Page 15 of Adam's Rising

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 dida share of work, Adam couldn’t say with all honesty that he did hisfairshare. 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?”

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