An Impossible Price: Front Range Brides - Book 3 by Davalynn Spencer

Author:Davalynn Spencer [Spencer, Davalynn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Wilson Creek Publishing
Published: 2020-06-03T18:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

Clay found the body at the fence line, tangled in the wire. A charred post and singe marks on the mare’s legs told the story.

How would he tell Sophie?

Duster shied from the carcass, ears sharp, nostrils flaring. Horses smelled death and sensed it differently than people, often scouting far around a place where the dead had fallen even months before.

Clay lifted his rope and stepped down, talking low and steady to the gelding. “Easy boy. We owe it to the old girl to get her someplace private. Away from the herd.”

Away from Sophie.

He cut the wire, then rigged a harness and tied on to his saddle horn, dragging the body through the pasture and around to the backside of the knoll where he’d earlier surveyed the ranch. He left the mare near a juniper patch, partly sheltered and away from the creek. Nature would carry her off. He didn’t want Sophie to see that, though she likely knew about such things having grown up in these high parks.

He coiled his rope and reached for his saddle horn, but Duster pinwheeled, refusing to stand still. Clay pulled the coils tighter, tucked the tail in the honda, and left the rope and his gloves on the mare’s shoulder. They could both be replaced.

Duster blew and stomped at his approach, but Clay swung up and topped the knoll for a clear view. The mare hadn’t been with the herd, and the other horses grazed as usual. None were down.

Returning to the charred post, he spliced the wires, then circled to the bull’s pasture. The yearlings and late heifers and calves were all sound. From the looks of things, the old mare was the only casualty from last night’s storm.

What she’d feared had found her, but he knew better than to second guess himself about not getting her to the barn. It did no good. Maybe it was just her time. And maybe Sophie wouldn’t blame him for her death.

On his way to the house, birds sang in the cedars and scrub oak like they’d never seen the sun before. Red-wing blackbirds swarmed the cottonwood trees in the yard, and water pooled in small ponds, chickens skirting the puddles. He tied up at the cabin, went inside for a soap cake, and at the pump scrubbed until his fingers were red.

He’d missed breakfast, but Sophie might have saved something in the warmer for him, and his hope rose as he stepped through the front door and dropped his hat on a hook. Fried potatoes and side pork. Gravy and biscuits. He pulled off his muddy boots and socked it into the kitchen.

She wasn’t there, but the back door was open and he peeked out to the porch. She was up to her elbows in wash suds, hair hanging over the side of her face, and Willy “helping,” as wet as the laundry.

Clay’s heart hitched and he eased back, poured himself some coffee, and found a plate in the warmer. Sophie Price warmed more than his food.

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