married—and loved—any one of a half-dozen good men.
Blue pushed away the old grief and guilt and stared down into the valley at the scattering of steady-burning farm lights standing guard over every building. Security lights.
Gordon was in there behind them. Feeling secure.
For a long time, Blue stood watching, memorizing as much as he could see while the stars faded and the moon began to set. As soon as he could ride the roan outside a pen, he would take him up along the ridge that crossed the road from the highway. That lowest crest circled to the west and south from Micah’s place to form the rim of the valley. He would learn the lay of it and every road and trail into and out of the headquarters.
He would gather some gear in case he had to run into the mountains and some cash money in case he didn’t. He would have Micah take him up on the highway and into town one of these days soon and leave him for a while so he could start pricing things. He hadn’t bought anything in so long he didn’t remember how to make a deal.
He turned and started back to Micah’s. The rising sun was painting the sky pink. The wind reached out to blow his hair back from his face. It was going to be a fine, free day, and a man could never tell how many of those he would be given.
He watched the streaks in the sky go from pink to red, then to orange and purple and blue. This dawn made all of the colors, every color, seem like a separate wonder. His fingers itched to paint. He needed to buy more supplies.
Yes, he’d have a chance to paint a little bit before he took care of Gordon.
And he wanted time to get the colt going well, whether he got to keep him or had to sell him. Whichever way that went, he would need the most he could get out of the horse, in either money or performance.
He stopped and stood quiet for a while, watching the sky’s glory dissolve until the tints were as faint as a watercolor, then he walked on toward the barn, thinking about how much Micah might ask for the roan. The few thousand dollars he’d earned off the paintings he’d sold from prison over the years would be enough, he hoped, to buy the roan and a rig of some kind.
Of course, Micah would pay him something for the job riding the colts.
Blue glanced into the round pen as he passed. The colt was standing near the water bucket, eyes closed in a doze.
“Rest up,” Blue muttered. “I’ll be with you after breakfast.”
He took another long draught of morning air off the mountains. Crisp and fresh enough to crackle in his lungs, it carried the promise of a whole new life.
It gave him a fleeting thought of roaming with the colt through the mountains that were turning to purple crystal in the rising light. Roaming, not running. Wandering with no one on the back trail trying to hunt him down.
But when he stepped into the barn and stood in the midst of its aromas of manure and horse and hay and sweet feed all mixed with the smells of aged wood and oiled leather, he wanted not to run or roam. What he wanted was to have no reason to leave and, instead, every reason to stay in a place that felt this much like a home.
Micah kept his barn clean and neat and the horses in it were all hanging their heads over the stall doors looking at Blue with trusting, gentle eyes. They talked to him.
Where is it? The morning feed? Are you here to feed us and turn us out?
The peace. For a minute, Blue could feel it like a hand on his shoulder. There was nothing better than an old barn and animals depending on him to center a man.
But there was no peace for him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
If not, so be it. Rose and Dannie never knew peace.
He went to pull a bale of hay down from the stack. There was a lot of satisfaction in feeding hungry animals. He reached for the wire cutters Micah had stuck by the handle into the cross-timber supporting the wall, and snipped the baling wire. While he broke off flakes and carried them to the stalls, he looked over the horses and kept his mind on them. There was a cute sorrel mare with a wide blaze and a tall gray gelding with black points. Last night, Micah said they both belonged to a friend of his.
The stalls across the aisle held a stocky gelding that Micah said had been his best mount for fifteen years and a young filly who’d been easier for him to start than the roan. She bore a vague resemblance to him. Half sister, maybe, since she had some gentle blood from somewhere.
He liked his roan colt better, though.
That thought made him grin but it also bothered him some. He hadn’t even bought him yet, but he must be getting attached to the ornery rascal.
Once they all had fresh hay and water, Blue stopped at the sorrel mare and, murmuring to her, started scratching her nose. Her neighbor, the gray, stuck his head out, too, and reached over to nudge Blue on the shoulder.
“Demanding your share of the attention, hmm, buddy?” Blue said, petting him with his other hand. “I’m thinking Micah’s friend has spoiled you both.”
They made him laugh, both of them, with their signs of pleasure as he pinched along the toplines of their manes and rubbed their polls. The mare had a sweet spot behind one ear that made her moan when Blue caressed it. She curled her top lip and let the bottom one tremble.
Blue petted them for a long time, not letting himself think, only being. Being with friendly horses, exchanging breaths with them, letting the feel of them comfort his hands. The sun poured into the barn and streamed down the aisle to paint all of them warm and yellow-gold.
GETTING UP and getting outside right before dawn, greeting the morning and the mountains and the horses, became a habit with Blue, if four days in a row could be called a habit. Micah usually slept until daylight and had breakfast ready when Blue went back to the house. After they ate, Blue helped clean up the dishes and then they both went on to their hard day’s work—Blue with the roan and the toughest of the twos, and Micah with the ones he’d been able to start on his own. The comfort of the routine was already beginning to ease into Blue’s bones.
This morning, he puttered around the barn as if it belonged to him, rearranging the saddles in the tack room and spreading fresh bedding in the stalls. He had fed Micah’s friend’s horses and they and the roan were about finished with their hay. It was time to get to work.
He knew that but instead of leaving the barn, he fell into a mindless reverie, sweeping out the aisle and feeling the sun on his back through the wide-flung doors. Finally, he roused himself.
“All right,” he said, petting the sorrel and then the gray, “I need to get on that ornery roan and you two need to be outside. Ready?”
He turned to take their halters from the wall.
His gaze swept across the west door of the barn and he froze.
From the corner of his eye, he’d caught a glimpse of movement, he would swear it, at the edge of the opening. But he waited and no one stepped into his line of sight.
The hackles lifted on his neck. He kept watching the doorway.
Micah was still in the house, as far as he knew. If not, he certainly wouldn’t come to the barn and look in without saying something. That old man liked to talk too much for that. Besides, he
