“So I’ve got him ridin’ fence along the highway,” was the upshot as he clomped into the kitchen. “You know damn well there was no horse on the road, but that don’t mean Tutan didn’t put another hole in the fence to back up his story. We got some volunteers set to help cut hay this weekend. So Hank and me, we’re gonna…” He noticed the ice pack. “You feelin’ okay, big sister?”
“I’m not okay with that question.” Cold packs were her standard first-line remedy, and they were helping. Loss of vision in one eye wasn’t unusual with multiple sclerosis, but neither was remission. She’d had this problem before and regained a good measure of sight back. She’d do it again without losing ground anywhere else. Not for a good long while.
She closed the microwave door on his cold coffee and pressed the button. “My health is my business. I want nothing but positive health vibes. That wheelchair is staying in the basement. There’s only one person around here who needs a cane.”
“Crutch.”
“This reprieve could last for months. Years, maybe.”
“Trouble with your eye again?”
“A little, but I’m loading up on vitamins.” She believed in vitamins. Exercise, meditation, hydrotherapy—she believed in believing. She popped the microwave open and handed Hoolie his coffee. “You and Hank are going to what?”
“Move the cows.”
“You can’t ride with that ankle.”
“I’m not okay with that order.” He pulled two chairs away from the kitchen table, sat in one and propped his foot with its dirtier-by-the-day cast on the other. “I’m taking this damn thing off. My foot itches. That means the mummy boot has been on long enough.”
“What does Hank say?”
Hoolie questioned her with a look.
“He’s a professional.”
“You ask him about your eye, and I’ll ask him about my ankle.”
“No deal.” She snatched the whistling kettle off the stove. “I know more about MS than most doctors. These symptoms come and go. Eventually, some of them come and stay, but I’m not on any fast track to eventually.” She pointed to his ankle. “That is going to heal. Give it time, and it’ll go the way of all your other previously broken bones.”
“My health is my business,” he echoed in an irritating falsetto.
“Not when all your stories end with I got the scars to prove it.”
“I tell it like I remember it. The truth is always in there somewhere.” He sipped his coffee. “I said I’d look after you.”
“Look all you want. Just don’t talk about it.” She laid a hand on his bony shoulder. “I’ll ride with Hank. We’ll move the cows, and then we’ll ride out to Coyote Creek and see if we can get a look at the Don.”
“If something happens, you tell him why. You wouldn’t fall so much if you’d keep a cane handy when you get tired or—”
“Three weeks.” She squeezed his shoulder. “That’s all I’m asking.”
Hank was finishing up the hooves on the saddle horses when Sally came looking for him in the barn. From the first, he’d had her figured for a night person. Seemed he was right. Their ships would be passing mid to late morning, which was fine by him. Hoolie had filled him up with a hearty breakfast while they planned a few things out. He met one of the helpers he kept hearing about—Indian kid named Kevin Thunder Shield, who showed up ready to ride. Hoolie hooked the kid up with a horse and gave him an assignment, but Hank couldn’t let the gelding go without a hoof trimming. And he wasn’t herding any cattle until the rest of the saddle horses got the same treatment.
“That looks great,” Sally said of the third set of hooves he’d filed. “You are good.”
“The trim’s the important part. Right, girl?” He patted the black mare’s rump. She’d behaved well. Hard to believe she’d ever been wild. “The shoes are icing on the cake. It’s getting the right trim that makes the difference for most horses.”
“We go easy on the icing around here.”
“And that’s fine. These horses don’t have to hang out in stalls and watch their toenails grow. Except that one.” He pointed to a big gray gelding. “Without shoeing that crack will keep growing.”
Sally ran her hand down the horse’s leg toward the hoof. “I didn’t see that.”
“I’ll take care of it when we get back. Hoolie and me, we’re gonna do some cowboyin'.”
She straightened and faced him with folded arms. “You were going to let Hoolie ride with that cast on his foot?”
“I was gonna ride with Hoolie. Figured he could do what he wanted with his foot.”
“Any objection to riding with me?”
He shrugged. “I’m here to help out.”
“Weak,” she warned.
“Let me try again. Objection? Hell, no. My pleasure.”
“That’s the spirit.” She gave a tight smile. “I’m an excellent cowboy.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
She sighed and put her arms around the big gray gelding’s neck, nuzzling his thick black mane. “But I was hoping to ride Tank.”
“Tank?” Hank chortled. “I’ll have Tank retreaded for you by tomorrow.” He started loading his files and nippers into his shoe box. “I thought I’d try a Double D mustang. Maybe Zach has some started. I’m a pretty good finisher.”
“Me, too.”
“Once they’re green broke, I can put a nice handle on ‘em.”
“I’ll bet.” She raked her fingers through the gelding’s mane. “Tank was my first adoption. When I picked him out ten years ago, he was as wild as they come. I was a stock contractor back then, but Tank really opened my eyes.”
Hank eyed the horse. “He’s no Spanish Mustang.”
“Of course not. Like so many wild horses, he’s got a lot of draft blood in him. You know, a lot of them just sort of walked off into the sunset back in the days when farmers started going horseless. And during the Depression, when they were going homeless. Tank’s forebears were equine hobos.” She unhooked one of the horse’s crossties. “Can’t you just see them running across a herd of mustangs in the Badlands? Freeee at last!” she whinnied, and Tank’s ears snapped to attention.
Hank couldn’t help smiling. “Until they got their farm-boy asses kicked.”
“This big steel-drivin’ man’s gonna fix your hoof, Tank, so let’s let that remark pass.” She hooked a lead rope to the halter, scratched the horse’s neck, and he lowered his
