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I turn around to look at Xavier in surprise.
Right in time to see him twirling a lasso in the air.
“What are—?”
Which is when he lets it fly.
It lands over my head, right over my shoulders. He cinches it tight.
You heard me right.
The bastard just lassoed me like I’m a damn stock animal.
Eleven
“Lesson one,” Xavier says, calm as can be as he tugs me toward him by the rope around my upper arms. “Expect the unexpected when dealing with an animal that can weigh up to two thousand pounds and isn’t afraid to let you know it.”
He walks forward as he coils the rope and reels me in until we meet in the middle, his hand around the knot of the lasso that meets right in between my breasts. “Lesson two. Listen to everything I say today and not just because I’m Master. Every instruction I give you is for your safety. Do you understand?”
For just a second, he seems to drop the dominance act. When he searches my eyes, I feel like it’s a plea that’s made as if we’re on equal footing, not something else he’s trying to manipulate from me.
I nod. And then wait for him to remove the rope from around my body.
Silly me.
Xavier steps closer and while he does slide it down over my arms, he only cinches it tight again around my waist like a belt. He loops the lead rope in his hands and jerks it once to draw me forward.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I balk, stubbornly resisting his pull.
He looks back at me, eyes narrowing. In the bright morning sunshine, the scarring on his face is clear, but it’s not that I’m focusing on. I glare at him, then my eyes drop down to the rope tied firmly around my waist.
He walks the few feet back to where I’m standing and lifts the other end, positioning it right over my backside.
I look over my shoulder, mouth dropping open.
The bastard better not—
With a lift of his eyebrow, he uses the tail end of the rope to give me a solid smack on my ass. “Get moving.”
I yelp and jump forward several steps.
That’s all the start Xavier needs. He moves back in front of me and tugs on the rope again, pulling me forward. He’s not even dragging me. It’s just a steady pressure, taking for granted that I’ll follow.
Path of least resistance. Path of least resistance.
I grit my teeth and trail behind him as far as the three-feet length of rope will allow.
“Just got a delivery this morning,” Xavier offers as we get closer to the closest paddock where a huge brown horse—the only one in a big fenced-in circle that’s separated from all the others by a long gated-off run—trots this way and that. He lets out a loud, angry-sounding squeal as we get closer. Xavier comes close to the wooden fence posts of the paddock but stops several feet away.
“I’m surprised he didn’t wake you up. Samson was raising hell when they brought him in. He didn’t like being trailered one bit.” Xavier’s focus is fully engaged by the horse now, his features a mix of concentration and admiration. I follow his gaze and watch as the great beast stomps back and forth. His eyes seem wild. His ears flick back and forth and he lets out occasional high-pitched snorts, nostrils flaring.
I initially came up to stand beside Xavier, but I quickly take a small step back. Up to two thousand pounds, he said. No, that thing does not look safe.
“Where did you get him from?” Even I can hear the quiver in my voice. Xavier doesn’t expect me to like, ride that, does he?
“The BLM,” he pauses when he looks over and notices my befuddled expression, “the Bureau of Land Management. They do roundups of wild horses sometimes so the mustangs don’t overwhelm grazing resources and water. Then ranchers can adopt the horses so they don’t spend their whole lives stuck in some BLM holding facility somewhere.” His gaze goes back to the paddock. “Or be put down.”
My breath catches as my eyes go back to the huge, snorting animal. “That’s horrible.”
Xavier shrugs and continues calmly, “No worse than hundreds of foals starving to death when there’s not enough food to go ‘round in winter because the population gets too big.”
I jerk my head to look up at Xavier but he’s still just staring out at the paddock, gaze intent on the horse there. I can’t ever imagine understanding this man. He’s entirely incomprehensible.
He taps the top slat of the paddock. “We’ll be back, Samson,” he calls out.
He starts walking, at first leaving slack on the rope, then tugging once when I don’t move quickly enough for his liking. His back is still turned so I permit myself a good roll of the eyes. Then I jog to hurry up and follow at his heels like a good little pet. Ugh.
