Knifepoint by Alex Van Tol Page A

They get away with murder, those two. Jerks. If I ever overslept and missed the start of my shift, I’d sure as hell hear about it. But they’re the queen bees, so I keep my head down and my mouth shut.
    Whiskey snorts in recognition when she sees me. I give her a quick brush, pitch a blanket and saddle onto her back and sling a bridle over her soft face.
    Where’s Kim? I’d almost be glad to see her grumpy butt marching around the corral this morning, swearing at random horses and kicking any that looked at her the wrong way. She’s a total cow. But I gotta say, she gets stuff done around the barn. If she was here, she’d have dragged Carrie and Laura out of bed by their long sexy hair. She’s the only one who’d dare.
    Now I remember. It’s Kim’s day off.
    Damn. No Kim, no Carrie, no Laura.
    No one else on the schedule. I’ll have to round up the horses on my own.
    All sixty of them.
    I swallow my butterflies and swing up onto Whiskey’s back. I turn her head toward the night pasture.
    I have no idea whether I’ll be able to gather up five dozen horses and herd them in one tidy bunch toward the barn. I’m not a born-and-raised cowhand by any stretch. As far as I know, nobody has ever rounded up on their own. Lucky me. But what else can I do? I can’t wait until one of the beautiful drunkards staggers in for her shift.
    That could be hours. By then there’ll be guests lined up along the corral fences, waiting for their trail rides.
    I’ve got to do it.
    When we get there, Whiskey and I run a quick perimeter check around the night pasture. I crack the whip and get them all moving toward the gate.
    I wait until every horse is crammed up against the fence, noses, necks and bums all crowded together in a warm shifting mass. Whiskey and I wedge our way along the fence to the gate.
    I hold my breath and flip the latch off the gatepost. The gate groans open, powered by a dozen hungry horses.
    I crack the whip. “Hyaaaaagh! Let’s go, boys!
    â€
    Startled, the horses bolt straight out of the gate and pound along the road leading to the barn.
    Right on. Go, Jill! I give Whiskey a kick and we lurch away, chasing the heels of the horses at the back.
    â€œHyaaagh!” Over and over I shout and crack the whip. The horses thunder along the road, kicking up dust in the morning sunlight. They hammer into the main corral and spread out along the fences, content to be hemmed in again.
    I close the corral gate behind them and slide to the ground, surprised that my shaking knees hold me up.
    â€œNice work,” says an appreciative voice. I spin around. A guy I don’t recognize is leaning against the fence.
    He’s maybe in his mid-twenties. Dark hair. Red shirt. He flashes a grin at me.
    Oh. And he’s gorgeous. Was he watching that whole time? I feel myself flush.
    Stupid.
    â€œThanks.” I can’t think of anything else to say, so I tie Whiskey to a fencepost and loosen her saddle. I jerk a halter off a peg and walk out into the corral. I slide it over Ace’s head and lead him into the barn. I grab another halter.
    â€œI’m Darren Parker. From Bar G,” he says. His voice is friendly. I know that ranch. It’s just up the valley, about twenty minutes away. “You guys do adventure rides?”
    I swallow. An adventure ride? Yeah, we do them. But I sure hope that’s not what he’s after. A trail ride is one thing.
    The horses just line up and follow each other’s butts through the forest for a couple of hours. But adventure rides?
    Crashing through rivers, pelting down hills and racing through meadows?
    I hate taking out adventure rides.
    Don’t get me wrong. I love running my horse fast and taking crazy chances. But I don’t like being responsible for other people during a fast, risky ride. I don’t have the same kind of horse background that the other wranglers have.
    Nope, adventure rides