Chapter 5

Despite not crawling into bed until almost midnight, Shawnee was up forty-five minutes before sunrise the next morning, saddling horses. She stopped to give Roy a thorough rub between the ears as she passed by to fetch the other two. He was a good stick. The best she’d ever had. Hard to imagine now, as he nosed her shoulder in hopes of extra grain, that there’d been a time when he’d as soon come at her, biting and striking. Just went to show, an unbroke colt in the hands of a soft-hearted, clueless novice was as dangerous as a gun. Horses were like people. They didn’t have to like you, but they’d damn well better respect you.

In Shawnee’s opinion, a whole lot of so-called problems would be solved if people did what had to be done, instead of what made them popular.

She led the sorrel and the gray to the arena, wading through predawn air as thick as lukewarm soup. Her thin, sleeveless T-shirt was already sticking to her shoulders. Eighty degrees and eighty percent humidity—this was why she’d never live in southeast Texas. They could have their greenery. She preferred air that didn’t try to drown her one breath at a time.

She tied the gray outside the arena gate and took the sorrel inside. He snorted at the wide expanse of the arena, the brightly colored banners that rustled in the slight breeze, and the looming hulk of the grandstand. Shawnee gave him a couple of minutes to inspect his surroundings. Then she clipped the lunge line to his halter and clucked her tongue. Within a few minutes the gelding was loping smooth circles, stopping and turning on cue. When she was satisfied that they’d worked out the jitters, she bridled him and climbed aboard to put him through his paces.

Half an hour later, he dropped his head and walked sedately around the arena. Not bad. Tomorrow they’d rope the dummy steer she’d brought along. Too bad there was no one out at this hour who could be bribed into pulling it for her, but maybe next week would be cooler and she could work at a civilized hour.

Outside the arena, the flea-bitten gray paced and pawed at the end of his lead rope. She’d hoped he’d wear himself down, but it looked like he’d only worked himself into a full-on snit. She got him calmed down enough to clip the long lead onto his halter, but the instant they set foot in the arena, he tried to bolt. She dug in her heels and yanked him around to face her. He reared, stamped his feet, and shook his head. She snapped the lunge line, reminding him who was boss. He backed off, but when she stepped to the side and clucked her tongue, he bolted again. Shawnee yanked him around, hitching the line behind her hip and leaning her weight into it for leverage.

Sometimes an oversized ass came in handy.

From there, what was supposed to be a training session disintegrated into an all-out brawl. The dumb bastard would not weaken. At home they would have gone back to the smaller round pen where the fences would contain him until he located his brain, assuming he had one. Here in the big arena, it was all on her.

She hauled him around to face her yet again and they both paused to take a few heaving breaths. Sweat dripped from her eyebrows, soaked the strands of hair that escaped the wad on top of her head, and ran down to make muddy tracks in the dust coating her neck and arms. She was puffing like a freight train from alternately chasing and dragging the colt.

Finally, when she was so overheated her vision was starting to blur, he managed one decent circle. Then something caught his eye and he tried to stampede. Shawnee swore, dragged him to a stop, and shot a glare over her shoulder. Cole Jacobs stood, arms folded on the top rail of the gate. She could hardly blame ol’ gray for spooking at the sight of the not-so-friendly giant, his canine minion peering under the fence beside him. Shawnee snorted, reminded of an old picture book illustration of a gnarly ogre with rotten teeth dangling a terrified horse by one leg over his open mouth.

Cole was big enough to eat a horse, but he was definitely not gnarly. Some women might even swoon over that extra-large hunk of prime American beef. At least until he opened his mouth. Or didn’t, more likely. This morning he wore his usual nonexpression and an immaculate white straw cowboy hat. There wasn’t a hint of sweat on his clean-shaven, square-as-an-anvil jaw.

“What?” she snapped.

“It’s almost eight o’clock.”

“So?”

“We run tonight’s stock through the arena at eight.”

The gray whinnied and sidled toward where his buddy was dozing on the other side of the fence. Shawnee yanked him around to face her. “I’ll get out of your way as soon as Butthead here settles down and pays attention.”

“It’s almost eight o’clock,” Cole repeated, his voice sharpening with impatience.

“You can’t wait half an hour?” She scrubbed at her sweaty forehead with the back of one grungy hand. “It’s not like it’ll get that much hotter.”

His face took on the obstinate, ain’t-gonna-budge look that invariably goaded her into saying something rude so he’d get all stiff-necked and walk away. Yeah, she knew Cole had legitimate issues. Join the worldwide club.

“We always work the stock at eight,” he said.

“And what, they turn into four-legged pumpkins at the stroke of nine?”

He scowled so ferociously his brows pulled into a single dark line. “I have a schedule. I like to stick to it.”

“I’ll be sure I’m out of your way in the future.”

He just stood there, glaring at her. The dog glared, too.

Shawnee matched their heat and turned it up a few kilowatts. “I’m not leaving this arena until I’m done.”

The furrows around his mouth deepened. “We can’t work around you.”

“Then wait.” The gray tried to take advantage of her distraction. She jerked on the line to set him straight, then turned her glare back to Cole. “You of all people should know that when a horse picks a fight, you can’t quit until you win. Otherwise, you’re just teaching him to be an asshole. If you want to speed things up, take Butthead over there to the trailer where this mothered-up son of a bitch can’t see him.”

“I thought that one was Butthead.”

She blew out a loud, exasperated breath. “They’re all buttheads when I get them. As soon as they stop being buttheads I sell them, so there’s no sense wasting time with names.”

Cole frowned, probably debating whether to bodily remove her from the arena. No doubt he could, but she’d get in a few shots in the process. Finally he gave a single, curt nod and turned to untie the other horse and lead it away, Katie marching along beside him. Christ. Even his dog had a stick up her ass.

Shawnee glared after them for a couple of beats, then gave the gray her undivided attention. “It’s just you and me, fleabag, and you don’t even want to know how long I can keep this up.”

By the time Cole came back, she had sweated out another gallon of fluids, but she had the horse trotting passable circles. She stepped out and flicked the line. The gray paused, then swung around to circle the other way. Intensely aware that Cole was watching every move, she worked the horse back and forth, made him stop, face, back a few steps, then start again.

Showing off, just a little.

Satisfied, she stopped the gray, brought him around to face, then walked up to rub his dripping forelock. She could feel sweat running down the crack of her ass, soaking the seat of her jeans. “Next time, you’ll know better.”

The gray dropped his head and whuffled as if in agreement.

She turned toward the gate and found Cole staring at her as if he’d never seen the likes of it. His eyes remained glued to her as he stepped back and swung open the gate.

“Thank you for your patience,” she said sweetly, tossing him a mocking smile as she passed.

“Shawnee?”

“Yeah?”

“You should change shirts before you run into anybody else,” he said, then strolled into the arena, closing the gate behind him.

She glanced down. Her white T-shirt was soaked through with sweat, her nipples clearly visible through her equally soggy white spandex. Damn bargain rack sports bra. She considered being embarrassed, then shrugged. Wasn’t like it was the first time someone had seen her in a wet T-shirt, and she wasn’t even dancing on a bar.

Then another thought struck and she huffed out a self-deprecating laugh. She’d been so sure Cole was in awe of her mad horse-training skills, and the whole time he was just staring at her tits.

She laughed again and started for her trailer. In the interests of public decency she kept the horse between her and a trio of committeemen chatting in the shade of the grandstand. Then again, they were good tits. They’d put a smile on more than one face. She should probably share the joy whenever possible, while she still had them. That shoe could drop at any time, especially now that she’d made it past thirty.

Cole, though—she shook her head. She’d figured him for the kind to toss her a towel and order her to cover up instead of hanging around to enjoy the view.

Huh. He might be human after all.