She forced her mind back on track. “I’m sorry you came all the way out here this morning, but I think there’s been a mistake. We’re not hiring right now.”
His smile faded. “Your mother seemed pretty sure you were.”
“She was wrong.”
“I see.” He turned to Alejandro. “Would now be a good time to tell her that her shirt is on inside out?”
Raney looked down and was shocked to see he was right. Idiot.
Alejandro’s black brows came down in a hard, straight line.
“How do you suppose she got it on?” Dalton continued, ignoring Raney as if she weren’t standing two feet away, listening to every word. “Seems she’d know it was inside out when she tried to button it. Unless it was still buttoned when she slipped it over her head. Maybe she was in such a hurry, she grabbed whatever was on hand so she could rush out here and send me packing before her mother found out.”
Finally, he turned to Raney. Not smiling now. Green eyes no longer crinkling at the corners. Angular jaw so tight a muscle bunched in his cheek. “Is that how it happened, Raney? You wanted me gone before your friends found out you had an ex-con working for you?”
“It’s not like that—”
“Cuidadoso, gringo,” Alejandro warned Dalton. “Ella es tu jefe.”
“Actually, Alejandro, she’s not my boss,” Cardwell said in a friendly tone, eyes still locked on Raney. “Unless she’s the owner of this outfit, of course. Are you the owner of Whitcomb Four Star?” he asked her in a calm, low voice.
“I run it,” she hedged, not wanting to get into all the details of the family trust.
“And doing a damn fine job of it, from what I can see. But it was the owner—your mother, I’m guessing—who hired me. She even had me sign a six-month contract to seal the deal. So, until she tells me otherwise, I’m staying. It would be rude to do otherwise, don’t you think?” That smile again.
It made Raney so mad she didn’t know who she wanted to kick first—this hulking asshat or her mother. Instead, she turned and stomped back to the house.
* * *
* * *
“What’s her problem?” Dalton watched her go, regret already eroding his anger. It was a stupid move, antagonizing a woman he’d have to work with. But he was tired of the sidewise looks and muttered comments and wasn’t about to take it from a woman who’d never ever bothered to speak to him before.
“Culero,” Alejandro muttered.
“I don’t think she’s an asshole,” Dalton argued. “Just too accustomed to getting her own way.”
“I was calling you the asshole, pendejo.”
“Basta ya, amigo. Enough of that, friend.” Dalton grinned and clapped him on the back. “What say we put a bale of hay and some cows in the middle of the arena and see what the colt can do.”
While Alejandro dragged the hay bale into the center of the arena, Dalton put Rosco through an extended warm-up. When he felt the colt was ready, he signaled Alejandro to let in the cows.
They immediately went for the hay and Rosco immediately went for the cows.
Dalton backed him off and sent the colt around several more times until he calmed down, then reined him toward a cow on the outside. Using more lower-leg pressure than rein, he had Rosco peel the cow off from the others and bring her a few yards away. Then to signal the end of the exercise, Dalton put his right hand on the colt’s neck and reined him off into another lap while the young heifer returned to the hay. He did that several times, peeling off cows from both directions, being careful to keep the training session short—maybe thirty minutes—because he wanted to end it with Rosco wanting more, rather than feeling overwhelmed.
Finally, Dalton dismounted, scratched Rosco behind his ears, massaged the crest of his neck, gave him a pat, and turned him over to Chuey, the Hispanic worker waiting to take the colt back to his stall. Then Dalton walked over to where Alejandro stood watching, his arms resting along the top of the fence.
“How’d I do?” he asked, knowing Alejandro had stayed to watch so he could report Dalton’s every move to his employer. Or employers. Despite what he’d said to Raney, Dalton still wasn’t sure whom he answered to. Or for how long.
“Better than most, gringo. But not as good as me.” Alejandro’s grudging smile told Dalton he had passed another test.
“I won’t argue that,” Dalton said. “He’s a fine colt. Smart. But easily bored. We should keep his training sessions short and varied.”
If Alejandro objected to his use of “we” he didn’t show it. Which Dalton took as a good sign. He didn’t want to have to fight both Alejandro and Raney. He just wanted to do his job and bring out the best in a promising young horse.
“Who was his other trainer?” Dalton asked as they walked over to where another colt was saddled and waiting for his workout.
“Amala,” Alejandro said. “Press Amala. He was once a big-time roper.”
“I remember the name. Heard he has a bad hip from his roping and rodeoing days. Never saw him ride, but everyone says he has a hell of a touch with horses.”
“He does.” Alejandro looked over at him. “As do you.”
Dalton was too pleased to respond.
They worked together through the morning, and Dalton’s respect for Alejandro grew when he saw how well the horses responded to his gentle handling. He was able to point out the weaknesses and strengths of each animal and showed Dalton different approaches to problem areas. By noon, Alejandro had taught him more in just a few hours than Dalton had learned in months with Roy Kilmer.
At the sound of the lunch gong, Alejandro led Dalton to the ranch building beside the hay barn. It was two stories and bigger than Dalton had first thought. The ground floor held the ranch offices and breeding facilities for the bulls in the paddocks out back. The second floor housed the unmarried ranch hands, except for Foreman Hicks, who had his own little house near the main gate. In the upstairs was a kitchen with a long table down the middle, a bathroom with two stalls and showers, and a large dormitory room across the back, divided into four cubicles, each with a small window, bed, and locker. Nothing fancy, but nice enough. Definitely better than a prison cell or a dirt hut in Iraq.
Other than Alejandro, who slept somewhere else, there were two other men living in the bunkhouse who worked the cattle and helped where needed. Chuey and Harvey, an old, bald white guy sporting a bushy white mustache and a nose sharp enough to split kindling. The two married workers lived with their families in a duplex past the ranch buildings that was surrounded by a white-fenced yard full of toys and kids. A close-knit group, very friendly and hard-working.