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Clara Mae’s lips turned up slightly, just enough to show fine lines around her mouth. “Yeah, I seem to recall that.” She sighed heavily. “So why you young’uns on my property ’fore the break of dawn?”

“I need a job, Missus —” Adam stopped cold. He had no idea what her last name was. Shouldn’t he know this? Why hadn’t Jeff told him? Why hadn’t he asked?

Because I’m a kid — that’s why ! he screamed internally. I’m not a father, a drug dealer, or a marksman . I can’t do this !

“Clara Mae’s fine,” said the woman, seemingly unphased by his blunder.

“Everyone calls me Clara Mae. Don’t really care about my last name — since it was my ex’s.

Gonna go back to Texas and find me a new name soon, anyway.

” She sniffed and glanced over her shoulder, back at her property. “I got all the hands I need —”

“I can train horses — like my father used to do for you.”

She twisted her mouth. “Can you now? I thought you said you never had a knack for that.”

Adam wanted to scream out the truth to this perceptive woman who clearly knew he wasn’t Thomas.

She was right — Thomas never could work with horses.

Yeah, he could ride the old ones, but not a stallion.

Even Peter, while he was okay with them, always had a bit of fear, and horses can sense fear in a person the way they sense a bear or wolf is nearby.

“I… just…” Adam stuttered. “I never wanted to train. But now…” Another part lie. He hadn’t ever wanted to train horses for a living, but he loved them, especially Bolt. No one could handle Bolt like he could. And, certainly, no one could ride him.

“And the kid?” Clara Mae nodded to Peter. “He’s as lanky as a newborn colt.”

“Peter might not look strong, but he can toss a bale of hay better than the next guy. I promise, we’ll earn our keep. Give us a month… You don’t even need to pay us for the first month. Room and board’s all we need.”

Clara Mae rocked her head toward the ranch. “Tell you what. Since you’re a horse trainer. I got a mustang a while back, but damned if anyone can ride him.”

Adam smiled. Bolt .

* * *

“I’ll ride in back.” Clara Mae strutted toward the rear of the old truck, propped one well-worn rubber boot on the muddy tire, then climbed into the back of the truck.

Adam hopped inside, smacking Peter’s shoulder.

“Get the gate.” One, he wasn’t taking a chance Clara Mae would change her mind — the woman seemed to make decisions in seconds.

Two, moving the heavy steel gate out of the way wasn’t child’s play.

Peter could show he was capable, which he was.

While he complained about every chore that was ever asked of him, it wasn’t because he was incapable; he just hated taking orders.

Or, maybe it was authority he didn’t care for.

Adam had found that if he gave Peter a reason something needed to be done, he was more likely to comply.

Like now, Clara Mae had questioned Peter’s strength, so Peter would be happy to prove her wrong.

Also, he was certain that if Clara Mae hadn’t exercised her choice to ride in the back the moment she’d spoken it, no way would Peter have allowed that.

Adam drove over the cow guard, past the open gate, pausing just long enough for Peter to jump back inside the cab. He wanted to get to his task of showing Clara Mae he was worthy of hiring before the rest of the ranch woke up.

As he navigated the dirt road, doing his best to avoid the deepest potholes, he took in the ranch.

Nothing had changed. A large fenced-in ring sat on the left-hand side of the property.

To the right, a two-story farmhouse, which wasn’t really two stories if he remembered correctly.

The blocked-in bottom was mostly basement.

Upstairs was the modest house. The focal point, and perhaps one of his favorite places the last time he was here was a large deck overlooking the property, the river, and the Talkeetna Mountains.

The memory sparked in his brain like a Christmas morning from his childhood, filled with laughter, food, and gifts.

After his father had conducted their business, Clara Mae insisted they sit down for lunch.

As inviting as the warm scents of baking bread and pot roast were, it was after dinner that he most remembered.

Clara Mae had made sweetened iced tea — sun tea, she’d called it — and they’d sat on the outside deck, gazing out at the splendor of their beautiful state, and talked business.

Not only had Adam felt important, sitting and talking with the grownups, but he was also going home with his own horse. Adam sighed at the memory and drove on.

Opposite the ring and north of the house sat the industrial-looking barn, probably ten times larger than the stable back home.

Home … He needed to stop thinking like that. He might not ever see his family’s cabin again. Right now, he needed to set aside sorrows about what he’d lost and concentrate on showing this woman what he could do to secure his future.

Clara Mae knocked on the window. “Pull around to the back. The fumes bother the horses.”

Adam followed her instruction, slowly driving through slush.

Before he even came to a stop, Clara Mae jumped out of the back of the truck and was at his door.

She didn’t wave the gun as before, but she opened the door and nodded to Peter. “Stay here, young’un.”

Peter huffed but rolled up his jacket and stuffed it against the door. Knowing his brother, he’d be asleep in minutes.

Adam looked down and then hopped on the most solid clump of dirt he saw. He hadn’t time at midnight to dress in work boots or rubbers.

Clara Mae walked off, waving an arm overhead. “Come on, boy.”

Adam followed, wondering if it was time to cut bait and ditch. They had enough cash to start over in Anchorage. He could get a job with Thomas’s IDs. Unlike Clara Mae, no one knew him down there, and Peter was right, he did resemble the image.

Still, his horse was in there. He didn’t want to leave without Bolt. Maybe since no one could ride him, Clara Mae might just allow him to buy him back.

Clara Mae looked over her shoulder. “I ain’t got all day, boy. Step it up!”

Ignoring the mud, Adam jogged past her, stepping into the barn.

Clara Mae nodded to the last stall.

Already, Adam distinguished Bolt’s heavy breathing and snuffling from the other horses.

No matter the time, if someone entered the barn, Bolt would react as if a predator had entered — until he smelled Adam.

The moment Bolt knew it was Adam, the breaths and snuffles changed somehow.

Instead of being slow and steady, almost like a growl, the mustang’s sounds sped up, sounding energetic, excited even.

As happy as Adam was to see his boy, he made his slow way to the rear of the barn, nodding to the other resident horses, who merely snorted or whinnied.

Although the barn was free from debris, it was far from clean.

Urine wafted from the stalls. Adam’s father had always criticized hands who didn’t muck out the stalls regularly.

There would always be some smell, but pine or aspen should be the dominating scent.

Adam’s guess was that instead of removing the wood shavings regularly, they were probably just removing the manure.

Clara Mae stepped up next to Adam at the same time Bolt whipped around in his stall. “Prince…” She sighed. “Beautiful horse. Probably could’a been a contender weren’t for the Princey attitude… and the scar.”

Adam started to whip around but remembered he wasn’t supposed to care about this horse. The first time Thomas saw Bolt, he’d uttered similar words. To Thomas, though, Adam had retorted, “ That’s not a scar. That’s lightning .”

It was true, though, Bolt did have a scar.

The gorgeous mustang was sleek and shiny chestnut from nose to tail except for the blaze of white down his nose, which was split in two by a jagged black lightning bolt.

Adam knew God hadn’t given Bolt the mark, but he chose to believe that the regal horse was born with it.

Reality was too painful. Bolt’s previous owner had probably given him the scar when he couldn’t break his spirit.

But because of that mark, and every owner’s inability to break the mustang, Adam had been able to own his own horse.

And even though his registered name was Storm-Born Prince, privately, Adam had always whispered Bolt into his fiery friend’s magnificent dark ears.

“Can I have a minute?” Adam asked.

“Sure, boy.” Clara Mae nodded behind her.

“Tack’s right behind ya. Show me you can ride ’em, and the job’s yours.

Don’t take all day. Season starts in a week.

” The woman looked toward the barn doors.

“Gonna be a nice day. Owners’ll be showing up to ride soon.

” With that, Clara Mae turned and made her way out of the barn, her head darting from stall to stall as she passed.

Adam watched Clara Mae’s retreat, taking in the new dawn. The sky had suddenly lightened to a pale blue — summer blue , his mother had called it. The kind of light that lingered too long in summer — Alaska’s way of pretending night never came.

Summer … Alaskans called it Season , the time of the year when the Lower 48 flocked to his great state. Dad had always said, “ Them southerners think they wanna live here, but two months into winter, and folks who can afford to cut bait, high tail it back to Malibu Beach .”

It wasn’t summer for eight weeks, but Alaskans celebrated a clear and sunny day — whenever that day fell — like it was the Fourth of July.

Against his mother’s better wishes, his father had even kept Adam and his brothers home from school on sunny days, stating, “ They got all winter to read; young men need sun! ”

Adam sighed at the memory.

When Clara Mae was out of sight, he turned back to his horse.

“Hi, Bolt. Miss me?”