a colorful description of Gary Norquist.
“You okay in there?” Jake’s voice came from just outside the door. The irony of the situation struck her—she had asked him the same question the morning after he’d run his truck into the ditch.
“Fine,” she said. “Just got a look at my face.” She heard him chuckle.
“I’m heating up the chili,” he said. “Easier for you to eat than a sandwich.”
By the time she came out, Jake had set two places and filled a cardboard box with food.
“We keep the cabin stocked with canned and dried food,” he said as they sat to eat, “but we can haul a few extras with us.” He picked up his spoon. “Hope the chili isn’t too spicy for you. Tom made this batch, and he gets a little crazy with Hatch peppers.”
The thick chili stung her lip, but the glass of milk beside her bowl eased the burn. Jake talked while she ate, an easy flow of words requiring minimal response. He pointed with his spoon at a framed document above the mantel.
“House ever catches fire, that’s the one thing we’d save.” He rose and took it down, dusting the glass with his sleeve before handing it to Shelby.
She tilted it to the light to read the faded script while Jake translated the Spanish: “Joined in holy matrimony Jacob Thomas Cameron and Rosa Monte at the mission church of San Geronimo, this second day of December in the year of our Lord 1867.” A flowing signature followed, with those of two witnesses below it.
She handed it back. “Jacob the grizzly-killer?”
“Yup. Rosa Monte was the best translation they could come up with for my great-great grandmother’s Ute name. They rode all the way down to Taos in winter to find a priest. Old Jacob was bound he’d marry her—his sons weren’t going to get booted off this land because he didn’t claim them all proper. His grandfather lost his holdings in Scotland for backing the wrong cause, and carpetbaggers grabbed Jacob’s land in Virginia. He named this ranch Cameron’s Pride after the plantation he lost. We’ve hung on to it through droughts and wildfires and range wars and renegade Indian raids.”
He laughed self-consciously and hung the certificate back in its place of honor. “Didn’t mean to get started—this ranch is kind of a religion with us. We’d best get moving if you want to sleep at the cabin tonight.” He paused while putting the milk back in the fridge. “You sure you don’t want to talk to the police? Now’s the time if you’re going to.”
“No!” Her throat constricted. “Ross and Liz are good people. They’ve got enough trouble.”
“Might be doing everyone a favor, but it’s your call.” He picked up the box of food. “Let’s saddle up.”
Jake led the way to the barn, stopping to pull her saddle from his truck. “I don’t know how far you’ve gotten with the colt, but I doubt you can work off him yet.” He disappeared into the barn and returned leading a stout chestnut mare easily sixteen hands tall.
“Meet Sadie. She’s got some years on her, but she’s sound and steady, and she won’t take any nonsense from the colt. I use her for hunting, so you can shoot over her if you have to. Which reminds me...”
He handed Sadie’s lead rope to Shelby and jogged back to the house, returning with a shotgun and a box of shells. “You’re sure you won’t blow your foot off?”
She took the shotgun from him, broke it to check that it wasn’t loaded, and handed it back. “I’m sure,” she said.
“Good enough.” He stepped into the tack room and came out with a stock saddle, two bridles and a coiled rope. “Be right back,” he said, and strode through the metal gate beside the barn.
A few minutes later he returned leading a dun gelding. Shelby had already brushed Sadie and cinched her own saddle on the mare.
He stood back to study her rig. “I didn’t take a good look before—what is that, a Buena Vista?”
She nodded. “My granddaddy called it a plantation saddle. It’s lighter than a Western saddle, and I can take the stirrups off when I first put it on a horse.” She stroked the leather, smooth and dark as antique walnut. “I learned to ride on this saddle.”
Jake saddled the gelding and filled his saddlebags with food. He lashed the sack containing Stranger’s food behind his saddle and cocked an eye at the sun. “Get the colt,” he said. “Let’s move out.”
Shelby followed him, leading the colt with Stranger trotting alongside. The attack and her blind flight into the snowstorm faded like a bad dream with the steady clip-clop of the horses’ hooves. Jake hadn’t urged her to talk and hadn’t pushed her to report the attack. The tension that had strung her nerves taut at the Norquist ranch, waking and sleeping, eased. She slouched into the mare’s long stride and lifted her face to the sunlight.
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