Then he set to work.
He spent the next few weeks helping his parents prepare for their move to Plainview, packing up his and Timmy’s stuff and dealing with ranch issues. They donated the older horses and extra tack to the local 4-H, found deserving homes for the working horses, and auctioned off the cattle to the local slaughterhouse. After dumping the usable ranch equipment at fire-sale prices, they called in the scrap metal dealer to cart off what was left.
Timmy took the sale of the tractor harder than the loss of his home, but after Dalton let him drive it around the north pasture for what seemed like half a day, he climbed off, gave the oversized rear tire a pat, whispered a tearful good-bye, and waved it out the gate.
Luckily, his parents had already started packing up their personal and household belongings, so Dalton focused on the tools and equipment. After a month of culling and sorting, they were down to items they would keep, those they would sell, and a dozen trips to the dump. Dalton was amazed at the stuff a family could accumulate and resolved to keep his own life unburdened by things he didn’t use or need.
On a bright Thursday morning in late April, he polished his boots, put on a set of new clothes, knocked the dust off his summer Stetson, then drove through the gate in search of a job. Since there were several fine quarter horse breeding and training outfits nearby, he decided to try locally first. With that in mind, he drove east out of Rough Creek toward the top ranch in the county, Whitcomb Four Star. If he couldn’t sign on there, he’d head on toward Fort Worth, or if necessary, up into Oklahoma.
The Whitcomb place wasn’t the largest ranch in the area, but it had a reputation for breeding fine stock that made decent showings on the Texas and Oklahoma reining and roping circuit. Since he’d returned, Dalton had heard they were expanding to include cutting horses. If so, they might be looking for trainers.
He had ridden in a couple of shows several years ago and had great admiration for the cutting horse. But his real talent lay in understanding the animal and knowing how to bring out the best the horse had to offer. He didn’t follow a set training formula, but relied more on feel and instinct, working each animal according to its temperament, ability, and trainability. He’d been told he had the touch. He wasn’t sure what that was, but he had a fair understanding of how the minds of horses worked, and they always seemed to respond well to him.
He’d never been to Whitcomb Four Star, and as he drove down the long drive, he was impressed by what he saw. He knew that in addition to being a rancher and lawyer, Charlie Whitcomb had been on the board of Texas Gulf Explorations and had strong ties to the TRC—Texas Railroad Commission—the agency that oversaw the oil and gas industry throughout the state. Lots of money there, and before his death a few years back, Whitcomb had apparently made a bundle of it, judging by the investments he’d made in the ranch. It was as fine a place as Dalton had ever seen, even though it was only a medium-sized outfit.
The drive split, the right fork leading to a rambling two-story stone house backing up to Rough Creek, the left continuing on to a series of farm structures.
The first was a long stone horse barn, with a large, covered arena out back, a round training pen attached to one side and paddocks jutting out on the other. All the fencing was white-painted, welded metal rails. A hundred yards farther up the drive, rose an open-sided hay barn next to a two-story building with windows above, more stalls below, and loading chutes out back that led to several stout metal-fenced paddocks holding blocky Angus bulls. And in the distance, behind another white fence, stood a rambling house that looked to be housing for the ranch workers.
Dalton drove past the round pen and pulled in by the stone barn. As he climbed out of the truck, a lanky middle-aged man in a flannel shirt, jeans, and dusty Stetson came to meet him. Dalton recognized him from the few quarter horse shows he’d entered: Glenn Hicks, foreman of Four Star. A good man, but not much of a talker.
“Morning, Mr. Hicks.” Dalton held out his hand. “Doubt you remember—”
“Dalton Cardwell. Yeah, I remember.” He didn’t smile, but then, Dalton had rarely seen him do so.
He shook Dalton’s hand, let it go, and stepped back. “When’d you get out?”
Dalton wondered how many more times he’d have to answer that question. “Last month.”
“Looking for work, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Doing what?”
“Horse trainer. Heard you were expanding.”
Hicks thought about that. “Got any experience with cutting horses?”
Dalton listed the shows he’d been in, whom he’d ridden for, and how he’d finished. Which was decent, considering the horses he’d been riding.
“Alls we got now are two- and three-year-olds,” Hicks told him. “You any good with ground work?”
“Yes, sir. Gives me a chance to know the horse before starting the hard training.”
Hicks thought that over, too. Finally, he nodded. “Go on up to the house, then. Back door. Ask for Mrs. Coralee. You get her okay, then you’ll need to get past her daughter Raney. And good luck with that.” The foreman almost smiled when he said those last words. It wasn’t an encouraging expression.
After thanking him, Dalton walked back up the drive he’d just driven down. As he passed the round training pen, he
