No Place Like Home. Debbie Macomber

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      “Have you been around horses much?”

      Tom shook his head.

      “Then let me give you a few guidelines.” The last thing the old man needed was the shock of having one of his great-grandkids bitten by a horse. Or kicked in the gut.

      Hearing voices, Sinbad arched his sleek black neck over the edge of the stall. The gelding was friendly, just right for a boy about Tom’s age. Gus, Walt’s Morgan horse, wasn’t opposed to a bit of attention himself, but Sam would rather steer the kid toward the more reliable Sinbad.

      “You like to ride?” Sam asked, while he showed Tom the proper way to hold a carrot without risking the loss of a couple of fingers.

      “I never have,” the boy admitted.

      “You’re going to have to learn, then, aren’t you?” If his mother decided to keep the ranch, Tom would probably be riding the herd himself, taking on some serious responsibilities.

      “I’d like to know how to ride.” Tom shot a look at Sam, as if to suggest he’d need someone to teach him, and Sam was the obvious choice.

      “You feel you’re man enough?” Sam asked bluntly.

      “Yes.” The boy’s voice sounded confident.

      Sam grinned. “That’s what I thought.” Opening the bottom half of Sinbad’s stall door, Sam grasped the horse’s halter and led him out. “He’s about fifteen hands high,” Sam explained, running his palm down the gelding’s neck. “Which means you’ll be about four feet off the ground.” He glanced at the boy to gauge his interest. “I gotta tell you, the air’s just a little bit sweeter when you’re sitting tall in the saddle.”

      Tom’s grin stretched all the way across his face.

      “I always feel everything in life is much clearer when I’m on a horse. There’s a good feeling in my gut. When I’m riding, I’m happy and it’s the type of happiness I’ve never found anywhere else.”

      Tom was mesmerized and, with such a willing audience, Sam could have talked all night. Riding was more than just a means of getting from one place to another. It involved a relationship with another creature. You depended on your horse; you and your horse had to trust and respect each other. This inner wisdom was as important as any technique Sam could share with the boy.

      “If you ask me, spring’s about the best time of year for riding. Especially after a downpour, when the wind’s in your face and the scent of sweetgrass floats up to meet you. It’s even better when you’re riding a horse with heart.” Nothing was more exhilarating than a smooth steady gallop across acres of grassland. But it was the silence Sam loved best, a silence broken only by the rhythm of the horse’s hooves.

      “Sinbad’s a working horse,” Sam went on to say, in case Tom believed that any one of these animals was bred for fun and games. Gramps and Sam shared the same opinion when it came to animals. They worked for their keep. The dogs, too. Gramps might have given them cutesy names, but every last one of them worked as long and hard as he did himself.

      “What do you mean by ‘working horse’?”

      The question was sincere and Sam answered it the same way. “He’s a cow pony. He’s been cutting cows, trailing cattle and rounding up steers all his life. A cowboy is only as good as his horse, and Sinbad’s a damn good horse.”

      Tom tentatively raised his hand to the gelding’s neck. Sam could tell he didn’t want to show he was intimidated by the large animal. He didn’t blame the kid for feeling a bit scared. In an effort to put him at ease, distract him from his nervousness, Sam continued to speak.

      “Sinbad’s a quarter horse, which is an American breed. All that means is they were used at one time to compete in quarter-mile races. Far as I’m concerned, a quarter horse is the perfect horse for ranch work.”

      Tom’s interest sharpened and he moved closer. His stroking of the horse’s neck was more confident now, and it seemed he’d forgotten his fears. “Is that one a quarter horse?” the boy asked, looking at Gus, who’d stuck his head over the stall door.

      “Gus is a Morgan,” Sam explained. “It’s an excellent breed, as well, especially for a ranch. They can outwalk or outrun every other kind of horse around. Did you know that the only survivor of the Battle of the Little Big Horn was a Morgan? Go ahead and touch him. He’s pretty gentle.”

      “Hi, Gus,” Tom said. He smiled broadly and walked over to rub the Morgan’s velvety nose.

      “When can I start learning to ride?” Tom’s voice was filled with eagerness. “How about right now? I’ve got time.”

      “Hadn’t you better talk to your mother first?” Sam resisted the temptation to discreetly inquire about the boy’s father. He knew Molly was divorced, but little else.

      At the mention of his mother, the excitement slowly drained from Tom’s dark brown eyes. “She won’t care.”

      “You’d better ask her first.”

      “Ask me what?” Molly said. She had just entered the barn. The open door spilled sunlight into the dim interior. Bathed as she was in the light, wreathed in the soft glow of early evening, Molly Cogan was breathtakingly beautiful.

      No wonder Russell Letson had asked her out to dinner. It demanded every bit of concentration Sam could muster to drag his eyes away from her.

      “Sam’s going to teach me to ride!” Tom burst out excitedly. “He’s been telling me all kinds of things about horses. Did you know—” He would’ve chattered on endlessly, Sam felt, if Molly hadn’t interrupted him.

      “Teach you to ride a horse?” Molly asked.

      “Duh! What did you think? It isn’t like I could hop on the back of a rooster!” The boy’s enthusiasm cut away his sarcasm. “Sam says we can start tonight. We can, can’t we?”

      Molly’s gaze pinned Sam to the wall. “I’ll need to discuss it with Mr. Dakota first.”

      Mr. Dakota. Sam nearly laughed out loud. The last time anyone had called him that, he’d been flat on his back in a hospital emergency room in pain so bad even morphine couldn’t kill it.

      “Mom...” Tom sensed trouble and it showed in the nervous glance he sent Sam.

      “I didn’t come outside to argue with you,” Molly said, her voice cool. “I need you to go back in the house. Upstairs.”

      “Upstairs?” Tom cried indignantly. “You’re treating me like a little kid. It’s still daylight out! You aren’t sending me to bed, are you?”

      “No. Your grandfather has some things he wants you to get for him, and they’re upstairs. He can’t make the climb any longer.”

      “I’ll get them,” Sam offered. If Tom didn’t recognize an escape when he heard one, Sam did. With Tom out of earshot, Molly was sure to lay into him for what he’d done—agreeing to teach her son to ride.

      “Tom can do it,” Molly said pointedly.

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