CHAPTER 1
BECK
The way Riot's tearing up that pasture, you'd think the fence line had bad-mouthed his daddy.
I'm on the porch with my busted ankle propped on a cedar crate and a sweating glass of sweet tea going warm on the side table, and I've been watching this horse burn a trench into his own paddock for the better part of an hour.
Tail up, ears pinned, snorting at God and everybody who dares to watch.
He's pissed. Rightfully so…he’s eighteen years old, coming off one of the most demanding careers a horse can have, and now he's stuck watching his handler sit on his ass like a bum.
I’m pissed too, buddy.
I shift in the rocker and my ankle hums, a hot, tight throb that starts at the bone and radiates north.
I’m two weeks and change out from the dumbest thing I've done in a decade, which is saying something, because I've donea lotof dumb things.
I was at the feed store. Some kid, maybe nine years old, was staring at me like I walked straight off the big screen.
His mama had pointed me out.
That's Beck Aldridge—he did stunts in that horse movie you love so much.
The boy then asked, real polite, if I could show him a move. And I, a forty-four year old man with twenty years of injuries, thought:sure, kid, let me just vault off the flatbed of my truck onto a bale of hay.
I landed perfectly on the bale.
But my ankle gave out.
The kid gaped at me in awe, as if it was the coolest thing he'd ever seen in his young life. So, at least I've got that going for me. His mama, on the other hand, gave me the look I've gotten often since I moved back to Hollow Peak—the tired, unsurprised one. The one that saysI seeyou'restillthe same cocky show-off.Probably still chasing all the ladies and breaking their hearts, too. Kinda sad for a middle-aged man.Then she pulled the kid away by the shoulder without even asking if I was okay. As if my particular brand of stupid might be contagious.
Riot circles the pasture one more time, kicking out at nothing, and then plants himself dead center and glares at me across the wide swath of clover.
"I know, pal. I’m sorry."
He snorts and swings his head, slowly and with purpose, toward the tack shed, then back to me with a whinny.
"Can't do it, bud. You know I can't."
He gives me another snort, deeper this time. That's horse foryou’re a disappointment.
I'd argue, but he's not wrong.
Doc said another four weeks, minimum, before I put real weight on it. Six to be safe. And even when I can walk, it's going to be a long climb back to where I can ride a horse the way Riot needs to be worked.
He's not a trail pony. He's muscled and clever, bred and built todothings, and if he doesn't do things he starts inventing projects.
Last week's project was unlatching the gate to the hay paddock. The week before that, it was testing how hard he could kick the barn wall before a board split.
He's going to cost me a new fence by August if someone doesn't exercise him properly, and ride him into a calm, sensible stupor.
Which is why I called Maverick Dempsey in the first place.
Mav and I go way back. We’re not close, exactly, but close enough. He worked a Montana ranch I spent a week on a hundred years ago, and we kept in touch the way men do, which is to say almost not at all…but we’re there for each other in a pinch.
When I finally broke down and admitted I needed help, he texted:My sister's between jobs. She's even better than I am with horses. I’ll send her over, but don't be an ass.
Thanks, Mav. Real subtle.
