“Yeah. I’m okay. Honestly. I knew how it would be.” Her heart gave a wrench as the glib words stumbled over her tongue. She’d worried that it would be awkward between them afterward, but Keith maintained his easy manner from the night before. She knew she wasn’t the type for this kind of thing. The thought of parting hurt like hell, but she still couldn’t regret it. If given the option of a do over, she’d do it all again. In a heartbeat.
Her fascination with him had only grown with the hours they’d spent together. The real Keith was not only naturally charismatic, but personable, knowledgeable, and confident. It was easy to see why women had flocked to him—a pang of undeniable jealousy accompanied that thought, and then a hollow ache took its place.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She was half in love with a guy she’d never see again.
*
After catching a quick shower and dressing, Keith and Miranda headed out of Reno, stopping only long enough to drive through Starbucks for two Ventis before tracking back to Palomino Valley, where he loaded up the horses to be transported to the prison.
When they arrived at the prison, Miranda stayed in the background with her camera, out of sight maybe, but never out of his mind. Just being with her felt so good and right, as if she brought his world back into balance. He’d been with a lot of different women, but last night was unique in so many ways. How could he ever explain that? And even harder, how was he going to let go of it? Anything more than what they’d already shared was impossible. They were from separate worlds, and hers was everything he’d vowed to leave behind.
“You see that one over there?” An inmate named Jim Davies nudged him back to the present. Jim nodded to a flashy black-and-white pinto. With head held high, neck arched, and nostrils flared, the horse glared at several inmates sitting on the corral panel, watching him watch them. The men snickered and poked one another in the ribs, either taking bets or making dares. After a time, one of them spat a wad of chew, then climbed down from the corral panel. Eying him with suspicion, the horse blew a loud warning snort that he followed with a rebellious toss of his mane.
“Easy, ol’ son.” With one palm outstretched, the inmate tentatively approached the animal. As he moved forward, the horse bared his teeth.
“Watch you don’t lose an ear,” one of the inmates jeered.
“What’s his story?” Keith asked, nodding to the horse.
“That’s one of ’em they gathered up from the Fort McDermitt Reservation last year,” Jim answered.
“I heard about that one. There was a big controversy surrounding it.”
“Yeah, the Paiute claimed ownership of all the horses and were going to sell them off to the kill buyer, but over a hundred of ’em were unbranded. When the activists got wind of it, it all turned into a major shit storm, with everyone suing everyone else. In the end, the mustangs were separated out and shipped over to the BLM in Fallon.”
“No doubt many once were tribal horses,” Keith said. “They bred some fantastic color in those herds. Markings like this horse has were greatly valued. He should bring a real good price at auction.”
“That he would,” Jim agreed, “if only we could lay our hands on him.”
“What do you mean?” Keith asked.
“We’ve had ’im almost three months,” Jim replied, “but so far none of us has been able to do a damned thing with ’im. Still can’t even touch the ornery SOB.”
“Three months? And you still can’t touch him?” Keith remarked in surprise.
“Yup. The whole thing’s an experiment gone bad.”
“What do you mean experiment?” Keith asked, now watching the would-be horse tamer more critically. There was nothing technically wrong in his approach, but the animal was obviously not receptive. At all. Its entire body language declared mistrust and simmering aggression—the defensive behavior of a herd stallion. It was then Keith noticed. “He’s not cut? Since when did they start sending you stud horses?”
“That’s the experiment I was talking about. The activists made such a stink about the particular genetics of this herd that they got a court injunction barring the BLM from gelding the stallions. Given no other choice, they decided to try chemical castration.”
The horse suddenly reared and struck out with a foreleg, missing the man’s head by mere inches. It was only the inmate’s reflexive nosedive that saved him from the striking front hooves. Watching over his shoulder, he was quick to scramble back to safety.
Jim heaved a sigh of frustration. “Least no one got hurt this time. You might as well just load him up and take ’im back with you to PVC. He’s a certified outlaw. Even if they take his balls outright, this horse is never gonna be adoptable.”
Keith was struck by how similar those words matched what his family had once said of him—that he would never be good for anything. The school counselor had agreed, labeling him an intractable delinquent. When he left for the rez, his stepfather’s parting remark was “good riddance to the little bastard.”
“What’s it gonna cost me?” Keith blurted.
Jim scratched his jaw. “Whaddya mean?”
“How much to take him off your hands? I want to adopt him.”
“You’re kidding, right? That horse is gonna kill somebody.”
“Then I’m dead serious,” he quipped.