On the floor at her feet, Chance was quietly singing “Happy Birthday,” putting his own distinct stamp on the melody.
“We had a different horse in mind when we bought that for you, honey,” Dad had said, pointing out the front window where Big E stood with a tan-and-white paint mare.
“Is that... Is she for me?” Mom had whispered. All five boys and Dad had assured her it was. “She’s beautiful.” Tears welled in Mom’s eyes as she hugged the leather to her chest. “Her tan patches are the same color as the bridle.”
“She’s the same color as butterscotch,” Tyler piped up, unwrapping a butterscotch candy in his hand. His dark hair stuck up from the cowlick at the back of his head like untamable brown weeds ringing a fence post.
Mom had never asked for much. She’d been more the sentimental type, holding on to things that she loved. She’d worn a faded green sweatshirt with her high school’s leaping tiger mascot on the chest around the barn on chilly mornings as she fed the horses. She’d worn both a wedding ring and the promise ring Dad had given her, even though the promise ring had a diamond chip in it you could barely see. And she used to keep a pair of boots from each of her five boys in a row against the wall in her bedroom. They hadn’t taken up much space given they were toddler-size.
Ben couldn’t remember what had happened to those boots after Mom and Dad died.
Impulsively, Ben pulled a stepladder over, climbed up and took his mother’s bridle off the short post it hung from. He couldn’t ride Butterscotch, given her age and that she had a foal, but he could use Mom’s fancy bridle. Though he didn’t want Jon or Ethan to see him doing so. Ethan would think he’d won Ben’s vote to keep the place.
Being sentimental about your mom doesn’t mean you’ve gone soft, boy.
Ben was afraid he was going soft on too many things in Falcon Creek.
The stallion nuzzled Ben’s shoulder as he came closer, saddle over one arm and bridle in the other. The horse was like a sleepy kitten demanding some attention. Or maybe, like Butterscotch, he wanted breakfast.
“Hey.” Ben stopped. “You don’t really want to go for a ride. You wouldn’t look macho with a pretty blond bridle on you, fella.”
The stallion shoved Ben’s shoulder again. He was extremely tall, black as night and clearly built for speed with a long graceful neck and lofty elegant legs. Someone had probably traced his bloodlines back a hundred years. A brass engraved plaque on the stall stated his name. Devil’s Thunder.
“That’s an off-putting name.” Ben set the tack down on the ground and took hold of the stallion’s bridle, looking him in the eye. “They should just call you Blackie.” He was as tame as the plump trail horses a few stalls over.
The stallion nibbled his sweatshirt.
“Okay, I get it. You’re bored. You want to go for a ride?” Ben set the saddle and bridle down on the floor, entered the stall and ran his hands over the horse’s neck and withers. He picked up each hoof in turn, checking to make sure the stallion was shod and his shoes firmly set. “Because who knows when anyone had you out last.”
Blackie put up with Ben’s inspection better than most ponies. If he’d been skittish in any way, Ben would have moved along. Since the stallion was calm, Ben saddled him up and led him out of the barn, checking the girth strap one more time before standing back and realizing just how tall Blackie was. His withers came up to Ben’s nose.
“I don’t want to be a greenhorn, Blackie, but I could use a mounting block.” Ben may have adopted running tights, but he didn’t do yoga. The stirrup was above his waist and it would be a struggle to bring his foot up that high, much less use it to lever himself into the saddle.
Thankfully, someone had put a mounting block near the paddock fence, probably for the “dudes” staying at the guest ranch. Ben had no qualms using it since his brothers weren’t watching.
The day was dawning golden and bright. As soon as he settled in the saddle, Ben had to hold the stallion back. He wanted to run.
“Blackie, even athletes take it slow at first and warm up. We’ll run when we get on the road to the river.” The one separating Blackwell land from the Thompson’s property.
Blackie pranced sideways, fighting Ben for control. And then he bucked.
“And here I thought you were a cream puff.” Ben used his legs and the reins to bring the horse back in line.
Given his even temperament, Blackie was probably very well behaved but had a little spring fever from being cooped up. His small stall had a paddock of its own, but this horse had been bred to be an athlete. He needed room to move.
From the saddle, Ben opened the gate onto the road he and Rachel had ridden on the other night. “Let’s see what you can do, fella.” He eased the tension off the reins.
The stallion leaped forward. He had a choppy trot as he tried to break into a run.
And then Ben gave him free rein. Suddenly they were flying down the road faster than Ben had ever gone before. That long stride ate up the mile to the river. The stallion galloped like a Thoroughbred racehorse in a dead heat.
Whoever had bought this magnificent animal, Ben was going to tell them it was worth every penny. He and the horse moved as one.
There was no court case. There was no wrestling match with what was right or wrong regarding water rights or what his father would have done. There was only the wind in Ben’s face and the feel of a powerful horse beneath him.
And then disaster struck.
Out of nowhere, the bull that hated Ben appeared on the other side of the fence. He slammed into a fence post as they passed. Midstride, Blackie leaped sideways, away from the bull. He tossed his head, snapping the old leather rein free on one side, which meant Ben was no longer in control and Blackie could run.
And run he did. Toward the riverbank, Zoe’s observation platform and the fifteen-foot drop down to the rocky river. The horse’s flight instinct had been triggered and he wasn’t thinking about safety ahead. He was thinking about threats behind.
“Whoa!” Ben shouted, hoping the horse had been trained in emergency stops. He moved his heels forward, interfering with the stallion’s stride.
Blackie slowed, but didn’t stop. Why would he? Ferdinand was running alongside the fence, snorting like a steam engine about to jump the track.
Ben pulled the remaining connected rein steadily, bringing Blackie’s head around. That got the horse to slow down until he was trotting sideways like one of those Lipizzaners.
Ferdinand took advantage of the slower pace and rammed another fence post, cracking the wood.
Without warning, Blackie bucked and spun better than any rodeo bronc. Taken by surprise, Ben went flying. The world spun by in slow motion—dirt, fence, sky.
Thud.
Ben stared at the blue-gray sky above him and willed his lungs to fill with air.
They didn’t.
A black, velvety nose nuzzled Ben’s head, shoved his shoulder, snorted in his face. The horse’s version of CPR didn’t open Ben’s lungs. He was reaching for the horse’s dangling rein just as Ferdinand rammed the next fence post. This one right beside Ben.
Blackie jerked back, neighing like he was part donkey, braying at Ben’s bad luck. And then he made a run for it. Returning the way they’d come. The long leather rein flying behind him like a kite’s tail.
Ben flopped in the ditch with enough impact to open his airways. He sucked in oxygen, belatedly wondering why the breeze on his face was warm and smelly.
Ferdinand pawed the ground next to the fence, glaring at Ben and covering him in a shower of dirt.
Ben wiped his face free of earth and bull snot.
“I’d like to tell you I landed on this side of the fence on purpose, Ferdinand.” Ben rolled to all fours, realizing he was once again wearing red. Ethan’s red sweatshirt this time. “But that would be a lie. I’ve been lucky twice with yo
u.”
The third round, if there was one, was due to the bull.
In the distance, someone shouted.
Ben looked up. A horse and rider approached, Blackie in tow. At first, Ben thought it was Katie.
It wasn’t.
It was Rachel. Her blond hair caught the sun’s early rays.
Ben was happy to see her, if only because she’d saved him the embarrassment of explaining to Katie and Ethan why he’d taken out such a fine piece of horseflesh and why he hadn’t used newer tack.
Rachel trotted up, leading the stallion by the broken rein and grinning like she’d just found a way to win their impending court case. “Geez, Blackwell. You need a keeper.”
“Apparently, you’re the designated warden.” Ben stood, every muscle in his body protesting. He claimed the thin strip of leather from her and leaned on Blackie’s chest, riding out the sharp pain of a back-and-neck spasm. When his muscles settled into a dull burn, Ben examined the broken rein. “The stitching on the buckle is rotted.” Explaining why it’d given way.
“What’s a lawyer doing taking a ride on half a million dollars of horseflesh?” Rachel directed her big-boned strawberry roan away from Ferdinand. She rode along the Double T’s fence line, scanning her pasture. She wore blue jeans today and a blue plaid button-down beneath a sleeveless jacket.
The bull huffed behind Ben, making the stallion dance.
“Easy, boy.” Ben rolled his head, trying to loosen up his muscles. “You’re overstating things, Thompson. My grandfather would never invest that much in a horse.”
“Zoe’s starting a breeding program.” Rachel stood in her stirrups and scanned her pasture. “You didn’t happen to see a heifer running loose, did you? She ransacked the vegetable garden again last night and I can’t figure out where she’s hiding.”
“I’ll help you look.” But Ben clung to the saddle horn, and not just out of shock that his tight-fisted grandfather had agreed to spend a fortune on an animal. Was this why Ethan was talking financial ruin? Expensive stock wouldn’t help them sell the ranch. And speaking of help... “Hey, um, Rachel?”
“Yeah.” She turned her horse around so she could see him squarely.
“I...uh...” He massaged the back of his neck. “I need a boost.”
Rachel’s mouth worked, as if she was testing out different responses before deciding on one. “Do you want me to put your horse on a lead for you, too?”
“We’ll be fine.” Ben should be able to control Blackie if they didn’t run into any other surprises. “If you don’t find that cow, Ferdinand is going to find her and then we’ll both be needing to fix a fence.”
Rachel swung to the ground. “I wish I could take a picture of this. No one is going to believe me.” She came to stand at Blackie’s shoulder, laced her fingers and braced herself to take Ben’s weight.
Ben placed the ball of his boot in her hands and swung into the saddle. “Thanks.”
“Code of the west, Blackwell.” She wiped her hands on her jeans and got back on her horse. “Can’t leave a man behind. Let’s start in the midlands pasture. The gate is back a ways.”
Rachel had honor. She’d disclose a document regarding land ownership and water rights.
Guilt came galloping back in Ben’s gut, wreaking havoc with the coffee he’d had for breakfast.
That did it. First thing Monday, Ben was initiating a title search. If the aquifer belonged to the Double T, so be it.
They headed back along the road, riding in silence. Ben hurt from his hips to his ears.
“Who’s that?” Rachel pointed ahead. “That’s not a Double T truck. Is it one of yours?”
A big white truck drove toward them, kicking up dust. Ferdinand snorted and charged ahead, prepared to defend his turf.
“Is that...” Ben squinted. “It looks like a utility truck.”
“We’re not in court. You can stop trying to put one over on me.” Oh, the sarcasm in her tone. She was about to be schooled.
Ben pointed at the fast-approaching truck. “You’re going to owe me dinner if that’s a water company vehicle. And during dinner, we’re going to hammer out a water agreement.”
“Blackwell...” She didn’t finish her sentence.
The vehicle slowed down as it approached. It was indeed a Falcon County Water Company truck.
Ben and Rachel moved their horses to the Double T side of the road to let the driver get past. Without speaking, they turned their horses around and followed the truck to its destination. Ferdinand came, too.
“Morning,” Ben said to the driver. “What brings you all the way out here on a Saturday?”
“The boss said I’ve got to get some water readings.” The man was in his twenties with shaggy brown hair and a pair of work boots that had seen more than one muddy pasture. He was old enough to have some experience on the job and young enough to be intimidated by someone who spoke with authority. He surveyed the Double T’s pasture and then proceeded to open the gate without permission.
“Is it normal for you to collect readings out here?” Using his legs and the single rein, Ben directed Blackie to follow.
“Normal? Nope. Not out here.” He carried a small tablet. “My supervisor was saying this morning that he couldn’t remember the last time we’d come out this way.”
Ben frowned deeply at Rachel, trying to say, See? I told you so. He hated that he’d been right. Maybe Mr. Middle-Age had been a water company attorney after all. “Are you scheduled to get readings off the Blackwell pump, too? Because we’ve been having trouble with that bull.”
The meter reader glanced over at Ferdinand, who was pacing back and forth behind the gate. “I’m not supposed to come back without them. You’ll need to move the bull to another enclosure.”
“No can do.” Ben held up his single rein. “I have equipment failure. He’s not the kind of animal you go in to get half-cocked.”
“Were you given a reason to collect a reading?” Rachel was trying to ask casually, but she fiddled with a lock of her blond hair, a sure tell.
“I just do what I’m told.” The meter reader opened the door to the Double T’s water pump shed and disappeared inside.
“Ben,” Rachel whispered.
“Not now,” Ben whispered back.
They waited for the meter reader to reappear. Blackie channeled Ben’s frustration, pawing the ground and shifting on his feet.
“Easy, boy.” Ben patted his neck.
The meter reader emerged, shut the door behind him and then walked past Ben and Rachel, pausing at the gate to turn and face them. “If you can’t move the bull, I’m going to have to report this as a refusal to allow a reading. I can get written up for this.”
“I’m sorry,” Ben said, trying to sound sincere. “You can tell your supervisor to call Katie Montgomery.” Ben leaned on the saddle horn, schooling his smile to be as friendly as little Poppy’s. “Katie’s the acting ranch manager for the Blackwells. She’ll tell you what a problem that bull is.”
“We wanted to help,” Rachel added with faux sincerity. “We really did.”
“Uh-huh.” The meter reader wasn’t buying it. He climbed behind the wheel of his truck, executed a three-point turn that had barbed wire scraping fenders in the tight space and left them in a cloud of dust.
Without getting off her horse, Rachel closed the gate, shutting them on Double T property. “You weren’t kidding about the water company lawyer, were you?”
Ben had been, so he said nothing. But he was thinking. He was thinking his father would be frowning down on him from heaven.
The water company was going to take the extra water Rachel was banking on.
Ben’s empty stomach clenched. He headed northwest, toward Jon’s property. They still had a heifer to find. “I can’t remember you ever growing crops this far from the homestead.”
<
br /> She brought her much shorter horse even with his. “We never have. This has always been fall and winter grazing pasture. Why do you ask?”
Ben hesitated, but they were in this together now. “River water can’t be owned by any one property. It flows downriver and there needs to be enough to provide for those users downstream.”
“We have an allotment, Blackwell. And since you aren’t using your allotment, we can take it.”
“No, you can’t.” He caught her gaze. “There’ve been legal cases resolved as recently as this spring regarding river water rights in Montana.”
“What kinds of cases?” The emotion in her big brown eyes turned from annoyance to worry.
“Land owners and water companies downriver challenging property owners upriver. Cease and desist orders for upriver water use being upheld in court.” He tried to soften the news, but facts were facts. “The losers have been property owners upriver who own water rights they haven’t used in the past. There was a man in the next county who bought land bordering his existing ranch. The additional property came with lots of untapped water rights. He wanted to expand his crop production to grow his herd. But the land hadn’t been farmed in twenty years and the downriver users blocked him from using the water rights that came with the land.”
“That’s not fair.” Those brown eyes sought reassurance Ben couldn’t give. “Is that why you get a funny look on your face every time I talk about growing feed crops in this pasture?”
Ben gave a curt nod. “I don’t think you can do it. I bet the water company is going to make a legal play for the unused river water from both our properties.”
I could protect her and the Double T.
“But that’s just a guess,” he said.
Don’t veer out of your lane, boy.
“An educated one,” he added, talking louder, as if he could drown out his grandfather’s voice. “Unless we can stop their legal moves before they start or Montana state policy changes, the court will rule based on precedent.”
“I need this water, Blackwell. I need this water like...” Rachel stood in her stirrups “...like I need to capture that heifer.” She sat back down and kicked her horse into a gallop.
The Rancher's Redemption Page 12
