Emily Carmichael - How To Lasso A Cowboy

He threw himself back in his chair and let loose a string of Cheyenne curses. What the hell had happened to the sweet girl he’d known? Granted, he’d taken her virginity and ridden out the next morning without so much as a goodbye, but dammit, he’d had his reasons. She’d had ten years to get over it, yet she clung to her resentment.

She was twentyfive now, an old maid, even though she hardly looked like some driedup spinster. Why hadn’t she married? Girls got over boys and moved on, but it seemed Cait hadn’t.

Why not?

He finished his coffee, hardly tasting the strong bitterness that he favored. After sliding his cup into the warm water, he donned his hat and followed in Cait’s wake.

He paused on the porch and noticed the barn door was open. He’d closed it behind him that morning. Knowing it was better to leave Cait alone until she got over her tantrum, Win strode toward the corral where Deil pawed at the ground. As he approached, the stallion tossed his head and snorted, and Win felt the familiar thrill of pitting himself against a strongwilled horse.

Win had been an itinerant bronc buster most of his life, following his father from one ranch to another after his ma died. They were normally paid five dollars a head for every horse they saddlebroke. But unlike some of their fellow busters, Win and his pa never used a whip or quirt on a horse. Neither of them could abide such cruelty to an animal.

Win’s mother’s people had taught Adam Taylor how to break horses their way. Combining the best methods of both the white and Cheyenne worlds, he and his son had established a reputation as busters who could saddlebreak a horse without destroying its spirit.

“How will you do it?”

Win whirled around, startled to see Cait standing beside him, her hands in her back trouser pockets. She was staring at Deil impassively.

Win forced himself to relax and leaned against the top corral pole. “Depends. Do you plan on riding him or will you just use him for breeding?”

Cait narrowed her eyes. “Both. I have to be able to trust him.”

“He’s a wild horse, Cait. You’ll never be able to totally trust him.”

“If I can’t trust him, I’ll put him down.”

Win scowled. “You don’t have to-”

She faced him squarely. “Yes, I do.”

“It’ll take some time.”

Cait’s attention returned to the stallion that stared at them with intelligent and cunning eyes. “Use whatever means you have to. I want him broke.”

“I won’t whip an animal,” Win stated, hoping that wasn’t what she meant.

“He’s an outlaw.” Cait clasped her hands and rested them atop the corral rail. Her knuckles were white. “But he’s the best chance for this ranch to succeed, so do what you have to in order to break him.”

“You’ve changed, Cait,” Win said softly after a few moments of stunned silence.

“What the hell did you expect?”

Win flinched inwardly at the unexpected cuss word and her venomous tone, but kept his voice even. “The Cait I knew used to cry over dead butterflies.”

“The Cait you knew is long gone.”

The statement was delivered in a flat monotone that both frustrated and angered Win. He’d ridden away to protect her, yet he was beginning to suspect he’d done the opposite.

“Are you going to forefoot him?” Cait asked, the anger replaced by bland curiosity.

Win eyed the spirited stallion, gauging how difficult it would be to lasso the animal’s two front legs. If he did, he’d have to take Deil down and tie his hind foot up as well. “Probably,” he finally replied. “If he’s as tough as you say, I’ll have to bust him, too. I’ll need your help if I do that.”

“Pa tried to do it himself.”

Win scowled. “That’s a good way to get hurt.”

“Or killed,” Cait murmured and turned toward the barn. “Let’s get started,” she said over her shoulder.

Puzzled by her words, Win retrieved his lariat from the barn, while Cait brought another out from the tack room.

She’d donned gloves and was checking the rope with the assurance of someone who’d done it numerous times.

Win had never known a woman bronc buster other than Cait. They’d both been taught by their fathers, with some of their training overlapping while Win and his father visited the Brices. Cait had forefooted her first mustang when she was thirteen years old. Win had been in the corral with her, ready to help if the horse needed to be taken down. He’d been impressed by her skill, but instead of praising her, he’d teased her.

“I’ll rope him,” Win said, unlooping his reata.

Cait stopped by the corral, her gaze never leaving the stallion. Her breath rasped in and out with rapid puffs.

“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned by her pallor.

“Fine.”

Although she sounded anything but fine, Win mentally shrugged and opened the post corral’s gate to slip inside. He latched the gate behind him when it was obvious she wasn’t going to follow. Instead, she climbed onto the corral’s top rail and sat there, her loop in hand and ready.

Deil pawed the ground, his hooves tossing dirt behind him. His nostrils flared widely and he snorted. Not once did the stallion take his eyes off Win, which sent a shiver of unease down the buster’s spine as he continued to hold the horse’s gaze. To look away would give Deil the victory, and Win had yet to be defeated by a wild horse. He increased the rope’s loop as he began to twirl it over his head.

Most horses fled when they saw the rope, and in a round enclosure, it was fairly easy to forefoot a running mustang. However, rather than flee, Deil reared up on his powerful hind legs, forcing Win to retreat, away from the flailing hooves.

“Look out,” Cait shouted, an oddly frantic note in her voice.

Win didn’t dare spare her a glance as Deil came down onto all fours, and instead of distancing himself from the man as most wild animals would do, the stallion charged. Instinctively, Win hit the ground and rolled toward the rail fence. Deil’s left hoof grazed Win’s forearm a moment before he cleared the pen and he gasped at the unexpected pain, sucking in a lungful of dirt and dust. Wracked by a coughing fit, Win curled up on the ground, cradling his injured arm against his belly.

Cait stumbled to her knees beside him and rested her hand on his shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

The coughing eased and Win spat out gritty sand. He nodded with a jerky motion, still rattled by the close call. “Just bruised.”

He began to push himself to a sitting position, and Cait helped him with a steady pressure on his back.

“You’re bleeding,” Cait suddenly said. “Let me take a look.”

Win glanced down at his throbbing arm and blinked at the red stain across his sleeve. “It’s nothing.”

Cait glared at him. Knowing he wouldn’t win this argument, he carefully held out his arm and was relieved to find it didn’t feel broken. He’d earned enough broken bones through the years to know what it felt like. “I’ve been cut worse shaving.”

Cait rolled her eyes at the phrase they’d both heard for years. “You, Pa, and Uncle Adam-one of you could be dying, and it’d be, ‘I’ve been cut worse shaving.’ ”

Win grinned. “You’re one to talk. You said it yourself one time.”

“My one and only time.” Cait unbuttoned Win’s cuff and rolled up the bloody sleeve. Her fingertips brushed his skin, leaving pockets of warmth, and she leaned so close that her flowery soap scent rose above the sour scent of sweat and fear. “When Pa told me I’d never have to shave, I cried.”

Win remembered the scene vividly. “You cried more over that than your broken collarbone.”

Cait huffed a soft laugh. “I don’t think Pa knew what to do with me.”

“Good thing I was around.”

Cait lifted her head and her eyes were almost warm. “I guess it was.” Her attention returned to his injury and her tone turned businesslike. “Let’s go to the porch and I’ll clean this up and bandage it for you.”

Although Win figured a tied bandanna around the wound would suffice, he didn’t argue. He didn’t want to disturb the fragile harmony between them.

Leaning on her more than necessary, Win relished the feel of her arm around his waist and her unique scent that reminded him of a field of wildflowers. He’d doubted he’d ever touch her again, even in friendship, after her chilly reception last evening. Exaggerating the seriousness of a minor wound was a small sin to have her so close.

She settled him on the rickety rocker on the porch and he wished he dared pull her onto his lap. As children they argued over who would get the rocker. Sometimes they decided by playing a marble game where they would take turns trying to hit each other’s marble with their own. The first to miss lost. But more often than not, they ended up scrunching together on the chair.

“Do you still have your topaz cat’seye?” Win asked curiously.

Cait paused before entering the cabin and studied him blankly, then comprehension filled her face. She dug into her pocket, drew her fist out, and opened her hand. In the center of her palm lay a golden brown marble. She shrugged and shoved it back into her pocket. “It got to be habit carrying it around.”

Amazed that she still had it, much less kept it with her all the time, Win realized maybe his Cait wasn’t long gone. That maybe the spirited but gentlehearted Cait he’d known most of his life was hiding behind this woman’s cool reserve.

“Do you still have yours?” she asked, still standing in the doorway and gazing at him intently.

For a moment, Win would’ve traded everything to have his lucky marble in his pocket, but he’d lost it long ago. “No.”

Disappointment flickered across her face, but all she said was “Oh.” Then she went into the cabin without another glance.

ONCE INSIDE THE cabin, Cait leaned against the door and forced herself to breathe deeply. Between Win’s close encounter with Deil and the unearthing of longago feelings, she felt shaky and uncertain. Her heart gradually slowed its rapid gallop.