Page 14 of Death Valley

It takes three tries, but I finally get the metal bit through Duke’s mouth, careful to place it over the tongue and not knock it over his teeth, and then the rest of the bridle on correctly. Jensen watches with an unreadable expression, arms crossed over his chest. By now he’s taken off his jacket, and the flannel shirt he’s wearing pulls tight across his shoulders, and I force myself to focus on the task at hand.

“Saddle next,” he says, lifting the heavy western saddle from the ground, with the small blanket underneath. “Pay attention. This is what keeps you on the horse.”

I do pay attention, but it’s hard when he keeps having to adjust my hands, showing me how to position the saddle pad across Duke’s back, where to secure the girth. Each touch feels deliberate, lingering longer than strictly necessary. When I lean down to cinch it, I feel his eyes burning into me.

“Good,” he says finally, and something in his tone makes me look up. He’s watching me with that intense gaze again, like he’s trying to figure something out. “You’re a quick study.”

“I told you I was.”

“You just need to put moreoompfinto it,” he says as he comes over and pulls up the girth yet again and cinching it. “The thing to remember is you always have to do it twice. Ornery old dogs like Duke here will push their ribs out on purpose the first time you try to get the saddle on. That way when you attempt to mount up, the saddle will slide right off. You fall, the horse laughs.” A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “Anyway, we’ll see how quick of a learner you are when you’re in the saddle.”

Right. The actual riding part. My stomach does a little flip that has nothing to do with Jensen’s proximity.

“Remember,” he says, leading Duke out of the stall as I step aside. “Horses can sense fear.”

Not helping, I think.

The morning sun breaks over the treetops as Jensen leads Duke to the round pen. My heart pounds harder with each step, memories of that childhood fall flooding back. Out here, Duke’s hooves seem massive, his back impossibly high.

Jensen brings Duke to a stop in the middle of the ring and beckons me over with a shrug of his shoulder.

“Left foot in the stirrup, always,” Jensen says, holding the stirrup out for me. “Grab the horn and pommel, then swing upand over. Try not to land hard on his back, though I doubt you can make much of an impact.”

You’d be surprised, I think, though the last thing I want to appear as is a woman concerned about her weight. I may have gained some in the last few months but I’m still packed with muscle.

I must hesitate too long because Jensen shifts. “Need a leg up?”

“No.” I grit my teeth and grab the saddle horn. My first attempt is awkward as hell—I get halfway up before losing momentum. Duke shifts underneath me and I freeze.

“I’ve got you.” Jensen’s hands settle on my waist, steadying me. “Push up with your right leg, like a squat. I’ll help. Then transfer the weight to the left ball of your foot.”

Heat spreads from where his fingers press into my sides. This time when I push up, he lifts, making it feel effortless. Suddenly I’m in the saddle, heart racing, thighs already aching from the stretch. Duke stands patient beneath me, but I can feel the raw power in him, the way his muscles shift with each breath.

“Get your other foot in the stirrup now, heels down,” Jensen says. His hand moves to my lower back, pressing gently. “Relax your hips. You’re too stiff. Move with him.”

“Move with him? I don’t want him to move.” I try to loosen up, but it’s impossible with Jensen touching me, with the ground so far away. “Are you sure horses can smell fear?”

“They can.” His hand leaves my back. “But Duke here’s too old to care. Now, hold the reins, thumb on top, one hand. Heels down, back straight. Tilt that pelvis forward.”

I swear there’s innuendo with that last command.

He starts walking and Duke shifts his weight and starts to plod forward. I grab the horn hard, wishing I didn’t feel both scared and awkward. When I was at Quantico, I was fast on my feet, top of my game when it came to running, jumping, climbing—anything athletic. But on top of a horse, I feel like I’ve lost all grace and strength, hanging on like a damn child on a pony ride.

“You’re doing fine,” Jensen says. “Relax your back but don’t let it snake. That’s it. Let your hips move with his.”

He keeps walking and Duke continues plodding around the pen. By the third circuit, I’m starting to find the rhythm of the horse’s walk, my body settling into the motion.

“Better,” Jensen says. He’s got that focused look again, like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “But the mountains aren’t going to be this smooth. Let’s try a trot.”

Before I can protest, he clicks his tongue and Duke picks up speed. The gentle walk becomes a bone-jarring bounce that has me clutching the saddle horn harder, the impact of the stride shooting up through my tailbone. It hurts, and more than that, my lungs seize up with the fear that Duke is suddenly going to spook at something and I’m going to go flying off. My body is too old now to take such a fall.

“Don’t fight it,” Jensen calls. “Sit back into it. Absorb it.”

I try, but everything feels wrong. I’m bouncing all over the place like a sack of potatoes, my knuckles white on the reins. Just when the horror takes over and I think I’m going to fall, Jensen is jogging at Duke’s side and reaching up, his hand at my back, steadying me.

“Like this,” he says before stepping away, and suddenly I feel the rhythm he’s trying to show me. “There. Now you’ve got it.”

The sun climbs higher as we work, and sweat trickles down my spine despite the morning chill. But slowly, painfully, I start to get the hang of it. By the time Jensen calls for a break, my legs are shaking but I’m still in the saddle.

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