Pleased that Jake pretended that he hadn’t said what he’d said the previous evening, Ben saddled the paint and readied himself for another day. Knife day. God, how he hated castrating. And he refused to eat Rocky Mountain oysters. The rest of it he liked—enjoyed even. Two months ago, he wouldn’t have imagined that a day in the saddle, roping and cajoling cattle, could be so satisfying. And if anyone had told him that he would fall madly in love with a six-foot, red-headed, bar-brawling cowhand, he’d have laughed out loud. But he had, and he wasn’t laughing. He sheathed his knife and mounted the paint, who shied and high-stepped for the required two minutes. By the time roundup ended, he’d be a pretty damned good horse, Ben figured. He’d grown attached to the ornery beast—one more reason he didn’t want to leave. But he should. Jake rode up, reins in her left hand and her right resting on the Colt strapped to her shapely hip. “You’re riding out today.”
