of two employed by the Double M (for Mountain Men) Ranch, the outfit Beartooth owned with his pals Moosejaw and Firestick. Jesus was young, barely out of his teens, yet already highly skilled in the ways of breaking and training horses. This was thanks to the tutelage of his uncle, Miguel Santros, also employed by the Double M and presently leaning on the corral rail next to Beartooth.
As the two men looked on, the bronc continued to leap and whirl and buck, furiously attempting to dislodge its passenger. But despite being jerked from side to side and snapped back and forth, Jesus remained in the saddle as if nailed there. Through the thickening cloud of dust being kicked up, Beartooth thought he actually saw the young man smile from time to time, after the black would make a particularly frantic maneuver that failed to unseat him.
Beartooth glanced over at Miguel, who was focused intently on his nephew. The older man’s leathery, deeply seamed face showed no emotion, but Beartooth could tell he was both pleased and proud.
“Kid’s a natural,” Beartooth suggested.
Miguel’s shoulders moved in a faint shrug. “I’d like to think I had a little something to do with his skill,” he said. “But it is true that Jesus is a fast learner and arrived possessing a fine set of tools for me to work with.”
A moment after those words came out, the black leaped high and twisted its body sharply while still in the air. The combination move caught Jesus by surprise and threw him badly off balance. The horse came down jarringly hard on all fours, first landing stiff-legged, but then instantly twisting the opposite way. Its young rider couldn’t react fast enough and was sent flying.
“Oh-oh,” muttered Beartooth. “I think the toolbox might’ve just got a dent in it.”
The two men clambered quickly over the fence and hurried into the corral with the aim of making sure the fallen Jesus didn’t get trampled before he could regain his footing. The black showed no intention of trying anything like that, however, instead circling away to the far side of the corral and halting there, feet planted wide, blowing hard, watching the humans with suspicion and perhaps a trace of defiance in its gleaming dark eyes.
Beartooth and Miguel knelt beside Jesus and gently helped him rise to a sitting position. The young man looked dazed, momentarily disoriented, and was sucking hard to regain some of the breath that had gotten knocked out of him. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and began trickling down the sides of his face, making muddy tracks through the thin layer of dust that had settled there.
“Just take it easy for a minute,” said Beartooth. “Nothing’s broke, is it?”
Jesus blinked. “I . . . I don’t think so.”
“Move your legs and then your arms. Slowly,” instructed Miguel. When his nephew had done this, he said, “Good. You are going to be fine.”
Jesus looked around, his eyes taking on some clarity now. “Fine enough,” he allowed. “But not until I have the chance to prove so by climbing back on that black diablo and then staying there until he knows that I am his master.”
Miguel nodded. “I am proud to hear your resolve. And I believe you when you say what you will do. However, that should wait until tomorrow to take place.”
“Tomorrow?” echoed Jesus, his expression showing disapproval of the idea.
“Sí,” said Miguel firmly. “If you get back on the black now, you will be able to break him, it is true. But if you do that, he will always hold a grudge and never be the completely fine mount he has the makings to be. On the other hand, if you allow him this small victory today, then wait until tomorrow to break him, he will remember and appreciate that, and he will go on to be an even finer mount, one with his pride and spirit still intact.”
Jesus looked thoughtful, but at the same time a bit skeptical. “I know well that horses have spirit. But are they also capable of things such as pride and holding a grudge?”
“Indeed so,” Miguel assured him. “If you want to be a top horseman, you must always remember that. It will improve your mastery over the animals and will separate you from the so-called bronc stompers employed by too many cattlemen hereabouts.”
“Bronc stompers?”
“Men who will ride a horse to death in their hurry to break it, rather than take a little extra time and allow the animal the chance to adjust to what is going on, what is being asked of it.”
Jesus scowled. “Breaking a horse by riding it to death accomplishes nothing.”
“Least of all for the horse,” said Beartooth.
Jesus turned his head and looked at the black. Their eyes locked and held for a long moment—until Jesus said, in a low voice, “Tomorrow.”
The black chuffed and dug at the ground with one of its front hooves.
Miguel smiled. “He says he will be waiting and is looking forward to it.”
Beartooth straightened back up. “Tomorrow it is, then. I’ll go ahead and unsaddle the black, then turn him out with the others. When Jesus’s rattled bones have finished settlin’ back into place, you two go on to the bunkhouse and get cleaned up for supper. Take it easy for a while, until Miss Victoria rings the bell to come eat.”
* * *
After he’d seen to the black and put away the saddle and bridle Jesus had been using, Beartooth left the corral area and headed for the main house of the Double M Ranch headquarters. The house was a two-story, wood-frame structure, something a bit uncommon to the area. It was built straight and true and solid, always with a fresh coat of whitewash, trimmed in bright green. When Beartooth and his companions had made the decision to quit being mountain men and settle into more conventional lives, they had agreed that wherever they put down roots, they would build and maintain a fine, substantial home. The main house at the Double M was the result, and each man took pride and worked hard to make sure it always lived up to their goal.
The sinking sun of late afternoon cast a long shadow ahead of Beartooth as he strode along. By his reckoning, he had endured fifty winters in his lifetime, give or take a couple either way. He was a sliver under six feet tall, square-shouldered, lean and solid. Unlike Firestick, there was no gray in his reddish-brown hair. His clean-shaven face was too narrow and his green eyes too intense and probing for him to be considered classically handsome. But he had an easy grin, with a slightly roguish slant to it, that made men want to be pals with him, and certain kinds of women—especially given how the grin came combined with a deeply dimpled chin—want to learn more about what was behind that roguish slant.
As he stepped up onto the front porch, Beartooth was met by a wave of delicious-smelling cooking coming from inside the house. He detected roast pork, cabbage, fresh-baked bread, and some kind of pie. Peach, he thought. He was sure of the first three; the pie might have been more a case of wishful thinking as far as exactly what kind it would turn out to be. In any case, he knew it was sure to taste great thanks to the kitchen talents of Victoria Kingsley, the Double M’s cook and housekeeper.
Entering the house and passing through the parlor, Beartooth paused in the kitchen doorway to breathe in more of the delightful aromas and at the same time drink in the equally pleasing sight of Victoria. She wore a short-sleeved brown blouse buttoned at the throat, a full-length flower-patterned skirt, and a white apron tied at the waist. Beartooth preferred seeing her in this kind of apron rather than the bib-style ones, with shoulder straps that muted her mature, all-over-womanly curves.
