by Kaki Warner
The first was a long stone horse barn, with a large, covered arena out back, a round training pen attached to one side and paddocks jutting out on the other. All the fencing was white-painted, welded metal rails. A hundred yards farther up the drive, rose an open-sided hay barn next to a two-story building with windows above, more stalls below, and loading chutes out back that led to several stout metal-fenced paddocks holding blocky Angus bulls. And in the distance, behind another white fence, stood a rambling house that looked to be housing for the ranch workers.
Dalton drove past the round pen and pulled in by the stone barn. As he climbed out of the truck, a lanky middle-aged man in a flannel shirt, jeans, and dusty Stetson came to meet him. Dalton recognized him from the few quarter horse shows he’d entered: Glenn Hicks, foreman of Four Star. A good man, but not much of a talker.
“Morning, Mr. Hicks.” Dalton held out his hand. “Doubt you remember—”
“Dalton Cardwell. Yeah, I remember.” He didn’t smile, but then, Dalton had rarely seen him do so.
He shook Dalton’s hand, let it go, and stepped back. “When’d you get out?”
Dalton wondered how many more times he’d have to answer that question. “Last month.”
“Looking for work, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Doing what?”
“Horse trainer. Heard you were expanding.”
Hicks thought about that. “Got any experience with cutting horses?”
Dalton listed the shows he’d been in, whom he’d ridden for, and how he’d finished. Which was decent, considering the horses he’d been riding.
“Alls we got now are two- and three-year-olds,” Hicks told him. “You any good with ground work?”
“Yes, sir. Gives me a chance to know the horse before starting the hard training.”
Hicks thought that over, too. Finally, he nodded. “Go on up to the house, then. Back door. Ask for Mrs. Coralee. You get her okay, then you’ll need to get past her daughter Raney. And good luck with that.” The foreman almost smiled when he said those last words. It wasn’t an encouraging expression.
After thanking him, Dalton walked back up the drive he’d just driven down. As he passed the round training pen, he noticed a woman on a chestnut gelding working a half-dozen cows.
Competent, but stiff in the back. It kept her a quarter beat behind the movement of the horse. Not that noticeable, but enough to count against her in a show. The calves were bored and sluggish. The horse worked harder than it needed to and didn’t keep its head down like it should. Nice confirmation, though. The rider, too.
At first glance, Mrs. Coralee Whitcomb looked like the typical rich rancher’s wife—expensive haircut, expensive jeans, expensive boots, and a silky blouse that showed off a well-kept figure. But if you looked closer—which Dalton did—and noted the shrewd intelligence in her bright blue eyes and the hint of a smile lurking at the corners of her wide mouth, you saw a handsome, capable lady, and not one to be taken lightly.
Before Dalton could introduce himself and explain why he had come, she gave him a friendly but puzzled smile and asked if they’d met.
“No, ma’am,” he answered. He would have remembered a woman like her.
“You’re sure? You look familiar.”
Dalton decided to be forthright. “Maybe you saw my picture in the paper. I was convicted a year and a half ago of vehicular manslaughter.”
Her smile faded. “You’re Clovis Cardwell’s boy.”
“Yes, ma’am. Dalton Cardwell.”
“The commissioner’s nephew died. You waived a trial and were sent to Huntsville.”
It wasn’t a question, but Dalton nodded anyway. “I got out last month. Time off for good behavior,” he added, hoping that would help.
She studied him for a moment, then called to the woman who’d let him in the back door. A cook, maybe. “Maria, could you please bring iced tea to the veranda?”
Motioning Dalton to follow, Mrs. Whitcomb led him down a short hallway pass-through onto a covered porch. She took a seat in one of the several cushioned chairs grouped around a huge footstool in front of a big gas fireplace. “Have a seat, Mr. Cardwell, and tell me how your mother is doing with the move.”
She must have seen Dalton’s surprise. “I’ve known Clovis for years, ever since we worked together on the auxiliary committee to fix up that eyesore of a town square. She and your father are well, I hope?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he sat down. “A little tired from all the packing.”
“After being part of Rough Creek for so long, it must be hard for her to leave.”
Dalton was saved from more small talk by the arrival of Maria. After setting a tray bearing two frosted glasses, a pitcher of iced tea, and a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the oversized footstool, she accepted Mrs. Whitcomb’s thanks, nodded to Dalton, and left.
Mrs. Whitcomb poured the tea, offered Dalton the plate of cookies, which he declined although they were his favorite, then she sat back and eyed him over her glass of iced tea. “Tell me about the wreck.”
Startled by the abruptness of the question, Dalton was slow to respond. Aware of that sharp gaze, he opted for the simple version. “It was late. I was tired and not paying attention. When I started across the road, a car ran into the side of my tractor. The driver died instantly.”
“Jim Bob Adkins.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Silence. Those eyes seemed to drill into him like two sharpened pieces of ice.
“I heard he’d been drinking,” she finally said. “And was speeding.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Yet you took full blame.”
“I was at fault. I pulled onto the road without looking.”
“A shared fault, I think. But I appreciate your honesty.” She set her glass down on the tray then sat back again, ready for business. “While you were on your way to the house, Glenn called. He said you were looking for work as a horse trainer.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Have you any experience?”
“Some. After the army, I trained for a while with Roy Kilmer. Rode for him in a few local shows back in 2013.”
“How’d you do?”
“’Bout as you’d expect on soured horses.”
Her brows rose in that silent way women have of expressing disapproval without risking confrontation. “You’re blaming the horses?”
“No, ma’am. Kilmer worked them too hard. I told him so and he fired me.” Fearing that might not sit well, either, Dalton added, “I may not have a lot of show experience, Mrs. Whitcomb, but I’m good at ground work and I understand horses. How to get the best out of them. When to push and when to back off. If the talent’s there, I can find it and make it shine.”
Those eyes bored into him for a moment longer, then she pulled a cell phone from her pocket. She punched in several numbers, told whoever answered to bring the colts to Paddock Four, punched out, then rose from her chair. “Show me,” she said, and without waiting to see if Dalton followed, went down the veranda steps and across the side yard.
A test, Dalton guessed, following her up the drive toward the horse barn. He understood and was even encouraged by it. Most would have discounted him right off, either for his lack of experience or his prison record. That she was giving him a chance despite those drawbacks raised her a notch in his regard.
When they walked past the training pen, the woman working the calves reined in and watched them. Mrs. Whitcomb didn’t notice.
Dalton did.
He recognized the rider, even though he was two years older and had seen her only from a distance maybe a half-dozen times since high school, between the time he got out of the army, trained with Kilmer, and his two years at Texas Tech.
Raney Whitcomb. Homecoming queen and head cheerleade
r at Clinton High. A beauty, still. And she had her mother’s intense blue eyes.
He couldn’t remember if she’d ever married. She’d certainly had chances. Boys from every high school in Gunther County had been after her. She’d smiled at him once, but they’d never spoken. Different schools. Opposite sides of the county. She didn’t attend the church his parents favored, and he never saw her at Harley’s Roadhouse dance hall outside Rough Creek, or at any of the other hangouts.
Maybe she thought herself too good for the local boys. Or maybe she was shy. He never knew. Never heard any rumors about her, either, which was odd for a small community that thrived on gossip. Not like her younger sister—Joss, or Jess, or Juicy, as some of the wilder boys called her. He never knew firsthand about that, either. He wondered what it would be like working here with Raney Whitcomb hanging around. Probably wouldn’t matter. She was way above his rank.
When they reached the paddocks on the other side of the barn, a Hispanic man was waving five young colts through the gate into a large, rectangular pasture bordered by more welded, white-painted tube metal fencing. Dalton figured there must be at least two miles of it just in paddocks and pens. He liked the look of it.
Mrs. Whitcomb stopped at the fence. “These are our two- and three-year-olds.” Resting her forearms along the top rail, she watched the colts scatter as they came through the gate. Three immediately dropped their heads to graze, but two others kept going, racing past them along the rails, heads and tails high, hooves flinging up tufts of grass. Running just for the hell of it.
“What do you think?” Mrs. Whitcomb asked, still watching the horses.
“Nice colts.”
“Any standouts?”
Dalton studied them, his gaze moving quickly over the grazers and fixing on the two runners. They were all fine horses—good confirmation, good bone, well muscled through the chest and butt like any top-bred quarter horse should be. But one drew his attention.
Dalton watched him near the far railing at a dead run, tuck and roll back without breaking stride, and knew that was the one he’d want to train. Strong, athletic, fast on his feet, running flat out and happy to leave the others in his dust. He had the potential and the heart. “The big buckskin,” he finally said.
“The three-year-old. Rosco. He’s my favorite, too.” Mrs. Whitcomb sent him a wide, approving smile that told Dalton he’d passed the test.
“How far along is he?” Dalton asked, watching the colt put moves on the other horses, trying to get them to play.
“Far enough to know he’s worth the extra training. He’s been worked on a single cow, learning to mirror the cow’s movements—stop, start, turn, so on. He got it right off. Now he’s ready to start bringing a cow out of the herd, but the trainer who has been working him can no longer do it.” She gave Dalton a long, appraising look. “Want to give him a try?”
A charge of excitement cut through Dalton. “You bet. Yes, ma’am.”
She got out her cell phone again and punched in more numbers. “I’ll have Alejandro, our head wrangler, saddle him and bring him to the arena out back.”
It was a standard arena. Covered, about 120 feet across, enclosed by a five-foot, wire-and-mesquite picket fence. Unpainted, this time. Less distracting. A few minutes later, the same Hispanic guy who had turned the colts out into the pasture led in the saddled buckskin. Mrs. Whitcomb made the introductions, then she and Alejandro left the pen and stood watching at the fence.
Dalton took his time, keeping his movements slow and easy, letting the animal grow accustomed to his scent and voice and touch. Then he gathered the reins and eased into the saddle. He patted Rosco’s neck and talked to him in a low, calm voice, then sat back and sent him into a walk.
Halfway around, he asked the colt to trot, then after a lap, moved him into a lope. When it was time, he rolled him to the right toward the fence and on around in a half-turn spin, then loped him off, all in one continuous, unbroken movement. They made a lap, then repeated the turn to the left. Dalton asked him to do that two more times in each direction, then backed him until he dropped his butt, spun him into a tight right turn, then loped him off, stopped, and backed him onto his haunches again, spun him into a left turn, and rolled him out into a lope. Stop, back up, tuck, spin, and roll out. The horse got it all, smooth as silk, sensitive to the slightest signal. He’d been trained well.
At Mrs. Whitcomb’s nod, Alejandro opened another gate and a cow trotted into the pen. Immediately, the colt tensed, eyes and ears focused on the cow. Dalton could sense the same excitement he felt in his own body running through the young horse. He was definitely ready.
He walked the colt toward the cow, gave him the go-ahead, then sat back and enjoyed the ride as Rosco followed the cow around the pen. He did everything he’d been trained to do, mirroring perfectly the cow’s movements with little or no input from Dalton, staying on point and calm and totally focused on the task. This horse had the makings of a true champion, Dalton decided, and he was determined to be a part of that journey.
“So, what do you think?” Mrs. Whitcomb asked a few minutes later when Dalton handed off the colt to Alejandro.
“I think you should hire me, ma’am. And right away, if you want him ready for the Fort Worth Futurity next fall.”
Mrs. Whitcomb laughed and held out her hand. “Done.”
* * *
* * *
Raney was coming out of the barn after tending her horse, when she saw an unfamiliar dark blue pickup driving out the front gate. Curious, she walked over to where her mother was watching Alejandro and a helper drive the young colts in the paddock pasture back into their stalls.
Alejandro was a longtime and highly valued employee at Four Star. He was a hard worker, unquestionably trustworthy, and had the uncanny ability to notice things in horses that went below the surface. Like a slight shoulder weakness, or a mare being ready to foal, or a young colt favoring one leg.
He was short and stocky and very strong, with black hair and eyes, a broad smile, and a tattoo on his chest that said Amada, which meant “beloved” in Spanish. Raney suspected he’d told both of his ex-wives that he had gotten the tattoo to honor them. Quite the charmer. He had fathered a son by each of his wives and had named both boys Alejandro—numero Uno and numero Dos. He adored both boys and extended that same fatherly protectiveness toward Raney and her sisters. He was part of the family now and she couldn’t have run the ranch without him.
“Who was that?” Raney asked, nodding toward the blue pickup as she joined her mother.
“Dalton Cardwell.”
Raney looked at her in surprise. “Are you sure? The Dalton Cardwell I remember was a lot skinnier. They called him Beanpole.”
Mama chuckled. “He’s certainly no beanpole now. You might consider—”
“Don’t start.” The last thing Raney needed was her mother pimping her out. The man was a criminal, for heaven’s sake.
Laughing, her mother turned and walked toward the house.
Raney fell in beside her. “You know he’s the guy who killed Jim Bob.”
“He told me all about it.” Mama made a dismissive gesture. “It was an accident. And probably as much Jim Bob’s fault as his. I heard the Adkins boy had been drinking and might have been speeding.”
“Says who?”
“Marlene.”
“The hairdresser? That’s your source?”
“She’s great with hair. You said so yourself.”
“Good Lord.”
Raney remembered how shocked she had been when she’d read about the wreck. Even though they went to different high schools, she’d heard Dalton Cardwell was a quiet guy, smarter than most, never causing trouble or drawing attention to himself, except on the football field. She had never talked to him, but she remembered a lot of girls thought he was cute. Which he’d been, in a skinny, awkward sort of way.
A sorry waste of two lives. She never would have thought quiet Dalton Cardwell would be so careless as to cause another person’s death. But then, he had been in the army and had probably seen a lot of death in Iraq. Things like that could change a person. She’d seen it happen.
“What did he want?” Raney asked, following her mother up the veranda steps.
“A job.”
“Doing what?”
“Trainer. Maria, is there any tea left?” Mama called as they sank down into two overstuffed chairs in front of the fireplace. Propping her booted feet next to Raney’s on the ottoman, her mother lifted her shoulder-length hair off the back of her neck. “Lordy, if it’s this hot already, summer will be scorching. I’ll be glad to escape the heat.”
Mama had already planned her escape. A June cruise up to Alaska, a tour of Denali, whale watching in Glacier Bay, watching grizzlies fishing for salmon at Brooks Falls, then down to Puget Sound for an extended visit with friends, followed by a horse-pack trip up and around Mount Rainier. Come September, after Joss’s baby came, she’d be off to Hawaii, then Tahiti, then God knows where. It was a little shocking how eager Mama was to get away from her family. But considering that Joss would be moving back next month, Raney didn’t blame her.
Maria brought tea and sliced avocados and the little cucumber sandwiches Mama loved. They ate in companionable silence. Once she’d cleared her plate and returned it to the tray, Mama sat back with a contented sigh. “I’ll miss those sandwiches.”
