Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79185 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Knowing my father, he’d indulge her in lofty ideas, but it’s not exactly the right time.
Or maybe it is.
Pixie’s father looks downright rough some mornings, and though he still gets the job done, I worry about his general well-being. Nobody seems to want to touch the subject with a ten-foot pole, and Dad has warned me to stay out of it unless it becomes a problem with his performance. I don’t know if that’s the right way to go, but Dad has the final say. Wade too, since he deals with Randy on a daily basis, so I probably need to mind my own business. It’s hard, though, with Pixie involved. She’s had to grow up way too fast since her momma left, and she likely cleans up after her daddy as well.
Pixie snickers as she watches the stallion avoid anyone going near him. “He doesn’t want to be friends with any of ’em.”
“Sounds like someone I know,” I mutter.
I stiffen when Porter asks, “That him?” the excitement in his voice coming through loud and clear. I hadn’t realized he was this close. They must’ve just gotten in after fixing the fencing.
“Sure is,” I tell him.
Porter positions himself between me and Pixie and watches as the horse circles the pen, wary of the grooms and the other horses. I almost feel sorry for the mustang, but the truth of it is that horses in the wild have shorter lifespans than those on a ranch since we care for them so well and stay on top of any medical issues. At least we try to.
Speaking of which… “I called Doc as a precaution about the injured bull, and asked about the bloat as well.”
He glances at me. “And?”
“Just like I thought. He said to keep an eye on them. But no harm in asking anyway. He also said if the bloat oil doesn’t work, he’ll make a trip down.” Doc Roy works several of the ranches in Laurel Springs and is kept quite busy.
“Sounds good,” he replies absently, his attention on the stallion.
We watch as the groom attempts to rope him again, but the mustang skirts by him.
“Wanna give it a go?”
I can hear his breath catch.
“You know I do. Why you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Trying to give me the opportunity?”
I can feel Pixie watching us, so I swallow down a snarky retort.
“As your new boss, I’ve seen your potential, Mr. Dixon.” He smirks in my side view. “You weren’t hired as a groom, but you know your way around horses better than most of us. If you want the opportunity, be my guest.”
He stares hard at me for a long second before nodding.
Pixie squeals with excitement as he heads toward the gate.
“Ready to watch Porter fall on his butt?” I say to her, knowing Porter can hear me.
He flips me the bird before entering the paddock and staying along the border, not wanting to spook the stallion.
He approaches the groom, who looks relieved for the extra help. I can think of one or two over the years who might’ve been resentful, but we all pull our weight around here. If a groom is interested in riding out with the hands and cattle, nobody blinks an eye. They’ve helped in a pinch before, and besides, it’s a good philosophy to have on a ranch.
The groom hands Porter the rope and moves aside.
I’m transfixed as I watch Porter deliberately move in a wide circle around the stallion, making sure to avoid getting close to his hindquarters. If you get kicked, it could end your life.
“You’re okay, boy,” he coos to the horse. “You and me, we understand each other.”
I feel a stitch in my chest. Truer words were never spoken.
The stallion stands motionless, listening to Porter, seeming just as transfixed by his calm, confident presence. The man has a completely different energy when it comes to the horses, and I’m not even sure he realizes it.
I can’t hear everything he’s saying to the skittish horse, but it’s obviously only meant for his ears. If I thought Porter was good with horses eleven years ago, he’s way better now. It’s purely instinctual for him, and it’s hard to look away.
“I’m not sure if you’ve been given a name, but I’m gonna call you Storm.” He takes a couple of soft steps toward the horse, who allows it. “Because you’re wild and unpredictable, but also breathtaking, and deep down, wounded. Aren’t you, boy? So wounded you want to lash out. Push everyone away. Rage like that storm inside you.”
I rub at that stitch in my chest because it’s throbbing now.
“I like that name,” Pixie whispers to me.
I swallow the boulder in my throat. “Me too.”
Porter begins swinging the rope behind him in a slow arc as he pads lightly in front of the horse, reminiscent of a matador and bull. It seems to go on forever, and when he finally lifts the lead, it’s so fast and smooth that the stallion is taken by surprise. Before he can retreat, Porter gets it around his neck. He bucks at first, running to and fro, trying to shake him, but Porter keeps up and follows his lead, turning up a dust storm as they go.