His eyes held a touch of humor again. He unscrewed the lid and tipped his head back, draining some of the water into his mouth. Capping the canteen, he hung it from the horn again.
Mary Jo urged Sweet Sally to continue down the hill. Glancing back to make sure Monroe followed, she found him stiffly fighting every move the mule made.
“Try to let your body flow with the motion of the mule. He has a smooth gait and you won’t get jarred around as much.”
He frowned, glancing skeptically at Ol' Ned. “Mule? I thought this was a horse? Aren’t mules usually small? I mean, bigger than a burrow, but….”
She turned her back to him and rolled her eyes. “Yer thinkin' about a donkey. A burrow and a donkey are the same thing. A mule is a cross between a donkey and a horse. Don’t you know nothin’ about critters?”
What a dude he was – and yet, for a dandy, he sure was doing a fine job of riding – especially for someone with a banged up head and an artificial leg. He was game; that was for sure.
She glanced back at him to see if he was following her instructions. The sun formed a halo of copper highlights around the bald spot and reflected off the bare skin. Why hadn’t she thought to loan him a hat?
“Don’t you have a hat?”
His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “I did before I ran off the road.” He brushed the top of his head with one hand. He didn’t appear to be self-conscious about the hair loss. “Starting to burn. I can feel it.”
She gave him a mischievous smile. “I’m glad you’re not riding in front of me. I’d get blinded by the glare.”
His eyes came alive with humor. “Yeah? Well, riding behind you with your hair all gathered up that way, I’m never quite sure which tail belongs to you and which belongs to your mule.”
She grinned and swung back around, guiding Sweet Sally through a narrow place between two trees. He wasn’t a bad sort – for a timber man. It was a sober reminder. “Why’d you get into the logging business?”
His tone was casual. “My uncle needed summer help and I was looking for a summer job.”
She swung around to stare at him; one hand on the back of the saddle and the other on the horn. “You mean it ain’t your company?”