Free Soul Deep by Pamela Clare

tears away
with the pads of his thumbs, his gaze dropping to her mouth. Her
lips tempted him. Hell, yes, they did.
    But he’d made a promise, and he’d keep that
promise until hell froze over and he’d walked five miles on the
ice.
    Still holding fast to Buckwheat’s reins, he
turned and helped her down the stairs. “I just want to point out
that you got down without your cane.”
    She looked up at him, surprise in those green
eyes. “I completely forgot about it. Well, I had your help.”
    Jack walked over and retrieved it from the
sand. “Here you go.”
    “Thank you.” She took it from him, smiled.
“By the way, I’ve decided to stay the week—if that’s still
okay.”
    “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”
    It only bothered him a little to think she
was most likely staying for the horses and not because of him.
    # # #
    Janet followed Jack back to the stables, her
pulse still pounding from the thrill of their ride, her heart
lighter than it had been in months. She’d actually sat in the
saddle and ridden again—thanks to Jack. She wasn’t certain she’d
have done it if he hadn’t been there to push and help her.
    He’d called himself an “old codger”
yesterday, but that’s not what she saw when she looked at him. She
saw a man who was gentle with both animals and people. She saw a
man who loved the land, did strenuous work in the outdoors, and
lived according to his own creed. The fact that he was incredibly
good looking, physically fit, and kissed like a god only made him
more amazing.
    Riding together, his arm around her waist,
the hard wall of his chest behind her, had left her feeling more
aware of herself as a woman than she’d felt in a very long time.
When they’d stood together on the mounting block moments ago, she’d
seen his gaze drop to her mouth and had found herself fighting the
urge to kiss him. It would have been so easy, and she would have
loved every moment of it. But she didn’t want to start something
she couldn’t finish. It wouldn’t be fair to him.
    Jack was telling her about the stables—when
they’d been built and rebuilt, something about a fire—but his words
barely registered, her attention fixed on the way he walked, the
innate grace of his stride, his skill with the horse and, yes,
okay, his ass. She could hardly blame herself. He did look
fantastic in a pair of well-worn jeans.
    She watched as Jack clipped cross ties to the
bridle, removed first the saddle and then the saddle blanket,
hanging them from hooks on the wall. She found a curry comb and
began to rub the gelding down, starting at his neck. “Was Buckwheat
born here, too?”
    “Yeah, he was. Chipeta is his dam. He was
sired by a stallion from another ranch. He had some conformation
flaws, particularly around his head, so we gelded him just after he
was weaned. He’s a damned good cattle horse and has a great
disposition.”
    Janet glanced up, her gaze drawn again to
Jack, who had grabbed another comb and was working on Buckwheat’s
other side. “What qualities do you look for when you decide which
colts get to keep their balls?”
    Jack met her gaze over Buckwheat’s back, one
dark eyebrow arching, a grin tugging at his lips. “A good mind and
disposition—those are the most important. After that, I look for
correct conformation—straight legs, good hips and shoulders, a nice
head and neck. A colt that doesn’t meet all of those criteria gets
gelded. There are other things that can tip the scale—gait,
athletic ability. What I’m looking for is a perfect representation
of the breed.”
    “How often do you find that?”
    “I’d say one out of fifteen to twenty foals
makes the cut.”
    She winced at his choice of words. “Or
escapes it.”
    Jack grinned. “We do use anesthesia, you
know. It’s not like I chase them around the corral with a machete.
Besides, geldings live much more contented lives than
stallions.”
    “How do you figure? Chinook has more sex than
most people,