Page 31 of Rolling Thunder

“What are you doing?” Evan called.

She remained focused. “I send the horse away. Make him work. As many times as he says he doesn’t want to cooperate, I send him away. And when he says he’s tired of that and maybe we should talk, then I’ll let him have a break. When he says he wants to be my partner, I’ll let him come and be my partner.”

“How the hell do you have a conversation with a horse?”

“See how his inside ear is locked on me now?” Sure enough, it was. “He’ll drop his head in a minute. He’ll drop his head and start opening his mouth. Those are signs that he wants to come and be with me. He’ll let me know when he’s ready to stop running.”

This all sounded like a bunch of witchcraft to Evan. In a moment, though, the horse did everything she said it would do. And a few moments after that, she relaxed her posture and turned slightly away from the horse. It walked straight to her, hesitantly at first, but then it reached her. She turned and walked toward Evan at the fence, and the horse followed a step behind her like a well-trained dog, even though she had no halter or rope on it.

“Now he wants to work with me. Now we’re partners.”

She turned and headed for the gate to the round pen, and again, the horse followed docilely behind her. Evan watched her halter it and open the gate, leading what had recently been a semiwild animal as if it were now a pet.

KAYLA

She hooked her arms on the gate and raised her eyebrows at him questioningly.

“Bill let me in.”

Oh, he did, did he?

“I saw the work he’s doing on the barn,” Evan continued. “If he was the guy who fucked up your breaker box, he’s a heck of a lot better with a toolbox when he’s sober.”

She nodded. Now that Evan had mentioned it, she had not smelled the waft of weed from his campsite or seen him with any booze. Had he actually gotten sober?

But why was Evan here? This was probably the send-off. At least he was man enough to do it in person.

He was always something to behold, but this afternoon, he sported a black bandanna pulled down to the top edge of mirrored sunglasses, a black wifebeater showcasing well-muscled and intricately tattooed arms. He jangled slightly between his boots and his wallet chain, and it was just the icing on the dark cowboy cake. His expression was unreadable behind the sunglasses, and he made no gesture toward her. She waited, arms crossed. Let him say his thing and be done.

“Look, about the other day, if it seemed like I was trying to pressure you—” he said.

“You didn’t. And it’s done, no problem,” she interrupted. If he was just here to ease his conscience, she could help him out with that and send him along.

He nodded a little.

Fuck. Maybe he’s being decent. Put your hackles down.

“You trying to get rid of me?”

“No,” she blurted, faster than she’d meant. But she was, wasn’t she? Apparently, her subconscious had jumped up and volunteered to answer before her better judgment could intervene.

A little self-satisfied grin quirked the corner of his mouth.

She kicked the toe of his boot. “You don’t have to look so fuckin’ smug about it,” she muttered.

A deep chuckle rolled in his chest. It was all the invitation he seemed to need. He stepped in, grabbed her by the belt, and kissed her. For a second, it was too soon after Trent had just been the man at her gate, and she froze. He felt it, evidently, and eased off kissing her. He flipped up his shades and looked searchingly into her eyes.

“I can’t figure you out. I’m not like those horses, Kayla. You throw a rope at me and tell me to beat it, and I will. You’re sending me some crazy mixed signals here.”

“Well, I am like the horses. Sometimes I have to run around crazy for a while before I can figure out who I can trust,” she said softly, alarmed by her own admission.

“But luckily, we’re people, and we have words,” he said suggestively.

“I’m not looking for anything serious,” she said quickly, trying to cover her ass for having given him a true glimpse of her. Run him off before he had a chance to do it himself. That was her mother’s policy for living, and it worked famously well for her. Every day, Kayla told herself she wouldn’t see him again, but as soon as he was near her, it dissolved as surely as her willpower not to drink. The burning question, though, was if he was as bad for her as the liquor.

“Okay,” he replied. “I’m not really trying to ask you to marry me. I’m more trying to figure out if you want me to call you again.” He said it with that same little quirk in the corner of his mouth and twinkle in his eye that made her want to laugh or kick him or both.

“You can call me,” she said. “Can I call you?”

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