He Hired the Woman Who Could Touch the Devil Horse. By Sundown, She Had Unearthed the Lie That Killed His Brother.
The first time Jedediah Cross saw the young woman ride into his yard,
he nearly told her to turn around before her horse had stopped moving.
He had fired better-looking trainers than her.
Men with famous names.
Men carrying silver-mounted saddles, expensive boots, and letters of recommendation signed by ranchers whose herds stretched from one horizon to the other.
One had lasted three hours.
Another had lasted twenty minutes.
One unfortunate fellow had been dismissed before he finished unloading his gear.
For six years, Silver Springs had agreed on one thing.
Jedediah Cross was impossible to work for.
Then the woman arrived riding a half-broken dun mustang, looked across the ranch at the most dangerous stallion in three counties, and quietly asked,
“That the horse everyone’s afraid of?”
Jedediah’s expression hardened.
“Nobody’s afraid of him.”
From inside the reinforced corral, the black stallion slammed both hind hooves into the fence.
The entire rail shook.
Dust jumped from the ground.
The woman glanced at Jedediah.
“Of course not.”
A ranch hand coughed into his fist to hide a laugh.
Jedediah looked at him once.
The laughter died immediately.
Then he returned his attention to the stranger.
She was perhaps twenty-five.
Maybe twenty-seven.
Sun had browned her skin, and strands of chestnut hair had escaped the loose braid down her back.
Her boots were scuffed nearly white at the toes.
Her coat had been repaired at one elbow with thread that did not quite match.
Nothing about her suggested greatness.
Except her eyes.
They were steady.
Not fearless.
Jedediah had learned long ago that fearless people were usually fools.
Her eyes belonged to someone who understood fear and had simply decided it did not deserve the final word.
“What’s your name?”
“Clara Whitfield.”
“You train mustangs?”
“Since I was fourteen.”
“For who?”
“My father first.
Then anyone willing to pay.”
Jedediah nodded toward the black stallion.
“You expect me to believe you can handle Diablo?”
“No.”
That caught him.
Clara dismounted.
Her mustang stood without being tied.
“I expect him to decide.”
Inside the corral, Diablo threw his head and struck the ground.
Eight months.
That was how long Jedediah had owned him.
Eight months of shattered boards, torn ropes, crushed buckets, and blood.
Diablo had sent two men to the doctor.
Jedediah himself carried a pale scar from wrist to elbow where the stallion had driven him against a gate.
Three previous owners had called the animal vicious.
Unmanageable.
Mad.
Jedediah had purchased him anyway.
Because beneath the rage he had recognized something.
Distrust.
And Jedediah Cross understood distrust better than most men understood prayer.
“You go in there,” Jedediah said, “he could kill you.”
Clara studied the stallion.
“He could.”
“And?”
She removed her gloves.
“Frightening me isn’t going to make him less frightened.”
Jedediah’s jaw tightened.
“He isn’t frightened.”
Clara looked directly at him.
“Then neither are you.”
Something cold moved through his chest.
“Don’t pretend you know me.”
“I was talking about the horse.”
Then she walked toward the gate.
Jedediah caught her arm.
“No.”
Clara looked at his hand.
