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.”
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,
