Where Eagles Fly

by Lisa Norato

  Ruckert moved to the center of the pen and began to swing a loop, his rope soft and limber. Meanwhile, the sorrel paced the fencing nervously, ears flicking back and forth. He tossed a line into her path, and immediately she jerked to a stop, then whirled around to canter off in the opposite direction. Ruckert fixed his gaze on the filly’s eye and squared his shoulders so his body was directly parallel to the length of her. Power gathered in her hindquarters and she flew into a gallop. He pitched the rope again, behind her this time, never touching her, never intending to do anything but drive her on, which he did quite successfully around the inner perimeter of the corral.

  She ran close to the fence, keeping as far away from him as possible. This beautiful, intelligent creature had been badly misused, yet Ruckert aimed to restore her faith in mankind. Today she’d learn that a man was someone she could trust. And in order to do this, he was causing her to flee so he could later offer her the opportunity to come back and accept him.

  Then it occurred to him. He was not only here to help this little filly, but this little filly was here to help him . . . to teach him . . . about Miss McCoy.

  His handicap at being limited in expressing himself in speech had taught him to rely on other forms of communication. It had opened his heart and mind to something more valuable than anything he could have learned in the eastern schools where his brothers had received their educations. All of life was connected; all life was part of the oneness of God’s divine creation. Whatever was true of the least of creation, was true of the whole.

  If Ruckert listened with a pure heart, he could hear the universal language God used to communicate through all living things.

  And what he was hearing was that, just like this sorrel, Miss McCoy had been hurt until all she felt was distrust. She and the sorrel might resist him for a time, but Ruckert aimed to see their faith restored.

  * * *

  What an ignorant lout! Shelby thought. So much for good intentions. Ruckert St. Cloud ignored her smile and turned his back just as she and Rose joined the group at the corral fence, making it pretty clear he’d rather chase some dirty red horse than acknowledge her.

  You should at least show some respect for your mother, she wanted to shout out, but no one else seemed bothered. Wylie complimented her on her dress. Rose took her arm and introduced her to the owner of the livery, Bassil Farthing, then smiled warmly at the cowboy.

  “Shelby McCoy, meet my second son, Holden.”

  Shelby refocused her energies and flashed Ruckert’s brother the smile she’d originally meant for Ruckert. “Hi, Holden. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Clean-shaven and fresh-faced, Holden St. Cloud was a vision of youthful vitality. Six feet of wiry strength in a pair of tan pants of a checked-weave pattern. They hugged his flat stomach and narrow hips, fitting baggier through the leg until they disappeared inside the tops of his boots. He smiled into her eyes, and at her greeting, one corner of his full, sensual mouth climbed even higher. The crooked smile dented his cheek with a fat dimple.

  He touched the brim of his light, fawn-colored hat. “Good day, ma’am.”

  For an instant, Shelby thought he blushed.

  “You picked a fine day to visit Laramie,” he said. “Allow me to welcome you to the Flying Eagle, and if’n you find you need anything while you’re staying with us . . . well, you just be sure to let me know.” He reached for her rucksack. “Why don’t you let me carry that heavy bag for you, ma’am?”

  He had no way of knowing whether it was heavy or not, but then he wasn’t really asking a question. He took the leather knapsack off her shoulder and slung it over his much broader one. Shelby was charmed. She didn’t have the heart to tell this gorgeous young hunk he was carrying her purse.

  Jorge scurried between the men, grousing to himself and sniffing their boots. They ignored him and grinned at Shelby with open admiration. Then the questions began.

  “Ever been to Laramie City before, ma’am?”

  “How was the train ride?”

  “Wilson Tinkler never talks much about his family, other than to mention his Ma now’n again. How is it you’re related?”

  Jorge crawled beneath the fence and barked for Ruckert’s attention. Uncomfortable with the stares and the inquiries she wasn’t prepared to answer, Shelby leaned down to call her Pomeranian. With a light tug of his leash, he came to her, and she lifted him into her arms. She curled her fingers over a rough-hewn plank of fence and peered through. Jorge did the same.

  “What’s going on here?” she asked.

  “Oh, you showed up just in time, Mis’ McCoy,” Bassil Farthing said. “Hoss Man here is getting ready to break a bronc. He works wonders with a hoss. You might find it interesting to watch how he makes friends with them. Really something to see, you bet!”

  Horse man? It was on the tip of Shelby’s tongue to suggest he would be more aptly named for horse’s backside. But for all his rudeness and strange behavior, Ruckert St. Cloud intrigued her like no other man she’d ever met. She told the livery owner, “I’d love to watch. That is, if it’s okay with Ruckert.”

  He stood in the center of the enclosure with his back to them, swinging a loop at his side and pretending they weren’t there, when Shelby knew darned well he must have heard them. The red horse trotted across the corral. Ruckert tossed the loop into its path, and the frightened creature drew itself to a wild-eyed halt, then turned to flee in the other direction. Ruckert tossed the rope again to keep the horse moving around the pen, and when it thundered past, Shelby snatched her hand off the rail and jumped back.

  “You like horses, do you, Miss McCoy?” Holden asked, then, before she could answer, said, “You know, ma’am, while you’re staying with us, if you ever find yourself inclined to a ride sometime, I’d be right pleased if you’d come a-ridin’ with me. The larkspur are in bloom up in the Starlight Meadow, and I’d like it mighty well to be the one to show them to you.”

  Shelby grinned from beneath her sunbonnet, amused. “Thank you, Holden. That’s very kind.” She appreciated his hospitality. Holden made a charming host. Personality wise, he was everything his brother was not. His angelic face could only be described as a vision in a dream. But Shelby couldn’t keep her attention from the action inside the corral.

  Ruckert’s stare never wavered from the horse’s eye. He followed the sorrel’s circuit around the pen, and on his face Shelby saw the self-possession of a man who knew his place in the world.

  Holden pressed a gloved palm flat against the fence and leaned closer. “Notice the way my brother’s standing, Miss McCoy? Squared up to the filly?”

  At Shelby’s “Uh-huh,” he explained, “That’s the signal he uses to drive her away.”

  “And why would he want to drive her away?” Shelby gave him a curious glance.

  “‘Cause right now that filly doesn’t trust him. She sees him as a threat. Her former owners treated her unkindly, and she’s thinking why should this man be any different than the others she’s known? Before Ruckert can convince her to trust him, he needs her attention and respect. And in order to gain that respect, he’s got to show her who’s in charge. So he uses the same signals horses use to communicate with each other. Horse lingo, you might say. You see, Miss McCoy, in the wild, a horse’s greatest fear is to be alone. Alone, a horse is sure prey for predators. Pretty soon she’ll realize she’s got another choice besides being alone and ask to side up with him.”

  Something very uncomfortable was happening inside Shelby’s psyche.

  For several minutes, she watched the little white-faced filly gallop around the enclosure, her long pinkish tail streaking out behind her like a banner in the wind. The filly’s hooves kicked up clods of earth and manure, their odors fresh in the warm, sunny air.

  Ruckert pitched the line into her path again, but this time he stepped forward as though to block her way. She dug her heels in and skidded to a stop, then whirled and fled in the other direction. Shelby heard the breath blow from her no
strils as she pounded past. The filly was getting winded.

  Slowly, Ruckert’s gaze strayed from the filly’s eye, dropping to her shoulder, back toward her haunches. His shoulder muscles relaxed. At once, the filly slowed to a trot and angled her head away from the fence to look at him.

  Shelby had heard stories of “horse whisperers,” men who had a special gift for communicating with horses and who practiced gentle training methods. Horse whisperers had generated a lot of interest in recent years. They were all over the media—in movies, fiction, television documentaries, magazine articles. They conducted workshops nationwide and gave demonstrations in outdoor arenas. And here stood a nineteenth-century original.

  She might not understand him; she might not even like him. But Shelby was beginning to see Ruckert St. Cloud in a new and fascinating light.

  He returned to his original, aggressive stance, his gaze fixing once again on the filly’s eye. Immediately, the horse bolted into full flight.

  Shelby turned to Holden for an explanation only to find he’d been watching her. He broke into one of his dimpled grins, then gestured inside the corral with his head. “Watch her ears real close.”

  Shelby watched and Holden explained, “Now, ma’am, a horse’s ears are the signals that’ll let you know where their attention’s at, and they’re a real good indicator of a horse’s moods. See the way that sorrel’s got one ear turned on Ruckert?”

  Shelby saw that indeed the filly’s inner ear was locked in place so that no matter where she traveled around the pen or in which direction Ruckert made her run, the ear closest to Ruckert was clearly opened up to him while the other ear scanned the surrounding environment.

  “Yes,” she told him.

  “Well, you might say she’s given Ruckert her ear. And that’s good. That’s real good. Remember, I explained about attention and respect?” At Shelby’s “Uh-huh,” he pointed out, “Well, there it is! She’s listening to Ruckert speak her language, deciding what she’ll do next. And Ruckert—he’s just keeping her thinking, is all.”

  Ruckert continued to drive the sorrel filly around the pen, but he had allowed her to slow to a trot. Whenever she showed signs of slowing further, however, he slapped the coiled rope against his thigh and made a clucking noise with his tongue. A dozen or so more revolutions around the corral, and the filly lowered her head until she was trotting around the pen with her nose hovering just inches from the ground.

  “Oh . . . look.” Something was going on Shelby didn’t quite understand, and she glanced from Holden on her right to Mr. Farthing on her left, then back again, filled with anticipation. “What does that mean? She looks so humble. Won’t he let her rest now?”

  “Shhh,” Rose whispered from behind. “Just you watch.”

  Bassil Farthing chuckled, but Shelby was not in playful spirits. She had been identifying on some level with this little red filly, and a great compassion now welled inside her. The filly’s head was bowed to Ruckert respectfully, her eye locked on the man, her inside ear tuned to his every sound.

  Ruckert turned his body so he was no longer directly parallel but standing at a forty-five degree angle to the filly. He avoided eye contact by directing his gaze several feet ahead of her.

  She stopped at once, turning to face him with head raised, flanks heaving. Ruckert did not acknowledge her. He continued to look away, and the white-faced sorrel took one tentative step towards him. She paused, swiveled her ears forward, then lifted one dainty foot and took another.

  Ruckert could’ve petrified into a human statue for all he didn’t move. But when the sorrel strode up behind him, he slowly began to walk clockwise in a circle. The filly followed, her white muzzle nosing his shoulder. Ruckert turned in a wide arc to the left. Again, the filly followed. She trailed his every move so that wherever Ruckert went within the pen, she plodded along behind him as docile as Mary with her little lamb.

  At length, Ruckert stilled. The filly stopped beside him. Her large nostrils quivered as she drank in his scent. She nudged him with her nose, and Ruckert let his coil of rope slip quietly to the ground, then turned around to stroke the sorrel on the star between her eyes.

  “There, there, little lady,” he said in a softly soothing yet deeply masculine voice. “It’s all right. I’m going to see that nobody hurts you ever again.”

  There were tears in Shelby’s eyes, tears she couldn’t explain, as she watched Ruckert run his hands across the filly’s withers and over her neck. The horse submitted to his touch, head angled to watch Ruckert with one eye. Slowly, Ruckert smoothed his palms down her lean flanks, where Shelby could see a splattering of dried blood had matted her coat. The filly’s hide twitched at the spot and she side-stepped with a soft blow and a shake of her great strawberry-and-white head.

  Shelby mouthed a silent ouch.

  Again, Ruckert spoke, reassuring the filly she would be cared for, her wounds tended. Then he began the process from the beginning again of rubbing the sorrel’s forehead, running his hands down the long arc of her neck and continuing with the rest of her body until she felt comfortable enough to endure his touch under her belly.

  He asked her to lift each hoof and she responded willingly. Ruckert slid his hand from knee to hock, over the tendon and around to the fetlock until it was clear to Shelby he had won the filly’s trust.

  And then Ruckert did something that took Shelby completely off guard. He turned to gaze at her . . . no, he looked right through her, as though he’d known all along just where she’d been standing and could sense the direction of her thoughts.

  He gave her the full measure of his stare. He was beautiful and intense, his pale eyes full of patience, full of compassion. His look disclosed his private emotions, and Shelby could tell there were many. Seeing them stirred her soul and left her aching for a bit of that same tenderness he had shown the filly.

  He had touched the loneliness inside her, and the pain grew unbearable. Shelby turned away and stepped back from the rails, feeling as though she’d been socked in the stomach.

  Chapter Six

  The Little Laramie River wound through the ranch, and as the wagon pulled down the long, dusty drive of the Flying Eagle, it crossed one of two arched stone bridges. Cottonwoods, their roots embedded deep under the creek bed, grew at an angle out of the embankment and created a canopy of foliage, twisted branches and drooping twigs. Shelby recognized them as the landmarks of her sister’s property.

  On the ride from town, she again searched for signs of her sports utility vehicle and, finding none, had turned inward with thoughts of despair. But here, familiarity surrounded her like the air she breathed, and her eyes widened to soak up the sights. Pole fences of gray wood zigzagged on either side of the dirt lane. The wind raised spurts of dust, then blew them along the ground.

  Wylie halted the wagon before a large ranch-style frontier home of log and stone with a second story in the rear. The house stood as bold and rugged as the land it had been built upon, situated by the creek, Shelby knew, to take advantage of the cottonwoods for shade.

  “Well, this is it,” Rose announced. “We’re home.”

  The dwelling’s personality was one of homey charm, found in its more personal touches like the covered porch that extended across the front. A brown-spotted hound slept by the door. Oh, not the wide screen door Shelby remembered the last time she’d seen the guest lodge, but a double Dutch door, split horizontally like those in a stable.

  The azure sky had turned to indigo with the approach of nightfall, and in the twilight, fireflies danced before the top half of the door. From one of the curtained windows, an oil lamp burned in a smoky glass chimney. Beside it, a tomato-can planter held a potted red geranium.

  Shelby smiled at the woman seated beside her and gave her new friend’s hand a squeeze. “It’s lovely, Rose.”

  Compliments seemed to embarrass Rose, who nudged Wylie off the wagon seat, then scooted across herself. She climbed down and shouted, “Charley!”

  A
white yearling grazed on the front lawn, and as Holden helped Shelby from the wagon, the filly raised her head and loped towards them with light, springy steps. An alabaster mane swirled about her neck. Her long tail skimmed the grasses.

  Shelby touched ground and stretched her legs. At her feet sat the hound. He hung his head and stared up at her with one pink-rimmed, cocoa-brown eye. The other was a lifeless cloudy blue.

  Holden made the introduction. “This here’s Monroe. And yes, ma’am, he’s blind in one eye. Ruckert found him wandering the county road when he was only a whelp.”

  Ruckert, Shelby thought, smiling to herself. Why am I not surprised? “Oh, Monroe, you poor darling,” she cooed, bending to scratch the hound behind the ears. “And just as sweet as can be, aren’t you?” His tail thumped the earth with glee. In her arms, she could feel Jorge bristle with jealousy. He growled low in his throat, a rumbling sound.

  She straightened, not wanting to push his patience, as limited as it was, and nearly collided with a long pinkish snout. “Oh.”

  The white filly darted away.

  Holden approached the young horse, who took two tentative steps to meet him. She moved like a princess, as though stepping on her toes, one delicate hoof at a time. Shelby had never seen a creature more lovely.

  “Ruckert lets some of the yearlings graze out here to keep the grass short,” Holden explained. He rubbed his gloved hand up and down the filly’s nose. “But it seems he’s partial to Liberty. I know she’s crazy for him.”

  Lucky girl, Shelby thought, then wondered, Wait a minute, what am I thinking? Aloud she said, “She’s beautiful.” She eyed the filly’s smooth curves, her wide-set, heavy-lidded, long-lashed eyes. She envisioned Ruckert whispering sweet nothings in Liberty’s ear and suffered an irrational pang of envy.

  A thin, gaunt man had emerged from the lighted interior of the house and stood at the door, observing. His dark hair was streaked with gray. Two pouches of skin sagged beneath his eyes, much like the hound’s, and he sported a drooping salt-and-pepper mustache.