing its golden coat with the palm of his hand. Ridge couldn't blame him. He knew how magical that connection could be.

But the kid needed to snap out of it.

Just at that moment, a herd of elephants rounded the corner of the barn.

Well, it wasn't really a herd of elephants. It was only three ten-year-old boys and their group mom. But in the tense air of the corral, it sounded like more.

Sierra figured out what was going on and flung out a hand to stop the running boys, but it was too late. Moonpie had seen them, and Moonpie reacted like Moonpie always did: with a scream of rage and a kick of his heels.

Jeffrey cried out as the horse threw his head down and his heels up, plunging twice before he took off to race around the enclosure in a jumping, bucking, flying display of fury. The boy's fingers were still tangled in the animal's mane, and for a second, Ridge was afraid he wouldn't be able to get loose. But his hand was torn away at the first plunge of the horse's head.

Ridge wasn't sure if the horse's hooves hit the boy or if he'd just been jerked off his feet. Either way, Jeff was on the ground, looking a little dazed as he picked himself up. He was still on all fours when the horse completed his circle and raced past, barely missing him with his flying hooves.

“Come on, Jeff.” Ridge did his best to stay calm, knowing things would only get worse if he added more panic to the stew of emotions swirling in the air. “Come on over here.”

It wasn't until the boy got moving that Ridge realized his transit of the enclosure would bring him to the gate at the approximate time the horse passed it.

“Go slow,” he said.

Jeffrey sped up. He'd make the gate before the horse got there, especially since Moonpie had decided to pause in his circuit to display his bucking abilities, leaping in the air with his head arrowed straight down and all four legs stiff and splayed.

Twisting his body, the horse landed and bucked again, rising on his hind legs just as Jeffrey reached the gate, then hitting the ground with a snort and thundering toward him.

“Come on, Jeff.” Ridge opened the latch, but Jeffrey didn't so much as look at him. Instead, he paused, directly in the horse's path, and waited, knees bent and arms outstretched, as if he thought he could catch the horse like a thousand-pound fastball.