LITMIR.BIZ

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His dusty cowboy clothes hid a lot more than they revealed. “Maybe,” she said. “You just never know, do you?”

      “No, ma’am, you don’t.” He eased his empty bowl away from him. “That was delicious, except for the wine I threw all over myself. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll make sure Tex is comfortable, stop by and visit with Black Jack for a moment and then I’ll be off to bed.”

      Chapter Three

      Stephanie swatted away the small furry creature that licked her face with a barbed-wire tongue. It took several moments to realize that a black cat was in her bed and demanding that she wake up. Pushing the cat away, she tried to sink back into a dream where a handsome cowboy walked through her barn and straight into her arms.

      It took another moment to remember that Familiar was her houseguest.

      She reached out to stroke Familiar’s head. A soft chuckle escaped as she thought back through the events of the day before. The cat had really done a number on Rupert Casper. Familiar’s “gift” to Black Jack’s owner had been purr-fect. She kissed the top of Familiar’s head and earned another sandpaper lick.

      Too bad Black Jack was such a tough case. She sensed the horse’s fear. He lashed out at humans because he’d been hurt, and hurt badly. Some horses could be “broken” by cruelty, punishment and pain. Others, like Black Jack, died fighting mistreatment. The question was, could she bring Black Jack back from the brink of self-destruction? She wanted to show him that humans could be kind and loving and a true partner. But would he accept that after the abuse he’d received?

      As much as she hated the idea, she might have to confront Rupert Casper about what, exactly, he’d done to the horse. That knowledge would figure prominently in how she approached Black Jack.

      With the memory of the stallion’s bad behavior came thoughts of Johnny Kreel. She’d hired a cowboy. Johnny wasn’t some phantom. He was flesh and blood, a handsome man who’d infiltrated her dreams.

      She groaned and rolled over, cracking one eye open to find dawn breaking in the east.

      “It’s not even light outside,” she complained to the cat. But Familiar had done a thorough job of waking her. She threw back the covers and put her feet on the chilly floor.

      It was only October, but the mornings were cold. She found clean socks, jeans and her boots. From the dresser she pulled out a thick shirt and slipped it on. Feeding the stock was the first order of business.

      Grabbing a jacket, she stepped out the back door into the crisp morning. In the distance the Black Hills rose from the flatland, a symbol of many things Stephanie loved. Her grandfather had been Oglala Sioux, and her ranch was named for him. Running Horse. He’d been legendary as a “gentler,” a man who preferred the company of his horses to that of humans.

      After the death of his wife, Running Horse had lived alone on a small ranch with his horses. His reputation had spread far and wide, and people drove from all over the continent to bring him horses.

      They brought him the rank horses, the ones that no amount of training or abuse could break. Stephanie had never seen him agitated for a single moment. He studied each animal and learned the horse’s secret wounds. Then he began the process of listening and building trust.

      Stephanie had spent her summers following behind him like the most loyal of dogs. His days had been long, but Stephanie was never bored. She watched him work, listening to him talk about this horse’s spirit or that horse’s past experiences.

      Not one single time had she ever complained of tiredness or hunger. Grandfather Running Horse and the privilege of sharing his work was all she needed.

      Until she turned thirteen. Her life had unraveled then. The grandfather she adored was killed in a farming accident.

      Stephanie’s parents, both more interested in humanitarian efforts than money, couldn’t afford to keep up the ranch, so it had been sold. Five years later, they died in a cholera epidemic in Africa. The tradition of horse gentling had almost died with Running Horse—until Stephanie decided to try her hand at it.

      As Stephanie walked across the yard to the barn, she felt her grandfather’s presence with her. She often felt him close by. In the long days since her fiancé had disappeared into the Central American jungles in a tragic plane crash, her grandfather’s spirit had sustained her.

      And he was with her now.

      She heard the sound of hoofbeats and hurried into the barn. Tex and Layla peeked out of their stalls. Each gave a throaty greeting.

      “In a minute,” she said as she walked by. First she had to see who was running, and why. Concern drove her to pick up speed.

      She burst out of the barn and stopped in her tracks. In the round pen, Black Jack was moving at an extended trot. Muscles rippled beneath his glossy hide, and she was struck by the sheer beauty of the horse’s movement. His grace and balance were exquisite.

      In the center of the round pen was Johnny Kreel. He held a soft cotton rope in his hand, sometimes slapping it lightly against his leg when Black Jack slowed.

      Stepping forward, he turned a shoulder to the horse and Black Jack stopped. His flowing mane settled on his neck and he snorted, a wary eye on Johnny’s every move.

      “Reverse,” Johnny said crisply. He stepped forward, shifting his position again. The horse did an about-face and began to trot around the edge of the round pen in the opposite direction. Johnny moved back to the center and continued shifting so that he constantly faced the horse.

      It all went as smooth as clockwork.

      Stephanie walked to the round pen and put her boot on the rail. “Well done,” she said softly. She didn’t want to distract Johnny from his total focus on Black Jack.

      “He understands what I tell him.”

      “I’ve never doubted his intelligence,” Stephanie said. “I just wonder if he can overcome the way Rupert Casper handled him. From the stories I heard, it was pretty brutal.”

      “He can leave it behind,” Johnny said. “That’s our job—to see that he does.”

      She’d tried to block out Black Jack’s future, but now she confronted it. “And once we straighten him out, he’ll go back to Rupert Casper.”

      Johnny signaled the horse to whoa. Black Jack slowed to a walk and then stopped. He stood perfectly still as Johnny walked to Stephanie.

      “Maybe not. Life is peculiar. Sometimes a horse ends up where he needs to be.”

      Stephanie wished that were true. “I can’t afford to buy Black Jack, even if Rupert would consider selling him, which he won’t. Black Jack is a high-dollar horse.”

      “He’s not worth much if Rupert Casper can’t ride him,” Johnny pointed out as he vaulted over the rail and stood beside her.

      “You heard Rupert. He’ll see the horse dead before he lets anyone else ride him. That’s the kind of man he is.”

      Johnny wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Let’s see how far we get with Black Jack before we predict the future. Or maybe, as the folks in town say, you’ve got a crystal ball in the house. And a boiling kettle and a broom that flies.”

      Stephanie couldn’t stop the frown. “Folks in town been talking about me, have they?”

      “Folks don’t mean harm,” Johnny said. “Their lives are boring and they think yours isn’t.”

      “I think they should mind their own business. But for your information, I don’t practice witchcraft or black magic. Now I’ve got to feed the horses and you should see what you can do with Moon Stinger and Dolly’s Rocker. They’re both in the barn and both need some work.”

      “I’ll take care of it,” he said.

      She left him at the round pen and continued with her morning

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