“I better be.”
“Exactly.” Joss picked up her dishes and carried them to the sink. “Nice talk.” With a backward wave, she headed for the door. “By the way,” she called back as she stepped into the hall, “you need bigger T-shirts.”
Definitely not gentle-hearted. Or an airhead. And he did need bigger Ts.
That put an end to Dalton’s midnight kitchen forays. Between his new tasks in the AI program and stepping up Rosco’s training, he fell into bed each night too exhausted to raid refrigerators. But not too exhausted to visit Raney in his dreams.
* * *
June got hotter and time passed faster.
Mama texted that the cruise was amazing, Alaska was beautiful, she’d gained three pounds and had met a lot of fun widowers. Raney could imagine. Now she was visiting friends on an island in Puget Sound before going on her pack trip around Mount Rainier. She was having way too much fun for a woman her age.
Alejandro’s son Uno arrived. He was a handsome boy, heading into puberty, solidly built like his father, and twice as talkative, which wasn’t saying much. He loved horses as much as Dalton did, and was a big help to him around the barn.
Raney spent her days trapped in the office doing paperwork, and her nights staring at the ceiling and thinking about Dalton. She would lie on her bed, watching the slowly rotating overhead fan, and picture him in the room below hers, stretched out on his bed, his body so long, his feet hung over the end.
Did he snore? Did he sleep in pajamas? Did he think about her, too?
Joss continued to expand. Her monthly forty-mile trips to see the obstetrician in Aspenmont increased to every two weeks. Raney could see her excitement build as her mid-September due date approached. But there was worry, too. Would the baby be healthy? What should she name her? Would she be a good mother?
No amount of reassurance reassured her, but Raney kept trying. And while she did, she often caught herself wondering what kind of mother she might make. And whenever she pictured herself with a baby in her arms, Dalton was standing behind her, grinning that goofy, sideways grin she loved.
More money came from Grady Douglas, and with each letter, Joss’s agitation grew. She hated him. She didn’t hate him. She wondered what he was doing, if he thought of her, if he would come to see her, and when. They were a pair, Raney and Joss. Neither of them knew what to do about the men in their lives.
By July, the local cutting shows were in full swing. Rosco couldn’t compete in any of them, or in any show until his November debut at the annual USCHA Futurity in Fort Worth. But he could watch, and exercise in the loping area, and for a small fee, work cows in one of the smaller pens. But mostly, he was there to grow accustomed to all the noise and fanfare of the show ring.
Assuming he handled all that well, in October and early November, Dalton would take him to several two-day pre-works at some of the private cutting horse training facilities around Weatherford and Parker County. That was where the real work began. And the real scrutiny. And the pressure.
Pre-works were the lead-up to the big dance in Fort Worth. Rosco would participate with other debuting horses on a noncompetitive basis—no judges, no prize money, no scoring—but a whole lot of eyeballing going on between Dalton and the other trainers to see what his horse could do compared to what theirs could do. Sort of a horse-trainer pissing contest. These pre-works weren’t open to the public and only the more prominent owners and trainers were invited. Four Star had always been welcome, but since Dalton was new to the circuit, it would be a new experience for both him and Rosco.
Then finally, on November 15th, after months of hard work, Rosco and Dalton would have their make-or-break moment in the arena of the Will Rogers Coliseum and complex in Fort Worth. Just thinking about it made Raney’s stomach flutter.
The USCHA Futurity was a three-week-long event that drew close to a thousand horses, both as competitors for the four million–plus in prize money, or as offerings at the high-stakes auctions that went on throughout the competition. If all went well, Rosco would prove himself to be the outstanding colt they thought he was, Dalton would establish himself as an exceptional trainer, and Raney’s dream of making Whitcomb Four Star into a preeminent cutting horse training and breeding ranch would start to become a reality.
No pressure. None at all.
That was almost four months away. It sounded like a long time, but there was still a lot of work ahead, and not all of it would be done in the arena. Creating advance interest in the colt was important, too, as well as finding ways to boost Dalton’s credibility as a trainer. And nothing could elevate him faster above the other new-to-the-circuit trainers than having a well-respected, successful trainer vouch for him. And Raney knew just whom to call.
Press said he’d be happy to do it, and before Raney could even ask, he offered to attend some of the local pre-works close by his daughter’s place in Oklahoma and give his thoughts on how Rosco and Dalton were doing.
“I expect big things from those two,” he told her. “They got the talent and the drive. They’ll make a great showing in Fort Worth. Probably get offers on Rosco long before you get there, so be prepared. The kid, too. Smart outfit would try to snatch him up soon as they saw how he handled a green horse. Hope you’re ready for that, too.”
Raney wasn’t. The idea of Dalton moving on to a more prestigious position somewhere else was something she didn’t want to think about. He was talented. Gifted, even. And if she
