by Kaki Warner
“They have cucumbers in Alaska.”
“But nobody can make them into sandwiches the way Maria can. Thank you, Maria,” she added when their cook came to clear the plates away. “Delicious, as always.”
Mama always spoke English with their Hispanic employees. She felt it was to everyone’s advantage if they all used the language of the country where they lived. Not very PC, but it made sense to Mama. And the workers didn’t seem to mind.
“I wonder why he decided to come here,” Raney said after Maria left with the tray.
“Who? Dalton?”
First names already. That wasn’t good. “There must be other jobs available.”
“He heard we were branching out into cutting horses. He seemed quite knowledgeable.”
“About our plans to expand?”
“About cutting horses. I think he’ll make a good trainer.”
Raney felt the stirrings of alarm. Surely her mother hadn’t hired him without talking to her? “You’re serious.”
“He knew right off that Rosco was the best of the colts. And he knew exactly what to do when he put the colt through his paces in the big pen.”
“No. Oh, hell no.” Raney’s boots hit the slate floor with a resounding thud. “He’s not training any of my horses.”
“Why not?”
“He’s a convict!”
“Ex-convict. And that doesn’t make him a poor trainer. Have some grace, Raney. Everybody deserves a second chance.”
“He killed a man!”
“Actually, it was Jim Bob who ran into Dalton’s tractor, so in a way, Jim Bob killed himself.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re defending him?”
Her mother frowned at her. “It’s not like you to overact this way. Is there something I don’t know?”
Raney had the insane urge to leap over the ridiculous giant ottoman and strangle her mother.
Oblivious, Mama continued. “He seems like a nice young man. And he has a low opinion of Roy Kilmer, which says a lot about his character. Besides, I know his parents. The Cardwells are good, churchgoing people.”
“I can’t believe this. You would actually go off and leave me and Joss—your pregnant daughter, and a terrible judge of men, I might add—with an ex-con.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ve already spoken to Alejandro. He’ll keep an eye on him. Just give him a chance, darling. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Why are you so taken with a guy you don’t even know?”
“I’m not sure. He just seems right for the job. Maybe a little lost. And you know how I am about strays.”
Raney did. The barn was overrun with cats because of it.
“And he loves horses as much as you do,” Mama went on. “Talk to him when he starts Rosco tomorrow. You’ll see.”
Tomorrow? She’d already hired him?
“And if you’re worried about experience,” Mama added, ignoring Raney’s astonished outrage, “we’ll send him to Preston Amala for training. Press would be just the man to bring him up to snuff since he’s the one who started Rosco’s training.”
God help me. A convict and a half-blind old man so crippled from his years rodeoing and breaking horses he could barely climb into the saddle. Just what Raney needed to make her dream of raising championship horses into a reality. “You’ve already hired him, haven’t you? Without even talking to me. I thought I was supposed to be running the ranch.” Raney could barely keep her voice steady.
Mama heard it and gave her that weary let’s be reasonable smile. “You are, darling. But I’m the majority holder in the trust. Let’s give him until the fall Futurity, then we’ll reevaluate. If you’re still opposed, you can fire him. How’s that?”
Feeling the reins slipping from her grip, Raney tipped her head back and watched the ceiling fan spin lazy circles overhead. It was probably a good thing that Mama would be leaving soon.
CHAPTER 4
The next morning, Raney overslept. Not surprising, since she’d been awake most of the night trying to figure a way to get rid of Dalton Cardwell.
It wasn’t personal. The man might have served his time, but he was still a convicted criminal. Not the kind of worker she wanted representing the ranch on the show circuit. Whitcomb Four Star was a top-run outfit with a reputation for integrity and unquestionable honesty. Hiring felons didn’t fit with that image. And who knows what other dangerous types might show up once word got around that she was hiring ex-cons.
Forgoing a shower, she quickly tossed on the clothes she’d left on the chair the night before, finger-combed her hair and stuffed it under a ball cap, then raced downstairs.
The kitchen was empty. Mama never came down before ten. Maria had left Raney’s usual breakfast on the counter—a chocolate protein drink, a granola bar, and a piece of fruit—this time, a plum. Raney chugged the drink and was starting on the granola bar when she looked out the kitchen window and saw a dark blue pickup parked by the barn.
Shit.
Tossing the half-eaten granola bar onto the counter beside the plum, she slammed out the back door and headed to the barn.
Raney felt bad about what Dalton Cardwell had been through—even if he deserved it—and wasn’t looking forward to turning him out. But Mama had no right to hire him in the first place. She’d tell him sorry, they weren’t hiring right now, and send him on his way. Hopefully he’d be long gone before Mama woke up. Cowardly, maybe. But confrontations with Mama always ended badly for Raney.
Following the sound of a horse whinnying, Raney tracked Dalton Cardwell and Alejandro to the arena behind the barn. They were leaning against the railing, watching Rosco trot around, snorting and whinnying at the other horses in nearby paddocks. Dalton had his head bent to hear what Alejandro was saying. Raney didn’t remember him being so tall. Or so well built. He made Alejandro, who was a foot shorter, look like a kid beside him. She’d seen Dalton ride in a couple of cutting shows after he got out of the army. He’d filled out by then, but was now even bigger. Broader. A man now. Bold and assured. Mama was right: he was definitely not a beanpole. And no longer awkwardly shy, judging by the way he turned to watch her approach. Probably horny after almost two years in prison, Raney thought, growing uncomfortable with the way he continued to stare at her.
Dream on, cowboy.
“Good morning,” she said as she stopped beside them. She gave Dalton a reserved smile. “We never officially met, but I’m—”
“Raney Whitcomb,” he cut in. “I remember. Nice to meet you finally.” He flashed a broad smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
Green eyes, with long, dark lashes. She’d never been close enough to him to notice that. Or his smile.
She forced her mind back on track. “I’m sorry you came all the way out here this morning, but I think there’s been a mistake. We’re not hiring right now.”
His smile faded. “Your mother seemed pretty sure you were.”
“She was wrong.”
“I see.” He turned to Alejandro. “Would now be a good time to tell her that her shirt is on inside out?”
Raney looked down and was shocked to see he was right. Idiot.
Alejandro’s black brows came down in a hard, straight line.
“How do you suppose she got it on?” Dalton continued, ignoring Raney as if she weren’t standing two feet away, listening to every word. “Seems she’d know it was inside out when she tried to button it. Unless it was still buttoned when she slipped it over her head. Maybe she was in such a hurry, she grabbed whatever was on hand so she could rush out here and send me packing before her mother found out.”
Finally, he turned to Raney. Not smiling now. Green eyes no longer crinkling at the corners. Angular jaw so tight a muscle bunched in his cheek. “Is that how it happened, Raney? You wanted me gone before your friends found out you had an ex-con workin
g for you?”
“It’s not like that—”
“Cuidadoso, gringo,” Alejandro warned Dalton. “Ella es tu jefe.”
“Actually, Alejandro, she’s not my boss,” Cardwell said in a friendly tone, eyes still locked on Raney. “Unless she’s the owner of this outfit, of course. Are you the owner of Whitcomb Four Star?” he asked her in a calm, low voice.
“I run it,” she hedged, not wanting to get into all the details of the family trust.
“And doing a damn fine job of it, from what I can see. But it was the owner—your mother, I’m guessing—who hired me. She even had me sign a six-month contract to seal the deal. So, until she tells me otherwise, I’m staying. It would be rude to do otherwise, don’t you think?” That smile again.
It made Raney so mad she didn’t know who she wanted to kick first—this hulking asshat or her mother. Instead, she turned and stomped back to the house.
* * *
* * *
“What’s her problem?” Dalton watched her go, regret already eroding his anger. It was a stupid move, antagonizing a woman he’d have to work with. But he was tired of the sidewise looks and muttered comments and wasn’t about to take it from a woman who’d never ever bothered to speak to him before.
“Culero,” Alejandro muttered.
“I don’t think she’s an asshole,” Dalton argued. “Just too accustomed to getting her own way.”
“I was calling you the asshole, pendejo.”
“Basta ya, amigo. Enough of that, friend.” Dalton grinned and clapped him on the back. “What say we put a bale of hay and some cows in the middle of the arena and see what the colt can do.”
While Alejandro dragged the hay bale into the center of the arena, Dalton put Rosco through an extended warm-up. When he felt the colt was ready, he signaled Alejandro to let in the cows.
They immediately went for the hay and Rosco immediately went for the cows.
Dalton backed him off and sent the colt around several more times until he calmed down, then reined him toward a cow on the outside. Using more lower-leg pressure than rein, he had Rosco peel the cow off from the others and bring her a few yards away. Then to signal the end of the exercise, Dalton put his right hand on the colt’s neck and reined him off into another lap while the young heifer returned to the hay. He did that several times, peeling off cows from both directions, being careful to keep the training session short—maybe thirty minutes—because he wanted to end it with Rosco wanting more, rather than feeling overwhelmed.
Finally, Dalton dismounted, scratched Rosco behind his ears, massaged the crest of his neck, gave him a pat, and turned him over to Chuey, the Hispanic worker waiting to take the colt back to his stall. Then Dalton walked over to where Alejandro stood watching, his arms resting along the top of the fence.
“How’d I do?” he asked, knowing Alejandro had stayed to watch so he could report Dalton’s every move to his employer. Or employers. Despite what he’d said to Raney, Dalton still wasn’t sure whom he answered to. Or for how long.
“Better than most, gringo. But not as good as me.” Alejandro’s grudging smile told Dalton he had passed another test.
“I won’t argue that,” Dalton said. “He’s a fine colt. Smart. But easily bored. We should keep his training sessions short and varied.”
If Alejandro objected to his use of “we” he didn’t show it. Which Dalton took as a good sign. He didn’t want to have to fight both Alejandro and Raney. He just wanted to do his job and bring out the best in a promising young horse.
“Who was his other trainer?” Dalton asked as they walked over to where another colt was saddled and waiting for his workout.
“Amala,” Alejandro said. “Press Amala. He was once a big-time roper.”
“I remember the name. Heard he has a bad hip from his roping and rodeoing days. Never saw him ride, but everyone says he has a hell of a touch with horses.”
“He does.” Alejandro looked over at him. “As do you.”
Dalton was too pleased to respond.
They worked together through the morning, and Dalton’s respect for Alejandro grew when he saw how well the horses responded to his gentle handling. He was able to point out the weaknesses and strengths of each animal and showed Dalton different approaches to problem areas. By noon, Alejandro had taught him more in just a few hours than Dalton had learned in months with Roy Kilmer.
At the sound of the lunch gong, Alejandro led Dalton to the ranch building beside the hay barn. It was two stories and bigger than Dalton had first thought. The ground floor held the ranch offices and breeding facilities for the bulls in the paddocks out back. The second floor housed the unmarried ranch hands, except for Foreman Hicks, who had his own little house near the main gate. In the upstairs was a kitchen with a long table down the middle, a bathroom with two stalls and showers, and a large dormitory room across the back, divided into four cubicles, each with a small window, bed, and locker. Nothing fancy, but nice enough. Definitely better than a prison cell or a dirt hut in Iraq.
Other than Alejandro, who slept somewhere else, there were two other men living in the bunkhouse who worked the cattle and helped where needed. Chuey and Harvey, an old, bald white guy sporting a bushy white mustache and a nose sharp enough to split kindling. The two married workers lived with their families in a duplex past the ranch buildings that was surrounded by a white-fenced yard full of toys and kids. A close-knit group, very friendly and hard-working.
Alejandro showed Dalton to the end cubicle in the dormitory, told him he could bunk there, then took him back to the kitchen, where they joined Chuey and Harvey, who were putting together sandwiches.
Breakfast was buffet-style, prepared by the two wives of the married workers. Las esposas, Alejandro called them, a mark of respect, and to make it clear they were married and off-limits. Lunch was make-it-yourself from sandwich fixings or whatever was cooking on the back burner. Supper was sit-down at the kitchen table.
He and Alejandro ate their sandwiches in silence, then went back to the round pen and worked more colts.
It was a long but good day. Dalton was encouraged by the quality of the horses he’d be handling and the men he’d be working with. Being outside and doing something constructive was a pleasant change, and as the day wore on, some of the wary restlessness he’d battled in prison began to fade. By the time the supper bell sounded he was ravenous.
The kitchen table was already crowded when Dalton and Alejandro arrived, but two more chairs were scrounged and space was made. The food was tasty and plentiful, and Dalton had enough Spanish to get the gist of the conversation going on around him.
Mostly, it was speculation about him, his prison record, his spotty experience, and why he wasn’t eating at the main house like most trainers did. Dalton didn’t participate, but finished as fast as he could, thanked the cooks, and escaped to get his old army duffel from the truck.
A familiar sense of alienation crept over him. After living with dozens of soldiers in a hostile foreign country, and later, with over a thousand inmates behind windowless walls, and now in a houseful of people who spoke a different language—Harvey never spoke at all, so Dalton didn’t know what language he spoke—he should have become accustomed to feeling isolated. Yet it still bothered him. He wondered if it would always be like that, or if someday he might be able to carve out a place for himself and feel that sense of belonging again.
“Evening,” a voice called.
Dalton turned and saw Hicks walking toward him. He couldn’t tell if the foreman was bringing bad news or not. The guy never seemed to change expression.
“Mrs. Coralee was wondering why you didn’t come down to the house for supper.”
“Didn’t know I was supposed to.”
“Trainers and foremen eat supper at the main house. Alejandro knows that. Probably funning you. Food’s pretty much the sam
e as what you’d get at the bunkhouse since the cooks are the same, but it makes the owners feel democratic to have a few workers at their table.”
“I doubt her daughter wants me there.”
That almost-smile. “Sounds like you met her already. Kind of protective about her horses, Raney is. Wants things done her way. Bear with her. If you’re good for the ranch, she’ll put up with you. Even if she hates you.”
“Sounds fun,” Dalton said. And in an odd way, it did.
* * *
* * *
“Why did you have to put him on contract?” Raney demanded the following afternoon—the first time she’d seen Mama since talking to Dalton Cardwell the previous day.
After leaving him and Alejandro by the paddocks, she had spent most of the rest of Friday in Gunther with their accountant and lawyer, finalizing the changes necessary now that she had officially taken over management of the ranch. She’d gotten home late to a cold supper, and this morning had overslept again. By the time she got up, her mother had already left for her Saturday beauty parlor and shopping trip. Mama could be slippery as an eel when she put her mind to it.
But now, Raney had finally cornered her at her dressing table in between wardrobe changes, and she was determined to get some answers before her mother could escape again to some meeting, or church do, or another hot evening with the menopause set. “Not even Hicks has a contract.”
“Nor does Alejandro,” Mama argued. “They’re family. And I didn’t have to, I chose to. I thought we were through arguing about this, Raney. Do you like the way Marlene feathered my bangs? They seem a bit long to me.”
“Plus, you’re giving him room and board? Is that really necessary?”
Mama put down her brush and swiveled on the stool to frown at Raney. “Of course it’s necessary. Trainers are valued employees. The top ones get houses, trucks, a hefty salary plus expenses, and a cut of the winnings. Anyway, the Cardwells are moving to Plainview. Dalton has no place to stay.”
