Page 18 of Riding the Storm
When he passes behind me, I catch the faint scent of leather, sweat, and his spicy cologne—the kind of smell that makes you think of long days in the saddle and racy nights at home. It’s maddening how effortlessly masculine he is.
Matty leans toward me and murmurs, “Be nice.”
I shoot her a glare. “Define nice.”
She grins. “Not starting a fight on day one.”
I sigh, resting my chin in my hand. “We’ll see.”
Daddy claims Bryce before us girls have finished clearing the table. He helps him carry feed buckets into the barn, and I watch them from the window.
Broad back, easy stride.
Grandma joins me by the sink, rinsing dishes. “He’s a proud one,” she says.
“Yep.”
She glances at me. “And you’re a stubborn one.”
I laugh under my breath. “Guilty as charged.”
“Then maybe you’ll understand him better than you think.”
I observe him in the distance, sunlight catching on his belt buckle, his easy laugh carrying faintly back through the open window.
Maybe.
But understanding him doesn’t mean liking him.
And if Bryce Raintree thinks he’s gonna stroll into my arena and charm his way through this training, he’s got another thing coming.
Because I might not have eight-second rides under my belt, but I know how to handle something wild. How to tame the unruly.
And I’m not about to let this cocky cowboy throw me off.
The air in the round pen smells like horse shit, and it’s hot as hell. The black quarter horse at the end of the lead rope flicks his tail at the flies and tosses his head, nostrils flaring like he’s as irritated as I am.
I’ve been walking him in circles for the past twenty minutes—forward, stop, back up, yield the hindquarters, yield the forequarters. Charli’s been shouting instructions at me like some kind of equine kindergarten teacher.
“Keep his eye on you,” she calls out from where she’s leaning against the rail. Her arms are draped over the top rung, one boot heel hooked up, hat shading her eyes.
She looks like a cowboy’s wet dream. Meanwhile, I feel like a sweaty idiot, leading a thousand-pound animal around like a puppy on a damn leash.
“I got his eye,” I say flatly, tugging the lead when the horse starts drifting away from me.
He jerks his head and lets out an agitated huff, and I swear he’s mocking me.
“Then use your body to move him,” she shouts. “Not your hands.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, because he can totally read my mind.”
Charli just smirks and nods toward the horse. “He may not be able to read your mind, but he can read your body. Horses pick up on pressure, energy, and intent. Try stepping into his space instead of yanking on him.”
I sigh and try it her way, stepping toward the horse’s left shoulder. The stallion shifts his weight, then moves back obediently.
I glance up at her. “Happy now?”
“Not bad,” she says, still watching me like a hawk. “He’s starting to respect you.”
