Cowboy Christmas Guardian. Dana Mentink

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       ONE

      Barrett Thorn shouted to his younger brother between the clashes of thunder that ripped through the winter darkness. “Gonna go after her. See to the paddock.” Swanny, the runaway pregnant mare, was prone to panicking during lightning storms and, true to form, she’d broken through the paddock and bolted.

      A flash of lightning illuminated Jack, sitting astride his mare, shoulders hunched against the storm. Barrett was relieved that it was not Jack’s twin, Owen, out in the treacherous night. Owen was not physically healed yet, in spite of his bravado. The war had damaged him inside and out. It would be his first Christmas back home since his return from Afghanistan.

      In his typical quiet way, Jack didn’t answer, pulling his horse into a fluid turn and trotting away through the pouring rain. Their father, Tom, was back at the house where Keegan and Owen were helping him check on the other sixty horses in their care. The Gold Bar Ranch, was the finest setup in the town of Gold Bar and maybe in the entire region, in his humble opinion, but it took all of them to keep it that way. Most of their herd would be fine, Barrett figured, but the more recent arrivals they were boarding for clients over the Christmas holidays might not feel as comfortable in their newer surroundings. Horses could be almost as unpredictable as people. Almost.

      From his vantage point on the bluff astride his rock-solid horse, Titan, Barrett had seen only the streak of Swanny’s white flanks moving through the undulating branches of the wind-whipped pines. He held Titan still, listening, rain collecting on his close-cut beard and funneling off his hat.

      With a section of fencing failing yet again on the western perimeter of the Gold Bar’s thousand-acre ranch, the horse would have had easy access to the abutting land, a swath of ravine and hills cut through by a river swollen by yet another storm.

      “Why couldn’t you stay in the stable like all the other horses?” He was suddenly struck by a memory so strong it hitched up his breath.

      “Swanny doesn’t care about all your cowboy orders,” Sabrina used to say. He could picture his wife, whom he’d nicknamed Bree, so clearly in his mind. Her fringe of blond bangs fell over eyes that saw through his macho facade and right into the most tender places in his soul. Bree was the woman God meant to be his partner, his love, his best friend, riding beside him through this life.

      Except that she was gone in a moment of carelessness, lost in a crushing tangle of metal.

      His stomach tensed with white-hot rage at the person who had taken her away and stripped him of any kind of a future.

      Titan’s uneasy shifting pulled him from the memory. He had to get to Swanny soon, before she broke a leg or got tangled up in barbed wire. He urged Titan through the gap in the busted fence and onto Joe Hatcher’s property with only a small flicker of unease.

      He wondered if the surly saddler had followed through on his threat to set booby traps to keep local kids from fooling around, searching for gold. If he had the time, he’d knock on Hatcher’s door and ask permission, but Swanny was in danger. He wasn’t about to let pleasantries get in the way of rescuing the poor beast.

      “Hope we don’t get shot,” he muttered to Titan. They picked their way carefully over the flattest stretch of ground that sloped down to a densely wooded area. Not the greatest place to hang out during a lightning storm, but Swanny was scared, no doubt, and might have headed for the comfort of the overhanging branches.

      Barrett rode closer, the noise of the rain mingling with the sound of the swollen river at the bottom of a crevasse just beyond the trees. Fingers to his lips, he let out a piercing whistle which usually alerted his horses that there would be a sugar cube or an apple for them if they presented themselves. It worked on some horses and not on others. Swanny never failed to come for her bit of dessert.

      “A hopeless sweet tooth,” Bree used to say.

      Ducking as the wet branches slapped the back of his neck, he pushed on into the trees. Titan stopped short, as surprised as Barrett at what they saw.

      A cream-colored compact car, СКАЧАТЬ