Dalton was saved from more small talk by the arrival of Maria. After setting a tray bearing two frosted glasses, a pitcher of iced tea, and a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the oversized footstool, she accepted Mrs. Whitcomb’s thanks, nodded to Dalton, and left.
Mrs. Whitcomb poured the tea, offered Dalton the plate of cookies, which he declined although they were his favorite, then she sat back and eyed him over her glass of iced tea. “Tell me about the wreck.”
Startled by the abruptness of the question, Dalton was slow to respond. Aware of that sharp gaze, he opted for the simple version. “It was late. I was tired and not paying attention. When I started across the road, a car ran into the side of my tractor. The driver died instantly.”
“Jim Bob Adkins.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Silence. Those eyes seemed to drill into him like two sharpened pieces of ice.
“I heard he’d been drinking,” she finally said. “And was speeding.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Yet you took full blame.”
“I was at fault. I pulled onto the road without looking.”
“A shared fault, I think. But I appreciate your honesty.” She set her glass down on the tray then sat back again, ready for business. “While you were on your way to the house, Glenn called. He said you were looking for work as a horse trainer.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Have you any experience?”
“Some. After the army, I trained for a while with Roy Kilmer. Rode for him in a few local shows back in 2013.”
“How’d you do?”
“’Bout as you’d expect on soured horses.”
Her brows rose in that silent way women have of expressing disapproval without risking confrontation. “You’re blaming the horses?”
“No, ma’am. Kilmer worked them too hard. I told him so and he fired me.” Fearing that might not sit well, either, Dalton added, “I may not have a lot of show experience, Mrs. Whitcomb, but I’m good at ground work and I understand horses. How to get the best out of them. When to push and when to back off. If the talent’s there, I can find it and make it shine.”
Those eyes bored into him for a moment longer, then she pulled a cell phone from her pocket. She punched in several numbers, told whoever answered to bring the colts to Paddock Four, punched out, then rose from her chair. “Show me,” she said, and without waiting to see if Dalton followed, went down the veranda steps and across the side yard.
A test, Dalton guessed, following her up the drive toward the horse barn. He understood and was even encouraged by it. Most would have discounted him right off, either for his lack of experience or his prison record. That she was giving him a chance despite those drawbacks raised her a notch in his regard.
When they walked past the training pen, the woman working the calves reined in and watched them. Mrs. Whitcomb didn’t notice.
Dalton did.
He recognized the rider, even though he was two years older and had seen her only from a distance maybe a half-dozen times since high school, between the time he got out of the army, trained with Kilmer, and his two years at Texas Tech.
Raney Whitcomb. Homecoming queen and head cheerleader at Clinton High. A beauty, still. And she had her mother’s intense blue eyes.
He couldn’t remember if she’d ever married. She’d certainly had chances. Boys from every high school in Gunther County had been after her. She’d smiled at him once, but they’d never spoken. Different schools. Opposite sides of the county. She didn’t attend the church his parents favored, and he never saw her at Harley’s Roadhouse dance hall outside Rough Creek, or at any of the other hangouts.
Maybe she thought herself too good for the local boys. Or maybe she was shy. He never knew. Never heard any rumors about her, either, which was odd for a small community that thrived on gossip. Not like her younger sister—Joss, or Jess, or Juicy, as some of the wilder boys called her. He never knew firsthand about that, either. He wondered what it would be like working here with Raney Whitcomb hanging around. Probably wouldn’t matter. She was way above his rank.
When they reached the paddocks on the other side of the barn, a Hispanic man was waving five young colts through the gate into a large, rectangular pasture bordered by more welded, white-painted tube metal fencing. Dalton figured there must be at least two miles of it just in paddocks and pens. He liked the look of it.
Mrs. Whitcomb stopped at the fence. “These are our two- and three-year-olds.” Resting her forearms along the top rail, she watched the colts scatter as they came through the gate. Three immediately dropped their heads to graze, but two others kept going, racing past them along the rails, heads and tails high, hooves flinging up tufts of grass. Running just for the hell of it.
“What do you think?” Mrs. Whitcomb asked, still watching the horses.
“Nice colts.”
“Any standouts?”
Dalton studied them, his gaze moving quickly over the grazers and fixing on the two runners. They were all fine horses—good confirmation, good bone, well muscled through the chest and butt like any top-bred quarter horse should be. But one drew his attention.
Dalton watched him near the far railing at a dead run, tuck and roll back without breaking stride, and knew that was the one he’d want to train. Strong, athletic, fast on his feet, running flat out and happy to leave the others in his dust. He had the potential and the heart. “The big buckskin,” he finally said.
“The three-year-old. Rosco. He’s my favorite, too.” Mrs. Whitcomb sent him a wide, approving smile that told Dalton he’d passed the test.
“How far along is he?” Dalton asked, watching the colt put moves on the other horses, trying to get them to play.
“Far enough to know he’s worth the extra training. He’s been worked on a single cow, learning to mirror the cow’s movements—stop, start, turn, so on. He got it right off. Now he’s ready to start bringing a cow out of the herd, but the trainer who has been working him can no longer do it.” She gave Dalton a long, appraising look. “Want to give him a try?”
A charge of excitement cut through Dalton. “You bet. Yes, ma’am.”
She got out her cell phone again and punched in more numbers. “I’ll have Alejandro, our head wrangler, saddle him and bring him to the arena out back.”
It was a standard arena. Covered, about 120 feet across, enclosed by a five-foot, wire-and-mesquite picket fence. Unpainted, this time. Less distracting. A few minutes later, the same Hispanic guy who had turned the colts out into the pasture led in the saddled buckskin. Mrs. Whitcomb made the introductions, then she and Alejandro left the pen and stood watching at the fence.