Standing next to the hood of her car watching the interplay, Jordan Masterson stiffened. The animal’s hooves plunged down toward the man. Barely missing him. She gasped. Even from a distance the flare of the animal’s nostrils indicated agitation. She glanced at her ten-year-old son as he climbed from her yellow Camaro. Nicholas can’t ride. He could get hurt. The horse’s whinny drew her attention to the corral again. The huge black animal backed up, lifting its head as it stared wide-eyed at the cowboy. “Whoa, boy. Easy, Midnight.” The soothing cadence of the man’s deep, husky voice eased the mounting tension in Jordan as well as the horse. The animal slowed its backward steps. Its dilated pupils contracted. The man moved in closer, all the while saying, “Easy, boy. You’re okay,” until the horse stopped. The man raised his hand inch by slow inch. Finally his fingers grazed the horse’s neck. He reached out and grasped the rope. Something stirred deep in her memory. The cowboy’s back was to her, but Jordan noted the breadth of his shoulders, the narrow hips, the long legs, clad in dusty jeans and his worn brown boots.
