Lindsay McKenna - The Last Cowboy

Jordana watched in silence. Slade’s calloused hands were sun-darkened from being outside most of his life. Stormy stood quietly. She trusted the large cowboy. More relief filtered through Jordana. After Slade had examined Stormy’s legs, he then came to her face and gently moved his fingers around her ears and her poll, the top of her head. Jordana knew he was looking for bumps, scars or cuts. Once more she felt his hands flowing across her. It was a crazy sensation! What was it about this hardened cowboy that unstrung her as a woman?

Gulping, Jordana forced herself to remain silent. She knew Slade was tactically memorizing every part of Stormy’s conformation. He was building an anatomical picture of her body in his mind. And once he was done, he would have his decision for her. She saw him slide his fingers across the black dorsal stripe down the center of Stormy’s back. Mustangs often possessed this stripe. Plus, Stormy had horizontal curved black bars on the back of her lower legs. It made her look somewhat like a long-lost relative from the zebra species. But she wasn’t. These were genetic markers mustangs carried strongly throughout the breed.

Slade rounded the mare and then stood about six feet away from Dr. Lawton. She looked concerned and serious. He understood why. Seesawing back and forth inwardly, Slade didn’t know what to do. Lawton was pretty in a natural kind of way. She had an oval face with a stubborn chin that spoke to her ability to finish what she started. There was no extra flesh on her body that he could see. That meant she was riding daily. Endurance riders put in ten to fifteen miles a day on their horse to keep it in shape for the fifty-and hundred-mile contests. She was a woman, and Slade tried to avoid the opposite sex like a plague. His other students were men. And that’s the way he liked it.

“Your mare has a problem,” he stated bluntly, drilling her with a hard look. Instantly, her eyes opened wider, and a stunned expression came to her features. He pointed down at the horse’s front left leg. “There’s scar tissue on her pastern that indicates she’s suffered a serious cut in that area at one time.”

“But,” Jordana said, “that shouldn’t stop her from being an endurance horse.”

Scowling, Slade said, “That cut was deep. What do you know about it?”

“I’ve owned Stormy for two years, Mr. McPherson. She had that cut there long before that.” Watching his expression, Jordana felt frustrated. All she could see was the glittering shards in his gray eyes. It was obvious he was going to turn her down.

Not if she could help it! “Stormy was captured out in Nevada in a government roundup. She was sold to Bud Hutchinson, who lives here in Jackson Hole. He told me when I bought his house that the mare came with the deal. When I had the vet check her, he noted that scar on her pastern. Bud said the mare came to him with it. The vet thought she probably cut her pastern a year earlier, so no one really knows the extent of that injury.”

Grunting, Slade said, “Well, it’s her Achilles’ heel, Dr. Lawton.”

“What about the rest of her conformation?”

“She’s sound and she has good legs. But that scar makes her questionable. If she cut a tendon as a yearling out in the wilds, and it healed, that tendon is always going to be weak and suspect of breaking down.”

“But you don’t know if it was a cut tendon,” Jordana countered strongly. She wasn’t going to let this cowboy run over her.

Shrugging, Slade muttered, “That’s true.”

“And her legs are fine otherwise?”

“Yes, they’re good.”

“What else?” Jordana prodded. She saw him scowl, his thick, dark brown brows moving downward in a slash because of her needling. Maybe he was the type of trainer who wanted to see his students have courage to confront him. Maybe he wasn’t. She wasn’t sure. All Jordana did know is she wanted a chance to train her mare with this man, no matter how sour and antisocial he appeared to be. At least he was gentle with Stormy. Jordana had gone through residency and taken plenty of blows from men who were threatened by her presence as a woman and a doctor. She’d weather Slade McPherson, too.

Surprised at Lawton’s sudden backbone and fearlessness to confront him, Slade growled, “The worst strike against her is your horse is a mare.”

Mouth dropping open, Jordana snapped it shut. Her hand tightened on the rope. Stormy’s ears flicked back and forth as she read her mistress’s reaction. “A mare? Oh, don’t tell me you’re one of those people? Mares compete in endurance against geldings and stallions and win!”

The power and force of her tempered anger hit Slade directly. Eyes narrowing, he saw the blue fire in her eyes. “Mares are fickle, just like women. They’re made up of unstable hormones.”

Real anger fired through Jordana. How dare this man! Mouth tightening, she lowered her husky voice. “That’s an old saw and it doesn’t work anymore, Mr. McPherson. If you’re going to turn me down because my horse is a mare, that’s a lousy excuse.”

Squirming inwardly, Slade realized Dr. Lawton wasn’t going to take no for an answer. If he said, “you’re a woman and I don’t like training women,” then she’d explode into rage for sure. “Mares are just more difficult,” he snarled. “But it’s your choice. I don’t really care.” And he didn’t. His students had gone on to win major endurance rides over the years.

Brows moving up, Jordana said, “Then, you’ll accept us for training?”

“You aren’t going to get far,” Slade warned. “Your mare has a weak pastern due to that old injury. She’ll break down before she ever gets to an endurance contest.”

Angry, Jordana said, “And I disagree with you.”

“Just because you’re a doctor of humans doesn’t mean you know animal anatomy,” Slade reminded her. She really got under his skin, and he recalled Isabel had exhibited that same capability. Grudgingly, Slade admired Jordana because she had fire, passion and wasn’t afraid to fight for what she thought was right. Isabel always sneaked around behind him, manipulated him and then pounced. Lawton wasn’t like that. In fact, he admired her fearlessness because even men didn’t take him on. Slade had one hell of a reputation of winning any argument he chose to defend. And he was losing this one to this banty rooster of a woman with fiery blue eyes and a stubborn chin.

Stormy moved restlessly, and Jordana placed her hand on the mare’s damp neck. Instantly, the mustang quieted. “You’re correct about that, Mr. McPherson. There is no test that can conclusively show that Stormy partially cut a tendon in her pastern or not. I’m willing to go on faith that she didn’t.”

“Okay, it’s your money and time,” he drawled.

“Then, you’ll train us?” Hope rose in Jordana’s voice. She knew McPherson was going to be a hard, demanding trainer, but she’d endured the toughest job in the world as a resident and made it. She’d make this a success, too.

“I’ll take you on, Dr. Lawton. It’ll cost you plenty of money. And I don’t put up with anyone who’s late. You show up on time or I’ll send you packing.”

“I’ll be on time from now on,” Jordana gritted, glaring up at him. His rugged features were shadowed by his tan Stetson. There was nothing forgiving about Slade McPherson. In the back of her mind, Jordana wondered what course in life had molded him into such a hard person.

“We’ll see,” Slade said. “Shorty, my wrangler, will show you to the training barn. You’ll be writing me a check today for two thousand dollars. One thousand a month for the box stall, hay, special feed and one thousand for training you ten times a month out here at the ranch.”