Page 10 of Adam's Rising

“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, Boltdidhave 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 whisperedBoltinto his fiery friend’s magnificent dark ears.

---