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.
Dalton took his time, keeping his movements slow and easy, letting the animal grow accustomed to his scent and voice and touch. Then he gathered the reins and eased into the saddle. He patted Rosco’s neck and talked to him in a low, calm voice, then sat back and sent him into a walk.
Halfway around, he asked the colt to trot, then after a lap, moved him into a lope. When it was time, he rolled him to the right toward the fence and on around in a half-turn spin, then loped him off, all in one continuous, unbroken movement. They made a lap, then repeated the turn to the left. Dalton asked him to do that two more times in each direction, then backed him until he dropped his butt, spun him into a tight right turn, then loped him off, stopped, and backed him onto his haunches again, spun him into a left turn, and rolled him out into a lope. Stop, back up, tuck, spin, and roll out. The horse got it all, smooth as silk, sensitive to the slightest signal. He’d been trained well.
At Mrs. Whitcomb’s nod, Alejandro opened another gate and a cow trotted into the pen. Immediately, the colt tensed, eyes and ears focused on the cow. Dalton could sense the same excitement he felt in his own body running through the young horse. He was definitely ready.
He walked the colt toward the cow, gave him the go-ahead, then sat back and enjoyed the ride as Rosco followed the cow around the pen. He did everything he’d been trained to do, mirroring perfectly the cow’s movements with little or no input from Dalton, staying on point and calm and totally focused on the task. This horse had the makings of a true champion, Dalton decided, and he was determined to be a part of that journey.
“So, what do you think?” Mrs. Whitcomb asked a few minutes later when Dalton handed off the colt to Alejandro.
“I think you should hire me, ma’am. And right away, if you want him ready for the Fort Worth Futurity next fall.”
Mrs. Whitcomb laughed and held out her hand. “Done.”
* * *
Raney was coming out of the barn after tending her horse, when she saw an unfamiliar dark blue pickup driving out the front gate. Curious, she walked over to where her mother was watching Alejandro and a helper drive the young colts in the paddock pasture back into their stalls.
Alejandro was a longtime and highly valued employee at Four Star. He was a hard worker, unquestionably trustworthy, and had the uncanny ability to notice things in horses that went below the surface. Like a slight shoulder weakness, or a mare being ready to foal, or a young colt favoring one leg.
He was short and stocky and very strong, with black hair
