Cowgirl, Unexpectedly. Vicki Tharp

one of the two double bunks, one on each sidewall. The set of hooks and a small footlocker at the head and foot of each bed provided ample storage.

      Modern conveniences included a bathroom roomy enough to turn around in, but not much more. Since indoor plumbing was a treat for me, you wouldn’t hear me complain about the size. The door leading to the bathroom was off to one side; its long wall was directly across from the front door and supported an apartment-sized refrigerator, a sink with a microwave above, and a two-burner stove. A homemade wooden table with two chairs completed the furnishings.

      I tossed my tarp and two thin blankets I use as a makeshift bedroll onto the top bunk to get them out of the way. I hung my jacket on one of the hooks. My clothes I dropped on the bed’s quilt—a hodgepodge of flannel, blue jeans with the occasional scrap of T-shirt thrown in. Lottie’s handiwork, probably.

      I figured the other cabin was equipped like this one. Which meant the other cabin had an empty bunk.

      “Looks like there’s room in the other cabin for one more,” I said.

      “All yours if you want it.”

      A gentleman would have bunked with the other men and let me have my own place, but that meant preferential treatment. I didn’t need or want that. I respected the fact he treated me like any of the other hands.

      By the time I’d finished stowing my gear, Hank had coffee dripping into the small carafe and eight slices of bread spread out on the table, a generous dollop of mayonnaise spread across four faces.

      “Chicken or ham?” he asked. His hat was off, but that was the extent of his unpacking. His duffel lay untouched on the lower bunk on his side of the cabin.

      “Chicken,” I replied without much thought to the decision. “I can make my own.”

      “I don’t doubt that, but my mother managed to beat a few manners into me. Easy enough to make a couple more sandwiches while the ingredients are out. You get the coffee.”

      I turned to the pot without comment, poured a couple mugs, brought them to the table, and watched as he piled thick slabs of ham on two slices of bread and the shredded pieces of chicken onto two others. Well-muscled arms with large hands made quick work of the job.

      Hands that had wrapped around Jenna’s wrists this morning.

      From deep down, I felt that low-level hum, the slow simmer of anger that has been my constant companion since I’d returned to civilian life. I wasn’t quite sure what fueled it or what made it grow, but it had been a constant battle to keep it from taking over my world.

      Then the relief valve popped, and words flew out of my mouth, circumventing my verbal filter. “Your mother taught you to make sandwiches for others but didn’t teach you to keep your hands to yourself?”

      He snorted out a clipped laugh, then slapped on the top slices of bread and shoved his sandwiches into a plastic baggie.

      “What’s so funny?” I said.

      “Keep your hands to yourself,” he mimicked, even getting my indignant inflection correct. A muscle tensed at the corner of his jaw as if biting back his words. Weak, ambient light leaked through the drawn front curtains, yet the flash of anger in his eyes was blinding. “You’re a fine one to talk. I’m not the one who bent an old man over a counter this morning. You’re outta line.”

      Probably. ‘You’re outta line’ could have been my theme song for the day. I should sell the rights. Taylor Swift could spin it into a hit. I pursed my lips at the truth. “Look, I’m so—”

      “Save it.” He ignored his fresh mug of coffee, stalked to his bunk, grabbed his hat from the hook, and snugged it down on his head.

      When he opened the front door, he turned to me and opened his mouth to say something. He must have thought better of it because he closed it again then he swept his gaze up and down my body—not so much as if he was interested but as if he was taking my measure—before he stepped through the door. Just as well. Some things are better left unsaid.

      His momma had taught him more manners than I’d given her credit.

      * * * *

      By the time I’d made it to the barn, the horses stood saddled, which was fortunate because I’d never saddled a horse in my life. When the time came to unsaddle, I’d pay close attention to what went where and then just do the reverse when it came time to saddle up again.

      Hank untethered two horses and led them toward me. The one in his left hand was a striking dark palomino with a thick, flowing mane and tail that followed him like a puppy. The other was the blue roan the color of cattle dogs and danced at the end of his lead as if it had mainlined a gallon of coffee minutes before.

      In fact, the animal more closely resembled a dragon as thick plumes of condensation blew out of his flared nostrils into the cold air. Twenty feet away, Hank dropped the palomino’s lead. The horse stopped and dropped his head to munch on a clump of grass.

      I realized then Hank intended for me to ride the blue dragon.

      I swallowed a lump of apprehension. It would be a real shitter to have survived my tour only to be killed by a horse.

      Though I’m confident in my abilities to do many things, riding a thousand pounds of snorting, fire-breathing flesh and blood that spent more time with his feet in the air than on the ground left me rattled. The smirk on Hank’s face said he knew I’d never make eight seconds on this horse’s back. But I wouldn’t chicken out now. I was determined to pass this test.

      Really, how hard could it be?

      Damn hard was the answer I didn’t want to hear.

      Okay, so maybe I should have given this cowboy career more consideration before I’d jumped in with both Harley Davidson boots, but a little desperation goes a long way in the job selection process.

      And it wasn’t like I’d never been on a horse before, but I don’t think a nose-to-tail trail ride in Vail as a kid or the carousel pony in front of the grocery store counted for much.

      I reached for the lead rope and tried to recall everything I knew about riding horses. Which wasn’t much, so it didn’t take long to run through the list. Something about horses being able to smell fear jumped to the front of my mind. I didn’t know if it was true or not, but I took a deep breath anyway and did my best to relax and calm my breathing and heart rate like my rifle instructors had taught me back in basic training.

      I must have closed my eyes for a fraction of a second, because as my hand went to close around the rope, my hand came up empty.

      The next thing I knew, Jenna was marching the horse backward toward the barn, double-time. As soon as Jenna stopped, the horse did too. Then he lowered his head and started licking his lips. Jenna glanced at me over her shoulder and said, “Come with me and we’ll saddle another horse. Angel has a loose shoe.”

      Hank stood with his hands on his hips, clearly annoyed with Jenna for ruining his fun.

      I glared at Hank, who sported an innocent “what?” grin.. His deep chuckle washed over me like jet fuel, and I was the match.

      Chapter 2

      Jenna wasn’t small, but this horse positively dwarfed her. I followed the two of them into the barn and stayed a safe distance away while she stripped the tack off the horse and turned him out into a small paddock.

      While she was gone, I glanced around. Wood pole barn with a metal roof. Eight stalls, concrete aisle with a wide center for saddling. Tack room full of saddles and other horsey stuff. The light grassy scent of the hay in the loft above rained down. Individual runs came off the backside of the stalls and emptied into a large pasture that disappeared over a hill.

      Jenna returned, leading a small black and white paint horse. The horse wasn’t in any particular hurry as it ambled down the aisle behind her. The only change to Jenna’s wardrobe since I’d seen her this morning was the addition of a well-worn cowboy hat on top of her head.