“I spent a long time believing I wouldn’t be.”
That answer followed Jedediah for the rest of the day.
That evening, rain clouds gathered over the western hills.
The ranch hands ate in the bunkhouse.
Jedediah ate alone.
He had done so for years.
Then someone knocked.
Clara stood outside with a small leather book in one hand.
“You have breeding records from six years ago?”
Jedediah’s expression cooled.
“Why?”
“I want to see Diablo’s bloodline.”
“He came without papers.”
“That doesn’t mean he came without a bloodline.”
“Every horse has one.”
“Exactly.”
She stepped inside without waiting to be invited.
Jedediah stared at her.
“You always walk into houses that aren’t yours?”
“Only when the owner is wasting time.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
Instead he led her into his father’s office.
The room smelled of old paper, leather, and dust.
Amos Cross’s portrait hung above the desk.
Clara stopped when she saw it.
The color vanished from her face.
Jedediah noticed.
“You knew him?”
“No.”
Too quickly.
“Clara.”
“I said no.”
She moved toward the shelves.
Jedediah caught her wrist.
Not hard.
But firmly.
“Don’t lie in my house.”
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then something slipped from Clara’s book and landed on the floor.
A brass watch.
Jedediah bent to retrieve it.
He saw the engraving.
And the world changed.
T.C.
His breath stopped.
He opened the watch.
Inside the lid were words he had not read in six years.
To Thomas, so you’ll never again claim you lost track of time. — J.
Jedediah had engraved them himself.
He looked at Clara.
The room seemed to shrink.
“Where did you get this?”
She said nothing.
“WHERE?”
“My father.”
Jedediah’s fingers curled around the watch.
“Your father stole this off my brother?”
“No.”
“Then how did he get it?”
Clara’s eyes filled with something complicated.
Not fear.
Grief.
“He was there when Thomas died.”
Every sound in the house disappeared.
Jedediah stared at her.
“What was his name?”
She closed her eyes.
“Matthew Vale.”
Jedediah staggered backward.
He knew that name.
Everyone in Silver Springs had known it.
Matthew Vale was the trainer blamed for Thomas Cross’s death.
The man who had disappeared two days after the funeral.
The man Jedediah had spent six years hating.
Clara’s voice was barely audible.
“Whitfield was my mother’s name.”
Jedediah’s expression changed into something she had never seen before.
Pure rage.
“You came here under a false name.”
“My legal name is Clara Whitfield.”
“You knew who I was.”
“Yes.”
“You knew what your father did.”
“I knew what everybody said he did.”
Jedediah crossed the distance between them.
“Get off my ranch.”
“Jedediah—”
“Now.”
“You need to hear me.”
“No.”
“My father never said that mare was ready.”
Jedediah stopped.
Clara continued.
“He said the opposite.”
“Get out.”
“He told your father not to let Thomas mount.”
“Enough.”
“He said something was wrong with her.”
Jedediah slammed his fist onto the desk.
“ENOUGH!”
The lantern flame shivered.
Clara flinched.
Jedediah saw it.
For one instant, shame cut through his fury.
Then Thomas’s broken body returned to his memory.
The dirt.
The blood.
