Lindsay McKenna - The Last Cowboy

“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 can. And it’s that one to two feet of float above the ground that gives Stormy a stride advantage. She can take on horses that are fifteen and sixteen hands high and still match their stride. The taller horses have longer legs, therefore, a longer stride. Mustangs and Arabians, however, compensate with this genetic gift only they have.”

“And that’s why,” Jordana told him, “so many Arabian and part-Arabians win the major endurance contests.”

Nodding, he said, “Right.”

“And Thor, your mustang stud, has the same type of stride. I’ve seen video on the internet of him when you’ve got him in the extended trot. He’s magnificent.”

Pleased by the sudden passion in her husky voice and the enthusiasm burning in her eyes, Slade privately arched a little over her praise. It struck him in that moment that he really had missed the soft warmth of a woman around him. There had been times when Isabel had been like that with him, but not very often. Scowling, Slade said, “Thor has won every major endurance event.”

Relaxing in the saddle, Jordana brought her leg up and over the saddle. “You and Curt Downing, who owns that black Arabian stallion, are always trading for first or second. I can’t tell you how many times you gave us an exciting finish.”

Mouth tightening, Slade snarled, “Downing is a son of a bitch and I don’t want to talk about him.” He held on to his simmering anger. Seeing the shock register on Jordana’s face, he added, “Whether you know it or not, Downing is a cheat and up to no good out on the trail when judges and spectators don’t see him.”

“What do you mean?” Jordana asked, confused. She saw anger come to his narrow eyes. This time, Slade was real easy to read. She was beginning to realize when his full mouth was thinned, he was upset about something. And the way his brown brows slashed downward, it was easy to see he was furious. With her? Jordana hoped not.

“Downing has no honor out on the trail,” Slade gritted out. “We’ve got the fifty mile Tetons Endurance ride coming up on September 1st. He’ll be there and so will I.”

“What do you mean no honor?”

Studying her innocent face, Slade said, “You’ve been in endurance races?”

“Sure, many, but they were fifty milers was all, and I was small stuff compared to the pros who rode their horses.”

“Did you ever see anyone strike a horse and rider with a crop? Crowd them off a narrow trail?”

“Why…no,” she admitted. “Is that what Downing does?”

Giving her a sour look, Slade said, “Oh, yeah, and worse.”

“You know this from personal experience?”

“I do,” he said in a clipped voice. “And so do a lot of the other pros who ride the top endurance circuit.”

“If Downing is as bad as you say he is, how come he’s never been caught doing these things?” she demanded. Jordana knew that the ranch next to Slade’s was owned by the Downing family. Was this a local dust-up? Two arrogant endurance champions who couldn’t stand one another from a competitive sense?

“Believe me, there’s plenty of endurance riders just waiting to catch him in the act. Once it gets beyond the ‘he said-she said’ and we’ve got cell-phone photo proof, he’ll be booted out once and for all. Until that happens, it’s one person’s word against another and the judges can’t move on that. Downing does his dirty work in areas where there are no prying eyes of spectators or judges.”

Jordana felt the anger in Slade. “I never realized that went on. All the contests I’ve ridden on, the riders were respectful and followed the rules.”

Giving her a quirked grin, Slade said, “There’s always a bad apple in every group. Downing is it. And you might as well know it because if you’re going to ride on the national circuit, you’ll be meeting him at every one of those endurance events.”