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“You feel you’re man enough?” Sam asked bluntly.
“Yes.” The boy’s voice sounded confident.
Sam grinned. “That’s what I thought.” Opening the bottom half of Sinbad’s stall door, Sam grasped the horse’s halter and led him out. “He’s about fifteen hands high,” Sam explained, running his palm down the gelding’s neck. “Which means you’ll be about four feet off the ground.” He glanced at the boy to gauge his interest. “I gotta tell you, the air’s just a little bit sweeter when you’re sitting tall in the saddle.”
Tom’s grin stretched all the way across his face.
“I always feel everything in life is much clearer when I’m on a horse. There’s a good feeling in my gut. When I’m riding, I’m happy and it’s the type of happiness I’ve never found anywhere else.”
Tom was mesmerized and, with such a willing audience, Sam could have talked all night. Riding was more than just a means of getting from one place to another. It involved a relationship with another creature. You depended on your horse; you and your horse had to trust and respect each other. This inner wisdom was as important as any technique Sam could share with the boy.
“If you ask me, spring’s about the best time of year for riding. Especially after a downpour, when the wind’s in your face and the scent of sweetgrass floats up to meet you. It’s even better when you’re riding a horse with heart.” Nothing was more exhilarating than a smooth steady gallop across acres of grassland. But it was the silence Sam loved best, a silence broken only by the rhythm of the horse’s hooves.
“Sinbad’s a working horse,” Sam went on to say, in case Tom believed that any one of these animals was bred for fun and games. Gramps and Sam shared the same opinion when it came to animals. They worked for their keep. The dogs, too. Gramps might have given them cutesy names, but every last one of them worked as long and hard as he did himself.
“What do you mean by ‘working horse’?”
The question was sincere and Sam answered it the same way. “He’s a cow pony. He’s been cutting cows, trailing cattle and rounding up steers all his life. A cowboy is only as good as his horse, and Sinbad’s a damn good horse.”
Tom tentatively raised his hand to the gelding’s neck. Sam could tell he didn’t want to show he was intimidated by the large animal. He didn’t blame the kid for feeling a bit scared. In an effort to put him at ease, distract him from his nervousness, Sam continued to speak.
“Sinbad’s a quarter horse, which is an American breed. All that means is they were used at one time to compete in quarter-mile races. Far as I’m concerned, a quarter horse is the perfect horse for ranch work.”
Tom’s interest sharpened and he moved closer. His stroking of the horse’s neck was more confident now, and it seemed he’d forgotten his fears. “Is that one a quarter horse?” the boy asked, looking at Gus, who’d stuck his head over the stall door.
“Gus is a Morgan,” Sam explained. “It’s an excellent breed, as well, especially for a ranch. They can outwalk or outrun every other kind of horse around. Did you know that the only survivor of the Battle of the Little Big Horn was a Morgan? Go ahead and touch him. He’s pretty gentle.”
“Hi, Gus,” Tom said. He smiled broadly and walked over to rub the Morgan’s velvety nose.
“When can I start learning to ride?” Tom’s voice was filled with eagerness. “How about right now? I’ve got time.”
“Hadn’t you better talk to your mother first?” Sam resisted the temptation to discreetly inquire about the boy’s father. He knew Molly was divorced, but little else.
At the mention of his mother, the excitement slowly drained from Tom’s dark brown eyes. “She won’t care.”
“You’d better ask her first.”
“Ask me what?” Molly said. She had just entered the barn. The open door spilled sunlight into the dim interior. Bathed as she was in the light, wreathed in the soft glow of early evening, Molly Cogan was breathtakingly beautiful.
No wonder Russell Letson had asked her out to dinner. It demanded every bit of concentration Sam could muster to drag his eyes away from her.
“Sam’s going to teach me to ride!” Tom burst out excitedly. “He’s been telling me all kinds of things about horses. Did you know—” He would’ve chattered on endlessly, Sam felt, if Molly hadn’t interrupted him.
“Teach you to ride a horse?” Molly asked.
“Duh! What did you think? It isn’t like I could hop on the back of a rooster!” The boy’s enthusiasm cut away his sarcasm. “Sam says we can start tonight. We can, can’t we?”
Molly’s gaze pinned Sam to the wall. “I’ll need to discuss it with Mr. Dakota first.”
Mr. Dakota. Sam nearly laughed out loud. The last time anyone had called him that, he’d been flat on his back in a hospital emergency room in pain so bad even morphine couldn’t kill it.
“Mom...” Tom sensed trouble and it showed in the nervous glance he sent Sam.
“I didn’t come outside to argue with you,” Molly said, her voice cool. “I need you to go back in the house. Upstairs.”
“Upstairs?” Tom cried indignantly. “You’re treating me like a little kid. It’s still daylight out! You aren’t sending me to bed, are you?”
“No. Your grandfather has some things he wants you to get for him, and they’re upstairs. He can’t make the climb any longer.”
“I’ll get them,” Sam offered. If Tom didn’t recognize an escape when he heard one, Sam did. With Tom out of earshot, Molly was sure to lay into him for what he’d done—agreeing to teach her son to ride.
“Tom can do it,” Molly said pointedly.
So he wasn’t going to be able to dodge that bullet. Taking Sinbad’s halter, Sam led the gelding back into his stall and closed the gate.
“I can come back, can’t I?” Tom asked his mother.
“If...if Sam agrees.”
Tom swiveled to look at Sam, his heart in his eyes. Sam couldn’t disappoint him. “Sure. We’ll start by learning about the tack, then once you’re familiar with that, I’ll show you how to saddle Sinbad and we’ll go from there.”
“You’re doing all of this tonight?” The question came from Molly.
“I’ll stick with the tack lesson for now,” he assured her.
Taking small steps backward, Tom was clearly reluctant to leave.
“It’ll be fine,” Sam said, hoping the boy understood his message.
Tom nodded once, gravely, then turned and raced out of the barn.
The moment they were alone, Molly let him have it.
“Tom is my son and I’m responsible for his safety,” she began. “I’d appreciate if you’d discuss this sort of thing with me first.”
Sam removed his hat. If he was going to apologize, might as well do a good job of it. “You’re right. This won’t happen again.”
His apology apparently disarmed her because she fell silent. Still, she lingered. Walking over to Sinbad’s stall, she stroked his neck, weaving her fingers through his long coarse mane. “Was there something I said earlier that offended you?” she said unexpectedly. Her voice was softer now, unsure. “Perhaps this afternoon while we were in town?”
“You think I was offended?” he asked, surprised.
She slowly turned and looked at him. Sam had never seen a woman with more striking blue eyes; it was all he could do to avert his gaze.
“Gramps was concerned when you didn’t join us for dinner.”
He wasn’t sure how to put his feelings into words. The simplest way, he decided, was to tell her the truth. “You’re family. I’m not.”
“It’s silly for you to cook for yourself when I’ve already made dinner.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I do,” she insisted, her voice flaring with anger. She tamed it quickly by inhaling and holding her breath. “Both Gramps and I would like you to join us for meals.” She paused. “It’d mean a lot to Gramps.”
“What about you? Would it mean anything to you?” Sam had no idea what had prompted the question. He was practically inviting her to stomp all over his ego!
“It just makes more sense,” she said. “But—” she took another breath “—whether you come or not is up to you.”
So that was it, Sam reasoned. She’d done her duty. No doubt Walt had asked her to issue the invitation.
“Will you?” she asked, then added, “I need to know how much to cook.”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Don’t do me any favors, all right?”
What Sam did next was born of pure instinct. It was what he’d been thinking of doing from the moment he first set eyes on her. What he’d wanted to do the instant he heard Russell Letson invite her to dinner.
Without judging the wisdom—or the reasons—he stepped forward, clasped her shoulders and lowered his mouth to hers.
Their lips met briefly, the contact so light Sam wasn’t sure they’d actually touched until he felt her stiffen. Taking advantage of her shock, he parted his lips and was about to wrap his arms around her when she pressed her hands against his chest and pushed him away.
“Don’t ever do that again!” She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “How dare you!”
Sam wondered the same thing.
“Gramps would fire you in a heartbeat if I told him about this.”
“Tell him,” Sam urged. He didn’t know why he’d done anything so stupid, and he wasn’t proud of himself for giving in to the impulse. But he’d be selling snow cones in hell before he’d let her know that.
“I should tell him—it’d serve you right!”
“Then by all means mention it.” What Sam should do was apologize—again—and let it go at that, but the same craziness that had induced him to kiss Molly goaded him now. He might have continued with his flippant responses if not for the pain and uncertainty he read in her eyes.
“I’d like your word of honor that it won’t happen again.”
Without meaning to, he laughed outright. Honor? Ex-cons weren’t exactly known for their honor.
“You find this humorous, Mr. Dakota?” Her eyes narrowed and her voice rose in a quavery crescendo.
If he hadn’t riled her earlier, he sure had now. Unintentionally. She whirled around and marched out of the barn. Sam sighed, leaned against the center post and rubbed one hand over his face, still wondering why he’d kissed her.
Then again, maybe he knew. He didn’t like the idea of her dating Letson. His dislike of lawyers was instinctive, following the less than fair treatment he’d received from his own defense attorney. Which, to be honest, wasn’t Letson’s fault. In any case, it was more than that.
Sam had seen the way Letson looked at Molly—like a little boy in a candy store, his mouth watering for lemon drops. Letson would take Molly to dinner and afterward he’d kiss her. And when he did, Sam wanted Molly’s thoughts to be clouded with the memory of his kiss. The memory of his touch.
Why, though? He reminded himself that he didn’t even like Molly all that much. So why was he competing with Letson?
Damned if he knew.
And which kiss would Molly prefer—his or Letson’s? Sam groaned at the thought.
If he were a betting man, he’d wager it wouldn’t be his.
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