Cowgirl, Unexpectedly. Vicki Tharp

followed her without a halter and lead rope and when she stopped, the horse stepped forward to the rail and gave a heavy sigh as if bored with the whole ordeal.

      Jenna stepped inside the tack room, poked her head out a second later, and said, “Catch,” as she tossed me first one brush and then the other. “Use the curry comb, the round one with the metal teeth, to get the chunks of dirt off and the softer brush to get the loose stuff,” she added before disappearing inside again.

      As I loosened the caked-on mud on the horse’s right side, I realized how Jenna had been keen enough to notice I lacked horse experience. She came out with a saddle and other necessary gear and placed them on a foldout rack within easy reach. She took the soft brush from me and followed behind with short, competent strokes.

      “Thanks,” I said as I finished brushing the second side.

      “What for?”

      I jerked my chin toward the front of the barn where Hank and the other men were waiting. “Angel doesn’t have a loose shoe, does he?”

      Jenna grinned at me over the top of the horse. “I owed you one for this morning,” she said. “But in Hank’s defense, he wouldn’t have let you climb on. He was just waiting for you to call his bluff.”

      “Good to know.” I’d suspected it had been his version of a cowboy initiation, but I still would have swung my leg over that saddle.

      “Okay, so horse saddling 101,” Jenna said as she threw the thick saddle pad over the horse’s back. “Saddle pad first, bring it up over the horse’s withers, the pointy part where their back meets their neck, then comes the saddle and the cinch.”

      She saddled and cinched then bridled the horse before moving on to cleaning out the hooves. “You’ll want to check the cinch one last time before you get on. Sometimes the horses will hold their breath to expand their chest so by the time you go to get on the cinch is loose again,” she explained.

      As we led the horses to where everyone was waiting outside, she said, “The mare’s name is Sierra. She taught me how to ride, and will take good care of you on the trail.”

      Jenna positioned the horse for me to mount. The men mounted up and headed toward one of the gates, giving Jenna a chance to give me the Cliffs Notes version of Horseback Riding for Dummies.

      There was a lot more to riding than I’d ever imagined, and I only had the most basic information. It made me a cowboy much the same way as knowing the parts of a rifle made you a sniper. Still, it wasn’t like me to back down from a challenge.

      The rolling motion of Sierra’s long-striding walk felt foreign, and even though I’d been riding my steel horse for nearly a year straight, the western saddle made my Harley’s seat feel like an overstuffed recliner. Somewhere in the near future was a saddle sore with my name on it.

      Link Hardy, the foreman, was waiting on his horse by the gate with one of the other new hands. At the campfire this morning, Link had stood a little bowlegged, as if he’d been born with a horse between his legs. Unlike me, he looked at home astride the animal.

      Jenna was a horse length ahead and stopped beside Link. I tried my newfound skills to stop Sierra. I don’t know if she stopped because of anything I did or because she was going to stop anyway. Hopefully, it looked like stopping had been my idea.

      “I want you to take Parish and Santos with you,” Link instructed Jenna. “Check the fences on the west side to Harper’s Cave then cut across to the catch pens down by the creek. Repair what you can and mark the rest. I don’t want to lose any head when we round up the calves for branding.”

      Jenna’s eyes narrowed and her lips tightened into a thin line. I thought she was about to protest, but Link’s face hardened and Jenna must have decided against it. She turned her horse to the west without a word and Sierra followed without any input from me. Santos fell in behind us.

      Jenna blew a sharp whistle. “Come on, Dink,” she hollered out. The cow dog blasted past me out of nowhere and settled into an easy trot beside her.

      “Keep your eyes out for trouble,” Link yelled at our backs.

      My heart skittered faster for a couple beats before I remembered Dale had said he believed all the ranch’s troubles were behind them. I needed the job. I needed the money. I needed to get the hell back on the road.

      I didn’t need any trouble.

      Dale hadn’t gone into specifics, but how much trouble could there be in the middle of America? I moved to Jenna’s right and spotted the rifle in the scabbard on her saddle.

      What the hell have I gotten myself into?

      * * * *

      I had no clue what had upset Jenna. I didn’t know if she was mad that she had to drag two new hires along with her—one of which barely knew the front end of the horse from the back end—or if she wasn’t happy with the scope of her work. But like a good soldier, she’d kept her mouth shut and followed orders. I admired that about her.

      We followed a dirt road wide enough to ride two abroad, so Santos brought his horse level with mine. Jenna and her dog were about fifty yards ahead and gaining ground. I didn’t attempt to catch up because she probably needed a few minutes to settle her temper. Besides, the walk was much more comfortable than a trot.

      Luckily, Sierra didn’t fuss when left behind. She plodded along with her head down low, ears flopping to the sides, while Santos’s mount trotted in place beside me like one of those über-dedicated joggers who can’t stand still at a crosswalk waiting for the light to change.

      I was a newbie to horses, but the head tossing and the occasional sideways trotting from Santos’s horse told me his horse wanted to catch up to Jenna. Still, Santos stuck with me and rode out his horse’s antics as if he were John Wayne himself.

      The sun was rising higher in the sky. I could no longer see the vapor when I exhaled and the other ranch hands had disappeared over a rise. Santos’s horse worked himself into a small lather along his neck before he settled into a walk a couple miles from the barn.

      “Taco is learning fast,” Santos said, with a chin bob toward his horse. “Last month he threw me when the other horses went ahead.”

      I pegged Santos to be in his early twenties. He wasn’t big, but he wasn’t small either. His hat sat high on his forehead, revealing thick, black brows, dark chocolate eyes, and a large mouth full of straight white teeth. “Jorge Santos,” he said as he extended his hand in introduction.

      I leaned over to grasp his hand. The handshake lasted a fraction of a second as his horse bunny-hopped to the side. “Mackenzie Parish. My friends call me Mac.”

      Santos scooted his horse back in line with mine. “First time on a horse?”

      “I thought I hid it so well.”

      His grin flashed Chiclet-white and a dimple popped up on his left cheek. “We’ll have many hours and many days in the saddle. If you don’t quit, you’ll get better.”

      It wasn’t a resounding endorsement, but I’d take it. “I’ll settle for not knocking a filling loose or dislodging a kidney every time I trot.”

      “You have to relax,” he explained, drawing the word relax out a couple of beats. “Move with the horse.”

      He demonstrated both the slow and the fast trot on his horse then slowed again until I caught back up with him. “You try.”

      He made it look easy. I was pretty sure it wasn’t.

      Jenna was much farther ahead because she’d moved into a steady, ground-covering trot. I practiced both the slow and fast trot, and Santos had tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks as I tried to mimic what he’d shown me.

      I didn’t hold it against him. What I lack in skill, I make up in perseverance, and I silently promised Sierra an extra helping of grain when we made it back to the barn, a small thank-you for not dumping me on