surroundings and the noise of the stock show would’ve been excuse enough for being skittish.
When she’d come on the market as a difficult horse offered at a nominal fee, the most uninformed judge of horses could see promise. Which, given the bargain price, sent up a red flag that warned labeling her difficult was an understatement. Jefferson had driven to her home stable for a preliminary look, taking Sandy Gannon, foreman of the Rafter B and an expert judge of horses, with him for a second opinion. Both agreed the filly was of a bloodline and a quality Steve Cody would approve.
When the seller questioned who could tame the filly, Sandy replied that if Jeff Cade couldn’t, then it couldn’t be done.
“Let’s hope Sandy knows what he’s talking about,” Jefferson crooned to the filly when she finally stood on the ground. The truth was, Sandy knew exactly what he was saying when he praised the Southerner. Before assuming duties at the Broken Spur, Jefferson had spent the last two of three years at the Rafter B as second in command. Though he’d made a show of grumbling over losing a good horseman, Sandy had backed Steve and his wife Savannah’s choice.
Now, Jefferson had lived and worked in Sunrise Canyon for more than a year, loving each solitary day. “So will you, girl,” he promised as he led the filly to a stall. “Some folks think it’s lonely in the canyon, but it isn’t. You’ll see.”
Realizing he was talking to a horse that would run with Steve’s small herd, he laughed. A sound too rare in his life. “A stranger would think the loneliness has driven me bonkers. When it’s driven me a little saner, instead.”
His string of chatter elicited a low whinny and a nudge, and he knew his faith in the filly hadn’t been misplaced. Stroking her, he murmured, “You’ll be happy here, girl. One day soon, when we know what fits, we’ll choose a name for you.”
Slipping a bar over the stall door, he made a quick check of the other horses and stepped outside. After a long day and a four-hour drive across the surrounding Benedict land, it was good to steal a minute to watch the moon rise.
In daylight or darkness, the canyon was beautiful. When he’d come to Arizona as a teenage runaway he’d been too young and his life too chaotic to appreciate the stark magnificence of the land. Ten years later, when he’d left the lowcountry again—running away as an adult—he hadn’t expected to find anything to equal the lovely land he left behind.
He was wrong. As an adult with an artist’s eye, he recognized the different degrees of beauty, the different kinds.
The desert was his home now. Though he knew he could never go back, the lowcountry had been in his mind recently. Perhaps because, after years of neglect, he’d taken out his sketches and in the long winter darkness, he’d begun to paint again.
A painting waited now on the easel. The light wasn’t so good in the renovated cabin, but it didn’t matter. Painting was something he did for himself. A final healing, an exorcism.
Abandoning the soothing sight of the canyon in moonlight, he returned to the truck to retrieve his mail. No one wrote to him but family. Though he treasured the snapshots and letters, days could pass before he made a mail run. Given the size of the packet the postmaster’d had waiting for him, the time had been even longer.
Jefferson cared deeply for his brothers, and he was never truly out of touch. The family knew to contact the Rafter B in emergencies. Sandy would relay any messages by telephone or rider. No phone calls, no rider meant everyone was well and safe.
Tucking the packet under his arm, as the door of the truck closed, he whistled. Two clear notes sounded in the failing light, answered by a bark and the pad of racing feet. As he braced himself, a dark shape launched itself like a bullet at his chest.
Letters scattered in the dust as Jefferson went down. A massive creature blacker than the night stood over him. Gleaming teeth bared in a grin, a long, pink tongue lapped at his face.
Laughing, pushing the great dog aside, Jefferson muttered, “If that means you’re glad to see me, Satan, I hope you won’t be quite so glad next time.”
Satan barked and danced away. Normally with his sentry duty done, he was ready to play. This night, as if he would hurry his master to abandon the game by helping him to stand, the dog grabbed his hand between his teeth. The slightest pressure could have caused injury but, as with all creatures trained by Jefferson, despite his fierce look Satan was as gentle as his master.
The mock attack was a game, begun when Jefferson was new to the canyon and Satan a puppy with too much energy. Soon the dog should be taught the game was too dangerous. “Someone could misunderstand and put a bullet in your head.” Jefferson cuffed him gently in a signal to let go. “Might bend the bullet.”
Satan trotted away again in the prance common to Doberman pinschers everywhere. Stopping short, his dark eyes on his master’s face, he made a sound Jefferson interpreted as canine impatience.
“Not funny?” Rising, the human side of the conversation dusted off his clothes. Gathering the mail, he declared in an understatement, “Considering that I would miss you, tonight’s a good time to stop the game. As you obviously have.”
In the gloom settling over the canyon, he almost missed one piece of mail. Satan’s pawing interest, combined with the dull glint of its metal clasp caught his attention. Without both, the brown envelope would have blended with the shadowed Arizona dust. Perhaps to be discovered in morning light. Perhaps not.
Hefting it, he judged its weight. More than a letter, with only a blurred postmark. No return address. “What could this be?”
Satan barked and paced toward the cabin. “You’re right,” Jefferson agreed. “I should go inside and have a look.”
Normally the Doberman refused to come inside. Tonight, he slipped past Jefferson when the door opened. Rather than stretching out on the hearth as usual in his rare sorties in the cabin, he streaked through the main room to the bedroom.
“Come away, Satan,” Jefferson scolded as the dog scratched at the bedside table. “There’s nothing here.”
Nothing but a keepsake from his past, Jefferson amended as he herded the dog from the room. “Lie by the hearth,” he directed. “After I check the mail, we’ll have supper.”
Satan obeyed, instantly. Containing his agitation, he tucked his nose beneath his paws. His dark eyes were white-rimmed beneath the pupils as he tracked each move his master made.
Jefferson sat at the table. Spreading mail over it, he plucked the brown envelope from the jumble. Satan whimpered. “Hey.” Jefferson moved it left, then right. Only Satan’s eyes turned, never leaving the letter. “What about this worries you?”
Jefferson believed animals possessed unique senses, perceiving more than the human mind could begin to conceive. Some would laugh, others would scoff at the idea, but he’d seen this anticipation too often in the wilderness to not believe it.
He’d seen it before in Satan when a rattler had crawled into a stall, striking a colt. Though little more than a pup, the dog had clawed at the cabin door, waking Jefferson, demanding his attention. Then he’d torn a pair of jeans as he’d dragged his master to the barn. Because of Satan, the colt was alive. Because of Satan, Jefferson opened the envelope with trepidation.
“What the devil?” he tore open another envelope.
When
