Cool Hand Hank / A Cowboy's Redemption: Cool Hand Hank / A Cowboy's Redemption. Kathleen Eagle

people—once you figured out what they wanted, for better or worse they were generally predictable—but Sally was like a horse he’d ridden for an elderly neighbor when he was a kid. Four out of five days the beautiful Arabian was smart, spirited, smooth-gaited, a dream to ride. But on the fifth day she’d likely take off with him and run like ahellcat until they hit some kind of a wall. She was four-fifths dream and one-fifth damned, but she was special. And four days out of five, she sure was fun to play with.

      He wasn’t sure about the hitch in Sally’s gait. It was slight and oddly sporadic. An old injury wouldn’t seem to explain it, and maybe there was no explanation. Maybe it was just Sally.

      They entered the machine shed through a side door, which was propped open for ventilation. Hoolie looked up from a workbench and then slid off the stool before he remembered he wasn’t going anywhere without his crutch.

      He grinned anyway and reached for Hank’s handshake. “Did you bring all the tools of your trades? My saddle horse could use corrective shoes, and I’ll pay you to take this damn mummy boot off my hoof.”

      “Like I told you before, you take that off too soon, you’ll pay dearly. Your horse is a different story. My pickup is a blacksmith shop on wheels. Phoebe!” The dog was headed for the door.

      “Does she get along with other dogs?” Sally asked.

      “Sure does. She’s around dogs all the time.”

      A warning growl sounded outside the door.

      “Well, that makes one of them,” Hoolie said ominously as a black-and-white shepherd slunk across the threshold, teeth bared.

      “Baby!”

      Sally bolted for the door, but she fell flat on her face before she got there. Tripped over her own feet like one of the TV comedians she’d claimed she always had time for. She was doing a shaky push-up on the concrete by the time Hank got to her. She tried to wave him off, her attention fixed on the dogs.

      Hoolie came on strong once he had his crutch in place. “Here, you dogs, you want a piece o’ me?”

      The clamor settled into a war of whines, both bitches determined to get in the last whimper as Hoolie and his crutch prevailed.

      Hank found himself down on one knee beside a woman who was on her way up. “You okay?”

      “Yes! Yes, of course.” She laughed as she braced her hand on his shoulder. “Totally wasn’t ready for that. Scared me.”

      “They’re okay,” Hoolie called out. “Phoebe wants to play. Baby wants to lay down a few rules first.”

      “I’ll give ‘em some rules,” Hank grumbled, discomfited by the loss of his dignity and his own confusion as to where it had gone.

      Sally laughed again. “What are you, the Dog Whisperer?”

      “I’m the alpha.” He signaled Phoebe to stay put while the shepherd took a fallback position. “You got any other dogs around here?” he asked Sally.

      “Baby’s an only dog.”

      “That’s her problem. We’ll fix it, though. We’ll teach her some manners. Won’t we, Phoeb?” Hank patted the dog’s silky head. “Scared you, huh?”

      “It sure startled me.” Sally twisted her arm for a look at her skinned elbow. “I didn’t want to lose you over a dogfight. You’ve probably noticed I can be kind of a klutz sometimes. Two left feet.” She gave a perfunctory smile. “Except when I dance.”

      “You stick to dancing and leave us to referee the dogs.”

      “Only if you’ll dance with me, Henry.” She was giving him that too cute look. “Do you know that song? You’re supposed to say, Okay, Baby.”

      Hank shook his head. “Nobody calls me Henry.”

      “That’s your real name, isn’t it?” She flashed a smile at Hoolie. “Henry’s a fine name.”

      “Nobody calls me Henry.”

      “Ah, the soft underbelly. Our guardian is ticklish, Hoolie.”

      “I know the feeling,” Hoolie said.

      “I can handle a dogfight, but that name is a deal breaker.”

      “Duly noted.” Sally slid a glance at Hoolie, who chuckled.

      “Okay, now aren’t you supposed to have some wild horses around here somewhere?”

      “That’s the rumor. But first, the tour.” She gave an after-you gesture. “Please follow the silk thread.”

      Hank raised his brow and responded in kind. He knew her game. She was like his patients on the rodeo circuit—too stubborn to say they were hurt, so you didn’t ask. You watched how they moved. If they’d let you.

      “No go?” She grabbed his arm and coaxed him by her side. “All right, then, when you’re ready to put your road-weary butt in a saddle, I’ll show you horses, Henry. Hank.”

      “You’re askin’ for it, woman.”

      “For what?” She met his loaded look with acoy smile. “Oh, no. I’m just hackin’ on you. Make no mistake, when it comes to serious matters, I don’t fool around.” She glanced away. “Well, I do, but I don’t ask. Do you?”

      What he didn’t do was answer foolish questions.

      By the time he’d seen the outbuildings—shop, machine shed, barn, loafing shed, grain bins, bunk house—the suggestion of food held considerable appeal. He was impressed with what he’d seen so far. It was a nice layout, but the cattle operation was a shadow of what it had been in its heyday, two generations ago. According to Hank’s tour guide, the Double D ran a small herd of cattle, partly to satisfy state requirements to claim agricultural status and partly for income. But the ranch’s main enterprise was the wild-horse sanctuary, and it was decidedly nonprofit. An unusual concept for a third-generation rancher, but Sally Drexler was an unusual rancher. Hank looked forward to seeing the horses.

      After his stomach stopped growling.

      He hit the front steps heavily to cover the noise as he headed for the door behind Sally, but the twinkle in her eyes let him know she wasn’t deaf. Embarrassing. He didn’t like to give anything away unintentionally. Not even the fact that he hadn’t taken time to eat anything before he left home.

      Beset by the aroma of juicy beef, his stomach spoke up again as he followed her in the house while Phoebe protested having the door shut in her face.

      “She can come in, as long as she’s okay around cats,” Sally said. “Sounds like she’s hungry. We usually don’t eat supper around here until pretty late, but we never keep the critters waiting.”

      “Something smells good.” He stood like a maypole while Sally circled around him. “Enough to eat.” He watched her let Phoebe in. “Right now.”

      She turned one of her bright-eyed smiles on him. “Right now?”

      “Be glad to help you get it on.”

      “Would you?”

      “On the table.”

      “I’ve always wanted to try that,” she told him over her shoulder as she led the way through foodless territory. “But let’s eat first.”

      Willing as he was, he didn’t have to help much. He was a straight shooter, and she was a woman who loved to tease. She’d had supper simmering in a Crock-Pot, ready to dish up anytime. She put him to slicing bread and filling water glasses while she washed salad greens. Hoolie came in the back door all slicked down and washed up precisely at five-fifteen.

       Pretty late, my ass.

      Pretty tasty. Pretty entertaining. Pretty woman. Maybe he could get used to a little teasing.

      “How