However, it’d be something fun to try, a challenge. Taking pictures was her other comfort, besides horses. It soothed her somehow. After her mother died, it had made her feel secure, as if whatever subject she captured would be hers to hold in her hand forever.
Which made no sense at all, since during that time she’d clung to every picture of her mother she could find, yet her mother was irrevocably gone.
That was before she’d learned that nothing is forever.
She should’ve already known.
She took the turn carefully, mindful of the way the trailer was tracking because the gravel road wasn’t very wide and the last thing she needed right now was to hang a wheel off the end of the tin horn. Once she’d straightened out the rig and headed up the first rise on the winding road into the hills, Clea let herself believe it. She was here.
And Ariel was here.
Feeling even more efficient, Clea looked at her odometer so she could measure the last leg of the journey and turn in at the correct driveway.
Then she rolled down her window so she could smell this place. Sage, she knew that smell, and a hint of pine but the dry air carried other scents, too. It was such dry air and thinner than she was used to. A whole new world from the ground up.
A chuckle began deep inside, rolled up into her throat and came out as a short but sincere belly laugh.
“Hey, Brock,” she said into the enormous space that surrounded her. “Catch me if you can.”
She’d told him once or twice that she would love to live—which was true—in northern New Mexico. Live in an artists’ colony and do nothing but take pictures in that fabulous light, she had said. He might look for her there.
Or not. Half the time, he didn’t listen to a word she said.
She glanced to her left, down into the valley along the river that flashed in and out behind some trees. There was a small ranch house and barn and some other outbuildings. Who lived there? Would she ever meet them?
How far was it on up to her place? She looked at the faxed map again and checked her mileage one more time. Not far.
Here was another hill, another ridge that led on up toward the big mountains with their striped bluffs and trees with snow still on their tops. The first high ridge. That had to be it.
Clea was going into the next switchback when she saw him. She’d turned away from the glare of sunlight off the rearview mirror and there he was, an arm’s length inside the fence, riding down the slope on the right-hand side of the road.
Coming out of the trees like a cowboy in a Russell painting, his blue shirt like sky against the green. Exactly like that.
Her heart lurched. Exactly like that, with a name like Saving the Baby or Mama’s Gone. He carried a small bright sorrel foal in front of his saddle; its long legs dangled off the sides of the big gray horse.
She couldn’t take her eyes off him—something about the sure way he sat the horse, something about the easy way his left hand held the reins and his right one rested on the baby he was rescuing. He had a presence.
Without taking her eyes from him, she slowed the rig still more and grabbed her camera from the slot in the console where she always carried it. Slipping it from the case, she raised it to her eye as she slowed even more.
The rider was looking at the foal. His hat was tilted down, but just as she passed him by he lifted his head and swept his gaze across her rig. She took the shot. Broad shoulders, a lock of black hair on his forehead, a blaze of green eyes imprinted on her mind’s eye. Then she was moving again, on around the curve.
It was one of the best photos she’d ever taken. She knew it in her gut. She knew it because she could feel that a huge smile was splitting her face and she was bubbling deep inside. What a moment! What a shot! And she’d been ready!
This had to be a good omen for her new life.
She would name it Montana Cowboy.
The sight of him haunted her as she finished the short drive to the ranch entrance that matched the X on her map. Even as she turned in under the swinging hand-carved wooden sign that read Elkhorn Ranch and started looking for her cabin, she could still see the whole gorgeous scene of the cowboy and the bright foal.
The epitome of cowboy gallantry—rescuing a creature weaker than himself. Sacrificing his time and effort to make sure that this baby would be all right instead of rounding up cattle or fixing fences or breaking colts or whatever other jobs he had to do.
She spotted the cabin sitting up a long driveway in a little meadow with blazing yellow and red leaves on the trees at its back. Fall was a fantastic time of year and one that at home often was either way too short or non-existent. She was going to enjoy this one to the fullest. She was going to love it here.
Clea parked and got out, then reached into the backseat for her jean jacket. The fall wind in Montana carried a bite of coolness that would be months yet reaching Texas.
She checked on Ariel, then left her standing in the trailer while she ran through the grass to check out the barn and the pen around it. Her lungs grabbed for more of the thin, dry air that roused her blood. This was exciting. She didn’t want to sleep after all.
The barn door stood open.
Inside, she stopped short and breathed in the smell—like that of any barn but with an overlay of age and seasoned wood. Cedar. Her eyes tried to take it all in at once. It had been built of cedar logs a long, long time ago and it had been well used. It was clean; a little neglected but not bad. The realtor had assured her everything was clean.
She smiled. Talk about different! This barn was as different from any she’d ever used as Ariel was from the horses Clea imagined had lived here before. She loved its atmo-sphere—all rustic and rough and built to be serviceable. Everything useful; nothing fancy just for show.
Somebody had left some grooming brushes and buckets in the little feed room, but she had her own, of course. Same with the feed in the barrel and the hay. They looked and smelled pretty fresh, so the former tenant must’ve just moved out.
The water tank in the pen was nearly full, too. She unloaded the mare and led her around the perimeters to let her get acclimated, then left her delirious with freedom to run around inside the pen. Clea went to the back door of the house and to her shock found it unlocked. It swung open into a kitchen with the same look as the barn: functional, rustic and actually—no doubt unintentionally—charming. The furniture was the really rough kind made of logs but there was an old blanket-covered couch in the living room that looked soft and comfortable. She loved that there was a fireplace in the wall that opened to both rooms.
The basic pots, pans and dishes were in the kitchen as promised, but the supplies weren’t at all what Clea had ordered. Right then, she didn’t even care. She’d go to town tomorrow. And she’d be sure to pay only for what she got and not what she ordered when she went by the realtor’s office.
Also, she would point out to him that neither the cabin nor the barn was exactly what he’d described to her. Try to keep him honest.
And maybe talk him down on the rent? What a good idea! She’d insist on it. She had to save money where she could.
Hurriedly, she went through the rest of the house, which turned out to be two bedrooms and a bath. The view from one bedroom was better than in the other, so it would be hers. She smiled. Or if she wanted, she could make the living room do double duty because it’d be great to have a fireplace in her bedroom.
Wood. There was quite a bit stacked neatly on the back porch and more in the yard, but she’d need a lot for a whole winter. Another thing to put on her list of questions for the realtor.
Clea pulled her rig up closer to the front door and started bringing things in. There were