and grabbed at the saddle. My scramble was awkward because Harper took up most of the room, but he grabbed my wrist and slung me toward the back of the saddle. The sorrel’s firm rump muscles bunched and shifted beneath my weight, nearly upsetting me, and I found myself clutching the wrangler’s lean waist for support.
He lifted the reins and clucked to the horse, who moved out with alacrity. Instinctively my arms tightened around the cowboy.
“Better,” he commented.
I sighed. “Let’s just go to the barbeque, Mr. Young.”
“Under the circumstances, Miss Clayton… you’d better call me Harper.”
I couldn’t help the smile. “Kelly.”
Chapter Five
I pointed toward the Lodge as Harper aimed Sunny right past it. “Isn’t that where we’re going?”
“We have a horse to put away.”
I arched my brows in the direction of his back, which was not so far away. “We? Do you have a mouse in your pocket?”
It brought a brief laugh from him. “Hardly. But where I come from, turnabout’s fair play.” He lifted the reins and tapped Sunny with an eloquent boot heel. “We see to the horse first, then to ourselves.”
I did not contest the decision, since Sunny had, indeed, donated his services, but I thought it a somewhat devious way of finding volunteer grooms. Or non-volunteer grooms, for that matter.
Harper stopped the horse in front of the small wooden tack room Cass had indicated earlier, kicked his left foot free of the stirrup and motioned for me to climb down. I did so awkwardly, not bothering to borrow his hand. Why, I don’t know, save to show I could manage by myself. Some instinct warned me he considered me a helpless city girl. Perhaps I was, to some degree, but I was not a fragile female. Not at five-ten.
He stepped off, pulled the reins over Sunny’s head and dropped them to the ground. The sorrel snorted and nuzzled in the dirt, forever seeking something to eat. Deftly Harper flipped up the left stirrup, untied and unbuckled knots and fastenings, then dragged the saddle off the blankets and pad.
“Bring ’em in,” he instructed, and I caught the blankets and pad before all hit the dirt.
I followed him in, wrinkling my nose at the acrid smell of sweaty horsehair and unclean blankets. Harper settled the heavy saddle over one of the empty brackets extending from the wall and motioned for me to slap the pad and blankets down. I knew enough to arrange them on top of the saddle, upside down, allowing the air to dry them.
He nodded. “Not bad.”
“It’s been a while, but I’m not a complete tenderfoot.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” He tossed me a brush. “Have at it.”
I grimaced and went outside to Sunny. He ignored me as I scrubbed and brushed at the wet spots on his body; back, the twin pads of his chest, and the rounded middle section I knew was called the barrel.
He was a sweet, gentle horse, and yet certainly not a mount for an inexperienced rider. He peered at the world out of big brown eyes, appearing quizzical with the bright chestnut forelock falling down between ears and eyes; tail swishing as he waited to be turned into his pen. I was aware of Harper slouching in the doorway of the tack room, watching how I tended his horse.
“What is he?” I asked.
“Quarter horse.”
“Like Preacher.”
He smiled. “Not at all. Preacher’s Triple-A running stock; Sunny’s just a cowpony. There’s a big difference between the two.”
I frowned at him. “I don’t see any cows.”
His smile widened. “No. But it’s the kind of horse I admire: big-butted, stocky, solid as a brick outhouse. None of those spindle-legged speed-demons for me.” He shifted his weight against the doorjamb. “There’s room for both in this world; no sense breeding one to the exclusion of the other.”
“Cass seems to think Preacher’s the best thing on four legs.” I went on brushing Sunny.
“Well, she’s got her reasons.” The smile was gone from his face. “Cass wants off the ranch. She wants the glitter and the glamour of big-time pro rodeo. ” He smiled a little. “Anyhow, she knows Preacher can give it to her. It’s why she got him.” He rubbed at his jaw. “Me and Sunny, well, we’re just a couple of ranch hands. Don’t need none of that glamour and glitter.”
I looked at him over the back of his big-butted, stocky cowpony. “What do you want?”
He did not smile. “That, Miss Clayton, is private.”
And so I finished brushing his horse in silence, wondering