Page 9

The best part of Adam’s new job — he got to meet the horses one-on-one.

As Clara Mae had predicted, owners showed up to ride one after another.

Brett called out a name, and Adam quickly found the horse and saddled it.

George, the older hand, or Rusty, the Alaska Native, would then lead the horse to one of two outdoor riding arenas if the riders were younger or inexperienced — or the two-mile galloping track for more advanced riders.

With more than 150 acres, Clara Mae even had a trail that weaved along the river and through the woods, though that one was used mostly for guided tourist rides.

Around noon, with the first wave of owners gone, Brett sent everyone to wash up, then directed them to a weathered picnic bench out the back door of the barn.

At one end of the table sat a roll of brown paper towels, a loaf of Wonder bread, and a couple of knives stuck deep into jars of Skippy peanut butter and Welch’s grape.

If Adam didn’t keep his mouth shut, he was sure drool might stream out like an untied shoestring.

He hadn’t seen peanut butter in months — and Welch’s?

That was a treat above and beyond even peanut butter.

Even when money was okay, their family usually bought the watery store brand that barely tasted like jelly, let alone grape jelly.

Peter dropped down at the end of the bench and rested his head on folded arms. The other ranch hands paid him no mind as they muscled in to make sandwiches.

Adam stood back, waiting his turn, hoping there would be something left for Peter and himself.

Brett sidled up next to him, shoving something cold into his hand. “Don’t wait long. Them scavengers’ll come back for seconds.”

“I won’t, Sir.” Adam looked down at what Brett had put in his hand, a Yoo-hoo. “Heck, yeah.”

Brett winked and handed him another one, nodding to his brother. “These’re on me. You’ll have to earn future bottles.”

“I will, Sir.”

Brett nodded. “I believe you will.” And he walked off.

The man probably didn’t eat with the other hands.

Clara Mae said they were responsible for preparing their own breakfast, but she provided sandwich fixin’s for lunch, and then supper would be served promptly at seven o’clock every evening except Sunday.

Sunday, they were expected to make their own meal.

Before making sandwiches, Adam knelt next to his baby brother. “Peter, look.”

Peter tilted just his head to the side. A streak of tears cut through high cheekbones dusted in brown dust.

Adam held up the ice-cold bottle of Yoo-hoo and whispered, “Your favorite.”

Peter sniffed, but then sat up, turning his body toward Adam, so the others didn’t see him. He accepted the bottle, then stared down at it.

Adam realized immediately and took it back, hoping what he’d seen Thomas do with a Budweiser would work.

He hooked the metal cap against the edge of the table, held the bottle neck firmly with one hand, then gave a quick smack with his other hand, and the cap popped off.

He checked the rim for chips, then handed Peter the Yoo-hoo, repeating the process with the next one.

He clinked his bottle against Peter’s then downed a swig before eyeing the sandwiches again.

“Hey!” Adam hopped up when he saw George poised to make a second sandwich. “I’m next.”

George snarled. “Looks like you’re busy playing Pat-a-cake to me.”

Adam darted around the table, sidling beside the older guy, who’d already picked up the loaf of bread. “ I said , I’m next. My brother and I haven’t eaten yet.”

“Snooze you lose, buddy boy.”

Adam snatched the bag out of the man’s hands. “I ain’t snoozed once today. Can’t say the same about you, though.”

The other hands chuckled.

Adam pulled out four pieces then tossed the loaf at the man, who fumbled, nearly dropping the bag.

“George, you klutz!” Rusty barked. “If you drop that bread before I get a second serving, I’m raiding your stash!”

Adam moved on to the peanut butter and jelly, making a sandwich each for Peter and himself.

They didn’t need seconds; they needed sleep.

Peter would sleep for twenty hours if allowed, which he often did on the weekend instead of helping out.

Adam assumed that the hard work was why he was crying.

He wasn’t used to hard work. He’d been too young when Dad and Mom were alive, and Thomas gave up asking him to do anything difficult because of all the whining.

Two sloppily made sandwiches and ripped-from-the-roll-brown-paper-towels later, Adam crossed a leg over the bench between Rusty and Peter and plopped down.

He slid a sandwich wrapped in the brown paper to Peter, bowed his head for a nanosecond, then attacked the sandwich, anxious to get back to the barn.

The remaining time for lunch ticked by quietly. He’d rather skip lunch, finish work, shower, and crash until tomorrow. And he was hot.

Although it couldn’t be more than fifty-some degrees, the sun, with little clouds to mask its deadly rays, beat down on his back like a branding iron.

Even though Falcon Run was only about sixty miles north of Wasilla — as the crow flies — because of Denali’s near-constant cloud cover, the average daily temperature hovered nearly five to ten degrees cooler.

Right now, Adam was missing that cooler weather.

“Ready?” He nudged Peter, who’d eaten his sandwich even faster than Adam had then rested his head on his arms again.

“Nah, man. Can’t I just go… to sleep?”

Adam glanced up and saw Rusty and George looking at them. Frank seemed to be on a different planet. He just stared off in the distance at nothing in particular.

“Stop whining,” Adam growled softly.

Peter abruptly stood, and Adam glared at him, threatening his brother to keep his mouth shut.

They couldn’t afford for the fellow ranch hands to think they were weak.

Yeah, Clara Mae had given them a believable backstory, which she intended to share at dinner, but they still had to work with these rough men.

Clara Mae had made it clear that not all the hired hands were cowboys — some were roughnecks looking for an easier paycheck than working the Pipe; others were drifters with nowhere else to go.

* * *

While Brett did a share of work, Adam couldn’t say with all honesty that he did his fair share. The man tended to drift in and out of the barn, always finding something more important to do whenever a horse came back that needed cooled and brushed.

Adam helped Peter, and between them, they shoveled out twenty stables.

He’d been correct. The hands hadn’t been mucking the stalls properly; they’d just been throwing fresh shavings over soiled.

Maybe lazy, or an attempt to save money.

Clara Mae didn’t seem like the type to scrimp on such an important aspect of horse health.

Poor hygiene bred sickness and disease. He’d also noticed the lack of fresh food.

He couldn’t very well bring that up on his first day, though, and he was so tired and just wanted this day to be over.

Brett strolled into the barn, glanced at his watch, and bellowed, “Call it a day, boys!”

The other hands stopped working immediately, dropping whatever they were doing.

Adam stowed the tools he’d been using and helped Peter do the same.

Since the men had fled in seconds, Adam made his way back to Bolt’s stall.

Peter sighed. “You coming?”

“I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

Peter shrugged and left the barn.

Adam turned back to Bolt. “Maybe we can go riding again tomorrow.”

Bolt’s soft nicker made Adam smile — the horse’s version of a “yes, please.”

“If I find an apple upstairs, I’ll come back later, okay?”

Bolt stuck his head over the door, allowing Adam the opportunity to stroke his nose.

“I love you, Bolt. I’m sorry it took me so long to —”

A cloud of floral but musky scent shrouded the barn, halting Adam’s words.

“Call him?” shrilled a high-pitched female voice.

Adam swung around. He’d forgotten about Lala. He’d assumed — hoped — she’d gone home after her morning ride. Had she waited all day to sneak into the barn?

“Um… What? Call him… who ?”

Lala crossed her arms and sighed. “Did you ditch the horse, too? Tell it you’d love it forever then never call it back?”

Adam rocked his head back and forth. “What’re you talking about?”

Lala walked closer, swaying her hips as if there were music playing.

She stopped a few feet in front of him and rolled her eyes.

“I’m not talking about the horse, dumbass.

I’m talking about me. Remember me, the girl who gave you her —” She looked over her shoulder, then whipped her head back toward Adam.

“If you were in town, why haven’t you called?

I’ve been going crazy wondering what happened? ”

“I…” Adam’s confusion fell away. “I… my family…” He cleared his throat, then added a truth this girl must’ve already known. “We don’t have a phone.”

Lala whipped her head like she was trying to fling water off her face. “Of course I know that, but it never stopped you before. You’d go to that little store or your friend’s house.”

His stomach dropped — again. Not because Lala had caught him talking to Bolt — but because she wasn’t talking to Adam at all. She was talking to Thomas. How could she think he was Thomas?

Seeming to have made a decision, Lala moved closer, and Adam nearly stumbled backward.

“Let’s go!” boomed another voice — Brett’s deep baritone. Thank God for the man’s impeccable timing! Brett leaned sideways, locking eyes with Lala. “You, too, Esmerelda. Visiting hours are over. You can come back and see Starlight tomorrow.”

Lala flicked her gaze to Brett for only a second then charged out of the barn.

Brett snorted, shaking his head. “That girl might be hotter than Clara Mae’s Texas chili, but she’s as dangerous as a brown bear in May.”

Adam exhaled fast, chuckling nervously. “Yeah. I know.” He wasn’t sure what made him more uneasy — Lala mistaking him for Thomas or Brett checking her out — when she was, what… seventeen? Eighteen, at most.

Except, Lala wasn’t dangerous because of who she was — but because of who she thought he was. She believed he was Thomas. And if — when — she came back tomorrow, he couldn’t very well break up with someone who wasn’t even his girlfriend — but he sure as hell could never be her boyfriend.