On a bright Thursday morning in late April, he polished his boots, put on a set of new clothes, knocked the dust off his summer Stetson, then drove through the gate in search of a job. Since there were several fine quarter horse breeding and training outfits nearby, he decided to try locally first. With that in mind, he drove east out of Rough Creek toward the top ranch in the county, Whitcomb Four Star. If he couldn’t sign on there, he’d head on toward Fort Worth, or if necessary, up into Oklahoma.
The Whitcomb place wasn’t the largest ranch in the area, but it had a reputation for breeding fine stock that made decent showings on the Texas and Oklahoma reining and roping circuit. Since he’d returned, Dalton had heard they were expanding to include cutting horses. If so, they might be looking for trainers.
He had ridden in a couple of shows several years ago and had great admiration for the cutting horse. But his real talent lay in understanding the animal and knowing how to bring out the best the horse had to offer. He didn’t follow a set training formula, but relied more on feel and instinct, working each animal according to its temperament, ability, and trainability. He’d been told he had the touch. He wasn’t sure what that was, but he had a fair understanding of how the minds of horses worked, and they always seemed to respond well to him.
He’d never been to Whitcomb Four Star, and as he drove down the long drive, he was impressed by what he saw. He knew that in addition to being a rancher and lawyer, Charlie Whitcomb had been on the board of Texas Gulf Explorations and had strong ties to the TRC—Texas Railroad Commission—the agency that oversaw the oil and gas industry throughout the state. Lots of money there, and before his death a few years back, Whitcomb had apparently made a bundle of it, judging by the investments he’d made in the ranch. It was as fine a place as Dalton had ever seen, even though it was only a medium-sized outfit.
The drive split, the right fork leading to a rambling two-story stone house backing up to Rough Creek, the left continuing on to a series of farm structures.
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.”