From the Boots Up (7 page)

“Excuse me,” she said to Gina. Then to him, “What’s
up?”

“Any chance you could help out on a trail ride
tomorrow? Mark’s got to help Jackson pick up a horse for breaking and Floyd’s doing
one of the roping demonstrations tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

“Cool.” He focused on Gina again.

“Morning or afternoon?” Meg asked, and he looked at
her.

“Morning.”

“How many?”

“Ten.”

She nodded. “Okay. See you then.”

“Thanks.” He gave Gina another one of his smiles.
“And when will I be able to guide
you
on a trail ride?”

Meg shot him a look, but decided to see how Gina
played it.

“Depends.”

“On what?” he pushed, in one of his flirty tones.

“On how good your luck is.”

“I’m a pretty lucky guy. Want to find out?”

Meg nailed his left calf with a swift kick she
delivered using the side of her right booted foot. He exhaled sharply and glared
at her, surprised.

Gina hid a smile behind another drink of tea and Meg
looked up at him innocently.

“I’m sure Miss Morelli will let you know when she’s
scheduled for a trail ride. And I’m sure she’ll ask you a whole lot of
questions about the work you do here, and I’m sure she’ll totally appreciate
your professionalism, with regard to the story she’s doing on the ranch.
Right?” She gave him a hard stare.

He cleared his throat and a little flush appeared on
his neck. She’d struck his male ego nerve, knocked him down a bit, and pulled
the fraternization card. Too bad. Stan would blow a gasket if he knew how Davey
was acting, especially around a reporter. He smiled, but it looked forced.

“Just let me know when you’re ready,” he said
smoothly to Gina. “See you tomorrow, Meg.” He returned to his seat and another
female guest who looked like she was probably Tiffany’s mom.

She turned back to Gina, not sure what to say in the
wake of Davey’s overstep.

“So when can I have my first chat with you?” Gina
asked. “My people really want to put you in my schedule.”

Meg relaxed, relieved that she’d chosen to ignore
what happened. At least for now. Shit. What if she put that in her story? “Not
tomorrow morning, obviously. After lunch?”

“That should work. How about I come and find you?”

“Sounds good. I’ll be within earshot of the dining
hall, if all else fails.”

“I’ll expect photos of the antelope trafficking
ring.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” She managed a smile, but Davey’s
actions had put a knot in her gut. Why the hell did he have to act like such an
ass? And to a reporter? Not just any reporter.
The
reporter. There was a lot riding on Gina’s story, and on what
she chose to write.

Gina put her bowl and silverware onto her plate and
stood. She picked up her plate and her glass. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yep.”

She started to turn away, but stopped and looked back
at Meg. “No worries,” she said, and the smile she gave her was warm, maybe a
little concerned. “Really.” She watched her a moment longer then walked away,
toward the bus tub table.

Meg watched her, wondering if she was referring to
Davey’s sudden turn as an asshole and was letting her know that she didn’t
consider it relevant to her story, or if she was just trying to reassure her
about talking to a reporter. She had already figured out Davey’s angle, and she
probably had to deal with guys hitting on her all the time, including guys she
had to interview for other stories. Hopefully, she’d ignore Davey’s bullshit.
And hopefully, that’s what she was referring to.

She organized her own bowl and silverware on her
plate and stood. Maybe her comment at dinner would help Davey pull his head out
of his ass. Hell, she’d tell him again tomorrow to keep his hormones under
control. She sighed and went to find Jackson to help set up the bonfire.

Five

M
eg beat Davey
to the stables the next
morning and she had already saddled two horses before he showed up. When he did,
he ignored her, but she figured he would, so she followed him out to the horse
he started to saddle.

“You need to quit acting like an asshole,” she said
before Davey opened his mouth. “There’s nothing wrong with a little flirting
now and again, but not with a reporter doing a story on the ranch. I don’t give
a shit how sexy you think she is, or even if she thinks the same of you. It’s
your responsibility to represent the ranch, and it’s your responsibility to be
the professional here. Are we clear on that?”

He muttered something and adjusted the saddle.

“You’re racking up asshole points.”

“Yes,” he snapped.

“Good. As far as I’m concerned, the matter’s closed.
Unless you decide to be a dick. Your call.”

He nodded, but he was still pissed, from the set of
his jaw.

Whatever. He was being an ass. “Okay. I’ll take lead
if you don’t feel like it.” Davey didn’t like being the lead because he
couldn’t socialize as much with everybody up and down the string of horses on
the trail. She didn’t mind lead, and gave him the choice as a peace offering.

He took it. “Sure, if you want.”

“No problem.” She stared him down and he finally
relented and smiled, though wanly.

She smiled back and went to get another saddle. By
the time they’d gotten everybody settled and were headed up one of the trails,
he seemed to be in his regular good humor, though he didn’t say much to her
either on the ride or when they got back. She’d have to keep an eye on him. Not
the first time, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. He usually pouted for a
day or two after a confrontation and then he’d be fine, like nothing happened.
This was probably a two-day pout. She went to wash up before lunch and mentally
prepare herself for the next trial of the day, the interview with Gina.

She finished lunch thirty minutes later and left the
dining hall, wondering where Gina might be. Maybe she got caught up with
another interview or with writing or something and she could put this
conversation off another day or two. She was about to go to the office when she
noticed a crowd gathered near the corral, fifty yards past the lodge. Curious,
she changed direction.

Mark and Floyd were seated on the top rail of the
fence, and the guests who were gathered watched the horse within, a beautiful
bay that was clearly untrained. It snorted and pranced nervously, eyeing
Jackson, who was in the corral as well, trying to coax it closer.

Meg acknowledged the guests who looked over at her,
and then she addressed Mark. “Nice-looking filly.”

“Yeah. Picked her up from Bob Zimmerman’s place a
couple of hours ago. Your dad said she’s green.” He’d rested his lasso on his
right thigh and his gloves were tucked in his back pocket.

“That’s the damn truth,” Floyd muttered. He caught
himself. “Dang truth.” Floyd was built like a linebacker, and his nose was
crooked from his days on the rodeo circuit. He was the kind of guy who didn’t
say much, but who could stop a bar fight with a look. He was also old school
about women, even types like Meg who’d taken her share of injuries over the
years as part of a ranching life. Sometimes his cowboy code annoyed her, but he
was a good hand, and respected her dad, so she knew he could be counted on to
handle business right.

She watched as the filly danced out of Jackson’s reach
and whinnied. “She’s smart.”

Mark grinned, the gap where one of his front teeth
should have been giving him kind of a goofy look. “Knocked Floyd on his ass
earlier. I had a go at her, too, but she knows about ropes.”

Meg climbed up next to him and held her hand out. “Give
me your rope.”

“Gonna give her a go?” Mark asked as he handed her
his lasso, humor in his blue eyes.

She shrugged and looped the rope over her left
shoulder before she climbed down to the soft dirt of the corral. “Might as well
get knocked on my ass, too,” she said, looking up at him. She pulled a pair of
leather gloves out of her right back pocket as Jackson walked toward her.

He half-smiled, but then he glanced at the horse,
disgusted. “I’ve been at this for a goddamn hour,” he swore. “Uh, I mean gol’
durn. Sorry, folks,” he finished sheepishly, glancing at the people watching
through the rails of the corral. “Have at,” he told her. “I need a damn break.
Uh, durn.” He climbed onto the top rail and positioned himself next to Mark.

Meg pulled her gloves on. No sense getting rope burns
if the horse spooked. She took the rope off her shoulder and hefted it, almost
meditatively. She generally threw with her right hand, but she also practiced
with her left, so she was comfortable from any angle when she roped.

She studied the horse for a bit, letting her get used
to a new person in the corral. After a couple of minutes, Meg flexed her wrists
and allowed the loop of the lasso to play out a bit. She hummed softly under
her breath, a little melody she always used around animals. The horse stopped
and watched her then pawed nervously at the earth and tossed her head with a
snort.

“C’mon, gal. Show us some a’ them skills,” Jackson
called, teasing.

“Swing that rope,” Mark joined in.

She moved around the periphery of the corral,
observing the horse’s movements and trying to pick up on any patterns this one
had. She kept humming and moved slowly but deliberately, loop ready in her
right hand, the lasso’s slack in her left. She focused on the horse, caught her
eye once, and shifted her gaze to the horse’s neck. Yep. This one was smart.
She seemed to be weighing her options as she watched Meg. Give in to the rope?
Or knock another human on its ass? Meg stopped humming and instead started
talking to the horse in a low, gentle voice about what a fine animal she was,
how beautiful she was, how strong.

“Hey, Meg, bet you can’t get her in three,” Mark
called.

The horse stopped moving and regarded her, sizing her
up. Meg swung the lasso back and forth, slowly. The horse snorted and pranced
nervously.

“Hell—heck, bet you can’t get her in five,”
Jackson crowed, egging her on.

She ignored them. It was a game they all played,
pushing each other in roping and riding skills. Their challenges made her
better at both. She played more rope out, swinging the loop in a larger arc,
moving it up above her head. She loved this part. The horse saw the lasso and
quickly moved sideways and started a quick canter around the periphery of the
corral.

She watched, gauging the horse’s speed and the way
her legs lifted and fell, the way she tossed her head, and the rhythm of her
movements. She saw an opening and with a flick of her right wrist, the rope
snaked through the air. Too late, the filly dug her front hooves into the dirt,
trying to shy away but the rope fell smoothly around her neck and Meg jerked to
tighten it. She quickly looped it loosely around her right forearm as the horse
reared, trying to pull her off her feet.

She released more slack, following the horse’s ploy.
The horse tried running but Meg brought her up short, talking in a calm, low
voice. The filly tried rearing and reversing direction but Meg anticipated her
movements and made adjustments in the rope and her stance. Fifteen minutes
later, the horse conceded the battle and stood, keeping her gaze on Meg, her
flanks heaving with exertion.

“Good girl,” she said as she slowly approached. She
pulled her left glove off with her teeth and shoved it into her pocket before
she stuck her hand out so the horse could smell her. Then she reached into her
shirt pocket for a molasses treat. Rusty always got a couple and she had a few
left over from the morning’s ride. She held it in her palm for the filly to
inspect. The horse sniffed tentatively then delicately lifted the treat off Meg’s
hand with her lips. As she chewed, Meg briefly and gently touched her muzzle
and the watchers erupted into applause. Meg looked up, bemused, losing her
zone.

“Hell, you got us on that one, Meg. Wasn’t three
or
five,” Mark said, laughing. He
climbed down into the corral and carefully approached. She handed the rope to
him. The horse remained still. She gave her another treat, which the filly took
as carefully as the first.

“You guys tired her out,” she said, stepping back to
give the horse some room.

“Nah. You’ve got a way with ’em.” Jackson grimaced as
he limped over.

She handed him a treat to give to the filly. “Show
her there’s no hard feelings.”

He chuckled and offered the treat to the horse, who
accepted it. “Thanks, Meg.” He lowered his voice. “And thanks for the show. The
wanna-bes appreciated it.” He went to open the gate. She followed them out of
the corral, watching as Mark slowly led the filly toward the stables, and
smiled, embarrassed, as the guests expressed appreciation and awe.

“I told you,” a little girl said. “You’re a cowgirl.”

Meg recognized her as the girl from the Forster
party. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She pointed at Meg’s hat.

“You’re wearing one, too.” She touched the brim of
the little girl’s brand new felt cowboy hat. “Could be you’re a cowgirl, too.”

“But I can’t catch a horse like you.”

“Not yet. I’ve had lots of practice.”

“I’m going to have to agree with Samantha. That was
some serious cowgirlin’,” Gina said behind her.

Samantha waved at her and Gina waved back before she
scampered off toward her mom, who Meg saw standing near the corral.

She turned, fighting the little bolts of lightning
dancing up and down her back. “It’s another prerequisite.”

“For?” Gina held a camera in her right hand and a
small notebook in her left.

“All Wyoming kids. We have to ride naked and lasso a
horse before we’re five.”

She laughed. “What else can you rope?”

“Fenceposts. Pretty good with those.” She smiled
sheepishly. “I got lucky.”