Page 19 of The Banker and the Blue Collar Man

“Okay,” I said, helping him stand. “Let’s do that.”

We found Buddy easily in the line of horses that had been tied by their reins along the box stalls and single stalls. Cameron had done his job well, because there were two ranch hands in addition to Colt working with the kids, keeping them calm and focused on the task of taking care of the horses.

Buddy was closest to the open barn doors on the far side of the barn, half in sunshine, half in shadow. He whinnied at us as we approached. He was a little wide-eyed still, and that white lather on his neck was only just drying.

“Easy, boy,” I said, patting Buddy’s neck, showing Dalton how it was done. He hung back, but then the next horse over started dancing and pulling on its reins. I tugged on Dalton’s arm to move him near Buddy’s head, where he wouldn’t get stepped on.

“Just pet him,” I said. “Gentle. On his nose. Behind his ears. Stroke his neck. I’ll unsaddle him, and you watch. You can learn that way. And when I start to groom him, you can join in. Or not.”

It took balls to do something that scared you, and we’d thrown Dalton on the back of a giant beast that he was already afraid of. Those city-soft hands trembled as he reached out to touch Buddy’s nose. But he was doing it.

Dalton’s head was bent close to Buddy’s, and he was fully focused on his task. He touched Buddy’s neck, forehead wrinkling with dismay at the white lather. A good soft brush would take care of that in no time once it was fully dried.

In the meantime, as I loosened the two cinches, front and back, I madeshh-shh-shhnoises, both to Buddy and to Dalton. I handed the saddle off to Colt and grabbed two body brushes from the grooming bin. I gave one to Dalton and began to brush Buddy, front to back, front to back, in a slow, silent rhythm.

Dalton followed, sliding the brush over Buddy’s neck, then jumped back when Buddy slid his nose along Dalton’s arm, lipping at him, tugging on his sleeve.

“He wants sugar,” I said. “Horses get given sugar when they’re good. As a treat. That or a horse cookie. It’s like a dog biscuit, but for horses,” I added in response to his raised eyebrows.

“His nose is very soft,” Dalton said, fingers gently trailing over Buddy’s muzzle.

“That it is,” I agreed as I pretended to focus on taking the brush over Buddy’s hip and hindquarters.

I moved around his tail to his other side, kicking up a bit of hay with my boots. The sun was on my back, and a cool breeze drifted around my neck.

All of this—my normal routine, regular chores, focusing on the horse—did little to settle me. As I looked over Buddy’s withers and untangled a bit of his dark mane with my fingers, Dalton met my gaze with those blue eyes and his sunrise smile. A purple-and-green bruise was growing around the cut on his forehead. He’d hit pretty hard when he’d landed.

I’d need to look out for him. I’d do that for anyone, just anyone, who’d come to the ranch and found themselves overwhelmed. But this was more than that. He was so brave and so pretty, all at the same time, a combination damn near impossible for me to resist.

“I’m a banker, not a cowboy,” he said, watching me over the top of Buddy’s neck.

“I’m not a cowboy,” I objected. “Just a ranch hand. Just an average blue-collar man.”

I didn’t know why I’d said that. Maybe it was because he wanted to clarify where he stood, so I did the same. Who was I to him, anyway? Just someone who worked at a ranch he happened to come to.

We had no connection, he and I, not one of any consequence, anyway. The only thing we shared, could possibly share, was that moment and my acknowledgment of his bravery.

He wrinkled his forehead and squinted at me, as though the sunshine behind me was too bright to bear.

“Headache?” I asked. When he nodded, I said, “That’ll happen. If Tylenol doesn’t cut it, I’ll run you to urgent care. There’s one in town.”

His expression told me he didn’t want to look weak or be singled out. That he wanted to work with the rest of us, as if he needed to prove his worth.

He was a guest, though. He didn’t need to prove anything. But I did empathize. I knew what it was like to feel you had to keep marching in spite of wanting to quit.

“Maybe I will sit down,” he said.

“Fine by me,” I said. “Any man would after a fall like that.”

As I groomed Buddy, then Milkweed, then Pancho, I kept my eye on Dalton. He sat on the feed bin for a good ten minutes, watching the melee in the barn settle into something more civilized.

After a bit, he spoke to Lucas, who’d come by to help and supervise. Then, at Jesse’s direction, Dalton took a bucket and filled it with horse cookies. He went around to each horse and offered up a cookie on his flat palm.

He must have learned what to do from Jesse, and though he looked half-startled each time a horse lipped at his palm, he kept very still.

And though I couldn’t have admitted it to anyone, I dearly wished I’d been the one to teach him that.

Chapter 8