On the second day she carried hay inside and left without trying to touch him.
On the third, Diablo approached her shoulder.
On the fourth, Clara slipped a rope halter over his head.
Jedediah watched from the barn doorway.
“You’re moving too fast.”
Clara didn’t turn.
“I haven’t asked him to do anything.”
“You put a halter on him.”
“He put his head into it.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No.”
Her fingers loosened the rope.
“It isn’t.”
Jedediah walked closer.
Clara’s gaze fell to his boots.
“Stop.”
He froze.
“What?”
“Take one step backward.”
“Why?”
“Because every time you come closer, his breathing changes.”
Jedediah looked at Diablo.
The stallion’s muscles had tightened.
“He’s watching you.”
“He watches everybody.”
“No.”
Clara’s expression changed.
“He watches you differently.”
Jedediah stepped back despite himself.
Diablo exhaled.
Clara noticed.
So did he.
“What does that mean?”
Jedediah asked.
“I don’t know yet.”
He disliked those words.
Yet.
They suggested she intended to find out.
The first real argument came two mornings later.
Clara found scars beneath Diablo’s mane.
Thin parallel lines.
Old.
Almost invisible unless one knew where to look.
She called Jedediah over.
“See these?”
He leaned closer.
“Rope burns?”
“No.”
Clara traced the air above them without touching.
“A narrow strap.
Maybe braided rawhide.”
Jedediah frowned.
“For what?”
“To hurt him where nobody would see.”
His face hardened.
“You saying one of my men did that?”
“I’m saying somebody did.”
“Before he came here.”
“Maybe.”
He heard what she did not say.
Maybe not.
“Careful, Miss Whitfield.”
Clara straightened.
“I am careful.”
“You’re making accusations about my ranch.”
“No.
I’m looking at scars.”
“I know every man working this place.”
“Do you?”
Jedediah’s eyes sharpened.
Before he could answer, a voice sounded behind them.
“Trouble?”
Silas Rourke approached from the tack room.
He had worked for Cross Ranch since before Thomas died.
Tall, gray at the temples, with a quiet voice and a reputation for never losing his temper, Silas had become the nearest thing Jedediah possessed to family.
After Amos Cross died, Silas had stood beside Jedediah at the grave.
When ranch hands quit, Silas stayed.
When drought nearly destroyed them, Silas stayed.
When Jedediah woke screaming after dreaming about Thomas, Silas was sometimes the man sitting in the kitchen before dawn, pouring coffee and pretending he had heard nothing.
Jedediah trusted him.
Perhaps more than he trusted himself.
Clara pointed to the marks.
“Have you seen scars like those?”
Silas barely looked.
“Plenty.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Where?”
“Bad ranches.”
“Anything else?”
“People do cruel things to horses.”
He met Jedediah’s gaze.
“Always have.”
Then Silas smiled slightly at Clara.
“If you’ve got Diablo standing still long enough to inspect him, Miss Whitfield, you’re doing better than the rest.”
He walked away.
Clara watched him.
“What?”
Jedediah asked.
“Nothing.”
“Say it.”
She hesitated.
“He didn’t need to look twice.”
“He’s been around horses forty years.”
“So was my father.”
Something in her voice made Jedediah turn.
“You don’t talk about him much.”
“There isn’t much worth saying.”
“He dead?”
“Last winter.”
Jedediah studied her.
“Sorry.”
Clara looked toward Diablo.
