A Cowboy's Angel

She was right where he’d figured she’d be, inside the stall with Dandy tied to an iron bar, an English saddle on his back. She glanced up at him, but it was a quick look, as if she didn’t trust herself to make eye contact.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she echoed.

He tried to come up with something to say, but all he could think about was how strange it was to have her in his barn. After months of being adversaries it was still hard to wrap his head around Mariah being a friend, not a foe.

“I see you brought your saddle.”

She nodded.

“English, huh?”

“No other way to ride.” She flipped up the flap of the saddle and buckled the girth.

He almost smiled. “If you say so. Myself, I prefer a Western saddle.”

She dropped the flap, eyeing the gelding critically. “Not me.”

It was the most mundane conversation in the world, which made him all the more aware of the fact that this was Mariah Stewart in front of him. And she wore breeches and boots. Women in skintight pants and leather boots should be outlawed, he thought, especially women who looked like Mariah. She had the sleek curves of one of his racehorses and the fiery mane of loose hair to match, and he always, always noticed even when he told himself not to pay attention.

“Here,” he said, thrusting the chart up in the air so she could see it. “All my horses’ charts.”

She reached through the bars and took the papers from him. He watched as she flipped to the first sheet but only for a moment, her fingers flying to the next sheet and then the next. It was his first chance to observe Mariah the vet in action, and he had to admit, she sure looked like a professional, lips pursing as she paused from time to time. When she got to the radiographs—pdf copies on regular-sized paper—she turned them this way and that, at one point dipping toward the bright end of the barn so she could get a better look. He had no idea if it was the filly’s or Dandy’s that she studied so intently.

“Dandy’s latest scan looks great.”

He hadn’t realized how tense he was until that moment. “Good.”

“Hairline fracture at the most. You can hardly see where it was in the most current film. I doubt it’d even show up in a vet check...as long as he’s sound.”

“He’s sound, but I wouldn’t be comfortable selling him to someone who didn’t know his history.”

She glanced up sharply. “No. Of course not.”

“And the filly?”

“Puzzling,” she said with a frown at the papers in her hand. “The only thing I can pinpoint are some narrow margins between the coffin bone and the navicular. Most horses have more padding between the two, but it still shouldn’t cause her any pain.” She looked up at him again. “But you never know. Just like people, some animals are more sensitive than others. I’d want to begin there.”

“Great.”

She handed him the papers back. “Meanwhile, I’ll focus on Dandy.”

“If you need a bridle, there’s more than a few in the tack room at the end.”

“Already grabbed one.” She bent and scooped something up. “I assume it’s okay to use this one?”

She held up a snaffle bit. A relic of days gone by, back when his mother used to ride, although he noticed she’d cleaned it up some. His mom had been gone from the ranch for nearly a decade, but reminders of her still remained. She’d ridden English, too, but she’d trotted right out of his life the day he’d graduated high school. He sometimes wondered if she’d planned it that way—get him older, then leave.

“The snaffle is fine. That’s all we ever work our horses in around here.”

“Where can I ride?”

“Out on the track if you like.” Memories of his mother were never pleasant.

She slipped the bridle on Dandy, then opened the stall door, and what had looked like a shapely body before suddenly turned into va-boom. It was hard to keep his eyes up as she walked by. The woman could be the main act at a men’s club. Shazam. Just give her a whip and a rope to hang from and she’d be all set, especially with that long red hair of hers hanging down....

“...safety.”

He blinked. She stared. He realized she’d asked him a question.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

She’d spotted him ogling her. He felt his face color for the first time in ages. She narrowed her eyes and suddenly they were back on familiar ground. Protagonist/antagonist, only this time for a whole other reason.

“I asked if you had a helmet.”

He nodded. “One of our tack trunks.”

He had to hide his chagrin as he turned toward a large wooden box, lifting the chrome lid. Sure enough, an old white skullcap lay inside.

“I don’t know if it’ll fit.” He handed it to her.

She took the thing from him, eyeing the inside skeptically, probably for spiders, before somehow gathering all her hair atop her head and covering it with the helmet.

“It’ll do.”

She looked nice with her hair tucked away. It accentuated the shape of her face.

Her eyes narrowed.

She’d caught him staring again.

“That type of helmet always reminds me of a gumball.” He threw the excuse out, although he half hoped to tease a smile to her lips, though why he bothered he had no idea. It was clear she didn’t want to be his “friend” any more than he wanted to be her ally—at least, that was what he told himself.

“How long did you say it’s been since he’s been ridden?” she asked.

“A while. You sure you’re still up for this? We could always have one of my guys get on him first—”

“No need for that.”

“Might be safer.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“Actually, I’m more worried about a lawsuit from your heirs.”