Chapter 2

Chapter Two

“ I don’t babysit.” Ames Paulson stared at Ryder Chiara, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He was a full-time wrangler, and he worked cattle and horses.

He didn’t give riding lessons to spoiled city chefs.

Ryder snorted. “If you want to move the cattle to the high reaches for the summer, you sure as hell do this week.”

“We can survive off peanut butter and coffee. We’ll be fine.”

Ryder rolled his eyes. “Maybe you can, but Ed and George have diabetes, and there are a couple guys that are keto.”

“Well, whose fault is that?” he snapped, then instantly felt like an ass. “Sorry, Boss. That was out of line. You took me by surprise with this.”

“Look, the truth is I trust you to get to get him up to speed by the time you go up. And you guys need a cook.”

“I can put him on a sled…” He might get shit on, but then Ames wouldn’t have to teach him to ride.

“Ames.”

He sighed. “Yeah, yeah. It was a thought.”

“A bad one. No travois. Just give him enough lessons to get him to camp and back.”

He shook his head and sighed. “All right. All right, Boss, but I got to tell you. He’s going to run crying. Two weeks in the boonies with dogs and bugs? The city boy is going to quit.”

“Mmm.” Ryder leaned against the door of the stall he was in, arms crossed, a little grin on his face. “Don’t be so sure. The city boy is here for a reason.”

He didn’t doubt that. The question was, what reason? He didn’t really care—not enough to go hunting for information, anyway.

“I’ll be professional.”

“That’s all I ask, cowboy. You can start this afternoon.”

“Sure. You sending him to me?”

“I am. Thanks. Who knows, you might like it.”

“Huh.” He’d seen the guy. He doubted he had much fun doing anything but maybe getting ink. Not that he was against tattoos. He had a few himself. But damn.

This guy was like a freaking gang member or something, if the gang was filled with pasty white boys with a mass of dark red hair.

He was kinda hot, truth be told, but Ames wasn’t going to admit that to anyone. Nope. He was going to hold out for the guy being a jerk.

He’d seen more than his fair share of city boys who thought they were special, that their shit didn’t stink.

He didn’t need it now.

“Make sure he has boots,” he called after Ryder.

“I have boots.” The man’s voice was flat, and that lip was curled. “I’m not any happier than you are. I’m doing the Chiaras a favor.”

Shit. He whirled around. “Let me see your boots. You could get hurt wearing the wrong kind.”

The boots were simple, lace up, with a low shaft, and they weren’t new. And they had enough heel to be safe in a stirrup.

Grudgingly, he nodded. “Well, come meet Lobo.”

The son of a bitch didn’t answer; he simply followed without a word, eyes the color of whiskey. Wary, too. And hell, Ames couldn’t blame him. He’d been talking shit in earshot.

He fucking hated that.

He hated being caught out.

And now he was going to have to wait for the little prick to bring it up. Dammit.

“This is the gelding you’ll be on. Lobo. He’s twelve. Sure-footed. Smart. But gentle. Not mischievous.” Not like his mare.

“Sounds good.” That was the most insipid answer ever.

Ames gritted his teeth. “You might as well come meet him while he’s still in his stall. Get to know him a bit. Talk to him.” And he wanted to observe. Was the guy scared?

“What do you say to a horse?”

“You ever had a dog, man? A cat? You just talk to him. He’s got ears, don’t you, boy?”

Lobo’s ears swiveled, the big gelding nodding in his stall like he was laughing.

“Um. Hey.” The guy sidled closer, and Lobo put his head over the stall door, nose working as he hunted a treat.

“Here. Hold your hand open, fingers flat. I’ll put a carrot on your palm. He’ll like that.” A little demon made him add. “If you curl them up, he could bite them off. I assume you need them in your line of work.”

He got an ice-cold stare. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about the fact that I know where the tenderloin is located on a human and how to remove it while you’re still alive.”

Oh, touché. He didn’t grin, though. He went with nodding sagely. “Secret is in the sauce. Go ahead. He’s really in it for the carrots, not the fingers.” Lobo loved carrots and apples more than oats, even. He had a sweet tooth, that gelding.

“I understand. I make an amazing carrot adobo. My carrot soup is worth Michelin stars.” The cook wasn’t talking to Ames. He was talking to Lobo.

Which was okay. Ames talked to horses better than he did people too.

Lobo lipped up the carrot, which made the guy laugh. “That tickled.”

“It’s all those nose hairs. Tells him where his head will fit, lets him sense things.”

“Huh. Well, you have a huge head, man. Huge.”

Lobo nodded again, then leaned farther out to head-bump the chef.

“What does that mean?”

“That he wants more carrots. I’m Ames by the way.” He supposed he ought to know the guy by more than the chef.

“Nathan Greene. Most people call me Greene.”

“Well, Greene. Lobo is ready for some exercise if you are. We’re on a timeline.”

“Yeah, Kase and Ryder both said.”

“Add me to the list. We need to get the cows up before we have to worry about the southern pastures causing bloat and other problems due to the sun and temperature change.”

“I won’t pretend to understand what you said, but I do comprehend bloat.”

“I guess, huh?” He chuckled. “It’s about mold. Weeds. All sorts of things can kill cattle. Let me bring him out.”

Greene backed off, and he opened the stall, then clipped a lead to Lobo’s halter. The gelding knew this game, and he loved it. He was a working horse, through and through.

“He’s big.”

Ames almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost.

No one had made him take a job on a ranch. If he was scared of critters, he didn’t belong here.

“You’re a pretty tall guy. Trust me, you don’t want a short horse. That’s one reason I chose him for you. Now grab that blanket right behind you. It’s already folded correctly, so you’re going to put it over his back with the pattern going along his spine.”

“Pattern going along his spine. Okay. Hey, there. I’m supposed to talk to you, so this is me. Talking. To you.”

He watched Greene carefully, then showed him how to pull the blanket up. “Okay, smooth it all out. Wrinkles can cause him to chafe, so you want to make sure he’s all good before we put on the saddle.”

“Chafing? Ouch.”

“Yeah, you’ve heard of a lathered horse?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, horses sweat. And a blanket wrinkle can bunch up like our underwear or socks.”

“That sounds unpleasant.” Greene didn’t sound sarcastic, but he didn’t seem overjoyed either. “Well, I promise to try and keep you latherless.”

That was pretty nice to hear. They didn’t push the horses too hard on the Chiara outfit, so unless something weird happened, they would rest every few hours on the trail, but he liked Greene more for saying it.

“Let’s deal with the saddle.”

Greene blinked at the tack. “That thing is huge.”

“Well, it has to fit him. And you.” He grinned. “Here, I’ll show you the trick.” He grabbed the saddle, then swung it up from the side as if he was about to toss a feed sack. It settled on Lobo’s back, light as a feather. “It’s all about momentum.”

“It doesn’t hurt him? Landing on him like that?”

“Nope. And trust me, they’ll let you know if you hurt them. They’re not shy that way.” He rocked the saddle into a good spot, then lifted the stirrup so he could start cinching.

Greene watched him, standing there without a word. It was a little unnerving. Not that he was much for chatter, but damn. Not a comfy silence.

“You’ll need to learn to do this, but the best way is on the trail.”

“Oui. I’ll figure it out. I’m determined.”

“Yeah.” He could kinda see that in the set of jaw and shoulders. “Okay, all cinched. Now, come hold out your arm to measure the stirrup.”

“Okay?” Nathan went to him, expression one of utter concern.

He bit back another grin. “It’s the easiest way. I’ll adjust them when you mount up, but your arm is a good indication. So let him know you’re coming with a hand on his neck…”