Free The Cowboy and the Princess by Lori Wilde Page B

beat the living shit out of him just because he was feeling ornery. It was a cool, deep, unruffled place. Every muscle in his body relaxed, while at the same time he straightened his shoulder, raised his chin, and moved slow, easy, and unflinchingly toward the mare.
    “Careful boy,” Mr. Daniels said, but Dutch put a hand on the rancher’s arm and drew him to the far side of the barn. The vet followed.
    “There now,” Brady murmured, comforting her the way he’d comforted himself those dark lonely nights cowering in bed with bullwhip welts striped across his back. “There now. You’re safe. You’re above the pain. It’s okay. It’s all right.”
    Immediately, the mare stopped thrashing. Her frightened eyes met his.
    “Yes,” he cooed, “yes, yes. You’re a good, good girl.”
    She half lowered her eyelashes. She was still breathing heavily, her flanks heaving in and out. The coppery smell of her blood scented the air.
    “That’s right. You’re safe. Relax. Let go.” A tranquil energy flowed through him, languid and vibrant.
    The mare moved restlessly, snorting in air, but she didn’t bolt or rear up. Acting purely on instinct, Brady kept speaking to her, low and controlled. When he got close enough, he touched her neck, firm yet gentle. He put two fingers on her pulse point. She quieted instantly and her breathing slowed.
    “Well, I’ll be damned,” Dutch whispered. “Will ya look at that?”
    A flush of pride beat through him. He’d never had a father figure who complimented him and he was ravenous for praise. He ran a hand down the mare’s back. She quivered, but then her muscles uncoiled as she soothed. After several minutes of touching, she allowed Brady to slip the halter on. He held her, cajoling and comforting as the vet came over and worked to sew up her wounds.
    “You got the touch, boy,” Dutch told him after it was over. “A natural talent.”
    Brady guessed that learning how to deal with the abuse his father had dished out to him, but spared his four brothers, had been worth something. His ability to find peace in the midst of pain had given him his career.
    And now he was back where he’d begun, except this time with some unexpected baggage.
    The passenger side door opened and Annie got out of the truck.
    “Are we here?” she asked, blinking at him with those smart gray-blue eyes in the dusty light of the quarter moon. The wind billowed through her unzipped sweatshirt, ruffled her hair. She stood straight, graceful.
    God, she had a way of looking sophisticated and genteel when anyone else under the circumstances would appear rumpled and wrung out. What made her so different? How did she manage to look so much like a high mountain buttercup, pristine and beautiful? Fascination moved through him. Tightened up in his chest.
    “We are,” he confirmed.
    She sank her hands on her hips, assessing their surroundings. “So this is Jubilee.”
    “Actually we’re ten miles south of Jubilee. This is Green Ridge Ranch where I’ll be working.”
    “Oh, okay.” Annie set Lady Astor on the ground. The tiny dog started sniffing around.
    Trampas spied the Yorkie and, goofy doofus that he was, raced over to start the universal canine ritual of heinie sniffing. Lady Astor, however, had other plans. She spun her fanny away from him, tossed her fierce little head, and let out a sharp bark. Back off, buster.
    “Lady Astor,” Annie scolded. “Be nice.”
    The Yorkie growled at Trampas.
    Brady’s mutt lay down and then rolled over on his belly, paws pulled up close to his body in complete surrender.
    “Seriously, Trampas? You’re giving up alpha dog status to a hiccup with hair?” he asked.
    “Excuse me,” Annie protested. “That is my dog you are denigrating.”
    “Sorry,” Brady mumbled. “But you gotta admit she barely qualifies as a dog.”
    Annie sank her hands on her hips, angled him a haughty stare. “She has got your dog on his back.”
    “She does at that. Trampas, have some