“Lilly, who let you have the truck?” Blake called to his pretty cousin. Hank and Fiona’s first born child has a lot of sass but a good heart.
“Pa asked me to go into town for him. Ma needed supplies and you know he doesn’t like driving this thing.” Lilly laughed and Blake shook his head. Hank Ballard definitely preferred driving his team and big wagon to the farm truck.
“That’s ‘cause he doesn’t fit in the cabin,” Clay laughed. “A man his size doesn’t like a roof that close over his head.”
“I’ll tell him you said that,” Lilly laughed. After Mary Bridgette, Lilly was closest cousin in age to Blake and they were often shooting barbs at each other good naturedly. “Now if you two will excuse me. I have a delivery to make.” Lilly released the gears on the truck and bounced on down the road toward the ranch that sprawled across the prairie.
“Is that girl afraid of anything?” Clay asked.
“Not that I’ve seen,” Blake said. “The students at the school like her, but they don’t give her much trouble either. Maybe they’re scared of her.”
Clayton chuckled. “I’m going to put a few more miles on this horse today,” he said, smoothing the silver streaks near his ears. “We have a good crop of animals this year and sales should be good. Don’t forget, I want you to pick your mount before you go this fall, as well,” he added meeting his son’s eyes.
“I will.” Blake didn’t say more. They’d been over this subject so many times already. His father wanted him to stay on the Broken J and raise horses not join the academy and become a policeman in Casper. They’d talked the topic to exhaustion and Blake knew it was as much the pain he was causing his mother by leaving, as anything else, that made his father’s lips turn down. Together they had gone through every reason Blake shouldn’t go, at least a dozen times, but neither Meg nor Clay had forbidden Blake from going, and he knew he had to follow his own calling.
“Blake,” Clay called back over his shoulder as his horse stepped out, “Blake?”
His father’s voice rolled over the young man trying to get his attention. He had been behind the drag all day and didn’t want his thoughts to turn to their disagreement. “Blake?”
***
His father’s voice echoed in his brain and Blake struggled back to consciousness. His sleeve was still snagged on the saddle horn and his arm was pressed painfully between his body and the hard leather swells and his head spun as Blake came back to the present.
The horse sidled under a thick grove of pines, cropping grass as it ducked beneath a limb that scraped painfully across Blake’s back. The sharp, gouging pain of small branches sharpened Blake’s mind, and he struggled to understand where he was or what had happened. His dream had been so vivid he could still hear the echoes of his father’s voice in his mind.
The lean young cowboy tried to shake his head but the world spun, and he scrambled to grasp the saddle horn to keep from slipping from his mount’s back. The big horse simply huffed, cropping at the sparse grass amidst the trees. It had been well trained to stay calm, and Blake was thankful for his father’s efforts with the beast.
Still holding tight to the saddle, Blake touched his head bringing his fingers away damp and sticky, as the acrid tang of blood wafted to his nostrils, and he realized he must have been shot.
Gingerly pulling the reins into one hand, Blake closed his eyes against the wave of dizziness and nausea that slammed into him, forcing him to lower his face to the horse’s neck.
“Whoa,” he groaned and the big roan flicked its ears toward him. The horse, his father had handpicked for him, lifted its head testing the air and Blake tensed. Could whoever had shot him be searching for him even now? Easing the big horse down the hill toward the wide prairie below, Blake thought about his predicament. He could head toward Laramie, the nearest city or push north toward Cheyenne; his enemies would expect him to head to the nearest town and may be waiting for him to appear in the city at the bottom of the mountain.
Head still spinning the young lawman aimed his horse toward the top of the high prairie and the old trails leading to Cheyenne, at least he knew he would be able to find help in the capital of Wyoming.
Nausea rolled through him again, but years of working cattle and long hours in the saddle kept Blake upright as he headed toward safety. He was alone in the high prairie, pursued by those that he had been tracking for months and uncertain if anyone would ever find him if he fell to the head wound still dripping blood onto the shoulder of his winter coat. Only God could see him through this trial and his heart fluttered with that hope.
Chapter 2
Cheyenne Wyoming 1924
Blake blinked his eyes against the bright light pouring through the tall window and spilling across his hard cot. His brain felt fuzzy as he reached a hand toward the tight bindings that circled his head.
Pushing himself up on an elbow Blake looked around the long open room where other cots stretched as far as he could see. A few beds held men in ragged clothing, a few sporting bandages or bruises and for a moment Blake couldn’t place where he was.
“I see you’re finally awake,” a warm female voice washed over him, and he grinned recognizing the speaker. “Bla…”
He held up his hand scanning the room and stopping the woman before she could say his
