muddy
enclosure she put aside the rolling pin, lured to the yard by the
absolute power of the demonstration. No one at the corral noticed
her—all eyes were turned toward him as he slowly approached a
nervous-looking bay. Libby thought that the big horse was the same
color as Tyler's hair.
“That filly's got a mad-on now, Mr. Hollins,”
Noah said from his spot on the rail. "You'd better blindfold her or
she'll bite a chunk out of your hide."
“She's not going to bite me—are you,
darlin',” he murmured as he got closer to the horse.
The filly reared and gave him a baleful look
that supported no such confidence.
“Whoa, now darlin',” Tyler said, and jumped
back a step. “She's smart as a whip, you can see it in her eyes.
She'll make one hell of a cow horse.”
Noah shook his head doubtfully. “Maybe, but
not yet. She still don't even like that saddle. You ought to give
her another day or so to get used to it before you climb on.”
Tyler didn't answer. Instead he reached out
and gripped the reins and the side of her bridle. Pulling her head
down to his, he spoke in a low, quiet voice. Libby watched from
farther down the fence, but she couldn't hear what he was saying.
His words, obviously spoken with compassion and tenderness, were
meant only for the bay. The mask of his sharp-edged expression fell
away, revealing the handsomeness beneath, and for an instant Libby
found herself envying that horse.
Only vaguely conscious of it, she put one
foot on the bottom fence rail and climbed up so that her head
cleared, the top. With her lower lip clamped between her teeth, she
waited to see what would happen next.
Rory scaled the fence and sat next to her,
all gangly arms and legs. “Howdy, Miss Libby.”
Libby shaded her eyes against the afternoon
sun. “Hello, Rory. Is Mr. Hollins really going to ride that horse?
She doesn't seem very inclined to let him. In fact, she looks as
though she'd like to trample him.” Libby knew the feeling.
“Tyler?” His young face wore a look of mild
amazement, as though she'd suggested that the sun might rise in the
west tomorrow. “I never seen Tyler get throwed. He sticks like a
burr. Anyways, he never asks us to do nothin' he won't do
himself.”
She imagined that Rory was right Tyler was a
hard, intensely self-sufficient man, obviously without sentiment or
any other kind of emotion, except perhaps anger. At least in his
dealings with most people, that was the case. Except when he'd
patched up her hand.
After his gentling conference with the bay,
Tyler, maintaining his grip on the bridle and reins, pushed his hat
down more securely. Then he put his foot in the stirrup and hoisted
himself to the horse's back.
She immediately made her feelings known about
this circumstance. Though the men cheered and whooped, it seemed to
Libby that the angry, twisting, snorting beast had no other desire
than to shake off the offending rider and stomp him to death.
Bucking and diving around the corral, they drew so close to the
fence where she stood that Libby expected Tyler to crash through
the rails.
“Tyler, look out!” she shrieked.
Hearing her, his head came up and his eyes
connected with hers, blue and piercing. His concentration broken,
in the next second when the horse dove again he was flung from the
saddle and landed shoulder-first in the mud. Libby heard his breath
whoosh from his lungs.
“Oh, my God!” She clung to the rails and
gaped in horror, her hand pressed to her mouth. He'd fallen so
hard, surely he must have broken something. Could he move? Was he
badly hurt? The bay trotted off to the far fence, looking
indignant.
Libby's heart started again when Tyler
regained his feet. Rory and a couple of the men leaped down to
help, but he shook them off. The left half of his shirt and pants
were caked with mud.
When he turned to face her, guilt bloomed in
Libby's chest. She scampered to the ground and peeked at him
between the rails.
He walked over to her through the
enclosure she put aside the rolling pin, lured to the yard by the
absolute power of the demonstration. No one at the corral noticed
her—all eyes were turned toward him as he slowly approached a
nervous-looking bay. Libby thought that the big horse was the same
color as Tyler's hair.
“That filly's got a mad-on now, Mr. Hollins,”
Noah said from his spot on the rail. "You'd better blindfold her or
she'll bite a chunk out of your hide."
“She's not going to bite me—are you,
darlin',” he murmured as he got closer to the horse.
The filly reared and gave him a baleful look
that supported no such confidence.
“Whoa, now darlin',” Tyler said, and jumped
back a step. “She's smart as a whip, you can see it in her eyes.
She'll make one hell of a cow horse.”
Noah shook his head doubtfully. “Maybe, but
not yet. She still don't even like that saddle. You ought to give
her another day or so to get used to it before you climb on.”
Tyler didn't answer. Instead he reached out
and gripped the reins and the side of her bridle. Pulling her head
down to his, he spoke in a low, quiet voice. Libby watched from
farther down the fence, but she couldn't hear what he was saying.
His words, obviously spoken with compassion and tenderness, were
meant only for the bay. The mask of his sharp-edged expression fell
away, revealing the handsomeness beneath, and for an instant Libby
found herself envying that horse.
Only vaguely conscious of it, she put one
foot on the bottom fence rail and climbed up so that her head
cleared, the top. With her lower lip clamped between her teeth, she
waited to see what would happen next.
Rory scaled the fence and sat next to her,
all gangly arms and legs. “Howdy, Miss Libby.”
Libby shaded her eyes against the afternoon
sun. “Hello, Rory. Is Mr. Hollins really going to ride that horse?
She doesn't seem very inclined to let him. In fact, she looks as
though she'd like to trample him.” Libby knew the feeling.
“Tyler?” His young face wore a look of mild
amazement, as though she'd suggested that the sun might rise in the
west tomorrow. “I never seen Tyler get throwed. He sticks like a
burr. Anyways, he never asks us to do nothin' he won't do
himself.”
She imagined that Rory was right Tyler was a
hard, intensely self-sufficient man, obviously without sentiment or
any other kind of emotion, except perhaps anger. At least in his
dealings with most people, that was the case. Except when he'd
patched up her hand.
After his gentling conference with the bay,
Tyler, maintaining his grip on the bridle and reins, pushed his hat
down more securely. Then he put his foot in the stirrup and hoisted
himself to the horse's back.
She immediately made her feelings known about
this circumstance. Though the men cheered and whooped, it seemed to
Libby that the angry, twisting, snorting beast had no other desire
than to shake off the offending rider and stomp him to death.
Bucking and diving around the corral, they drew so close to the
fence where she stood that Libby expected Tyler to crash through
the rails.
“Tyler, look out!” she shrieked.
Hearing her, his head came up and his eyes
connected with hers, blue and piercing. His concentration broken,
in the next second when the horse dove again he was flung from the
saddle and landed shoulder-first in the mud. Libby heard his breath
whoosh from his lungs.
“Oh, my God!” She clung to the rails and
gaped in horror, her hand pressed to her mouth. He'd fallen so
hard, surely he must have broken something. Could he move? Was he
badly hurt? The bay trotted off to the far fence, looking
indignant.
Libby's heart started again when Tyler
regained his feet. Rory and a couple of the men leaped down to
help, but he shook them off. The left half of his shirt and pants
were caked with mud.
When he turned to face her, guilt bloomed in
Libby's chest. She scampered to the ground and peeked at him
between the rails.
He walked over to her through the
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