followed, Cowboy trailing at their heels.
It’s okay.
The horse’s ears flicked again, and Jillian knew he’d heard her. His head even dropped, not that Wes would notice. Not that he’d believe her even if she pointed it out. Men were just that way.
The activity in the barn area increased the closer they moved toward the main facility. Horses trotted. People called out to one another. Grooms worked to get the best shine on a horse’s coat. She noticed that Wes kept his attention on the animal by his side. He absently stroked a piece of copper-colored mane as he murmured quietly to the gelding. Dual Rey, one of cutting’s all-time leading sires, had been a redhead, too. She had to admit he had sure been trying to cut that cow like Dual Rey. Couldn’t Wes see that? He was a good colt in the wrong hands. By the time they got to the arena, the animal clearly understood Wes wasn’t going to flog him.
“Name’s Gordon.”
Jillian hardly looked at the man; she was too focused on projecting mental images to Dudley of Wes getting on his back. Of a good ride. Of green pastures and warm stalls. Of the life he would have once they bought him.
“Okay, here goes.”
They stood by the entrance of the arena. Cowboy glanced around, spotted her, then came to sit by her feet. Jillian found herself squatting down and stroking the dog’s head while she waited for Wes to mount. He was busy tugging on the girth to make sure it wasn’t loose. Next he checked the length of the stirrups and then glanced at the bridle. After one last pat, he positioned himself to mount.
Jillian’s breath held.
She knew the animal wasn’t bad. Knew he wasn’t the type to intentionally hurt a human. Still. Horses could be like children. Unpredictable.
Wes swung a leg over the horse’s back. Nothing happened. He settled his hat more firmly on his head before standing in the stirrups and shifting from side to side, the girth apparently tight enough to suit his needs, because he gently sat back down again. Still, the horse didn’t move.
“Can you open the gate?”
She wasn’t sure if he spoke to her or Gordon, but Jillian rushed forward to do as asked. Dudley moved forward when Wes lightly tapped his sides. The whole time he spoke softly to the animal, patting his neck.
It was crowded inside the practice arena. Jillian had to lift her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. Dust clouded the air. Spurs clinked. The slobber chains attached to the horses’ bits jangled. In the distance a horse neighed. The metal rail was cold beneath Jillian’s hand as she leaned against it. She admired the way Wes sat on a horse. He didn’t choke up on the reins, something the horse seemed to appreciate. Dudley’s head dropped, his long mane dangling down his neck. He was a young horse—all harsh angles and big head—but one day he would fill out, and Jillian just knew he’d be stunning.
She saw Wes pick up the reins. The gelding instantly tensed, as if he expected a sharp stab of the spurs and a flick of the reins, but Wes merely clucked and squeezed with his whole leg, not with the rowels of his spurs. The animal obediently moved into a trot. Beside her, she felt more than saw the man relax. He’d obviously been expecting a bronc.
“He’s going to be a good one,” Gordon said.
She had no doubt, but not with Gordon on his back. Wes had just proved himself ten times the rider the horse’s owner was. He had a relaxed way of sitting in the saddle. Jillian had watched enough show jumping over the years to appreciate the way he pressed his heels down in the stirrups. So many Western riders rode flat-footed, legs kicked out in front of them. They didn’t utilize the center of gravity crucial to expert horsemanship. Wes did. Not only that, but his hands were light with the reins. He spoke to the animal, too, and the sight of his lips moving, the way he patted the animal when he obediently moved into a slow lope, the soft way he sat in the saddle—it all made her smile like a fool. He could ride. Well.
Why did that matter?
She refused to examine the question. Instead, she watched as Wes reversed direction. The longer he rode, the more Dudley relaxed. When Wes pulled the horse to a stop on the other side of the rail, he had a small smile on his face.
“You like him?” Gordon wore a salesman’s grin. “You should. He’s got the bloodlines and the talent to make a name for himself. Reining. Cutting. He’s bred to do it all.”
“If you don’t get dumped on your keister on a regular basis.”
The man’s jowls turned red. “That was just a fluke.”
“Something tells me otherwise, but I still want to see one more thing before I agree to buy him.”
Jillian’s heart leaped. He wasn’t going to let the horse go back to that awful man. Thank the Lord.
“What’s that?” Gordon glanced between the two of them. “I’m not willing to let him go on a trial, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“That’s not it at all.” Wes whistled. Cowboy bolted toward his master. “I just want to ride him out back for a bit.”
Jillian could tell that the man didn’t like the idea. He probably figured Wes hadn’t been bucked off in the arena, but it was a good bet he might be outside of it. She wondered what was going on, too, but she opened the gate nonetheless. Cowboy fell into step beside his master. They headed toward the back of the fairgrounds. The three of them—well, five if one counted Cowboy and Dudley—all walking down a dusty road like compadres at the OK Corral. Around them hundreds of vehicles, most of them trucks, sat parked, half of them pulling horse trailers. Wes took them to a spot far out back, to a large grass field used by the herding-dog people. They held an annual competition the same weekend as the bull-and-gelding sale but it stood empty now.
“Cowboy, go!”
The dog immediately brightened at Wes’s command. He charged toward the pasture as if looking for stray cows. Clearly, that was what Wes wanted, although Jillian still had no idea what Wes was up to.
“Cowboy, down.” The dog hit the ground so hard the movement resembled a canine belly flop.
“Damn.” Gordon crossed his arms and glanced up at Wes. “That’s a well-trained dog.”
“You have no idea,” Wes said, walking into the field and approaching the dog. Jillian knew then what Wes intended to do, although it was mostly the way Cowboy eyed his master that helped her figure it out. The dog stared at Wes and his horse as if a side of beef hung off it.
“Get him,” Wes ordered the dog.
Cowboy lunged, then stopped a few feet in front of the horse, squatting on his front legs and barking as if asking the animal to play. Wes just sat there, but the horse dropped his head and when Cowboy darted right, Wes leaned the reins against the horse’s neck, a silent cue that he should follow the dog. Dudley needed no prompting. It was the funniest thing Jillian had ever seen. Horse and dog faced off against each other, Cowboy’s tail wagging as the horse mirrored his moves. Left. Right. Left again. Cowboy took off at one point, running a few dozen feet, Dudley doing the same thing. When Cowboy stopped, so did the horse.
“I’ll be damned.”
Jillian silently echoed Gordon’s sentiment. Dog and horse played a game of cat and mouse, the horse moving so quickly at times that he left deep furrows in the grass. Cowboy loved it. If canines had grins, his was from cheek to cheek. Dudley did, too. There was no doubt the horse had talent. After his display in the arena trailing the steer up the rail and now this, Jillian knew Wes would be a fool not to buy the horse and at least give him a chance.
“Whoa,” he said softly.
The animal promptly obeyed.
Good boy, she silently told the horse.
“What do you think?” Gordon said.
“Not bad,” Wes replied. “Not bad at all.”
Jillian