by Lois Greiman
He shrugged, mouth pursed. “I’m just clumsy. That’s all.”
“You don’t seem clumsy,” she said and waited.
For a moment she thought he wouldn’t respond, but he did. “A two-by-four fell out of the hayloft.”
She stared at him, wondering. His cheeks looked a little flushed.
“I tossed it up there to get it out of the way. It come down the same road before I moved aside,” he said.
She watched him another second, then nodded. What else could she do? “You’re putting in a lot of hours around here.” He’d spent a good deal of time mending fences with her. “I’m sorry I can’t pay you for all of them.”
He shrugged, jaw hard as granite. “Nobody never drowned in his own sweat.”
She glanced toward the mare, hiding the tug of a smile his cowboy demeanor invoked. “You think she’s gaining any weight?”
“Little, maybe.” He seemed eager to move on to another topic. “You worm ’er?”
“A few days ago.”
“For tapeworm, too?”
“Ivermectin Gold.”
He nodded, seeming satisfied. So the boy knew something about parasites. Where did he learn that? It wasn’t something they were taught in school. Not even in Hope Springs, South Dakota. And the Gilbert Roberts she remembered from her childhood wouldn’t know a bloodworm from a caterpillar. Though, to be honest, she knew him more by reputation than personal interaction. He’d been a few grades ahead of her in school, but he had kept the local gossips busy. The term bad seed had been used on more than one occasion.
Casie thrust her arm over the stall door to scratch the old mare’s neck. “So what was she used for, do you know?”
“Angel?”
“Yeah. Pleasure? Games? Stock?”
He shrugged. “We got her from a fella didn’t want her no more. We was gonna sort cattle with her, but then she went lame and Dad didn’t wanna spend …” He stiffened. Angel rapped the stall door with a ragged forefoot, demanding her promised supper. The boy lowered his brows. “Old plug like her, ain’t hardly worth the bullet to put her down,” he said, but when Casie glanced at the mare she could still see the line of hair he’d messed up while hugging her. “Same as with those other horses you got,” he added.
“Yeah.” She sighed. “That was a shrewd deal on my part, wasn’t it?”
“If you’re looking to go bust quick.”
“Already there,” she said.
“You busted?” he asked. Worry furrowed his brow, making her wish she hadn’t spoken.
“I’ll be all right,” she said, but he ignored her platitude.
“That why you’re selling out?”
Selling out. He might as well have said giving up … a sin tantamount to homicide to the rancher’s way of thinking.
“I never intended to stay this long. I’ve got to get back to my job,” she said and turned to lift a hay bale into a nearby cart. “It’s a miracle they’ve held it as long as they have.”
“Do you whistle there?” he asked.
“What?” She turned toward him, just settling the hay into the two-wheeled Rubbermaid.
“The other day when you was fixing fence … you was whistling,” he said.
“Was I?”
He didn’t respond, just glanced out the door toward the broncs and pursed his lips before speaking. “This Bradley fella … he make you whistle?”
“How do you know about Bradley?”
He was silent for a second, then, “I heard you talking to that slick realtor.”
“Oh, well … yes, Bradley makes me …” She paused. What did Bradley make her feel? Safe, maybe. But not like whistling. “We’ve been together a long time.”
“How come you ain’t married then?”
She cut the twines with the jackknife from the pocket of her oversized jeans, then fiddled with the blade for a second before reminding herself that she didn’t have to be self-conscious around a scrawny boy half her age. “We’ve been really busy and he wants … we want to be more financially secure before we get married.” Wasn’t that the reason? “Anyway, speaking of busy, I’d better get moving. I was hoping to get acquainted with a couple horses before it gets dark.”
“What horses?” he asked. His tone was skeptical at best.
“Take your pick,” she said.
“You can’t do nothing with them man killers,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the herd outside. “They’re rank as old hamburger.”
“They do seem a little wild,” she agreed. “But Dickenson said some of them had been ridden.”
“They was rode?” He scowled. “For how long? Eight seconds?”
She laughed, recognizing the reference to bronc riding. “They’re not bucking stock, Tyler.”
He glanced outside. Two cat-hammed geldings were rearing, striking at each other with ragged front hooves. The small grullo stood alone, head drooping as he watched. “You sure?”
“They’re not well groomed enough for rodeo,” she said and smiled wryly, hoping to bolster them both.
“He shouldn’t have never dumped them horses on you,” he said.
“Maybe not,” she agreed and sighed. “But look at that one.” She pointed to the grullo, noting the dark stripes above his shaggy knees. “Such great color.”
He scowled at the herd. A rangy gelding bared his teeth at the smoky-blue colt, driving him away from the hay. “You can’t ride color.”
“True,” she said, “but you can feed it. Let’s get the little one inside.”
Ty gave her a look. “Inside the barn?”
“Well, I’m running out of room in the house,” she said. She’d moved the two original lambs outside and replaced them with four more. It was less than a perfect situation, but she was trying to make light of it. Still, she was a little nervous herself. She’d been lucky to get the horses in a pen without any major catastrophes. Getting them separated was asking for trouble. “Come on. We’ll chase the whole bunch inside.” She motioned toward the complicated system of wooden gates necessary for weaning and vaccinations. “Then we’ll sort them out through the chute.”
“You kiddin’?” he asked.
“No.”
“How ’bout we just kick each other in the head real hard and get it done with?” he asked, but despite his mutterings, he was already shuffling outside. They eased around the far side of the herd. The animals skittered away from them, bony heads held high, eyes wild as they crowded the ancient fences. For a moment Casie thought they would push straight through, but finally a potbellied roan charged into the barn, black tail clumped with cockleburs and tucked tight between his legs. The others followed single file, huffing and crowding, and the grullo, not wishing to be left behind, brought up the rear.
After that it was a matter of siphoning off the older horses. Tyler manned the gate while Casie spread her arms and shooed them toward the opening. One by one the aged animals fled back into the original pen until three horses remained … the little grullo, the pinto filly, and a tired-looking mare. The trio watched them with flickering ears, ready to flee.
“She must be the pinto’s mama,” Ty said, nodding toward the sorrel mare.
“Looks like it.”
“You gonna keep ’em together?”
“I’m not sure what to do.” It was true of so much lately. “What do you think?”
His eyes looked old. “Sometimes,” he said, “the young ones is better off alone.”
For a moment Casie considered questioning that comment, but in the end, she copped out. Together they decided the mother was too worn down to continue to nurse and separated the mare and foal. The babies ran along the gate, the pinto whinnying and leaping up, knocking her knees against the rough planks and falling back into the mucky straw inside the barn.
Assuring everyone within range that this was for the best, Casie chased the older animals into a second pen, leaving an empty enclosure between the newly weaned and the rest of the herd. Then she dumped grain
into a wooden cattle bunk that leaned against the north end of the barn, added hay, and left the foals alone.
“She’d be better off if she couldn’t even see her mama,” Ty said.
Casie glanced at him.
“That’s the way it is with calves anyway,” he added and darted his gaze away. “They get over it faster that way.”
“I don’t have anywhere else to put her.”
He shrugged. “She’ll survive, I suppose.”
Her stomach felt jumpy. She didn’t like making decisions. Didn’t like changes, but they were coming at her fast and furious whether she liked it or not. “What about the grullo?”
Ty pulled his brows low over his eyes and refused to meet her gaze. “Don’t know how he lasted this long.”
Maybe the same could be said about Ty himself, Casie thought, but she let it slide. She was aces at letting things slide. “He should have already been halterbroke,” she said and lifted her gaze to the restless herd. “They all should have been trained, given jobs, given homes. But …” She inhaled carefully, trying to be upbeat. “I guess it’s not too late.”
Ty straightened, shifting his gaze to hers. There was something there she couldn’t quite decipher. Hope or fear or despair. It was anybody’s guess. “You trying to get yourself killed?” he asked.
She grinned, scaring up a little nerve. “I didn’t expect you to be the dramatic type.”
“I ain’t being dramatic,” he said, sounding offended. “You can’t ride them animals.”
“Well, the likelihood of being able to sell them without any training is slim to nothing.”
“Then give ’em away?”
“To whom?” she asked, and laughed at his petulant expression. “They’re here and they’re mine,” she said. Pulling a plastic bucket from the back of Puke, she strode over to a small weathered building that had once been painted white. In fact, in another life it had served as a one-room schoolhouse. Abandoned by the county’s youth decades ago, it had been hauled to the Lazy, where it had found another use. In that regard it was little different from the chicken coop. Built long ago when the Carmichaels had owned three thousand rolling acres, it had originally been used as a bunkhouse for hired hands. But things changed. Times moved on. She filled the bucket half full of ground feed and pushed her mind back to her present conversation. “You know what they say about a horse you can’t ride.”
“Leave ’em be so’s you don’t get yourself dead?” Tyler guessed.
“They’re as worthless as tits on a boar. And nothing wants to be worthless.”
“Well, some things don’t have no choice,” he said.
She looked him in the eye, caught the pain behind his careful façade, and shook her head. “You’re wrong there,” she said and set out to prove it.
CHAPTER 7
The scruffy red dun turned out to be more tractable than any of the others. Once he recognized the seductive sound of grain rattling in a bucket, he allowed Casie to slip a halter behind his ears and tie him to a stout post in the newly emptied pen.
That accomplished, they brushed him for a few minutes, Ty with a currycomb, Casie with a shedder blade. Even in his neglected condition his shaggy winter coat was coming out in clumps. It swirled around them in dusty clouds, granting him a sleeker look after just a short while. His tail, however … Casie stared at it in dismay. Well past his hocks, it was little more than a solid mass of burrs, but that would have to wait. Today she would ride. After all, she might never again find that blend of courage and craziness that was necessary for such an undertaking.
Dusting off her mother’s roughout seat, Casie eased the barrel saddle onto the gelding’s back. He lifted his head and flicked his ears, but his eyes were calm, and he was standing square, not humped or stretched as if he was ready to hop.
Replacing the halter with a bridle was a nonevent. He accepted the bit like a seasoned show horse, but Casie was still nervous. Then again, why wouldn’t she be? She wasn’t entirely insane. Maybe.
“You sure you want to do this?” Ty asked.
“I’m sure I don’t.”
“Then why are ya?”
Holding her breath, Casie stepped up to the dun’s near side, flexed the stirrup toward her, and realized that he posed a pretty good question. In fact, perhaps she should turn the gelding loose and consider it over a cup of hot coffee and a freshly bought Oreo. Then again … “Maybe it’s time to take some chances,” she said.
“Couldn’t you take some that ain’t so likely to get you dead?” Tyler asked.
“Later,” she promised, and gathering the reins just above the animal’s hopelessly tangled mane, pushed her weight gingerly into the stirrup.
The gelding stood perfectly still. Casie exhaled, then shifted her right foot back to the ground. “Thata boy,” she crooned. “That’s my boy.” He flexed his neck and watched her. She kept her attention on that one visible eye, alert for signs of trouble, but the horse seemed calm. Calmer than she was, at least. “Maybe we’ll call you Tangles, huh?” She kept her voice melodious as she pushed gently back up. When there were no deadly repercussions after three more tries, she swung her right leg carefully over the cantle and settled into the well-worn saddle. Tangles lowered his head like a worn-out puppy.
Grateful to the core of her being, Casie held her breath and gave him a gentle squeeze with her legs. He ambled off as if he’d been under saddle every day of his life. She exhaled carefully, settled deeper into the seat, and silently marveled at the thrill of having a horse between her and the ground. It felt right. Like finding home. Like breathing. Stifling the unexpected feelings of euphoria that threatened to bubble into a giggle, she asked for a trot. And that was even better. The gait was flat-footed, ground covering, and smooth as whipping cream. Not a show-horse jog, not a namby-pamby, we’ve-got-nowhere-to-go limping shuffle, but a long-strided working trot. She turned toward Tyler, no longer quite able to control her grin.
“Looks like we’ve got one that’s been trained at—” she began, but just then there was a click of noise from behind her. Jack yipped. A light flashed. And the dun heaved into the air like an erupting volcano. Back humped, head down, he shot toward the sky. Casie grappled for the saddle horn, for the mane, for anything, but she was already off balance, her right hand loose, her legs flapping.
Tangles’s hooves hit the ground like pile drivers. The impact jarred Casie to the marrow of her bones, but she found her balance enough to stay with him as he leaped back into the air, spine arched, head between his legs. The world soared in a rush of colors as a thousand sensations exploded inside her. For a moment it was as if she were truly alive for the first time in years. As if every pore was open, every capillary pulsing. And then she was off, somersaulting through the air before landing on her back with a jolt hard enough to rattle her teeth.
“Are you all right?”
“Casie!”
“I’m sorry.”
Dismembered dialogue bombarded her from every direction. For several seconds she could neither distinguish the speakers nor ascertain when they had arrived, but after a few disjointed seconds she realized that someone was leaning over her.
“Case!”
He was diabolically good looking. That was the first thought that fluttered through her brain. Handsome and rugged and a little wild eyed. But Richard Colton Dickenson had always been dangerously attractive. Even when he’d put crickets in her milk carton and salt in her orange juice, he’d been a risk-taking little Adonis who fired up her imagination and—
“Holy hell, Head Case, what were you thinking?”
Dickenson’s harangue managed to yank her unacceptable thoughts to a careening halt. She tried to sit up.
“Lie still!” he ordered.
Something pushed her back down, or maybe she just failed to complete the movement. It was surprisingly comfortable lying in the muck, kind of soft, relatively warm.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. It wasn’t all that easy to spea
k, which meant it was entirely possible she had cracked a rib. Or two. Or twenty. How many ribs did people have anyway? If she remembered her equine anatomy correctly, horses had eighteen pair. Ten floating and eight true. She scowled, mind wandering. Or was it ten true and—
“What am I doing?” Dickenson’s voice was raspy. “What the hell are you doing?”
She took a tentative breath. It didn’t feel great. In fact, it felt a little like bad-tempered needles were being shoved into her trachea, but her legs felt fine, her arms didn’t hurt, and she was reasonably certain her head was still attached. Yee haa! “You said the horses were broke.”
He sputtered something inarticulate. It might have been a whole string of curse words she’d never heard used with such cavalier disregard for the English language. “I said I was broke,” he railed. “I said a couple of them had been ridden. I don’t even know which ones.”
“That one has,” she said and tried to nod toward the just-abandoned dun. As it turned out, Tyler was standing nearby, eyes wide, face pale. “For a couple seconds at least.” She shifted her gaze to the boy. “Hey, Ty,” she said.
“You okay?” His voice was gruff, his body stiff with nerves.
“Sure. I’m fine,” she said, and lifting her right hip a little, nudged a stone out from under her back. Her smile came with surprising ease. Holy hell, what a thrill. “How are you?”
The boy stared at her a second, then shifted accusatory eyes to Dickenson. “You shouldn’t have never dumped those horses on her,” he said. “She’s got enough problems without ’em.”
“Well, I didn’t think one of them was stupidity!” Dickenson shifted his gaze back to Casie. “I never thought she’d be dumb enough to just hop on ’em.”
“She ain’t dumb!” There was sudden passion in the boy’s voice, anger in his eyes as he stepped forward, fists clenched.
“Hey. Hey!” Surprised by the sudden volatility that bubbled around her, Casie tried again to sit up. Marginally successful, she crunched over her ribs and attempted to ignore the slicing pain. “Let’s not get all worked up over …” She drew another careful breath and realized she could suck in a little oxygen if she was really careful. Things were looking up.