BOTH THE HOUSE and the horse trailer were dark when Libby pulled into Kade’s driveway. She parked the truck and waited, but there was no sign of life. She no longer needed to be home early, since Sam had called the night before to postpone their date—he had to cover for another vet in Elko—but Libby saw no reason to tell Kade that. She wanted to hold on to that excuse for getting back.
So where was Kade? Libby got out of the truck, zipping her sweatshirt against the crisp morning air. He lived in the trailer, so she’d start there. Was he still in bed? If he was, she hoped he no longer slept in the nude.
Libby shoved the image out of her mind as she approached the side door. Kade’s trailer was top-of-the-line, with fancy living quarters in the front and room for three horses in the rear. It was shiny and well kept up, except for the area on the side where there had once been writing. The words had been painted over, but Libby could make out the outlines of the raised letters. Kade Danning, World Champion Saddle Bronc Rider.
Libby hadn’t been around for his glory days. He’d become a world champion PB—Post Breakup, or Post Betrayal. Either one worked for her. The media had loved him, though, so she still got a healthy dose of Kade, like it or not. Not long after the second world title, the one he’d won after coming back from a serious injury, Libby had been bombarded by his image on billboards and in magazines, selling Dusty Saddle microbrew and Rough Out jeans. Women loved him and men admired him. Libby had hated his guts by then, because he had lied to her in the worst possible way. It had taken her a long time to get to the point where seeing his image didn’t send a sharp stab of pain through her or piss her off. And now she was about to spend the day with him voluntarily.
She was growing. It wasn’t easy, but she was making progress.
Kade came around the barn then, leading a beautiful chestnut colt with a lot of chrome—four high white socks and a wide blaze down his face.
Libby let out a low whistle.
“He’s not mine,” Kade said before loading the horse into the beat-up stock trailer.
“Whose horse is he?”
“Joe Barton’s.”
“The guy who owns the Boggy Flat ranch?” Libby asked.
“Zephyr Valley.”
Libby was glad to hear the note of sarcasm in Kade’s voice.
“Tell me about him,” Libby said before disappearing into her own trailer and unloading her horse, a sturdy gray mare named Mouse. “Barton, I mean. All I know is he’s some rich guy from Chicago.”
“I don’t know much more than that about him. I’m putting miles on some colts for him.”
“No big political connections or anything?”
“I have no idea. Why?”
“Just wondering.” It had occurred to her that Ellen’s drive to rid the range of mustangs might be a maneuver to gain political favor; she could be doing a favor for someone influential in order to advance her career. Not too ethical, but if she was slick enough about it, it would be hard to prove.
Kade studied her, a slight frown creasing his forehead. No, she would not share her concerns with Kade. Once upon a time, yes, but not now.
Kade took Mouse’s lead rope and loaded her into his stock trailer next to the colt. The colt tried to get friendly and the mare flattened her ears.
“She’s as cranky as you are,” Kade said.
“You want company on this trip?”
Kade stepped out of the trailer and shut the door. “You know I do.” His voice was low and intimate. Libby’s belly tightened at the sound. At the memory of that voice in her ear, telling her what he wanted to do before he went ahead and did it.
She walked up to the truck and climbed inside. It smelled of Kade. She felt like leaning her hot forehead against the cool glass of the window.
Civil acquaintance. Civil acquaintance.
ONCE THEY’D REACHED the trailhead and unloaded the already saddled horses, Kade mounted easily, displaying none of the stiffness that bronc riders tended to show as they aged.
“Ready?” He was already looking up the trail, his strong profile sharply contrasted against the pale apricot sky.
“Yeah.”
Technically, she should have been leading the way since she was the guide, but Libby didn’t mind being behind him. It gave her a barrier as she recalled all the times they’d ridden in the mountains as teens—escaping together. She remembered the good times and felt cheated that things had turned out as they had.
You’re here to find a horse, not to whine about the past.
Libby straightened in the saddle, focused on the mission. She’d seen Blue three times since she and Kade had released him, all in an official capacity. The first time Libby had checked on Blue’s herd, almost ten years after his release, she hadn’t expected to find the stud still alive, figuring that a domestic horse probably would have perished due to the harsh conditions in which mustangs lived. But no. He’d not only survived, he’d thrived. His herd was about half roan, blues, reds and even a few lilacs. And thankfully they were remote, rarely monitored or gathered.
It wasn’t until the valley had burned two years ago that she’d dealt with the herd again. There’d been no adoptions, since the herd was small and healthy. Because of Glen and his dislike of bureaucracy, they’d simply moved the herd to another valley. No red tape, no protocol. For all Libby knew, Glen hadn’t even had the authority to make such a move. She’d never asked because she preferred not knowing. The important thing was that the herd was located in a place where they could find adequate range.
Libby followed Kade for more than an hour before urging Mouse ahead to catch up with him.
“They could be in any one of these drainages,” she said. “We released them lower in the valley and they migrated up these drainages for the feed. They go lower in the winter, of course.” Too low, since the herd had intruded on grazing allotments and now a rich man wasn’t happy about that.
Too bad for the rich man.
THEY CRESTED A LOW, sage-covered ridge and rode into yet another drainage when Kade pulled his horse to a stop. Below them they saw a herd, maybe forty-strong. And more than half of them were roans. Blue had done his job. Kade pulled a small pair of binoculars out of his shirt pocket and trained them on the herd, which, having caught sight of them, started to move. The lead mare had a nice new bay baby by her side, and there, traveling beside the strung-out mares, was a stocky red roan, the spitting image of Blue, except for the color.
But no Blue.
Kade frowned as he scanned the horses. Several blue roans, but none large and sturdy enough to be his horse. He gave a start when Libby touched his sleeve.
He followed the direction she was pointing, then lifted the binoculars.
“Oh, damn,” he murmured. There was Blue, a good two or three hundred yards behind the herd, alone. Limping slightly. And skinny. Very skinny.
“I think his son might be taking the herd away from him,” Libby said.
“Yeah.” Kade could think of nothing better to say. He’d been prepared for the possibility that he wouldn’t find Blue with the herd. Accidents happened in the wild. But he hadn’t been prepared to see his horse struggling behind the herd, trying to keep up with the band he had once led.
And then, as if on cue, the younger stud charged back, threatening Blue, who stopped, tried to turn on his haunches and went down due to his bad back leg. The red roan stopped, having made his point, and returned to the flank of the herd. The mares continued on down the canyon as if nothing had happened, the lead