Second-Chance Cowboy. Carolyne Aarsen

knew it would happen sooner or later that she would have to work closely with Morgan, and she thought she was prepared for it.

      But when she stood across from him at the exam table, their faces covered with masks with only their eyes visible, she felt a momentary discomfort. She was close enough to see the fan of wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. Smell his aftershave. He smelled different, took up space in a different way. His shoulders were broader, his hair longer.

      Regret washed through her. What if she hadn’t listened to his mother all those years ago? What if she’d had enough confidence in her feelings for Morgan?

      But she hadn’t and she didn’t, and she couldn’t spend her life living with regret over might-have-beens.

      Then her training took over and she pushed her own emotions aside. He’s not for you. There’s too much between you, she told herself.

      Then together they started an IV to anesthetize the cat, then intubated him. As they fell into a routine, and she began prepping the sites, she looked at him as just another vet stitching up some cuts on a cat.

      * * *

      “Looks like we got done on time.” Cord dropped his hammer into the hook on his pouch as a dually pickup pulling a stock trailer roared onto the yard. “Here comes your horse.”

      It was Tuesday evening, and Morgan and his brother had just finished fixing up a makeshift corral to hold Gillian’s horse, Stormy, until Morgan could figure out what to do with it. Cord had offered to board it at the ranch, but Nathan had protested loudly. He wanted Stormy on the yard.

      So for now, he would keep it here and feed it hay. Not the best solution, but his bigger concern was for Nathan more than the horse.

      “I sure hope those old posts hold,” Cord said as they watched as Ernest, who drove the truck, turned and backed up to the gate.

      Morgan gave his brother a look. “You were the one who assured me they would be strong enough.”

      Cord punched him lightly on the arm with one gloved fist. “I’m just bugging you. Relax.”

      “Don’t know how to do that anymore,” Morgan muttered, looking over at his son, who stood by the fence fairly vibrating with excitement. It was the happiest Morgan had seen him since he got here.

      “How are you two getting along?” Cord questioned.

      Morgan thought of the boxes the boy still hadn’t unpacked. The phone calls with the teachers this afternoon. They had found Nathan in the bathroom, huddled in a stall, crying.

      Morgan had been in the middle of a C-section on a cow and couldn’t come to school, and Nathan wouldn’t talk to him on the phone. So Morgan had called his father, who lived in town. After Boyce picked him up, he called to tell him that everything was okay. He and Nathan were having cookies and milk, and another crisis had been averted.

      “Step by step” was all he could say, something that applied to his job, it seemed, as well as to his relationship with his son. “I don’t suppose you know anyone who could work as a nanny.”

      Cord just laughed. “I had my own struggles and then Ella came into our lives.” He grinned at him. “So that’s your solution. You need to find a wife.”

      “No, thanks. Already had one and you saw how well that worked out. Besides, Nathan is my priority and I’m having a hard enough time connecting with him.”

      Cord looked at the boy leaning against the fence, watching everything with interest. “Give it time. He’s been through a lot and he’s probably confused. Plus he’s still grieving for his mother.”

      Morgan nodded. But there was no more time for conversation. The trailer had backed up and the truck engine turned off.

      Ernest came around to the back of the trailer, hitching up his baggy pants, his eyes bright under unkempt eyebrows. “Well, she’s a feisty one,” he said with a grin. “Took two guys to get her haltered and loaded. Watch out for her hooves when you go inside.”

      “Maybe let me unload her,” Cord said, holding up his hand to stop Morgan.

      Morgan looked at Nathan, who was intently watching the proceedings.

      “No. I need to do this,” he said, yanking on the door’s latch, slipping it up and pulling open the sliding door. Nathan needed to see him leading the horse.

      As soon as he stepped inside, Stormy whinnied, her eyes wide, ears pinned back, her back foot striking hard at the wall of the trailer.

      “Easy, girl,” Morgan said, walking slowly toward her, pushing down his own trepidation. A horse like this could be unpredictable and therefore dangerous in such a small space.

      Stormy stepped back, trembling now, head up and ears still back as he came closer.

      He saw Cord peering in the side of the trailer and, in spite of his concern, he had to grin. Big brother watching out for him.

      “It’s okay, girl. I’m going to untie you and lead you out of this trailer.” He pitched his voice low. Quiet. Hoping it would settle the horse down.

      He carefully untied the rope. She jerked back, the rope slipped in his hands, and then, before he knew what was happening, she landed on her front feet and hit his shoulder as she shot past him out of the trailer and into the corral.

      “You okay?” he heard Cord call out.

      “Yeah. I’m fine.” His pride was hurt more than his shoulder.

      He stepped out in time to see Stormy charging around the corral, rope trailing behind her as Cord rushed to close the gate. Appropriate name, Morgan thought, rubbing his shoulder. Before anyone could stop him, Ernest jumped over the corral fence and snagged the halter rope. Stormy pulled away, Ernest pulled back, and then the horse was suddenly still.

      Nathan, unaware of what was going on, laughed, clapping his hands at the sight as he watched through the railing.

      “Looks like this horse will need some training,” Cord said.

      “Grandpa Boyce said that Miss Tabitha knows how to train horses,” Nathan put in. “He said my dad should ask her but she said she was busy and my dad said we would find someone else.”

      Morgan had to stifle a beat of frustration with his father. He knew about his previous relationship with Tabitha. Why did he keep pushing?

      Then Ernest joined them, leaning one elbow on the rail, tugging on his mustache. “She’s a good horse. Good feet. Good conformation. She’s jumpy, though.”

      “I want to ride her,” Nathan said, watching Stormy as she now stood, her sides heaving with exertion.

      “You won’t be riding her for a while,” Ernest warned, shaking his head. “That horse needs a firm but gentle hand and a lot of training.”

      “And you can’t do it?” Morgan asked. Ernest had trained a number of horses. Though he hadn’t for some time, Morgan thought it was worth asking.

      Ernest pulled in a breath, then gave Morgan a look tinged with regret. “No. That’s a young man’s game and I don’t have it in me anymore. Have you asked Tabitha? I helped train her. She’s a natural, though she hasn’t done much of it since she moved back here.”

      Again with Tabitha?

      “Not an option” was all Morgan would say.

      “Will I never be able to ride my mom’s horse?” Nathan said, his chin now trembling. He looked up at Morgan, who was disconcerted by the tears in the boy’s eyes.

      “We’ll figure something out, Nathan,” Morgan said, kneeling down and catching his son by his narrow shoulders. “Don’t worry. You’ll be able to ride her. Just not right away.”

      “So Miss Tabitha will train her?” Nathan asked, wiping his tears away with the back of one dusty hand.