Saddle Up (2 page)

Rancho Santa Fe, California

Arriving ahead of schedule, Miranda presented her employee ID to the security guard manning the entrance. “Hi. I'm Miranda Sutton with Starlight Productions. We're filming an event here.” With Lexi's reminder of her neglected love life lingering in her mind, Miranda flashed her most disarming smile.

“Sutton?” He scanned a sheet for her name. “Go ahead.” He nodded, and then opened the gate without even looking up.

“Thanks,” she replied, disappointed in having wasted her best smile.

Pulling through the elaborate wrought iron entrance, Miranda found not one, but three full-size equestrian arenas and a parking lot dotted with high-priced cars. Pulling between a Lexus and a Mercedes convertible, she parked and climbed out of her car, camera bag slung over her shoulder. Finding no sign of Bibi, Miranda checked her watch. She was an hour early.

Miranda decided to scout the site. As she approached the main arena, she encountered a curvy brunette in tight-fitting white dressage breeches and glossy black boots leading a huge chestnut horse with a stud chain wrapped tightly around its nose. The horse was visibly agitated, with its ears pinned and nostrils flared. Although Miranda hadn't been around horses in several years, she knew enough to recognize the signs of its distress. Any time he snorted or pulled his head away, the woman gave a hard jerk on the chain, which only seemed to increase the animal's agitation. Miranda was almost ready to speak out when a man appeared and snatched the lead from the woman's hands.

“What the hell are you doing?” the brunette demanded.

“Pain is only going to get resentment from him, not respect. Right now this animal is fighting you every step of the way—and this is why.” To Miranda's amazement, he unsnapped the chain and then removed the animal's halter as well. The moment the horse realized it was free, it spun and bolted, bucking all the way to the far end of the arena. “Most horses will walk or trot over to the fence when released. Picasso ran like his tail was on fire. What does that tell you?” he asked the gaping woman.

“He's difficult to work with,” the brunette snapped. “All the horses in his bloodline are high-strung.”

“That's because high-dollar show horses like him spend way too much time confined in a stall. You need to let your horse just be a horse now and then.”

The woman frowned at the chestnut that was now galloping laps around the arena. “How the hell am I supposed to control him now?” she demanded, hands on hips.

“You're going to get nowhere unless you give him some downtime. When he snorts, tosses his head, bucks, or kicks up his heels, he's not being bad, Steffi. He's just feeling good.”

“I thought I was paying you to work with him,” she said, still visibly miffed.

“I will. But first we need to teach him that work can be fun. Let him have it, and he'll start to relax. Once that happens, he'll concentrate better on what you want rather than trying to escape at every opportunity.”

“I don't understand the point,” the woman argued. “How is any of this going to improve his performance under saddle?”

“Performance is all about cooperation. Just give this guy a few minutes to release some pent-up energy and I promise he'll be a different animal. Time spent on this kind of activity will pay off in spades once you're in the saddle.”

The cowboy tossed the lasso he held in his hands toward the horse. The startled animal changed course and began trotting in the other direction. The man's soft, sexy voice was as confident as his movements. “I don't care what gait he's in as long as he's moving in the direction I send him in. In essence, we're acting the way a dominant horse would in a herd situation.”

Mesmerized, Miranda watched the interplay between man and horse. She uncapped her camera lens and began filming the cowboy and the horse. Within minutes, the animal was moving in a relaxed, floating gait. Although her personal experience with equines was limited to the working livestock on her grandparents' ranch, she recognized the expert skill with which this man directed the animal's movements.

After several more laps, it lowered its head and approached the cowboy. He stretched out his hand and caressed the animal's muzzle. “You see how little effort that took? Now he's willing to get to work.”

The cowboy turned in Miranda's direction. It was only then that she realized he was the man she was looking for. The long, loose hair he'd worn in the videos was plaited in two long, neat braids covered by the cowboy hat. In his jeans, faded denim shirt, hat, and boots, he'd looked far more cowboy than Indian—until he'd faced her. Their eyes met for the first time. His black brows rose as his gaze dropped to her camera. “I didn't realize we were being filmed.”

The brunette speared Miranda with a haughty stare. “Filming someone without permission. That's presumptuous, don't you think?”

“I'm sorry,” Miranda said. “Maybe I should have asked, but I hated to interrupt you.” She lowered her camera and climbed over the fence rail. “I'm Miranda Sutton. I came to film the clinic.” She stepped forward, hand extended. He took her hand in his, flashing a smile so dazzling it made her breath catch. She struggled not to gape.

“I'm Two Wolves,” he introduced himself.

“I kinda figured that out,” Miranda said dryly.

“This is Steffi Hoffman,” he said. “A…client of mine.”

“A pleasure,” Miranda replied, once more offering her hand.

The brunette ignored her.

Shrugging off the snub, Miranda asked, “When you finish here, do you think we could talk for a few minutes? I have some ideas on camera placement I'd like to run by you.”

“Sure thing,” he replied. “But I'm on Steffi's dime at present. Can you give us about fifteen more minutes?”

“No problem.” Miranda perched on the fence and continued to watch him work with a much more cooperative Picasso. Although she'd found him attractive before, the amateur videos she'd watched didn't come close to doing him justice. No indeed-y.

“Since you don't like the longe whip,” Steffi said, “could you show me how to throw your rope?”

The ploy was painfully obvious, but he didn't seem to notice.

He sidled up from behind and placed his hands over hers to demonstrate the motion of throwing the rope. Steffi shot Miranda a triumphant look. Her possessiveness hinted that there was more to the relationship than simple instruction. No surprise there. Miranda turned away with a pang of envy. Although she couldn't deny the instant attraction she felt toward him, rich and beautiful always won out over plain with brains.

* * *

“You worked magic with him,” Steffi gushed after Keith handed the horse off to Steffi's groom,
without
the stud chain. “I didn't realize until I met you how much I need your…services. When can we do another session?”

Ignoring the innuendo in her tone, Keith forced a smile. “I'm a clinician, not a trainer.”

“Maybe you don't understand,” she insisted. “I can pay you whatever you like.”

“It's not always about money, Steffi.” Or meaningless sex. But it had taken him a long time to realize it. “I've already shown you what he needs. Now it's up to you to make it work.”

“But what about what I need?” she asked, any pretense of subtlety now gone.

How many times had he heard lines like that from rich women looking for a hired stud? He'd lost count. “I'm sorry, Steffi, but my time isn't my own.” He nodded at the slim girl with the camera, whose name he'd already forgotten. Melissa? Melinda? Something with an
M
. He was glad she'd hung around.

Steffi gave the camera girl an icy look. “Another time then. You have my number?”

“Yes. I certainly do,” Keith reassured her. In the beginning he'd been flattered by all the attention and had rarely turned down an attractive woman, but eventually he'd tired of the constant propositions.

After extricating himself from Steffi, Keith returned to find the camera girl leaning on the gleaming white PVC fence rail.

“I guess you must get that a lot,” she said.

“Get what?” He cocked a brow, feigning ignorance.

“Nothing,” she replied quickly, a blush tinting her cheeks. “I won't keep you long if you have another…er…engagement.” She glanced in Steffi's direction.

“No engagements beyond my exhibition…unless you're free?” The words slipped out thoughtlessly.

Surprise flickered in her gray eyes. “Free for
what
?”

“Whatever you like.” He gave her the slow, sexy smile that never failed him.

She stared back at him. “You're joking, right?”

“Am I laughing?”

Her eyes met his for only a millisecond before she looked away. Her face colored even deeper than before. Odd. California women didn't blush. She seemed so different from all the others he'd met here. Refreshingly different. He found her natural look and direct manner appealing after a steady diet of women like Steffi.

“I don't think so,” she said. “I've got a lot of work to do.”

“So do I, but we all need downtime now and then.” He flashed a grin. “Just ask Picasso.”

“You have quite a way with horses,” she said. “It's an impressive talent.”

“I have a number of other talents I'd like to impress you with,” he quipped back.

Her brows came together in a puzzled look. “Are you flirting with me? You're wasting your time,” she said.

She was rebuffing him? When was the last time that had happened? He couldn't even remember. It was a novel experience, and not one he particularly cared for.

She was gazing at him steadily. “Can we please talk about the cameras now?”

“Sure thing.” Her rejection stung, but Keith shrugged it off. If he wanted company, there were hundreds of women coming to his clinic. He could take his pick.

* * *

“Keith, you had us all entranced,” Bibi gushed after his performance. “You're such a natural. I know you came out here only to do your clinic, but have you thought about staying in Southern California?”

“Staying? For how long?” he asked.

“Indefinitely,” she replied. “I'm talking about relocation.”

“I really hadn't considered it before.” It was a half-truth.

He'd thought for some time about making some changes and finally setting down roots somewhere. He'd accepted the invitation to come to Rancho Santa Fe, hoping to explore the opportunities here, but he already knew California wasn't for him.

“You really should,” Bibi continued. “The camera absolutely loves you. I think we could get you into films. There are so few indigenous actors in L.A. The field is wide-open. All you need to do is enroll in some classes.”

He'd been around long enough to know nothing came for free. It didn't make sense that someone with her reputation would want to make a promo video for him. He'd wondered from the start what strings were attached.

“You know, I think your looks are exotic enough to carry off several ethnicities.” Her gaze swept slowly over him in a way that answered any lingering doubts about what she wanted. Her lips curved into that suggestive half smile he'd seen countless times. “Why don't we have dinner tonight and talk about it?”

The thought made him shudder. He wondered how many times her face had been lifted. Bibi was sixty if a day, but fighting the years tooth and nail. He forced a smile. “I'd love to, but I'm afraid I have plans tonight.” Not exactly true. He'd only
hoped
to have plans with the camerawoman he'd met a few hours ago, but it was the first excuse that had come to mind.

“Tomorrow then,” Bibi said. “I'll drive you to my beach house, and we'll review your tape together.” Her smile tightened. “I won't take no for an answer. If you have other plans, change them.”

Her message was clear. He wouldn't get another shot.

Wind River Valley, Wyoming

Stab, squeeze, lift, release.
Another clod of earth displaced. Ignoring his burning muscles and blistered hands, Keith continued the mindless mechanical rhythm under the burning sun, his body on autopilot while his mind raced. He just wished he could manage the direction of those thoughts, but they were as out of his control as the chinook winds. Scowling at the dirt, he raised his arms, jabbing the ground with another grunt.

Stab, squeeze, lift, release.
He'd felt like king of the world only a year ago. Was this all he had to look forward to for the next thirty—digging holes, pulling barbwire, and shoveling horse shit? He could only guess that when he'd sold his soul to the devil spirits, it must have been insufficient payment.

Stab, squeeze, lift, release.
It was because of
her
that he was starting over with nothing—his entire life and livelihood up in smoke. When he'd rejected her, she'd turned on him like a viper.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned
.

Stab, squeeze, lift, release.
This was his sixth day of riding fence. The ranch was vast and remote. With nineteen thousand acres, he'd be out here for a couple more weeks at least. The isolation was the only blessing. It gave him time to think. He'd come to accept his fate, but that didn't mean he had to like it. He told himself it was all for the best. It was well past time to get his life back on track.

Grinding his teeth, he raised his arms and punched the ground even harder.
Crunch.
The jarring pain careened up his arms and into his shoulders before the crash of metal on solid bedrock registered in his ears.

“Sweet motherfucking son of a bitch!” His shrieked curse carried on the wind, but it wasn't enough. Spinning like a discus thrower, he flung the posthole digger as far as his numb arms would allow. Venting his frustration and rage was only a temporary relief. Once he cooled down, he'd have to retrieve his instrument of torture and dig another fucking hole.

At the sound of an approaching ATV, he shaded his eyes against the late afternoon sun, squinting at the horizon. His gaze tracked the trail of dust originating in the direction of the ranch. As the vehicle got closer, he recognized Tonya. He snatched up his discarded shirt and jerked his arms into the sleeves, not bothering with the buttons.

Moments later she put the brake on and dismounted. “Got some food, water, and supplies for you, Cuz. Thought you might be getting low.” He hoped she'd brought something better than jerky and canned beans. “So how's it coming along?”

“It's coming,” he grunted.

“Really? Don't you think you might need this? Or do you plan to use your bare hands?” She reached into the utility cart and tossed him the digger he'd thrown.

“Must have dropped it.”

She gave him an appraising stare. “I know this has to be hard on you after living like some kind of movie star—”

He raised a hand to cut her off. “It's honest work.” And, admittedly, more honest than what he'd been doing for the past eight years.

“I got wind of something that might suit you better,” Tonya suggested.

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“The BLM called the ranch last night, looking for wranglers for some emergency horse gathers. They're removing seven hundred head from the checkerboard, and then they have another emergency roundup scheduled out in Nevada.”

He pushed his hat back. “Why you telling me?”

“C'mon, Cuz. Don't be ridiculous,” she chided. “I can't believe you'd rather dig holes and pull wire.”

He jutted his chin. “Someone has to do it.”

“I don't get it. Why are you wasting yourself like this?”

Why? He stared down at the hard, unforgiving earth, as hard and unforgiving as his grandfather's heart. He'd come back seeking peace and anonymity, only to learn he'd lost what had once mattered most. He'd brought shame to his family and to his tribe; now he had to pay the price. His worst penance, however, was self-inflicted—he hadn't touched either a woman or a horse in almost a year.

“You know I don't believe in that program,” he said. “Most of those horses are going to fall into the hands of idiots who don't know what the hell they're doing.”

“At least the animals don't starve,” Tonya argued.

“Maybe not in body, but what about the spirit, Ton? Captivity is no life for them. It's no better than prison.”

“Look, Keith, it is what it is. We can't change the system, but we can try to make the best of it, right? So why don't you at least help? You know those mustangs better than anyone. This is a chance for you to make some money and also get first pick of the horses.”

“I'm not doing anything with horses anymore. Haven't you heard?” He gave a bitter laugh. “I'm just a counterfeit, a con artist, the Native American gigolo.”

“Don't look to me for pity. You brought all that on yourself by playing up to the Twinkies. You exploited our heritage. You know that's not our way.”

He dropped down to the ground, resting his elbows on his knees, gazing off into the distance. “Is that what you think too, Ton? That I sold out?”

“Does it really matter what I think? You're the one who has to live with your conscience.”

“I asked you, didn't I?”

“Look, Cuz,” she replied, “I try not to judge because I live in the white world too, but the elders still follow the old ways. Huttsi calls you her apple child, red only on the outside but all white on the inside. You first came out here because you said you wanted to be one of us, but then you left, proving that deep down you aren't. So why did you come back?”

Keith dropped back onto his elbows to gaze up at the fast-moving clouds. “Because I had nowhere else to go.” Only a couple of years ago, there were thousands of people who'd treated him like some kind of rock star, but those relationships were as shallow as a creek in drought. Now that he needed a home, some place to lick his wounds, he had no home. Huttsi and Kenu, who had once embraced their half-blood grandchild with open arms, now rejected him. They hadn't exactly told him to leave, but they hadn't welcomed him either.

After a long silence, he murmured half to himself, “They won't take me back, because I fed the wrong wolf.”

Tonya's forehead wrinkled. “What? I don't understand you.”

“Didn't I ever tell you how I got my Shoshone name?”

“No. You didn't.” Tonya dropped down beside him, offering a beer that he waved away.

“When I first came to the rez, Kenu said he'd had a vision the night before I arrived of a black wolf and a white wolf fighting.”

“So that's why he called you Two Wolves?”

“Yes, but there's more. He said the white wolf represented all of the good things I desired, and the black wolf represented all of the bad. When I asked him which of the wolves would win the fight, he said to me, ‘The one you feed.' That's why he won't see me now, Ton,” he said woodenly. “Because I fed the black wolf.”

“They still love you, Keith,” Tonya said. “They're just deeply disappointed. Until you find some way to make amends, you are as good as dead to them.”

“But how am I supposed to do that?” he asked. “I've come back like a beaten dog. I work hard. I keep my nose to the ground and bring no attention to myself. I even cut off my hair! What more can I do? I feel like I have a gaping hole”—he brought his hand to his left breast—“right here.”

“I don't know the answer. I wish I did, but until you figure it out, I think you should leave the rez. Take the job and get away for a while. Find what you've lost.”

“And what's that?”

“Yourself, Cuz. You don't even know who you are anymore, and you won't belong anywhere until you do.”